In fact, how to tell Randal anything at all, with her tongue tied in knots and her heart pounding? How indeed, while she was sure to the very depths of her soul that she'd done something wrong in helping Shawme, and in coming to the Mageguild, and in falling hopelessly in love with the famed and fearsome mage Randal in the first place?

 

Shawme was trembling uncontrollably and afraid someone would no- tice her, making herself small in a comer among the other girls in Myrtis's saloon.

 

And someone had. One of the musicians, a percussionist who pounded drums and shook bells and crashed cymbals, kept watching her as he played.

 

The attention of the musician made things worse. As did every man who came ducking in through Myrtis's beaded curtains, who stalked around the room, drink and smoke in hand, and touched this girl or that before making up his mind and escorting his chosen up the back stairs to the girl's room.

 

Worse, because none of them so much as ogled Shawme. She might as well have stayed upstairs. Worse too, because if a man did approach her, she was sure she'd break and run- Unless, of course, that man was Zip.

 

After a while she closed her eyes, secure in her comer with stout redfrescoed walls against her back, certain she'd get through this whole night unnoticed. As much trouble as that might cause with Myrtis, she knew she could handle that. Other girls must have failed to make conquests on their first night here. Most of those who'd gone upstairs already, went with men they obviously knew quite well, men who took them boldly in strong arms and crushed silken bodies against armored chests with no preamble.

 

Shawme didn't know anyone like those soldiers, any more than she knew the sort of brocaded nobles who came in groups of twos and threes, smelling of perfume like the women, and gathered up giggling ladies by the armload.

 

The only man who noticed her was the musician, a youngster with barely a beard and naked, sweaty arms. Her son. From undistinguished beginnings Eking out a living among his betters and here to please. The more he watched her, the more Shawme felt a kinship. She began wondering if, when his music was done, the youth would come toward her.

 

But it didn't work out that way.

 

She was studying the frescoes in the saloon through a growing fog of smoke, finally realizing how instructive they were to an ignorant girl. On them men were portrayed doing what she'd seen dogs do in the street. And women knelt before them, doing mysterious things that involved kissing. Shawme was trying to guess at what that would be like, feeling her mouth grow dry and her heart pound as each successive man took someone else and the crowd of women thinned while she tried not to notice and prayed that Myrtis wouldn't come down tonight to find Shawme the only unclaimed girl, the only one who hadn't made a copper's worth of profit for the house . . .

 

So she didn't notice the newcomers until the beaded curtain rattled, and then she quickly lowered her eyes.

 

Three men had come in together, laughing, arm in arm, with a fourth behind them, taciturn. The three were military men, highly ranked since they'd been allowed to wear their weapons in here. The fourth was armed as well, and unsmiling. His glance caught hers before she looked away.

 

In front of Shawme's corner was a couch on which three older girls reclined, each showing thigh or bare perfumed shoulder or a hint of rosy breast. The three jolly soldiers, unmistakably a little drunk, came their way. The tallest one was blond with braids in his hair and a goblet in his hand.

 

He stared directly at Shawme for three heartbeats, and on the fourth her heart threatened to stop entirely. That look was a look of recognition, but she couldn't remember ever meeting such a soldier. She was sure he was coming for her.

 

She shrank back in the corner, trying to push her way through the frescoed walls; trying to get breath into her lungs, enough breath for flight if he held out a hand to her as she'd seen men do here.

 

She would run right past him, duck under his arm and fly out through the curtained doorway, into the street, back to Ratfall. She'd run and run until her heart burst.

 

But the blond man looked away then, at the girls on the couch between Shawme and his soldier friends, and held out a hand to one of them, who squealed, "Oh, Walegrin, you're looking fit tonight," and giggled.

 

In relief, Shawme squeezed her eyes shut. In that solitary darkness, her relief was eaten up by chagrin. Then came embarrassment and mortification, shame and despair. No man was going to choose her. She was going to fail. All the other girls would laugh at her.

 

She thought to herself, Perhaps it's the mandrake. Perhaps it's ugly.

 

Perhaps it's working too well and keeping the men away So she reached up behind her neck, eyes still shut, and undid the thong that held it there

 

When the thong came undone, she opened her eyes and surreptitiously pulled the mandrake from between her breasts, hiding it behind her, under the cushions of the bench against the wall

 

When she straightened up, a shadow fell on her She looked up And up Standing directly in front of her was the fourth man, the one who'd come in alone.

 

She thought wildly. He's not here for me, he's going to ask one of the girls on the couch. But all of them were gone While she'd had her eyes shut, they'd left with the blond soldier and his friends

 

There was no one else in this comer, darkened by the big man's shadow, but Shawme She craned her neck, unable to nse as a girl should, her knees like water

 

He seemed gigantic, all dark cloth and leather She looked up past his weapons belt at eye level, and could hardly see his face, just the dark shadow of new beard and a hand that came suddenly toward her.

 

"Young lady," his deep voice said, "what's your name9"

 

"Sh-Shawme," she quavered and hated herself His hand was waiting Somehow, she lifted hers. Then, with his help, she was standing

 

"Your room, if you please," said the voice and still she had no clear impression of his face Her gaze was level with his broad chest, and his eyes beat down on her with such fire in them-as only those of Dika the peregnne had ever done before

 

Too late to run, the deed all but done, she remembered her training "A dnnk, kind sir, or something stronger9" Drugs were purveyed at Myrtis's-drugs to embolden, drugs to give stamina, drugs to make up for whatever needed making up for, so Myrtis had told her

 

"I'm known as Shepherd, little lamb," he said and she knew from that he wanted no dnnk or anything at all but her

 

At the last minute, while his hand inexorably drew her from the corner toward the stairs, she remembered the charm that Merncat had given her, her mandrake root, without which this man was soon going to know she was a virgin.

 

Anguished, she halted, their arms stretched out between them, without the strength to pull away His big head turned questioningly and she saw his profile for the first time a grown man's profile, hard and seasoned, a bold nose and lips trying hard not to laugh above a stubbled chin This was a stark man, a man from whom you ran on the streets because such men took what they wanted There was no fooling such a man as he

 

"I-I forgot something, left something on the bench "

 

"You don't need that, not with me," he said with such authority that Shawme could do nothing but obey the pressure of his tug, which pulled her in and under the circle of his arm

 

Up the stairs they went the big man's right arm crooked around her neck, her right hand pressed against her collarbone by his grip, his fingers against her throat She hadn't remembered the stairs being so many, or the trek to her backroom bed so long His breath in her hair was hot and the things he said were a matter of tone, not words

 

The tone said. You're mine, I'm in control Relax and you'll be fine. The words said whatever Shepherd thought she should hear, but she heard only an end to her childhood in them

 

It didn't matter what the words were, it didn't matter that she took moisture from his lips to wet her own It didn't matter that he wasn't Zip, even It only mattered that she not fail, that he not be angry when her virgin blood was spilled, when her lack of expertise was on display

 

When they got to her room, Shepherd wanted no help with his leathers or his weapons Help with his boots was something any fool could give And then he helped her, wordless and with a strange look on a face that seemed unaccustomed to humor or kindness but displayed both in redbrown, fiery eyes, eyes so much like Dika's

 

When it became clear to him that she was unworthy of the job she held, ignorant and ill-prepared, an imposter, she was sure he'd leave her, go straight to Myrtis and complain. But he did none of those

 

He treated her like fragile glass, like the musicians below m the saloon treated their instruments And soon enough she was learning, under his hands, why the other girls went to work smiling each evening.

 

She learned enough so that, when the moment came for her skirts to come off, she was forgetful of everything what he must soon find out, how disappointment and disgust would oversweep him, even of what form his wrath might take.

 

And then it happened Shepherd sat back on her bed, his diaphragm with its line of dark hair quivering, and said, "Take that off" His voice was very harsh "Put it on the table Now'"

 

"It?" She was breathless, her voice a fear-constncted squeak How could she take off her virginity? How could he even see it? He'd just this moment glimpsed her unclothed form

 

Then she followed the big man's pointing finger, and relief flooded her The silver tube was what he meant The sea-gift, the one Memcat had advised her to keep "This9" she said with fake aplomb. "I always wear it"

 

"Not with me, you don't." He rose up, off the bed, and she saw his body start to change Chest heaving, she blurted, "Please, don't go I'll take it off"

 

Hands on hips, he waited until she had. Then he took her in his arms and, his lips against her breast, said, "The rest of it, I can handle. Just trust me, lamb."

 

And somehow, she whispered to him, "But I don't know . . . I've never ... I don't have anything to offer you, no tricks, no skill-"

 

"You have something none of those others could offer, lamb," he replied in a rumble that made her legs weak. "Something only you can give. And for it, I'm going to give you a lesson in love as has never been taught in Sanctuary."

 

And then she knew that Shepherd knew, somehow, and that he wasn't going to be angry no matter if she bled all night. What she didn't know, until he tapped her on the mouth with a reddened finger, was that it didn't have to hurt to become a woman.

 

Anymore than she'd known anything about the joys of womanhood that lay beyond her body's barrier, all of which the man called Shepherd showed her before, while she dozed, he slipped away, leaving a piece of gold upon her pillow.

 

"Wake up, wake up!" said Merricat, shaking Shawme's shoulder. Behind Merricat, Randal hovered in the doorway, with Myrtis beside her. And Myrtis was wringing her veiny hands, saying, ", . . this is highly irregular, mage, and the least you can do for me, since I allowed it, is make our weather-control spell your first priority."

 

"Later, Madame," said Randal. "Now leave us, if you please."

 

Shawme was rubbing her eyes and stretching widely, still unaware that there was a man in the open doorway behind Merricat.

 

"Merri!" Shawme smiled with delight. "What are you doing here? Never mind, I've got so much to tell-" Shawme saw Randal and stopped speaking. She pulled her coverlet up around her neck and hunched in her bed.

 

"Shawme, this is important," Merricat said quickly in a low voice. "That's Randal the mage. He wants to talk to you. About thai." Merricat pointed to the silver tube on the table beside Shawme's bed.

 

"That?" Puzzlement crossed Shawme's face. "It doesn't matter. Thank you for the mandrake, Merricat. Thank Dika. I had the most wonderful-"

 

Randal crossed the room in quick strides. "Pardon the intrusion, miss, but did you-?" Randal stopped and looked at Merricat imploringly.

 

"Shawme," Merricat demanded, leaning over the other girl stiff-armed and reaching for something glinting gold on the pillow with her other hand. "Does this mean what I think?" She fingered the gold soldat.

 

"Oh, yes, and it was wonderful! I can't tell you how wond-"

 

Merricat's face fell; she blinked back tears. If it hadn't happened yet, Randal had promised that he'd sponsor Shawme for Mageguild apprenticeship, to get her out of Aphrodisia House. Now . . . Merricat turned an imploring face to Randal. "Too late," she whispered.

 

"I thought it might be," said Randal, and Merricat saw Shawme's eyes dart from face to face as the others spoke. "Shawme, if you will cede this instrument," he ignored the coin that Merricat held, and tapped the table on which the silver tube rested, "to the Mageguild, you'll have my undying gratitude, enough money to move out of here into your own house, and favors to be claimed from Merricat and myself whenever you need them- Such favors as a mage can grant."

 

"What? Why? I-"

 

Merricat sat back, beaming now, looking fondly upon her friend, who was saved after all by the fine auspices of Randal, the most wonderful mage who ever lived.

 

Randal replied, "It's too long to explain. I have an affinity for wasps, let's say. So does Merricat. This washed up on the beach, I was told?" The mage stood over her, beginning to voice his questions.

 

Shawme nodded and answered every one, while Merricat held her friend's hand, until Randal asked, "And will you tell me who you went with tonight? Who came up here with you, and what happened then?"

 

Shawme's jaw set. Her eyes seemed to go cold. She said, "You want the pea-shooter, take it. My client didn't like it anyway."

 

"And your client . . . ?" Randal blushed and Merricat thrilled with love. "Did he, ah, was there blood spilled here tonight?" Randal pressed.

 

"What is this?" Shawme demanded, bolt upright now. "You told him, Merricat! How could you? It was our secret. Get out of-"

 

"Shawme, I had to; it's important. Did it happen, the spilling of blood?" Merricat's grip tightened on Shawme as the other girl tried to shake it off.

 

"Of course it did, and it was wonderful!" Shawme's anger blazed. "Now get out of here, Merricat. I'm never going to forgive you for this. My business, bitch, is with this here mage, not the lies of you."

 

Merricat stood up uncertainly, head hanging. Randal put a comforting hand on her arm, a reassuring touch that told Merricat she'd done the right thing, no matter what Shawme thought.

 

Randal stepped forward then, saying to both girls, "Shawme, Merricat, friends are too few to fall out over something like this. Shawme, Merricat was brave and tireless in your behalf- Merricat, your friend needs your understanding. Blood shed in this way, right now in Sanctuary, is important. All of what I've promised you, Shawme, is still yours-money, favors for the asking-even if you won't answer me. But as a favor to me, we need to know if the man who gave you this coin is anyone we know, whether he's friendly or inimical to us."

 

Shawme blinked like a startled alleycat. Merricat was afraid her friend would ask Randal just who the mage meant by "we," but Shawme didn't.

 

She didn't say anything at all. She threw back the coverlet hiding her nakedness and vaulted from the bed. There, on the linen, was proof of the act, and of Shawme's boldness.

 

Merricat's friend reached languorously for her robe, head high, a proud look on her face. And Merricat was beginning to think it must have been Zip who'd come to Shawme and made her a woman when the Ratfall girl said, "He calls himself the Shepherd, or something like that," and, shrugging into her robe, snatched the gold coin from Merricat's fingers. "He gave me this, and more." Her eyes burned.

 

Merricat got up from the bed and backed right into Randal, her own body feeling wooden and numb. Peering into the mage's face desperately, Merricat strove for comfort and found none.

 

Randal shook his head infinitesimally as Shawme flounced by, announcing her intention of "going back downstairs, where there's food and drink for celebration."

 

Left alone in the courtesan's room. Randal said only, "Shepherd, by the Writ." He sighed deeply. "The only good in this came from you, Merricat. And will have to come from you, henceforth. You must help your friend, even if she doesn't understand anything about why you're doing it. And you'll need all your powers, as well as my help. Are you up to it?"

 

Powers. Merricat had no powers, but Randal did. And Shawme needed her. The blood spilled tonight was spilled in sacrifice, an Ilsigi rite that Shawme hadn't understood, but was now inextricably bound up in. And in a way, it was all Merricat's fault.

 

She saw Randal pick up the silver tube and fondle it, then look back at her and offer his arm.

 

She'd done something right. "Of course I'll help Shawme. Even if I didn't want to, an apprentice always obeys the Adept who is her instructor. Have no fear, dear Mage. I shall do whatever you say."

 

And she took Randal's offered arm and let him escort her out of the Aphrodisia House and back to the Mageguild, where she belonged.

 

 

 

A STICKY BUSINESS

 

C S. Williams

 

The Serpentine is a partially cobbled street that zigzags its way like a snake through the Maze. At one end stands the sleaziest, skungiest, most disreputable dive in all of Sanctuary: Sly's Place. Since Sly's death several years ago no one knows who owns the place, but it is run by a huge man in a mailed vest. His name is Ahdio. His origin is questionable, but in this neighborhood so is everyone else's,

 

To the right of Sly's Place is a dark, narrow, dirty, uninviting lane known as Odd Dirt's Dodge. Nobody lives there, or will admit they do. The wider street to the left of Sly's is the Street of Tanners. The stench there on a hot day can make even a Downwinder nauseous.

 

Three blocks down Tanners is the location of Zandulas's Tannery. Zandulas is a friendly enough fellow, if he would ever bathe.

 

Zandulas's supplies Chollandar's Glue Shop next door. The proprietor, called Cholly by his friends, makes the finest glues and pastes in town. He uses only the best ingredients: tree sap, inedible fish, hooves and unusable hides, flour, acids and other compounds from the chemists, and people.

 

Each night in Thieves' World people meet violent ends. Some die by accident, others by "accident," others by design. Most are left where they lie or dropped in some dark alley. Many of them have led useless lives and belong to a social class deemed worthless. No matter what his life had been, in death no man is worthless to the gluemaker. Under license from the Governor he and an apprentice go out with a wagon every morning and pick up the remains from the previous night's mayhem as a social service. Cholly will not, however, pick up a corpse that has apparently died of disease. Those he leaves for the Charnel House wagon.

 

For a substantial fee he also makes house calls.

 

The bodies are stripped and dismembered and the goods sorted. Scalps go to a wigmaker, clothes and leather goods and weapons to used goods dealers in those items, gold teeth and jewelry to jewelers. The rendered tallow is ladled off and sold to a soapmaker. The bones are dried and used to help fuel the fires under the great iron pots. Yet all these are bonuses, for the primary product is glue. Nothing is ever wasted at Chollandar's.

 

Cholly awoke from an elbow nudged into his amply padded ribs. He grumbled and rolled over, snuggling deeper beneath the woolen blanket. The elbow returned with greater force.

 

"Get up. It's time you left for work."

 

"Yes, Pet," he groaned.

 

A small tortoise-shell calico named Crumpet was sitting on his hip, purring loudly. She was a smearing of orange and black with a white chin, feet, and belly. The gluemaker often called her-lovingly-the ugliest cat in Sanctuary. He picked her up and gently placed her at the foot of the bed before crawling out from beneath the coversHe pulled on a faded black tunic and belted it with his weapons belt. On the belt were a dagger, an Ilbarsi knife, and the axe he used for dismembering corpses and chopping firewood. Onto bare legs he drew soft-soled knee boots. A knife was sheathed in the top of the right one. Finally he wriggled into his vest, heavy leather covered with iron rings, and slid his wax-boiled vambraces onto his forearms. He did all of this in the dark so Ineedra could go back to sleep. He kissed her and went downstairs to the kitchen.

 

"Oh, all right, nuisance," he gently chided the cat nibbing against his leg and purring. "You know, most cats have to find their own food."

 

He fed the puss some chopped meat and fixed himself a thick slice of hard sausage and a wedge of cheese between two pieces of black bread. He washed it down with watered wine. Crumpet finished eating before he did and began preening herself, ignoring him with that aloofness only felines are capable of.

 

It was a miserable morning. Usually Cholly took his time to walk to the shop, but not in this downpour. The cobblestones were slippery and unpaved streets were slimy bogs. Twice he had to backtrack and take a different street. At least his greased boots and oilcloth cloak kept him relatively dry.

 

He opened the big brass lock and replaced the key in his pouch. The front portion of the shop consisted of row upon row of shelves full of clay jars, each jar marked with a symbol that told him what compound the pot contained. At the rear, in front of a curtained doorway, stood a large wooden counter.

 

He slapped his hand onto the counter and was answered by a yelp. "Aram, get up. It's time to get started. Go wake up Sambar."

 

A tall, lanky youth of perhaps sixteen years crawled sleepily out from beneath the counter, yawning widely. He stood and stretched, scratched, and ran one hand through a shaggy mop of blond curls.

 

"Morning, master," he yawned.

 

Aram went through the curtained doorway and crossed the brick floor of the rendering room with its four huge iron pots, firewood and dry bones in the rack, and shelves and bins of ingredients. On one side was a butcher's beam and a water pump. A second curtained door, wider than the first, opened onto the stable.

 

Enkidu and Eshi, two grays with hooves the size of dinner plates, were in their stalls. In one comer of Enkidu's stall a pudgy boy witli olive skin snored beneath a coarse wool blanket-

 

"Get up, Lazybones. Old Baldpate's here. Rise and shine," Aram announced, giving the fourteen-year-old a kick.

 

"Already?" Sambar stood and shook the straw from his blanket, folded it, and hung it across the stall divider. Satisfied, he brushed the straw from his tunic and began picking pieces from his blue-black straight hair.

 

By the time the boys had had a bite of bread and cheese and gotten the horses harnessed, the rising sun had barely lightened the tenebrous clouds to putrescent gray. Thunder rumbled like an empty barrel rolling down a cobbled street. Instead of forked streaks, lightning flashed in weak patches scattered randomly on the face of the thunderhead. The White Foal would overflow again and uncover the trench graves of the unnamed flood and fire victims.

 

Rain cascaded off their oilskins in icy torrents. Enkidu was prancing, ignoring the weather and enjoying his work. Eshi sulked, wanting to return to her nice warm dry stable. Aram was walking ahead because visibility was so poor. They had just turned onto Odd Birt's Dodge.

 

"I see one, back of Sly's."

 

Gray water splashed at every step of Aram's greased buskins.

 

"Father Us' beard! He's still bleeding!"

 

"Can we help him? Is he still alive?"

 

"No, Cholly. His head's nearly cut off."

 

"Do you see anybody? The killer may still be around close."

 

Aram drew his dagger. Cholly climbed down from the driver's seat and unsheathed the Ilbarsi long knife. There was no one to be found. The door to Sly's Place was securely barred and a search of the area revealed no one hiding. No one had gone past them-

 

"I don't understand. It would take a magician to get out of here without us seeing him," Aram said.

 

"Anything is possible," Cholly replied.

 

Aram jumped down and ran to open the stable doors, jumping over the bigger puddles. The double doors swung open easily. Cholly backed the wagon inside. Aram unhitched the team, wiped them down, covered them with dry blankets, and gave them food and water. Only then did he stop to remove his rain gear. He replaced his wet leather gloves and apron with dry ones.

 

Cholly was smoking a pipe while he inspected the pots Sambar had been left to clean and fill. It was a minor vice, but one to which his wife objected, ". . . because it stinks up the entire house. Even my hair smells like smoke,"

 

There was nothing in Sanctuary that he feared, that he was not married to. Neither wizard nor demon, man nor god, living or dead. When the night was filled with the undead of Ischade and Roxane, he had dispatched several of the poor wights, beheading them so they might return to the hell they had been called back from.

 

Not all of them were eager to go. One, a former Stepson, had argued for over an hour that it was not dead. It even had the gall to draw a shortsword and threaten the gluemaker. Fortunately the expression "the quick and the dead" was inappropriate. Cholly hacked the zombie to pieces with his axe to prove his point. Sure enough, the Stepson was dead.

 

Over a dozen bodies were stacked in the wagon. Five had come from Red Lanterns or nearby, indicating it had been a busy night. Three bodies were female. One had even been pretty, in a cheap way.

 

"You see," Sambar chided while he and Aram began unloading the wagon, "this is what happens to people who spend all their money at the Slippery Lily."

 

"I hope they had at least finished their business and were leaving. It would be a shame to die without gettin' what they came there for," Aram chuckled.

 

"One of these Moonday mornings you may come in with the load as a client, not a passenger."

 

"I can take care of myself."

 

"The least you'll get is Eshi's measles."

 

"I haven't had a dose yet. Besides, it isn't fattening like your candy. In another year your taste will run to sweets of another sort. Mark my words."

 

"Idiot!" Markmor shrieked- "Fool of a fool!"

 

The young man with flowing silver hair trembled at the tirade, staring at the floor lest the most powerful mage in Sanctuary look him in the eye. Until a few years ago the apprentice wizard's father, Mizraith, had been the chief of those mages not bound by the Rankan Mageguild's hazardous rites. Markmor had been a brash upstart, scarcely more than a child by sorcerous or any other standards. Yet he had slain Mizraith fairly in a wizard's duel and thereby proved himself supreme among those who held to the magical traditions of Ilsig. He'd had to lie low a while-feigning death, abandoning his skein of spells lest he be drawn into the magekilling and god-killing that had beset Sanctuary these last few years. But he'd survived, and returned, and meant to recapture everything he'd lost, with interest.

 

"Th-there wasn't time, Master," Marype stammered. "I was just slitting the messenger's throat when I heard horses. I vanished for just a moment, hoping whoever it was would pass by. When I returned the body was gone."

 

"All you had to do was take the amulet and run. You didn't even have to kill him. A blow on the head would have done the job-' How could it be so difficult?"

 

Markmor's robes of shiny vermilion silk brushed the polished marble floor as he paced angrily. His short hair and pointed beard were as black as his soul. Beneath a single shaggy brow his amethyst eyes were blazing with rage.

 

Several moments of threatening silence passed before he continued, "Do you have any idea how valuable that bauble is? Not only to me, but to all of us who stand outside the Guild? Much less what could happen if it ever reaches the first Hazard as it was supposed to? Do you see the danger your bungling has placed us in? Do you? Do you?"

 

"I think so, Master." Marype cringed.

 

"No, that's your trouble, Marype. You don't think. If you had you wouldn't have left the amulet behind. There are times when I wonder why I took you into my service. I really do.

 

"Now tell me again-from the beginning-exactly what happened. If the person who has the amulet has not yet discovered its powers we may not be too late."

 

"I had been following him from bar to bar. By Argash's bloody nails that man could drink! Eventually he wandered down the Serpentine to Sly's Place, but it was closed. Despite all I had seen him drink he wasn't staggering, so I hung back at a short distance to await an opportunity. As luck would have it ... AAAHCHOOO!-Sorry, I may have caught a cold in the rain last night-he stopped to relieve himself. I transported myself to a spot right behind him. Even as I slashed his throat I heard the clatter of hoofbeats and at least two men talking. They sounded very close, and coming closer. I knew that the amulet would have made escape impossible, so I gambled that the amulet would look too cheap to be worth stealing. I vanished for just a moment. When I returned the entire body was gone."

 

"Did you see anyone about? Anyone at all?"

 

"It was pouring. Even the beggars were hiding somewhere. He was gone without a trace. I searched and searched. AACHOO!"

 

"Marype, you surprise me. You really do. You left the amulet on him in the hopes it would look too worthless to steal. Correct? Every child knows that Mazers and Downwinders steal anything that is not nailed down too securely to pry up. If you didn't have your father's talent in your blood I wouldn't put up with you. Such talent deserves training, but you severely try my patience,

 

"Still, all is not lost. Perhaps we can scry its location."

 

The day's first customer was small, with delicate bones and a slender figure. Her face was veiled and a scarf almost hid her mane of chestnut hair. Although she dressed as a lady's maid, her bearing was more suited to giving orders than taking them. She looked around nervously, making sure no other customer was about. At last: "You are Chollandar?"

 

He nodded. "How may this humble gluemaker serve you. Milady?"

 

"I was told you will pick up ... uh-uh-uh . . ."

 

"Raw materials, Ma'am. Raw materials. For a fee we will pick up that which you no longer desire, and turn it into a variety of useful products. We do stipulate, however, that the goods must be ready to use without further treatment. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes. You mentioned a fee. You will do it, then?"

 

"Certainly, Beautiful Lady. For ten soldats we will remove your raw materials from any address you name-which we promptly forget. For this reason we ask for advance payment. Otherwise we might remember and send a bill. Does this pose some problem?"

 

To his surprise she did not haggle.

 

I should've asked for more, he thought.

 

She gave him the address and turned to leave.

 

"A moment. Milady."

 

Cholly held out a clay jar. She looked at him in puzzlement, then took the jar.

 

"This is a glue shop. If you leave with one of my Jars anyone who sees you will see why you have come and notice nothing else."

 

Her veiled face whitened. "I hadn't thought of that."

 

"By the way, this variety is made especially for porcelain and ceramics. It does wonders on broken dishes."

 

After she had hurried away, the clay jar held where it could be seen, Sambar came through the curtained doorway. "Master, why do you always insist that the pickup be dead? Wouldn't they pay more if you did it for them?"

 

"They would, but I will not take blood money. See, I deal in death every day without adding to it. If people want to kill each other, I can't stop 'em. But I'll be damned if I'll do it for 'em."

 

With the work on the city walls and the repairs from the aftermath of the witches' fire and flood, business was brisk. Kadakithis's workmen had bought an entire wagonload of mixed varieties. The new tax was at least being spent for the purpose it was collected for, rather than lining the Prince-Governor's purse.

 

Privately Cholly had no use for magicians, but that did not prevent him from doing business with them. One came in seeking a human skull. Another, a lanky fellow with graying hair and beard and an unusually dynamic voice, came seeking fingerbones. These gentlemen never knew that their treasures came from his fuel pile of dried leftover bones.

 

A third aspiring thaumaturge sought a hand of glory. Cholly went back into the rendering room once more. There was a chunking sound. A moment later he returned with a severed human left hand.

 

One last minor magician-the truly powerful ones needed no such props-requested an entire human skin. He was sent next door. Zandulas would pay him a referral fee later.

 

When business slowed down enough for him to check on the boys, Cholly saw that they had been busy indeed. The bodies had all been stripped and the belongings sorted into neat piles, according to type. The smallest pile by far was money. They were honest enough lads, but he knew they kept a few coppers, even as he had done when he was apprenticed to old Shi Han Two-Fingers.

 

He sent Sambar to the front counter while he and Aram scalped, bled, and dismembered the remaining corpses. Once the bodies and the proper additives were mixed into the scalding water to his satisfaction he told Aram, "When you get time, take those barrels of tallow across the alley to Reh Shing the Soapmaker. It's time I started my rounds."

 

Chollandar scratched the back of his neck. For a moment it itched like someone was staring at him.

 

He always began his trading at Shamara's Wig Shop. In her youth Shamara had been striking. Her present beauty was of a different sort, a warmth that radiated from her sweet soul. They dickered for a bit, Shamara fingering the scalps for quality and texture. At last they settled upon three silver bits, eight coppers, and a kiss.

 

"The things I do for business," Shamara laughed before pressing her lips beneath his moustache. There was no lustful passion there, but there was something undefinable. "Enough. You make me feel like a girl, and I've survived that nonsense already."

 

He whistled a happy tune all the way to Marc's Weapons Shop. Most of Marc's goods were shoddy, but so were the weapons Cholly sold him. The really good stuff he sold separately. Some special blades he kept for himself. Even so, he sometimes ran across an interesting piece in Marc's stock.

 

Cholly regularly had lunch with Furtwan Coinpinch while Hazen, Furtwan's nephew, watched the shop and kept an eye on the gluemaker's wagon. Today they decided on beef, so they found themselves a quiet table at the Man in Motley, where a joint was always skewered to the carving board.

 

"Anything interesting happen last night?" Furtwan asked between swallows of True Brew.

 

Cholly did not answer right away. He felt the feeling return that he was being watched. By whom and for what reason he had no idea. He scratched his neck again.

 

No one seemed to be looking in his direction, but he knew damned well someone was spying on him. The itch was stronger. He slid his right hand under the table, pretending to scratch his bare calf. He assured himself the extra knife was in place in his boot. Good.

 

The two men gossiped spiritedly for an hour. When Cholly left the shop the itch returned. If anything, it was stronger. The most unsettling part was that he could spot no sign of anyone following him, yet he knew they were there. But who? And why?

 

He missed the friendly greetings he used to get from Ganner, Lalo's son who was slain by the mobs in the False Plague riots. He had enjoyed the brief chats they used to have. Instead of Ganner it was Herwick himself who met him at the door. The jeweler still wore the symbolic torn collar and black armband of mourning.

 

"Good to see you, Cholly. Are you here to buy or sell? I believe Ineedra has a birthday coming up. Next week maybe?"

 

"Next Eshday. The trouble is she still hasn't given me a hint what she wants like she usually does, or else for once she's been so subtle I missed it."

 

"You can't go wrong with good jewelry. I've got some nice new pieces.

 

Take a look. I could make you such a deal . . -"

 

"Not today, I've got a few days yet in case she drops a hint. In the meantime 1 did bring you a few trinkets to examine."

 

He fished a folded square of cloth from his tunic. Unfolding it upon the counter, he displayed a jumble of glittering ornaments. Most were cheap junk, worth a copper or two apiece. A few were good quality paste and worth a bit more. Two pins were set in real gold and sparkling gemstones. Finally there was a solid gold pendant covered with strange markings.

 

"Where did you get this? I've never seen this type of workmanship before. Most unusual. And raw gold! I can't read it; it isn't Rankan or Ilsigi. It isn't Beysib-I've had too many Fisheyes in here not to recognize it when I see it. If it was older I might guess it might be Enlibaran."

 

"Now that I've had a good look at it, I think I'll keep it for the time being. It's sort of interesting. Can you think of anybody who might be able to tell me what it says?"

 

"Try Synab. If anyone can tell you, he can."

 

His next stop was Synab's artifact and curio shop just down the street. The daub of blue paint smeared on the door meant the pwner was paying protection to someone. Cholly himself had never paid anyone for "protection" and he vowed he never would. A bell jingled when he entered.

 

The white-haired man in green linen said, "I haven't seen you lately. I trust you have something of interest for me?"

 

"Maybe. I found this medallion in this morning's goods. Can you decipher the writing?"

 

The little man's bushy eyebrows raised. His sallow face turned ashen. His gnarled hands trembled, dropping the bauble onto the counter as if it had suddenly become hot.

 

After a moment he said, "Do me a favor, Cholly. Go. Get that thing out of here. Please."

 

"Why? Mother Bey's balls, man, at least tell me what's wrong."

 

"I guess I owe you that much. I can't read it, but I've seen enough relics to recognize it. There is one word here I do know: the name Theba."

 

"Isn't she some sort of death goddess?"

 

"Yes. Anything connected with her has to mean trouble. If I were you, I'd get rid of it as quickly as I could."

 

Cholly thanked him and left.

 

His unseen stalker was still there. The tingle was so strong it was becoming painful. Hopefully whoever it was would not make his move until after Cholly reached Renn, his banker.

 

Renn was one of the few men in Sanctuary he completely trusted. Due to the armed men at the door and some less obvious defenses, no one had ever robbed Renn's bank and lived to reach the door. Thieves had gotten the message and stayed away.

 

The gluemaker deposited most of his cash and got a receipt, keeping out enough to pay the boys, take Ineedra out to a nice dinner, and enough left over to go to the games at Land's End and have a few coppers to bet. Compared to what he had been carrying it was spare change. Unfortunately his tracker didn't seem interested in money.

 

Upon his return to the Street of Money the feeling intensified. Damn! He wished whoever it was would make his move. This cat-and-mouse ploy was making him angry. Maybe he could shake them up a bit.

 

He turned Enkidu and Eshi onto Olive Branch, sped down to Saddlers and turned left, leaping off the wagon as soon as he thought his pursuer could not see him for a moment. He stepped through the doorway of a tack shop and waited.

 

Two thugs came running around the comer. One was of average size; the other was short and round, like a beer keg with legs. They were trotting to keep the wagon in sight.

 

For a middle-aged fat man in a ring-mailed vest, he moved quietly. And quickly. Any sound made by his soft-soled knee boots was masked by the din of street noises: beggars asking alms, shopkeepers and customers haggling, the clop of horseshoes on cobblestones, children shouting and playing.

 

The shorter man was lagging a few steps behind his partner, panting. He never heard anything suspicious.

 

The taller man glanced over his shoulder in time to see the barrel-man topple from the flat of Cholly's axe. Before he could break away a large hand extending from a wax-boiled vambrace had grabbed a handful of his tunic and slammed him against a brick wall, driving the air from his lungs. His head bounced against the bricks, painfully but not far. He became acutely aware of the axe haft pressed against his throat when he struggled to inhale. A melon-sized knee pressing into his stones also caught his attention-

 

Cholly's normally merry hazel eyes were narrow slits of cold green. His voice was calm, even, almost a whisper.

 

"Why are you following me?"

 

"I wasn't. (Cough)"

 

Cholly towered his knee slightly, then snapped it upward. "Don't lie to me or you'll sing soprano. Let's start again. You were about to tell me why you followed me."

 

Tears filled the tall man's eyes. "I swear I wasn't following you."

 

He would've screamed when the knee drove into his crotch if it weren't for the wooden haft flattening his gullet.

 

"Let's try again, shall we? I ask you a question, you answer it. Honestly. For the last time, why were you tailing me?"

 

"All right," he whimpered. "We was paid a silver bit apiece to rob you." Tears rolled down his dirty unshaven cheeks.

 

"Fool. If it was money you wanted you would have jumped me before I reached my banker. You didn't make your move, although you've been chasing me all afternoon. So what are you after that is worth dying for?"

 

"The medallion."

 

"What makes it so valuable?" Cholly demanded.

 

"Don't know. He didn't tell us. He just paid us to get it."

 

"Who paid you?"

 

"He didn't give us a name. He was dressed in magician's robes."

 

"What did he look like?"

 

"Silver hair-"

 

The knife just missed Cholly's ear before burying itself in the tall man's eye. Blood and clear liquid gushed out of the wound. The dying man jerked once and went limp. Cholly released his hold. The body slid down the wall, the stubby knife handle still protruding from the eye socket.

 

The barrel-man was just vanishing into an alley.

 

"I should've hit him harder," the gluemaker muttered.

 

He gave a shrill whistle and Enkidu and Eshi backed up. Business was business. He loaded the dead man into his wagon and covered him with canvas. No one thought it unusual for him to be picking up somebody this early. There were accident victims all the time. It was common practice to mind one's own business.

 

Babbo shifted his weight from foot to foot while wringing his unwashed hands. His gaze never left the floor. The room was cool, but the hireling's stained homespun tunic was damp with sweat.

 

"What in the Shadowed One's name are you saying? How could he get away? There were two of you! Both armed! Do you mean to tell me two of the best muggers in the Maze were bested by a bald old shopkeeper?" Marype raged.

 

"He was good," Babbo said defensively. "Dorien was one of the best men I knew in a brawl. When I came to-I never heard him coming before he busted my head-he had poor Dorien pinned against the wall with an axe handle and a knee pushing Dor's balls up to his belly button. Believe me, the man is good. How do you think he got that old? Only way I could shut Dor up was to spike 'im."

 

"Why didn't you knife the gluemaker instead?"

 

"Look, I didn't have a lot of time, you know? I wasn't in no shape to tangle with the man. Maybe I just throwed amongst 'em and ran. Besides, you're the magician; why didn't you do something? Turn fatso into something?"

 

"As long as he has the amulet, magic doesn't work on him. Why else would I hire you two bunglers?"

 

"Big hotshot magician," Babbo retorted. "You can't do the job with your spells, so you hire us. Then you got the balls to come down on me 'cause I didn't get him neither. Far as I'm concerned you can go diddle yourself. See ya around. Cotton-top," he snorted, his fear replaced by contempt.

 

It was crowded in the stands Lowan Vigeles had built at his Land's End estate and the stone benches were uncomfortable. The spectators had already swilled down enough Red Gold to be rowdy. Zandulas and Cholly were hooting and hollering with the rest. The early rounds had been condemned criminals pitted against each other. Not much skill there; mostly brute strength. Chollandar preferred the chariot races.

 

He was picking them well. The fourth race had just ended, and for the third time he was collecting his winnings. Zandulas, who was zero for four, got to his feet with a sour grin.

 

"I'm getting a brew before the final heat. Want one?"

 

"No thanks, Zan. Want me to place any bets for you?"

 

"Neh. Oh all right. If I'm not back in time, just put two coppers on whoever you pick."

 

Cholly's favorite driver was Borak. Behind his three chestnut geldings Borak's long oily whip moved like a living creature, while he used the bladed wheel hubs better than most men wield a sword.

 

The other drivers in today's final race were Magyar driving whites, Atticus with dappled grays, and Crispen with a second team of whites. No second-raters there.

 

Everywhere were shouts of "Six coppers on Atticus," "Two on Magyar," "Four on Atticus," "Eight on Crispen,"

 

Caught up in the betting, Cholly shouted, "Two silver on Borak!"

 

"Take 'em all. I'll cover the balance," Zandulas whispered, returning. "I'd have taken Atticus, but then I haven't been right all afternoon and you're on a hot streak. I just hope it holds."

 

The big money bets were in the box seats, stacks of golden soldats. The difference was that those in the boxes could usually afford to lose. The simple townsfolk in the cheap seats were hard pressed if they lost a handful of coppers.

 

The tingle was back. Someone was watching him again.

 

Four teams entered the track, having drawn lots for position. Cholly frowned. Borak was on the outside. Next to Borak came Crispen, then Magyar, and finally Atticus at the advantageous inside spot. The games master dipped the flag and they were off. Horses crowded each other. Sharpened steel zinged each time the wheels whirred close together. Crispen forced Borak into the wall, but the wily veteran kept control. Dust flew as his blades gouged the masonry. To even the score he flicked his whip, welting the closest white racer's hindquarters. The horse broke stride. It took only a moment to get back in sync, but that was enough.

 

Cholly looked around. Was that a flash of silver hair in the crowd behind him? Maybe it was a woman who had joined in the fad. Maybe not. His left hand rested upon the hilt of the Ilbarsi knife.

 

A white stallion screamed when it was hit by a blade, chewing his rear leg off at the gaskin. The crowd roared. The animal's fall yanked the singletree to one side, causing the rest of the team to wheel, overturning the chariot. Magyar's hand was caught in the reins and he was dragged along beneath.

 

The silver hair was out of sight, but not gone. Cholly could feel it.

 

Zandulas was shouting, "Did you see that?"

 

By the last lap Borak was ahead of Atticus by half a length. Crispen had gotten tangled in Magyar's wreck and lost too much time to make it up.

 

"Collect my winnings," he told Zandulas.

 

"Why? Where're you going?"

 

"Must be the Red Gold. I'm not feeling so good," Cholly lied.

 

He could hear the crowd shouting Borak's name as he hurried down the steps. A knife darted at him but was deflected by the iron and leather vest he wore. He was lucky, and knew it.

 

Once out of the estate, Cholly ran as fast as his thick legs could carry him through the construction gangs working on the walls, through a gap in the emerging wall itself, then darted down twisting alleys and taking random turns. Few others knew the streets as well as this man who traveled them each morning. Soon he would reach the docks. He saw no sign of pursuit, but the feeling remained.

 

The Winebarrel catered to fishermen. Most of the clientele knew Cholly. They bought glue from him to use on their boats. He, in turn, or his apprentices, bought unsold or inedible fish from them. He was made welcome.

 

Of all the folk in Sanctuary, only the fishers had truly accepted the Beysib-at least the Setmur clan of Beysib-because the newcomers were hard workers, honest and good sailors. Inside the net-hung walls of the Winebarrel, all seamen were brothers, comrades-in-arms in the endless battle to eke a living from the merciless sea.

 

It was not surprising then that the one-armed Ilsigi should be sharing his table with a small, quiet fish-eyed man. Cholly walked over and joined them- For a moment the tingle was gone, or else so weak he did not notice it.

 

Omat, the Ilsigi fisherman, gestured with his glass. "You're getting thinner on top and thicker in the middle. And you look like you could use a drink. Pull up a stool and let me buy you one. You know Monkel Setmur, don't you? Monkel, Cholly here makes the best damned glue you can buy-"

 

"-Or get in trade. What fisherman doesn't know Cholly?" the small man said, smiling sincerely and extending his hand. "What brings you to the Winebarrel?"

 

"I'm in a real fix. Somebody's trying to kill me. I found this medallion in the stuff I took in this morning. Ever since then, someone's been on my tail. Two gutter rats tried to waylay me, but I caught 'em off guard. I conked one on the head and put the other up against the wall. That's how I found out the connection with the medallion I'd found, and that they'd been hired by a wizard-type with silver hair. But, I hadn't hit the first one hard enough, and he knifed his partner through the eye before I got any more.

 

"Just a little while ago I was out at Land's End. I saw someone with silver hair in the crowd near me, so I decided to get out of there. He followed me long enough to throw a knife, only he didn't take this vest into account."

 

"Can we do anything to help, Cholly?" Omat asked.

 

"Run me around to White Foal Bridge by water. That should get him off me for a while."

 

"I could use a bit of fresh air. Coming with us, Monkel?"

 

The little fellow nodded.

 

The dying sun was streaking the western sky with its blood when Cholly parted the thirty-one cords with their thirty-one knots.

 

"You're early today," Ahdio commented. "Anything wrong? You look upset."

 

"You might say that. I need a brew-the good stuff. Say, what happened to Cleya? I see the pretty one is back. Jodeera? Isn't that her name?"

 

Ahdio looked down into the other man's eyes-not too far down, for he was only an inch or so taller-and paled slightly.

 

"What did you say? That's Cleya right there."

 

"Quit kidding. I'm looking right at her."

 

Ahdio stood silent for a moment then said, "Would you mind stepping into the back with me a moment where we can talk?"

 

The two men walked back to the stockroom. Ahdio closed the door and turned to face Cholly. He looked worried.

 

"How did you know?"

 

"Know what?"

 

"That Cleya and Jodeera are the same."

 

"Oh, come on. Cleya is a sweet girl, but she is skinny and sort of homely, like a stray cat. Not that I don't like her, but she isn't even in the same league with that lovely creature."

 

"They are the same. I'm going to trust you because I like you. See, when Jodeera first came to work here there was trouble. Remember?"

 

The gluemaker nodded, paying close attention.

 

"It wasn't her fault she was so pretty, but it did make the boys rowdy, trying to outdo each other. I didn't want to send her away. I love her. What could I do? I had a spell put on her to hide her beauty from all eyes but mine. How'd you see through it?"

 

"Maybe this had something to do with it." He fished the gold medallion from inside his tunic.

 

"Take it off. I'll hold it. You go back and look. Tell me if you see Cleya or Jodeera."

 

He returned a moment later. "Cleya. It was the medallion."

 

"Where did you get it?"

 

Cholly told his story again. Ahdio stroked his chin glaring from his friend, to the medallion then at the door to the taproom. "You got trouble here," he said, returning the medallion. "Bad cess. Look, I have this old war buddy named Strick. He's a magician. Hold on, he's not like the ones you've seen. He's strictly a white mage . . . literally can't use his powers for evil. Take my word, he's one of the good guys. Tell him I sent you."

 

"Where do I find him?"

 

"You mean to tell me you lost him again?!" Markmor screamed, his face almost as livid as his robes.

 

"I almost got him at Land's End. How was I to know the knife would bounce off his vest?" Marype cowered.

 

"Then what happened?"

 

"I followed him to the docks. It wasn't easy. He must know every twist and turn of every alley in town. He went into a place called the Winebarrel, and when he came out he was with two other men. One was a fishface, and the other had one arm. They got into a boat and rowed away. I had to be careful. People tend to notice when you appear and disappear in public. Besides, as long as he has the amulet not even you can trace him by magic."

 

"You insolent pup, you brainless piece of dung, do you dare to question my powers?" the would-be greatest magician in Sanctuary roared.

 

Marype cringed even more. "I don't doubt your power, Master, but did not you yourself tell me that the gods themselves have no power over the one who wields the talisman?"

 

"Precisely, imbecile. That is how we shall find him."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"I didn't think you would- By Argash, if I want something done right, I'd best do it myself. Pay attention and you may learn something. First we cast the Net of All-Seeing over the city in the name of Father Us."

 

"What good will that do, Master? We still can't see him."

 

"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you. Tell me, do you ever use your head for something besides growing hair? Think! With this spell we can see the entire city at once except for one blind spot. Wherever that blind spot is, there we shall find the ine who has the medallion."

 

He was bigger than Ahdio, but only slightly so. He moved like a swordsman, keeping his weight evenly distributed and his gaze unfixed, looking at nothing yet seeing everything. It seemed odd that he wore no weapon, not even a dagger. He was dressed all in blue from boots to skull cap.

 

"My niece says that you would not tell her your problem. You would tell her only that Ahdio sent you. You confuse me. I see a spell about you that is not a spell, something that is not magic yet very powerful. Is this the problem you wish to consult me about?"

 

Cholly removed the chain from his neck and handed the medallion to Strick.

 

"I am a simple gluemaker- Each morning my apprentice and I take a wagon through town to pick up the bodies left from the night before. I make glue from them. It's all legal; I have a charter giving me the right to pick them up and dispose of them for the city. This medallion was on one of the ones we took in this morning. Since then I have had two attempts on my life, I have been followed every step I take, and I have discovered that when 1 wear it I can see through a magic spell. What I want to know is: just what is it, really?"

 

Strick handed back the medallion. "Do you know of the goddess Theba? According to legend she declared that nothing, not even gods, should be immortal. Gods, you see, live on many planes at once. If they die they still live on all the other planes. That's what happened to Vashanka-gone from here, but not dead. Now it seems Theba was ambitious and didn't want to pursue her rivals through the infinite planes, so one night she called down a star from the sky. It fell like a blazing comet, and in its heart was a lump of unearthly gold. Theba took the white hot nugget in her bare hands, she shaped the medallion, then inscribed it with her fingernail, and quenched it in the blood of a virgin."

 

"Sounds like a real sweetheart."

 

"That, says legend, is how the Spell of No Spells was cast, a spell that cancels all magic. Perhaps antimagic is the proper term. Its power nullifies all spells and powers. It is the supreme defense against magic. There is one catch. It also cancels any magic the wearer possesses. Spells, blessings, curses; all are useless."

 

"Let me see if I can take it from there. Immortality is a supernatural gift, right? So, if a god had the medallion, he's no longer a god; he's mortal, and can die like anybody else. Right?"

 

"Yes, but even Theba was appalled when She felt her rival die the one, true death. She threw Her tnnket away, and 't fell into mortal hands. Most mages-including myself-want nothing to do with it: Its risks outweigh any possible rewards. But there are always a few like Theba, caught in the blind throes of ambition, greed or jealousy.

 

"Be careful, Cholly. At least one mage, maybe more, wants Theba's medallion and knows you have it. Because of what it is, because of what he is to want it in the first place, and because as long as you wear it no one can tell for certain if you're a powerful wizard or an ordinary gluemaker-because of these, you're a marked man, my friend."

 

"Thanks for the information. How much do I owe you?"

 

"Nothing. I could not help you with your problem, and I charge only for services rendered."

 

"Well, I feel I owe you something for telling me about the talisman. I'll tell you what: the next time you need to mend anything, send word to me what you are working on, and I'll send over the right compound for the job with my compliments. How about that?"

 

"You are a fair man, gluemaker. I have enjoyed meeting you, and I hope you solve your problem."

 

Cholly stopped by the shop and paid the boys their weekly bit of copper. Sambar would spend all his at the bakery and sweets shop. Give him another year or two and he'd be paying for sweets of the same sort as Aram. Father Us but that lad was randy! It was only blind luck the boy hadn't yet contracted a dose- Ah, youth!

 

Before he left in his best clothes Aram said, "Some fellow was in here looking for you. The first time was the middle of the afternoon, then he came back a little while ago. He didn't say what he wanted, just that he wanted to speak to you. Special pickup, I guess."

 

"Did he leave a name? What did he look like?"

 

"No name, but he's easy to recognize. He's got all this silvery hair and he dresses like a magician. Know him?"

 

"In a way. I think I've seen him. How would you like a bit of extra pocket money?"

 

Aram's eyes lit up.

 

"Go run ahead to Ahdio, at Sly's Place, and tell him I'm going to need his backroom for a while. And tell him to ask his friend Strick to join usDo that and I'll give you an extra week's pay."

 

Aram was gone like an arrow. Cholly walked down the rows and picked out jars of glue and solvent. From beneath the counter he took a satchel of several brushes.

 

He hoped this wouldn't take long. He was already late, and Ineedra would have his head on a salver. He'd better take her to Hari's or the Golden Oasis to unruffle her feathers once this business was over with.

 

Ahdio didn't recognize any of the trio who strutted into the crowded tavern, and he usually remembered faces. One of them, the youngest, did have a flowing silver mane, so these must be the ones he was watching for.

 

The squat, broad red-faced one asked Throde, "Hey, Gimp' You seen Cholly da Gluemaker in here? We was s'posed to meet up wit' 'im."

 

"Not that I recall, but we've been pretty busy. Ask Ahdio," Throde replied, nodding at the mountainous man in the mail vest. He smiled and hobbled away to deliver his tray of beers, giving Ahdio a wink in passing.

 

Again it was the toadish one who spoke. "You Ahdio?"

 

Ahdio smiled. "What will you have, gentlemen?"

 

"You seen Cholly da Gluemaker? We'll make it worth ya while. We got bidness wit' 'im, see?" said the red-faced man, bouncing a coin on his palm.

 

Ahdio held out his hand. "Maybe."

 

The man tossed the coin onto Ahdio's broad palm. Ahdio neither spoke nor moved his hand until several copper coins were stacked there.

 

"He's in the back room. Follow me."

 

Cholly was watching the door. He noticed the argent hair at once, then he stared at the others. The dark one in red damask silk was the obvious leader, a man accustomed to power as his due.

 

"What the hell is that?" he wondered, seeing the last of the trio enter through the doorway.

 

It was shaped sort of like one of the rendering pots in the shop, squat and rotund with thick stubby legs ending in homed, splayed, webbed three-toed feet. It had ears like a donkey, little beady rat's eyes, and a wide froggish mouth full of long yellow-green teeth. Its thick muscular arms hung down so low its knobby knuckles dragged the ground. Its matted, scraggly feathers were the color of iron rust. Topping it all off was something resembling a coxcomb. It had no head or neck per se.

 

It was ugly.

 

He gestured for the two men to sit opposite him in the booth. He asked Ahdio to bring a chair and three large beers for his guests.

 

"Nothing personal, you understand. I'd just rather not sit where I'm hemmed in. We haven't been introduced. My name is Chollandar. And you?" He spoke to the black-bearded man.

 

"No offense taken. I am called Markmor. This young fool is my apprentice, Marype."

 

"Does the demon have a name?"

 

"I'd forgotten you can see his true form. I'm afraid I can't tell you his real name. He does answer, however, to 'Rubigo.'"

 

"Rubigo it is then." He took a sip of his Baladach wine.

 

"How much will you take for it?" Marype asked,.

 

Markmor glared at him. Rubigo snickered at such a breach of manners. Even he knew better.

 

"I never discuss business until after a sociable drink. I wouldn't think of doing business with a man who won't have a friendly drink with me first. You seem to have some breeding, Markmor. Surely you understand. Perhaps in time your impatient apprentice will learn. If he's like my two, it may take a while."

 

After what seemed an eternity with the demon standing sullenly by the door, Ahdio returned with a chair. Throde followed with a serving tray. Upon the tray were three pitcher-sized tankards holding perhaps a half gallon of Red Gold each, possibly more. Rubigo plopped down and hoisted a pewter tankard, chugging it into his mouth with hedonistic glee. Throde set the tray down and left.

 

Cholly sipped his wine and asked, "Is beer all right? It's the best brand he carries. I forgot to ask."

 

'This is fine," Markmor answered, taking a tankard in both hands. Marype did likewise.

 

Rubigo drained his in one long, gurgling, slurping pull. When he went to set the tankard down he made a startling discovery-the tankard was stuck to his lips and hands. He squealed in anger. When he tried to rise he found his feathers glued to the chair.

 

Markmor and Marype realized the trap too late. They too were stuck. Their mouths and hands stuck to the tankards and their robes stuck to the booth. Even their shoes were stuck to the floor. The master wizard's eyes seemed twin flames of amethyst. A growl of rage rumbled in his throat.

 

There was a puff of sulfurous smoke and Rubigo's tankard clattered onto the wooden floor. An instant later the smoke cleared, revealing the demon standing in the center of the room.

 

"Nice try, Fat Man. Too bad you didn't know us demons could jump planes just by thinkin' 'bout it. Haw-haw! Didn't nobody never tell ya not to go messin' wit' us? Now you gonna die, boy."

 

"Are you sure? It seems to me that as long as I have the Theban Talisman you can't touch me. Suppose I used this axe of mine on you. How do you know it wouldn't kill you?"

 

Rubigo paused a moment. Cholly eased out of his chair and slid his dismembering axe from its iron ring on his belt. He drew the Ilbarsi knife with his left hand. He waited, smiling.

 

"One way to find out," Rubigo growled, swinging a long arm around to slash at Cholly with green adamantine claws. The hand had three webbed fingers plus a thumb. Cholly ducked easily. The demon was slow. Cholly hacked with the axe.

 

Rubigo's hand fell to the floor. For a moment it lay wriggling. It vanished. The demon's wrist stopped oozing brackish fluid from the severed stump because the hand was back. He had an ugly laugh. Uh-oh, Chollander thought.

 

Chortling and drooling, Rubigo circled, intending to play with Cholly for a while before killing him. He lashed out with either hand, his claws raking the air around Cholly but not making contact. The gluemaker stayed calm, ducking and blocking, chopping and slashing at every opening. Once he darted in and managed to plant the axe deeply into Rubigo's chest, only to see the wound heal as soon as he removed the weapon.

 

Markmor and Marype watched every move of man and monster over the tankard rims.

 

The hellspawn was wearing the gluemaker down. He was untouched, but he was getting tired and winded. Sweat trickled into his eyes and the salt stung. He slid the Ilbarsi knife into its sheath and shifted the axe to a two-handed grip. He blinked and continued to block and counter and attack. He knew he would have to change tactics before exhaustion caused him to err.

 

Damn, he thought. I've given him enough blows to kill a squad of men. but his fiendish magic heals him every time. If he was mortal I could take him apart.

 

Cholly smiled.

 

Changing back to a one-hand grip on the axe, he used his free hand to reach for the talisman. Yanking the chain over his head he said, "That's enough. This is what you're after. Take it. I can't fight any more. Just take the damned thing and leave me alone. I know when I'm beat."

 

"That's more like it, Fatso. Youse is good, butcha ain't no match for da ol' demon. Now gimme."

 

He caught the medallion in the palm of his webbed hand. Now he was going to kill the fat bald man, since there was nothing to restrain him. He looked over to the wizard and apprentice wizard, holding the bauble aloft and smiling. He looked back just in time to catch a sparkle of light reflecting from the gleaming blade descending. Realization flashed in his beady little eyes just before they rolled back into his head.

 

Cholly picked up the medallion from the lifeless fingers, returning it back around his neck. Next he placed a foot upon the fiend's face and worked his axe free from the skull. Slipping the haft through its ring, he sat back down at the table.

 

"That was thirsty work." He drew his long knife and placed it between himself and the magicians. He poured himself another goblet of wine and sipped it. He paused long enough to get out his pipe, fill it, and light it from the candle on the table.

 

He took his time, seemingly ignoring the two prisoners. He would take a puff or two, blow a few smoke rings, and sip at his wine. All the while he kept smiling, sometimes idly playing with the Ilbarsi blade.

 

"What am I going to do with you?" he said, breaking the tense silence. "If I let you go we'll be right back where we started, except I'll know who you are. I've got better things to do than play hide-and-seek with your hired flunkies and conjurings. I have to work for my living.

 

"Have you ever seen glue being made? We start with a body. First we strip it naked and inspect for obvious disease. Next we lop off the hands and cut the throat and hang the body head-down to drain the blood. Are you following this? Oh yes, if the client has a nice head of hair-yours would fetch a pretty price, Marype-we scalp it before we hang it up."

 

He paused to pour himself another serving of wine. Markmor looked nervous and Marype was quite pale.

 

"Then we hack off the arms and legs and dump 'em in a big kettle of scalding water and render them down. We sell the fat to make soap, and dry the bones for firewood."

 

Markmor looked nauseous and Marype's countenance was paler than his hair.

 

Cholly sipped at his wine, inwardly smiling at achieving the desired reaction. He continued, "Look at it from my point of view. The only way to be sure I'm safe is to get rid of you. My way you can not only remain dead, but serve a useful purpose. I guess you know I don't like magicians much.

 

"On the other hand, I could spare your lives. The problem is: how do I know you won't attack me again? I suppose I could chop off your hands and cut out your tongues. Feet too, so you can't leam to use them for hands like a beggar I once saw. The eyes, naturally would have to go. Can either of you wiggle your ears? No? I'll leave them, then."

 

Markmor stared at the man, unsure whether he was bluffing. If it were the other way around he knew what he would do.

 

A combination of beer and fear finally took its toll upon Marype's bladder. Markmor turned to glance at his apprentice with disgust.

 

Setting down his goblet, Cholly smiled. "Look on the bright side. You'll get to wear the Theban Talisman-for a few minutes at least. Isn't that what you wanted? Look at it from my point of view. Silverlocks here -acting on your behalf-has tried to kill me already. He did kill the fellow who had it before me. This chunk of gold is too powerful to give to the likes of you, and at the same time I have a living to make. I have to have some assurance you won't bother me again."

 

Cholly knocked the dottle from his pipe, refilled it, and took another light from the candle while Markmor reflected upon what he had said.

 

"Nature calls," he told his prisoners. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere," he snickered, sliding out of the booth. He sheathed the Ilbarsi knife and stepped across Rubigo's carcass.

 

Cholly returned several minutes later. Behind him came the big bartender, and behind him a bearded man even bigger, carrying a staff. The last man, largest of the three, was dressed in blue and seemed to radiate power.

 

The wizards were trying unsuccessfully to escape.

 

"Nicely done, Cholly. What are you going to do with them?" Strick asked, chuckling,

 

"I haven't figured that one out yet. I can't let them go, but I'd rather not kill them unless I have to. Any ideas?"

 

"There are a couple of things that could work. First, to a mage knowing someone's true name gives you power over him."

 

"That's why he wouldn't tell me the demon's name."

 

"Right. Second, there is only one oath he cannot break: one sworn on his powers. All you have to do is make him tell you his true name and make him swear by it and on his powers to leave you alone. If he breaks that vow, at the very least his powers shall be forfeit for eternity."

 

Markmor stared at the stranger. Only a magician could have spoken so certainly, yet this man was not known to him. He knew the few remaining Ilsigi mages, and the ones in the Mageguild, and the outsiders like Enas Yorl and Ischade. Whoever this upstart was, there would be a score to settle later.

 

Ahdio spoke up. "How do you know if he is telling the truth? Wouldn't it be more likely he'd lie?"

 

"A good point, my friend. I can be of some assistance there. This staff I carry is not just a walking stick. It is a Staff of Truth. Whoever touches it may not lie and live."

 

Cholly puffed at his pipe, weighing the idea. Finally he asked, "What will it be, gentlemen? Will you take a vow to stop seeking the medallion and to leave me in peace?"

 

Strick touched the staff to Markmor's head. He nodded. When it touched Marype's head he too nodded. Markmor growled into his tankard.

 

"I'm going to free Markmor first. This will taste awful, and it will sting, but it will free your lips in a couple of minutes."

 

Cholly reached under the table and withdrew a leather satchel. From it he removed a stoppered bottle and a brush. He kept brushing the liquid from the bottle onto the sorcerer's lips until they were freed from the tankard. The Staff of Truth rested upon his head.

 

"Faugh! What was that unholy liquid?" he sputtered.

 

"Trade secret. Just be glad it worked. Are you ready'to give me your name?"

 

"Yes, damn you." Markmor gave his secret name.

 

"Now, do you swear, upon that name you have just spoken and by your powers, to never again seek the Theban Talisman and to leave me and mine forever in peace?"

 

"I so swear."

 

"Say it, all of it."

 

He said his name once more and swore on it and his powers.

 

Marype was more difficult, mainly because he had drained his tankard and was not entirely sober.

 

Finally Markmor growled, "Oh, for Anen's sake, take his bloody oath so we can get the hell out of here!"

 

Cholly freed the younger man and received his vow and name.

 

"May we leave now?" Markmor asked impatiently.

 

"In a minute. I just thought you ought to know that if your fair-haired boy there had simply come to me this morning and made me a reasonable cash offer before I found out what it could do, you could have bought the talisman outright. Too bad you didn't try straight dealing, because when somebody tries to push me around I have this tendency to push back. You can go."

 

Markmor's face was almost as scarlet as his silks. "You mean you never made the man an offer?! You mindless dungheap, where was your brain? You were dealing with a businessman. What do you think he does?

 

He buys and sells things, that's what he does. At times like this I could almost justify destroying you, talented or not. Brain damaged is what you are. Brain damaged . . ."

 

He was still ranting as he and Marype faded from view, leaving their clothing still glued to the booth.

 

Tears were trickling down Ahdio's red cheeks and Strick was gasping for breath. Three big bellies jiggled with uncontrollable laughter.

 

Ahdio was able to speak first. "I haven't laughed so hard in ages. Did you see the look on his face when he found out he could've bought it for a few soldats?"

 

"Yes, and when he sobers up the silver-haired one is going to catch seventeen hells," Strick added.

 

"Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow," Cholly giggled.

 

"I have a special bottle of wine I've been saving for a special occasion. Share it with me. This calls for a celebration," Ahdio declared.

 

Strick asked Cholly, "If they hadn't agreed, would you have killed them?"

 

"No, but there was no way they could know that. I let them worry once I brought up the possibility. As soon as Markmor put himself in my place he was convinced I would kill them both. It's only human to think other people would act the same way you would in the same situation. Since Markmor would kill me without a second thought, of course he believed I would do it, just more reluctantly. After all, he had already seen me split his pet demon's skull."

 

"So it was all a bluff," Strick marvelled. "What if he called you on it?"

 

"I'd have waited him out. He wasn't going anywhere. Sooner or later he would have to give in. That's lot of beer in those mugs," Cholly chuckled.

 

"Remind me never to gamble with you."

 

Three large bellies began shaking with laughter.

 

Eventually the gluemaker asked, "Is that Staff of Truth for real, or was it a bluff too?"

 

"Does it matter? Markmor believed it was real."

 

"How am I going to clean up this mess?" Ahdio wondered aloud.

 

'There's several bottles of solvent in my satchel. We can toss the demon out the back door and I'll pick him up in the morning. I wonder how good a glue he'll make."

 

 

 

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN

 

Robin Wayne Bailey

 

Tiana struck a brazen pose, turning her back to the small bust of the Rankan goddess Sabellia on its stone pedestal. The full moon shone overhead through a break in the trees, filling the small garden niche with a sublime light that revealed her full, pale breasts as they strained against the too-tight fabric of her green dress; a light bright enough, she also hoped, to lend luster to her deep green eyes so carefully kohled and her lovely red tresses.

 

She rumpled her hair with one hand and thrust her hip a bit further to the side, feeling the perfect vixen. She stretched, lifting her arms until the material of her bodice threatened to rip. She faked a yawn and dared another glance down the white-pebbled pathway that snaked through the Promise.

 

The man still stood there. She knew he'd seen her. What was wrong with him, anyway? Didn't he like women? Maybe he was one of those Stepsons, there were a few left in town; that would be just her luck.

 

She stepped back into the niche out of his sight and bit a fingernail. Perhaps she should have chosen a darker spot tonight. With the moon so full maybe he could see how faded her dress realty was, how the rose in her cheeks was only rouge, how skinny and bone-rough she'd become, despite the size of her juggles. Curse the fates that had brought her to this miserable town, and curse the lying, womanizing stonemason who had lured her here with his promises and sweet words, only to throw her into the streets the moment he found someone prettier.

 

She had no experience at this kind of work. She had to eat, though, and desperation emboldened her. This stranger down the path seemed to be the only man in the park tonight. He'd better have coins, though. Just last evening some wine-soaked fool had offered her a bundle of smelly hides for her service. What was she supposed to do with hides?

 

Tiana stepped onto the path again. The pebbles were smooth and cold under her bare feet. The air felt crisp; she would have to earn enough for shoes and a cloak, and soon. Food, too. She couldn't afford to let this man get away. Feigning an expression of boredom she rubbed her right breast, teasing the nipple. Then, she looked down the path.

 

Damn, damn, damn! He was gone' Into the bushes with some other woman? Her shoulders slumped, and tears welled in the comers of her eyes. She looked down at her toes, pushed a few of the milky stones around. Hadn't he liked her looks? Maybe she'd acted a little too whorish.

 

But gods, she was so hungry! How did the other women in the park do it? What was the knack she lacked? A whole week in this sad, silly place, and she had yet to break into the ranks of the professionals!

 

Tiana squeezed her stomach, trying to ease the emptiness as she leaned against Sabellia's pedestal and slowly sank down to sit on the grass at its base. Pressing her back to the fluted stone, she drew her knees close and hugged them.

 

She feared the night. The quiet solitude seemed like a menacing thing. The darkness engulfed her, swallowed her in a black maw, chewed and choked her down all in a preternatural silence. Even the gods whose busts and statues lined the walkways held their tongues in this unfortunate park.

 

She looked up into Sabellia's face. The moon itself seemed a weak and helpless emberglow in the vaster dark.

 

Tiana felt small and alone. She wanted to go home, but that, too, took money. She thought again other stonemason lover who had lured her so far from Ranke, He had treated her kindly and promised her heaven.

 

Well, he'd given it to her. That was what the locals called this park where she now tried to ply her charms: the Promise of Heaven.

 

She rested her head back against the pedestal and at last let go the tears she'd held in check for so long. Each one seemed a precious thing to her, a fragment of her heart. She caught one on her finger and held it up to see. It gleamed like a tiny crystalline moon, a very piece of her goddess.

 

Even through her fear she felt the shadow fall over her. She sniffed once, then quickly wiped the moisture from her face, giving no thought to the rouge and kohl that turned to a smear. She scrambled to her feet as fast as her dress allowed and faked her best smile.

 

It was the same man. Same height and build, same dark garments. The moon touched his features. He was young, she thought. Only a little older than herself. Not bad looking, either, despite a peculiar edge, a hardness, in his gaze. She took a deep breath, swelling her favorite assets.

 

Then, suddenly she dropped her pose and brightened. "I know you," she said. "You came down with the workers* caravan-"

 

"I need you," he interrupted throatily.

 

She met his gaze. He had beautiful eyes full of warmth and charm. "Of course," she answered, remembering why she was there, why he was there. Yet, there was more hope in her voice than seduction. She thought briefly of the meal she would buy come morning, and maybe an apartment. She hated sleeping in the alleys, constantly afraid. All she had to do was please him, and that shouldn't be hard to do.

 

He had such beautiful eyes'

 

"Come with me," he said softly, holding out a hand.

 

She took it. His touch warmed her; his hand felt soft and uncalloused. That puzzled her. If he was one of the workers sent to rebuild the wall around Sanctuary his hand should have been rough. Yet, it pleased her that it wasn't, and she pushed that concern aside. There was something else she was supposed to think about, something she should say. What was it?

 

"The cost . . ." she hesitated awkwardly, unsure of the usual charge. "I mean. well, a sheboozh?" Oh, damn, she thought. That's far too much for a common street whore. A whole gold coin!

 

But he moved his other hand close to her face. She caught just the flash of the requested payment before he made a fist and the money disappeared,

 

Tiana couldn't believe her good fortune. Gold and beautiful eyes. The gods were with her this night after all. He really did have the most incredible gaze, full of oceans and full of darkness, full of promises.

 

"Come with me," he said again. His voice was the high wind, and when he spoke no more she still heard his words. He was the sound of the night.

 

She looked into his eyes. Hand in hand, they stepped from Sabellia's garden niche and onto the pathway. Out of respect for the silence that shrouded the park the gravel refused to crunch beneath their tread.

 

Unable to help herself, Tiana smiled.

 

The moonlight continued to shine on the small bust in the Promise of Heaven.

 

Over the rest of Sanctuary, Darkness began to chew.

 

The full moon poured its radiance perfectly through the skylight above Sabellia's altar, lending an opalescent sheen to the graceful sculpture of the goddess. Her flawless marble features shimmered as the smoke of incense swirled upward from a score of braziers set in the floor at the hem other skirts. It rose higher and higher like a wizards-weather mist, caressed her sensuous curves, curled toward the silver disc and out into the night.

 

Dayme looked up, seeking Sabellia's shadowed gaze. He knew she was with him, present in this first full moonlight of autumn as it illumined her altar. He felt her power, felt her touch upon his heart.

 

"Cheyne," he murmured as he knelt. "My Cheyne." He prayed no other words aloud. He didn't need to. Sabellia knew him well. The goddess had set her mark upon his soul.

 

He reached inside his tunic and extracted a small bundle of white silk. Carefully, he unrolled it. Several strands of fine blond hair gleamed in the moonlight. A silver thread bound them into a delicate lock. How long had he carried them in secret, those hairs stolen from her brush? Three years? Four?

 

He laid his small offering on Sabellia's altar. It was not a gift of great value, but it was very dear to him. The goddess asked no more. Dayrne bowed his head. But suddenly prayers would not come.

 

Where had she gone, his Cheyne? Why hadn't she waited for him to return with the One Hundred? He closed his eyes; it was easy to picture her face when he closed his eyes. In the silent sanctity of the Rankan temple he whispered her name.

 

Chenaya.

 

But in his heart he called her Cheyne, It was one of the names the gladiators had given her in the Rankan arenas. Hard as metal they had said of her. That wasn't true. She was tough, yes, but he had seen the softness buried deep in her soul, the piece of her she kept hidden from the world and from her father.

 

She was a child, sometimes. A spoiled child. Yet he loved her. Cheyne, he thought. My Chain. Chain that binds me beyond reason. He shook his head in a moment that was a mixture of pity and joy. Let me never be free. He looked up at Sabellia's face. She seemed almost to mock him as she peered down through the swirling incense, and he knew that was one prayer the goddess had already answered.

 

But where had Chenaya gone?

 

He thought again of that strange portrait hanging in her room. The power of it was startling, but though he admired the artistry, each time he looked upon it a subtle fear tingled through his spine. Unmistakably, it was Lalo's work. But when had she posed for it? Lowan Vigeles said she had brought it home one night, shut herself in her room until dawn, and departed with the morning, saying nothing to anyone. Not even her father knew more.

 

Dayrne suspected, however, that Rashan did. The old priest had made a habit lately of going to Cheyne's room and staring at the portrait with that queer smile of his, peering through half-closed lids at Chenaya's face and the resplendent sun that framed her, seemed to caress her, an effect that went far beyond mere paint and craftsmanship. Her hair flew into fire and light; her eyes shone like tiny suns. Chenaya was beautiful beyond any woman he had ever known, but not even she was so glorious as Lalo had rendered her.

 

Strange as those things were, though, there was something else that stirred terror into his blood. The painting radiated a tangible warmth.

 

Could it be true what Rashan claimed? Was his Cheyne truly the Daughter of the Sun? Or was it all some trick?

 

He turned his gaze back to Sabellia, who governed matters of the heart. If Cheyne was a goddess or some avatar of Father Savankala, then what hope could there be for any love between them?

 

He touched the few strands of hair he had placed on the altar- They belonged to the goddess now. He bowed his head, uttered one last prayer, and slowly rose to his feet.

 

The Temple of the Rankan Gods was quiet and dark. He shook his head, feeling shame for his people. The construction of the temple had never quite been completed. The outer shrines with altars for Savankala, Sabellia, and Vashanka had been finished, but many of the inner ritual chambers and priests' quarters were still in various stages of completion. There should have been a festival in Sabellia's honor this night of nights. Rashan had elected, instead, to take his priests and hold the ceremonies at the smaller, private temple at Land's End which was not only completed, but sanctified. It didn't seem proper to Dayme, though. That temple was Savankala's hallowed ground. This hour should belong only to Sabellia.

 

Well, he was just a gladiator. What did he know of priestly affairs?

 

He walked through the temple, his sandals ringing softly on the smooth stone floor. Lonely, troubled, he made his way outside, down the high steps, and into the avenue.

 

The street appeared empty. It would be foolish, though, to rely on appearances. Even with the street gangs smashed, there was still danger in the Sanctuary nights. There were too damn many alleys and shadows in this town. Sanctuary. He smirked, considering the name. As if a man was safe from anything at this end of the empire.

 

He wrapped a lightweight cloak about his shoulders and moved soundlessly down the street. Like the rest of Sanctuary's citizens he, too, knew how to turn invisible, to become a shade or wraith, as he wandered the darkness of Uptown. Cheyne would have mocked and teased him. She would have strode brazenly down the center of the road. Unlike his mistress, though, Dayme had no taste for confrontations.

 

He bit his lip and cursed her silently for leaving him behind. Where the hell are you, Chenaya, he wondered bitterly. Then, thinking of Lalo's painting. Who the hell are you?

 

Worry and confusion gnawed at his insides. Rashan, he thought, furrowing his brow. He owed himself a long talk with that sunstruck priest.

 

Daphne worked the training machine with only the moon and a single torch to see by. She leaped and dodged as four spinning wooden arms swung at her head and knees. Sweat gleamed on her body, ran in free rivulets down her throat and chest, down her arms into the hand that held an immense sword. Once, the sword had been too heavy for her. No longer.

 

For a time her mind was utterly free, devoid of thought or concern. The smooth working of muscle, the stretch of tendon, the pulse of her blood, the heat in her flesh-these were the only things that existed for her. She breathed the cool air of night, felt the crunch of sand beneath her sandals, listened to the rhythmic whoosh of the whirling machine. Nothing else mattered for her.

 

But when the arms began to slow she stepped clear and drew a deep, frustrated breath. Then, she leaned on her sword and looked around, strangely aware of the silence and her aloneness. She would not have called it loneliness.

 

A few lamps burned in the windows of the estate. In the opposite direction a few more lights showed distantly where the new barracks had been built at the easternmost wall of Land's End. Beyond the wall the sky glowed redly with the bonfires that Rashan and his priests had made, where they celebrated by Chenaya's temple on the shores of the Red Foal.

 

She was alone as usual, on the outside looking in again. But it didn't bother her. Practice was what mattered, and training and hard work. Dayme would be angry if he knew she was out here so late, but she didn't care. He was only her trainer, nothing more. He'd made that abundantly clear. Her hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of her sword, though, when she thought of him.

 

She didn't care, she didn't care at all. But she raised her weapon suddenly and carved a great chunk out of one of the machine's arms. The breath hissed from her as she struck. Then, she stood for a moment and trembled. It was not Dayrne, she told herself. It had nothing to do with him.

 

It was that damned husband of hers.

 

Kadakithis had summoned her to the palace again. Again, he had begged her for a divorce. Begged! A prince of Ranke! No matter that divorce was forbidden among the Royal Family. Hell, he'd practically crawled on his knees to convince her.

 

What had she ever seen in that man that had made her consent to marriage? It certainly hadn't been his thin, spindly body or his face with a chin that could stitch sailcloth, or that armor-piercing nose. It certainly hadn't been the execrable poetry he once had written, or his mediocre talent on the harp.

 

It sure as the gods hadn't been his fidelity. Why, the bastard had stocked his larder with fresh meat almost before their wedding bed had cooled. And when the Raggah kidnapped and sold her into slavery, did Kadakithis come to rescue her? Hell and damnation, no! He'd curled up, instead, with his pet fish, and left that task to Chenaya.

 

She carved two more chunks from the training-machine, uttering a curse with each stroke. Damn it. Chenaya! (Thunk!) Why didn 't you lake me. (Thunk!) with you, damn it!

 

It didn't matter that Dayme loved Chenaya, it really didn't. She missed the blonde-haired little bitch. With all the new faces around Land's End, all the recruits for Lowan's new school, Daphne wished for someone to talk to. Chenaya was always best for that, though they usually only traded insults and catty comments. Still, there was a communion in that. Chenaya understood her, and as much as anyone could, she thought she understood Chenaya. Everyone else was too much in awe of Lowan's daughter. But not Daphne. Too often they'd looked each other straight in the eye and muttered, "slut," or some such.

 

That made her smile.

 

That business with Zip, though, that hadn't gone down well for Chenaya. She suspected that in the process of ridding Sanctuary of that verminous street gang (laughingly called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary) Chenaya had lost part of her heart to the cutthroat little back-stabber who called himself its leader. Just like her, Daphne thought, to ignore a real man like Dayrne who cared for her and to fall for a piece of puke.

 

Still, it was a damn good thing Chenaya had left town so soon after the palace ambush. If she knew that Zip had been set free, or that her own husband, that splinter of manhood, had elevated him to a position of authority . . . Hell, even she burned when she thought about that.

 

How, she wondered, could Shupansea allow it? If she'd hated that carp-face before, Daphne had nothing but contempt remaining for the Beysa. Her own people had suffered worst of all at Zip's hands. Daphne remembered the massacre of so many Beysib near the Vulgar Unicorn. Why didn't Shupansea? Wasn't she the real ruler of this city? How could she allow Zip to live when Chenaya had practically poured his blood into a cup for her to drink?

 

Daphne leaned on the machine and stared toward the red haze that flickered against the vast eastern darkness. The noise ofRashan's celebration barely touched her ears.

 

Only days after that incident Chenaya had vanished. Reyk, her falcon, rattled listlessly in his cage. Her father, Lowan, rattled around the halls and corridors of Land's End, himself, like a caged bird, fretting in his own quiet way.

 

Fortunately, he had matters to occupy his mind: the arrival of one hundred of the empire's finest gladiators, the opening of his new school, the construction of suitable barracks on the estate's northeast section, with lumber transported all the way from Bhokar. And there were his plans for the upcoming Festival of Man. All that kept him from worrying too much about his daughter, and it gave him no time at all to visit the palace.

 

But Daphne had been to the palace on three occasions of late. It galled her to listen to Molin Torchholder and Tempus's crag-browed flunkyWhat was his name, anyway? Shit or Spit or something like that-muttering about Chenaya's treachery and Chenaya's scheming and Chenaya's this or that.

 

Not that the two had seen her. Woe to any woman raised in a royal household that never learned to listen at a keyhole or from behind an arras, or that never learned to carry on one conversation while overhearing another. Daphne had learned a lot on her three visits, and she swore to leam more when she answered Kadakithis's latest summons.

 

Divorce was all he had on his mind these days.

 

Treachery. That's all Daphne had on hers. There was another traitor that everyone seemed to conveniently overlook, a man who'd befriended Chenaya, pretended to love her- He'd helped her shape the trap that had netted Zip that night, and he'd killed piffles right at her mistress's side.

 

Then, he'd let Zip go, freed the piece of offal that-more than any man in the world-he had reason to hate, cause to kill.

 

It made Daphne mad.

 

She reached out and gave the uppermost arm of the machine a push to set it spinning. Gears began to whir, moving the lower arms in a timed counter-rhythm. Daphne gripped her sword tightly, barely repressing a curse. She prepared to leap into her practice again, then stopped. As a perverse afterthought, she extinguished her torch in the sand.

 

She would try it without the light. She didn't need it anymore, she was sure. She was better than her trainer realized, and getting better still. She listened to the gears, to the whoosh of the arms. It was more of a challenge this way, but not much more. The moon was too full.

 

Leap and dodge, leap and dodge.

 

For a time, she abandoned thoughts of treachery and vengeance and found calmness in the smooth mindkssness of motion.

 

But only for a time.

 

Dayrne crept across the Governor's Walk and proceeded up the Avenue of Temples. Though a few lights burned in the windows of some of the greater edifices he walked the streets alone. Or, if he was not alone, then whoever else walked abroad moved as silently as he. In Sanctuary, he was willing to concede that possibility.

 

He had planned to go straight home to Land's End. There was so much to do these days with the One Hundred to organize and train. They were good men. He'd personally handpicked every one of them. Their first task upon arriving in Sanctuary had been to construct their own barracks with the lumber Dayrne had purchased in Bhokar. That done, he'd given them one day of rest in honor ofSabellia's celebration. Tomorrow morning would be their first full workouts. He would supervise the session himself.

 

Tonight, however, he wanted a good sleep.

 

Nevertheless, he slowed when he approached the eastern entrance to the Promise of Heaven. Two stone pedestals high as his waist stood on either side of the wide white-pebbled pathway. He hesitated, then moved toward them and frowned. In Sabellia's blessed light he spied a flat black stone upon the left post. Such stones washed up only on the banks of the White Foal on the farther side of town.

 

It was a signal. He palmed the small bit of rock and walked stealthily down the graveled path. He had gone less than ten paces when the smell of a very cheap, but very potent, perfume brought him to a cautious halt.

 

A woman stepped out of the bushes that lined the pathway. She was much too old for her chosen trade; only here in the Promise of Heaven could she hope to make a living with what remained of her physical charms. Men didn't come here for porcelain beauty, but for a few quick grunts in the foliage. Still, she did the best with what she had. Goldenwash made her hair too blond, and rouge made her cheeks far too rosy. More rouge colored her breasts, and kohl darkened her lids in a manner that was almost seductive.

 

Her white dress floated about her as she moved forward. In the pale moonlight it was nearly impossible to discern just how threadbare and worn it really was. There was a certain sad beauty to it and to its wearer.

 

"Evening, Asphodel," Dayme said softly. "That perfume. I smelled you before I saw you."

 

She approached him, grinning, and suddenly she didn't look quite so old. The smile brightened her face, lent it youth. "Sarome's Night," she informed him. "It's in my price range, and it comes by the keg." She ran her fingertips lightly over the jerkin that covered his chest. "If it offends your nostrils, my young friend, then buy me something more expensive."

 

He caught her wrist, held it for a moment, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. She giggled like a little girl, then pulled away. She touched her own lips to the place where he had kissed, then turned her hand over, opened her palm and exposed the black stone he had pressed upon her.