"You wanted to see me," he reminded her gently.

 

Whore or not, Dayrne liked the old woman. He'd liked her since the first time he'd caught her placing flowers against the main gate at Land's End. Lots of the townsfolk had left flowers and small gifts there since Cheyne smashed the PFLS. Especially, Dayme suspected, the prostitutes whose trade that group had nearly ruined by their terrorizing of the streets.

 

Asphodel, however, had brought more than just flowers to show her gratitude. "Walegrin didn't take that bastard. Zip, to prison at all," she'd revealed in her best conspiratorial whisper. "He let him go." It was the first Dayme had heard ofWalegrin's betrayal, but he'd only just returned to Sanctuary that same day with a hundred men and a missing Chenaya to occupy his time. He'd thanked her for the information, but had taken no other action.

 

A few nights later. Asphodel had sought him again outside the gate. "There's a plot brewing in the palace," she'd reported. "Nothing is set, yet, and the Prince isn't involved. But some high people want Rashan dead real quick. They don't like his talk about the Lady Chenaya being a goddess. Lots of folks are ready to believe it."

 

"Why are you telling me this?" Dayme had asked suspiciously. "How does a Promise Park whore come by such palace gossip?"

 

That was the first time he'd seen her smile. She'd leaned back against the gate and struck a pose that might have tempted him had she been twenty years younger.

 

"The ladies who work the park owe much to your Lady," Asphodel had answered. "While Zip and his bloody little boys ran this end of town our customers were afraid to venture out at night. But some of us have children and families to feed. Without the coins we earn in the park we couldn't afford food. Zip starved us as surely as if he stole the bread from our mouths."

 

She struck another pose. Dayme realized with a faint grin that she wasn't trying to seduce him at all. Her postures were, instead, matters of long habit, totally unconscious. Long ago, this woman must have been something very special, perhaps madam of her own house. Sadly, times changed for everyone.

 

"There've been other things she's done. too," Asphodel had continued. "Little things. Many a time your Chenaya has cut through the Promise and scattered a few coins on the path. Oh, she always had a haughty air about her, but those coins sometimes made the difference between a good meal or none at all for someone's baby. We're a close-knit club, we women who work the Promise, and we don't forget favors. Even if people don't know they're doing us favors."

 

Dayme wished Chenaya could have heard those words, but she'd left town too soon. "Such information . . ." he'd started to ask.

 

Asphodel smiled again and rumpled her hair absentmindedly. "How does a common street whore come by such news?" She raised one finely penciled eyebrow. "Sir, it would surprise you the kind of men who seek us out. A fine, soft bed is, of course, a good thing." Her smile turned mischievous, "But a tumble in the bushes, in the open air with the stars overhead and the leaves rustling, a body with no discernible face, and the wind in the crack of your ass. That's more than mere sex, Sir. That's an adventure. And men both highborn and low sometimes find their lives turning a bit stodgy. That's when they seek us out."

 

"And they talk?" Dayrne suggested, gleaning her subtleties.

 

Her smile faded only a little, replaced by an expression of wisdom and the barest hint of regret. "Ever meet a man who didn't want the woman he topped to know how important he was?"

 

They'd continued to talk through the night. As the first clouds of morning caught fire in the east they'd parted, her with a full purse in her bodice. She'd tried to refuse it, but Dayrne had insisted. They'd made a pledge to help each other, and it came as no surprise to learn a few nights later that she'd distributed his coins among all the women of the Promise.

 

The leather purse, though, that she'd kept for herself. She wore it on a thong about her ample waist. As he watched, she opened it and deposited the small black stone that was her means of summoning him. That stone was the only clue Dayrne had as to where Asphodel spent her daylight hours, and he guessed she lived close to the White Foal, perhaps in Downwind.

 

"Has Lady Chenaya returned home, yet?" Asphodel asked with genu- ine concern.

 

Dayrne shook his head. "No word from her, either."

 

The old whore bit her lip. The gesture touched Dayrne, drew him even closer to his new, unlikely friend.

 

He glanced up and down the walkway, making sure they were quite alone. Then, he pulled her gently into the bushes. To his surprise, she didn't make the expected suggestive remark. That told him something was wrong.

 

"There's trouble?" he whispered, his hand still upon her arm.

 

She stared at his hand, then away into the dark. "I'm not sure," she said at last. "Maybe I shouldn't bother you with it."

 

He let go a sigh. If she didn't want to bother him, then it didn't concern Chenaya or Land's End. Still, he owed her. She had done enough for him and those he cared for.

 

"Bother me," he answered, another suggestive opening that she let pass. So it was big trouble.

 

Asphodel started to bite her nail, then pulled her finger away from her mouth and folded her hands together. "Some of the ladies have disappeared," she murmured almost too faintly to be heard. Then, her voice grew stronger. "One a night for over a week. And tonight . . ." she hesitated and started to bite the nail again. Again, she caught herself. "A new girl vanished. Sweet child, but a real novice. Her name was Tiana."

 

"Maybe she went home with a customer," Dayme suggested.

 

Asphodel shook her head. "Not likely. We're kind of a family here. We adopt newcomers like Tiana and try to keep an eye on them." Unconsciously, she raised a finger to her lips, inserted it, and bit the nail quite through. She frowned, shook the finger and let go a sigh. "One moment, she was working by the bust of Sabellia. The next, she was gone. Nobody saw her leave. In fact, the park has been nearly deserted all night." She pointed to the sky. "Full moon," she explained. "The brightness keeps the customers away."

 

Dayrne rubbed his chin. "Are you sure they've disappeared? Maybe they've found . . ." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "better work. Or, maybe they're sick." He tried to think of other reasons a prostitute might take a night off.

 

"I told you we're close as family," she repeated. "I went to their homes, myself. Two of the ladies had children. Those little ones were all alone. One was a babe, a half-starved suckling. I had to find places for them all."

 

"Have you taken this matter to the garrison?"

 

She stared him right in the eye. It was a long, uncomfortable moment.

 

"We're whores," she said at last. "This is the Promise." She didn't have to say more than that.

 

Raggahs, he thought. Could they be back in the slave trade? He remembered Daphne's experience at their hands, how those desert bandits had kidnapped and sold her into prostitution on Scavenger's Isle. The Promise of Heaven would be easy pickings if those bastards had decided to resume business.

 

If it was the Raggahs, though, then he had a personal stake in this. Daphne was his pupil. An affront visited upon her was visited upon him as well.

 

"Have any . . ." he searched for a delicate word, then shrugged helplessly, "bodies turned up?"

 

"No," she answered- "No traces at all. They simply vanished. Easy enough to do in Sanctuary, and if it was just one or two girls I wouldn't question. But one a night for more than a week?" She gazed around as if she could see through the shrubs and bushes into every corner of the park. Then, she raised the hem of her dress to reveal a small dagger thrust through a garter on her right thigh. "My ladie? are scared. I'm scared."

 

"I'll see what I can leam," he promised, unsure of what exactly to do. He pursed his lips, then drew a deep breath. "Anything else?"

 

She also took a breath and let it out slowly. "Just gossip. All those workers who've moved into Shambles' Cross are causing quite a stir. Trouble-making bunch of misfits, all seeking a quick fortune. They like to rough a lady up a bit, you know9 They try it up here, and they'll be sorrier than hell." She patted her weapon through the thin dress.

 

"Doesn't that scare away your customers?" he wondered, amused.

 

"Easy enough to hide it in this darkness," she answered, grinning weakly. "But it's always within reach."

 

They stepped out of the foliage and onto the walkway. Once more, Dayme caught her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. "I'll try to help," he promised again before he turned away. He glanced over his shoulder, but she didn't follow. When he turned a second time she was gone. Asphodel knew the park far better than he did.

 

Sanctuary, he thought. The Promise of Heaven. So many funny names for a town with no sense of humor.

 

Sunlight shimmered around Daphne as she stepped from her silk palanquin at the Processional Gate. She had prepared for this meeting, dressing in her favorite gown of exquisite blue. It split enticingly to her right hip and draped low, just covering her breasts, leaving both arms bare. She had spent much of the morning piling her hair upon her head, pinning it in place with pins of gold and polished oyster shell. Small silver sandals adorned her feet. A perfume of rare citrus floated about her.

 

She was not so stunning as Chenaya, but she was beautiful. And before she granted him any divorce, Kadakithis would acknowledge that. So would Shupansea, the woman who wanted her place at his side.

 

She turned to Leyn and Ouijen who manned the front poles of her transport. "Thank you, brothers," she said formally to the two gladiators. They had helped often with her training, and she bore them great respect. It delighted her heart that they had volunteered to bear her today. The two at the rear poles were new men. She didn't know their names, but if Dayme had chosen them they also deserved her respect. She made a short bow. "Thank you for this honor you've done me."

 

"We'll wait here," Leyn said. Then, he put on a grin. "Give 'em a taste of hell."

 

He was a beautiful man, blessed by Savankala with the same golden hair as Chenaya, tall and strong with the classically sculpted body that only a gladiator's training seemed to give. She looked into his richly blue eyes and smiled half-sadly. Why was it not Leyn she loved?

 

"I'll try not to leave you long in this sun," she answered. "And a taste of hell? I'll serve them a gods-damned banquet." She made an ugly face that instantly transformed to an expression of innocence. "Of course, I'm just a sweet, boring little princess of Ranke." But as she said it, she drew a finger across her throat and turned thumbs down with the other hand.

 

They laughed together, startling passersby who moved along the Processional on their morning business. Then, Daphne passed alone through the gate, crossed Vashanka's Square, and entered the Hall of Justice.

 

The hall was empty. Kadakithis had given up any real pretense of governing the city, himself- He rarely held court at all- She paused at the bottom step of a high dais. At its top rested the throne from which the prince once had delivered his judgments.

 

For a moment her resolve faltered. She sank down on one knee, staring upward, recalling how she had first arrived in this gods-cursed city with her husband. Kadakithis had been so full of ideals then-almost bloated with plans and schemes to improve this filthy city his halfbrother, the emperor Abakithis, had given into his care. She had loved him at that time, even forgiven him for the harem he had brought along from Ranke. And she, too, had shared his ideals and dreams. Most of all, she had rejoiced at the changes that command had seemed to make in him.

 

But none of it had lasted. The ideals were shattered and scattered into dust. Kadakithis had so easily relinquished his command, first to Shupansea and her Beysibs, and then to Molin Torchholder and his cronies. She grieved for the Kadakithis that had journeyed-an enthusiastic boy-man-to this city. She despised the Kadakithis he had become.

 

It was not his fault, of course. It was the city. Sanctuary corrupted from the inside out. First, it shattered your ideals, then it ground your face against the broken edges, held you down with its foot on your neck until you no longer felt the pain. Until you were just numb.

 

She was proof of that. A once-delicate princess who lived, ate, slept like a gladiator, who cursed like a street whore, who had killed and reveled in the flow of blood. Oh, Sanctuary had worked its brutal magic on her.

 

Daphne rose from the step, passed through the rearmost door meant only for the prince and his entourage, and into the palace proper. She did not see Lu-Broca, the major domo, anywhere, so she grabbed the arm of the first guard that crossed her path. "There are four good men outside the Processional Gate." She saw by the gleam in his eyes that even a mere palace guard knew who she was, and she smiled inwardly- Intimidation came so easily to her these days. "You, personally, will take them the best goblets and the finest vintage wine you can beg, borrow, or steal from the kitchens. Fail me in this-" She patted his shoulder and winked, "Well, don't fail me." She had his dagger from his belt sheath and under his chin before he could draw a breath. "Oops!" she said, passing it back by the point. "You nearly dropped this."

 

She walked serenely down the corridor, leaving him. Neither Rankan guard nor Beysib dared to bar her way. They knew her. Princess Daphne, who once had dared to call their Beysa a whore to her face and laughed about it before all the city's gathered nobility. They hated her, but they accorded her a measure of awe, perhaps because not even their fishgoddess, Mother Bey, had dared to strike her down.

 

Or, perhaps that was only her imagination. Sometimes her mind ran away with her. She couldn't really guess what they thought other, Beysib or Rankan. Nor did she care. It was Chenaya she strove to please, and Dayme and Lowan Vigeles. And herself. Beyond that, she no longer gave a damn about Ranke or the Beysibs or Kadakithis.

 

Her loyalty was to Land's End. Chenaya had rescued her from Scavengers' Isle, and Lowan had offered her a home. Dayme and his gladiators had put strength in her arm, courage in her heart, and a sword in her hand. To them she owed loyalty and love. Anyone else was less than the dirt under her sandaled feet.

 

She found Kadakithis in his private quarters. It amused her that he thought such intimate surroundings could sway her decision. Well, let him keep his littie vanities a while longer. A guard stood by his door, opened it for her, and remained at her side until the Prince stepped through a curtained archway.

 

Kadakithis smiled his most reasonable smile.

 

Daphne stifled a sigh. He was still in so many ways the boy she had once loved. He had the same babyish face, the same hair, same thin and spotty beard that probably would never become a man's full mane. He was too scrawny, a mere stick beside Dayrne or Leyn. Yet, she had truly loved him.

 

No more, though. He had killed that love when the Raggah kidnapped her. Kadakithis hadn't even bothered to look for her or to wonder about her fate. And when she did return-thanks to Chenaya-she had found him with another woman. Hardly a woman at all, but a fish-eyed carp.

 

She didn't know if she hated him. But he had hurt her. She wanted to hurt him back.

 

"Daphne!" Kadakithis exclaimed. "You look positively radiant."

 

She folded her arms and waited for him to come to her. "Flatter me some more, Kitty-Kat," she encouraged him coldly. "Maybe it'll make me more pliant, and I'll give you what we both know you want."

 

He reached out to her, and she suffered his touch. His fingers brushed over her bicep. "By the Golden Crown of Savankala," he whispered in his best chiding tone, "if your father knew you were working out with a bunch of gladiators!" He squeezed her muscle. "Why it's bigger than mine!"

 

"Yours was never very big, husband," she answered caustically. "But we both pretended." She changed the subject. "Is Shu-sea hiding behind that curtain?"

 

The Prince paled briefly and looked back over his shoulder to the archway. "Of course not. We're completely alone."

 

He never had been much of a liar, not to her, anyway. "Too bad," she said and paced away from him to the far side of the room. "Because I know she'd like to hear my news. I've decided to give you the divorce you've been begging for."

 

If she hadn't hated him before, that changed instantly. His face brightened; the corners of his mouth turned upward in a smile, and he almost clapped his hands together for joy. Then, he caught himself.

 

"It's against Rankan Law," she reminded him. "We're both of Royal Families. But let's admit it, my love, we're so far outside Rankan tradition that it doesn't matter spit or blood what we do. The throne belongs to a usurper now, damn Theron's soul. Your loyalty is to your Beysib allies, and mine is to Chenaya and Land's End. You're no more a Pankan prince than I am a princess. I'm a gladiator now, an auctorata.

 

You . . ." she hesitated, then gave him her most withering look. "You're a plaything for Shupansea and a puppet for Molin Torchholder."

 

Kadakithis came toward her, his arms outstretched. "Daphne, I'm sorry. I never expected-"

 

She waved him off, and again crossed to the farthest side of the room away from him. "Spare me any more of your winnings, Kitty-Kat." She knew how he hated that name. "You never expected me to be so reasonable? So generous as to give you the divorce? Or such a bitch?" She threw back her head and laughed, pleased by the effect it had on her weakling mate. "Well, I don't intend to disappoint you, darling." She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, though she tried to smother her anger. "I'm not going to be reasonable or generous. I am going to show you what a bitch I really can be."

 

He stared, apparently at a loss for words. She found him funny as he stood there, mouth agape. He persisted in thinking of her as the sweet, demure child he had taken for his bride, the child who'd loved and obeyed him and had never said a word about his philandering or his spineless scraping before his brother, Abakithis.

 

That Daphne was dead. The Raggah and the filth who lived on Scavengers* Isle had killed her.

 

"You want your divorce? You want to marry your fish-faced lover?" She laughed again. "You can, my Kitty-Kat." She pointed a trembling finger and released emotions too long held inside her. The bastard! He hadn't even tried to find her! "But there's a price to pay, first." Her lips curled ferally. "There's always a price."

 

"Anything!" Kadakithis stuttered. "Just tell me-"

 

She interrupted him. "Oh, you'll regret that word. But not so fast, former love of my life. This is my last grandstand as your wife, and I want a handpicked audience. Only then will you leam the terms of our divorce."

 

Kadakithis's face turned stony. He glared at her. "Is this another game you're playing?"

 

If she'd had something close at hand she'd have thrown it at him. In fact, she wondered now if he'd had the room cleared just to avoid such an incident. It was remarkably bare of small objects. "Of course, it's a game," she answered, recovering a measure of calm. "You poor boy. Will you ever grow up and open your eyes? It's all a gods-damned game. You'd better learn to play, instead of hiding here behind your nice safe walls. As it is, you're nothing but a pawn for Shupansea and Molin. Be a player, damn you! For once in your innocent, naive life open your eyes and be a man! Until you manage that nothing here will ever truly be yours. Not this city, not Shu-sea, nothing."

 

He trembled visibly. She saw that from across the room, but strangely she found little joy in her triumph. She knew few people had ever dared to talk to him that way, or dared to tell him such a truth.

 

"Your audience," he reminded her. He could barely get out the words;

 

his lips made a thin, taut line, and his eyes were narrowed slits.

 

Daphne drew a slow breath, her anger finally spent. She had not realized the depth of the bitterness she'd harbored against her husband. But that was suddenly gone, at least for the moment. There was still the purpose though-the reason she'd decided to grant the divorce.

 

"You," she said softly, "and Shupansea, and Molin." She raised a finger for each name. Lastly she lifted the little finger of her right hand. "But most importantly, our dear garrison commander."

 

The Prince raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Walegrin?"

 

She allowed a small, cruel smile. "His fame precedes him, does it not? My terms will be of special interest to sweet Walegrin."

 

There was no love in the look he gave her, no regret. A shared past, shared dreams and ideals, they meant nothing to him anymore. He wanted only his divorce, and as quickly as possible, she saw that in his gaze. The chill in his voice made even Savankala turn his head away, and the room grew darker as, beyond the window, a cloud passed over the sun. "When and where do we play your game?" he said.

 

There was only one place. "The Hall of Justice," she answered. "Tomorrow. You can sweat for a while wondering what I'm planning."

 

Kadakithis folded his arms over his chest. "Then the gods be with us all."

 

She spat on his lovely, marbled floor. "Don't blaspheme," she advised acidly. "The gods have nothing to do with this business."

 

She left him then, passing within a hand's breadth of him on her way to the door. She smelled his essence and the clean crispness of his garments. She felt the warmth of him they passed so closely. But she gave him not another glance. She was numb, she told herself, numb.

 

In a strange kind of serenity she walked through the palace, through the Hall of Justice, and across Vashanka's Square. Her palanquin and her friends waited at the Processional Gate. They hailed her as she joined them. Each man held a fine silver goblet.

 

"We sent the wine back," Leyn informed her, "and requested water, instead. There's still a day's training ahead of us when we get back to Land's End."

 

She didn't have it in her to smile. She parted the curtains of her transport and climbed inside. "Take me home, Leyn," she whispered. "Please take me home." She let the drape fall between her and the rest of the world and did her best to smother the sounds of her tears.

 

Dayrne fed scraps of freshly killed meat to Chenaya's falcon. Reyk was reluctant to feed, however. The bird took the bits, chewed them briefly, and dropped them to the bottom of his cage. He emitted a long, shrill call, spread his wings to their fullest, then folded them again. He crawled into one comer, finally, and turned away from his feeder.

 

Dayrne gave up. He set the bowl inside the cage where Reyk could reach it if he changed his mind.

 

"He misses Chenaya."

 

Dayrne looked around. He hadn't even heard Daphne approach. A frown creased his lips. Didn't she ever wear anything but her training garb anymore?

 

"You're armed," she noticed. "Going out?"

 

He glanced at the sky. Twilight crept slowly over the heavens. It would be dark soon. Asphodel would be in the Promise like a mother hen protecting her clutch. He remembered the small dagger she wore in her garter and smiled grimly. If the Raggah were involved, she'd need a hell of a lot more than that.

 

"Personal business," he told Daphne. He turned and walked through the aviary, paying no attention to the other falcons in their cages. Birds were Lowan's hobby, not his.

 

Daphne kept pace beside him as he headed for the estate. "Let me help," she offered.

 

Dayme paused. If there were Raggah to hunt, didn't Daphne have the right to join him? He shook his head. Despite all her training and skill, she was a princess of Ranke. He had no right to risk her safety. Besides, he had no proof that the Raggah were his prey. Only a suspicion.

 

"Personal," he repeated. He increased the length of his stride, leaving her behind. She didn't try to keep up, but stopped instead and glared. He could feel the power of her anger at his back.

 

The twelve original gladiators who had accompanied Lowan Vigeles to Sanctuary had all been quartered within the estate. Two were dead; they were only ten now, but his grief was eased by the knowledge that his brothers had died bringing an end to Zip's tyranny. There was honor in that, so their deaths were goodHe sought Dismas and Gestus in the rooms they shared. Dismas was curled on the edge of the bed with a book of poems. His lover, Gestus, busied himself with a whetstone and a favored dagger. They looked up when Dayme entered.

 

"I'll be gone most of the night," he said softly. "Perhaps for the next few nights as well. I'd like it if the two of you took charge of the watch tonight. Double the guards on all the other gates, too."

 

Dismas closed his book. "Expecting trouble?"

 

"In this town?" He didn't need to say more. His comrades set aside their diversions and rose to follow him out.

 

"I won't ask your business," Dismas said as they closed the door behind them. "But do you need any help?"

 

"Personal," Dayme answered as he had to Daphne. Among the ten no other explanation was ever necessary. They were all auctorati, free fighters, at liberty to come and go as they pleased.

 

He left them, strode through the estate and out to the main gates. Leyn and a dark-haired giant named Dendur, one of the new recruits, stood duty. He exchanged a few words, then passed into the street.

 

The entrance to the Promise was as dark as ever. There was no stone waiting on the pillar for him, though. It didn't matter; he didn't plan to let Asphodel know he was here. He stole into the bushes and glanced at the sky again. One night past full moon, Sabellia still filled the world with her pleasure.

 

Light enough to see by-enough light to be seen.

 

He crouched lower and began to move.

 

The Promise of Heaven was a large park, triangular in shape. Three entrances and three main walkways welcomed visitors, but dozens of smaller trails snaked among the trees and foliage. All along these trails in small, secluded niches stood pillared busts and statues, little shrines to all the various gods and goddesses that had ever been worshipped in Sanctuary, each cared for by their various priests.

 

By daytime, the park was the shaded haunt of those priests and their acolytes, of philosophers and their students. It was a school where learned men met to share discourse, where supplicants sometimes came to pray.

 

By night, however, the niches belonged to the prostitutes-and to their supplicants who came to play.

 

Or prey, Dayme reminded himself as he crept from place to place. Here and there, a giggle rose on the breeze. Here and there, the sounds of quick and furtive lovemaking. Dayrne was above embarrassment. He went about his search with a singleness of mind. Sabellia sailed serenely through the night, marking the time. He wasn't sure when he first felt eyes upon his back. He realized only that someone watched him, someone as quiet and subtle as he. He moved to his right, and they moved with him. He circled left, and they followed. Oh, they were good, indeed! Whoever his companion was, he couldn't spot him. But he knew someone was there.

 

He headed for the idol of the Ilsigi goddess, Shipri. A large niche, he remembered. There would be plenty of moonlight. If he was clever, he might lure his tag-a-long into that brightness. He fingered the pommel of his sword and pressed on.

 

Then, he cursed. There were voices in the niche. Of course, there would be! Shipri was a goddess of love and motherhood. What better place for a prostitute to set up shop? He parted the bushes for a look.

 

The voices stopped suddenly. At first, he feared he had been seen. But neither the man nor the woman there turned his way. Indeed, their eyes never seemed to move at all. After a moment, the man resumed the conversation, but the woman gave no answer. She didn't speak a word. Neither did her gaze leave her partner's face.

 

An alarm jangled in Dayrne's head. He peered closer at the blackcloaked man, unable to tell much about him save his height. A hood concealed his features, also any weapons he bore. But he was tall, much too tall for a Raggah. And he spoke Rankene.

 

"Come with me," the man said, crooking his finger. The prostitute smiled and fell into step beside her suitor. They left the niche and walked down the pebbled path.

 

Their tread made no sound!

 

Almost, Dayrne leaped from his hiding place, drawing his sword. Sorcery! If he struck swiftly, the fiend might not have time to react. A clean stroke through the neck-separate the head from the body-that was the best way to kill a wizard.

 

But he stopped himself. That might save this lady, but what of the other missing whores? He owed it to Asphodel to try and find them. He didn't relish the task, and he cursed his own sense of loyalty. Still, he owed. There was no more to be said about it. Of one thing he was sure, though. This villain was no Raggah.

 

Dayrne followed the pair. Apparently, the wizard knew the park well. Shipri's grove was isolated in a little-traveled area of the Promise. The walkways were empty. They wove a careful course toward the high wall at the southeast corner. Dayrne rubbed his chin. He'd expected them to make for one of the entrances. Where could they be going?

 

In the very corner where the two walls joined stood one of the tallest of the park's god-sculptures. Dayrne ducked behind a shrub while the wizard and his catch approached the Father of the Ilsigi pantheon, mighty Us.

 

The wizard left the prostitute in the god's shadow while he went to the jointure of the walls. He put his left hand on a certain brick about shoulder high in the east face. His right found another brick in the south face at belly level. The two bricks were barely within his reach, and he strained to press them inward.

 

Dayme heard a grinding of stone against stone as the statue of Us moved on its base.

 

The wizard crooked a finger, and the prostitute went to his side. He led her down into a black crack at the idol's feet and the darkness swallowed them. Dayrne bit his lip. She'd gone like a sheep to slaughter, without protest, smiling as if she'd smoked a whole bag of krrff.

 

Again came that grating sound, and the pit suddenly sealed. Dayrne leaped out of his concealment and raced to the wall. Which were the right stones? He strove to remember. He was taller than the wizard, and his arms were longer. He chose a pair and pressed. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. He was sure he had the correct left-hand brick. But which was the right?

 

Suddenly, Us moved. Dayme thanked his own gods, stepped to the edge of the opening and looked down. A set of stone steps descended into utter blackness. He spent only an instant wishing for a lamp or a torch, then took the first step.

 

The air was oppressive and stale. He glanced back upward at the square of moonlight and drew a final fresh breath. He didn't take time to search for the closing mechanism, but drew his sword and began to feel his way forward, brushing one hand along the slime-slicked wall.

 

The tunnel led in only one direction. He'd heard rumors of such tunnels, but all reports had confined them to the Maze. Apparently the reports were wrong.

 

The darkness made him pause. It was worse than being blind because he knew that he could see. His eyes were wide open, shifting from side to side, straining for some object or bit of light to fasten onto. His heart thundered in his ribs. Still, he pushed on, mindful of the promise he'd made to Asphodel.

 

A web draped over his head. He opened his mouth, a shout rising in his throat. Barely, he choked it back, and he rubbed his sleeve over his face in a frantic haste to free himself from the sticky strands.

 

Now, how in hell had that damn wizard dodged that?

 

He crept on, all too aware of the closeness of the walls, of the weight of the earth over his head.

 

Then-was that a light?

 

He moved a little faster, careful still to make no sound. The tiny spot of light became a flame in the distance, then a sconced lamp with another just beyond it. Dayme hovered at the edge of the darkness and listened.

 

A low voice rode on the stagnant air. Impossible to distirguish the words, but by the rhythms and stresses, Dayme thought it some kind of chant. He saw nothing ahead, though, so pressing against the wall, he ventured on into the light.

 

He stopped again. A too-familiar scent wafted through the tunnel. Dayme sniffed. His brows knitted together for an instant, and he clenched the hilt of his sword.

 

A death smell hung in the air, the unmistakable odor of rotting flesh. Too many years in the Rankan arenas as a slave and as an auctoratus had made him familiar with that stench. Gritting his teeth, trying not to breathe too often or too deeply, he followed the scent and the voice.

 

A shriek ripped through the tunnel. The fine hairs on Dayme's neck rose straight up. A woman's voice! Another cry echoed after the first, then a pause, and a long series of screams and broken sobbings.

 

Dayme abandoned stealth and ran forward. The chant had risen to match the intensity of the screams. A mad cacophony of sound swirled around him. He ran wide-eyed and fearful, yet the fear did not stop him. It drew him, instead, until he found the entrance to a side room off the tunnel.

 

He realized at once the tunnel's original purpose. He was surely close to the palace by now, and this was an old escape route used in times of emergency, built by the Ilsigs, perhaps still unknown to the current Rankan occupants. The side room was full of empty weapon racks where fleeing men might once had grabbed swords before emerging aboveground in the Promise.

 

But not all his arena experience had prepared him for the rest of the sight.

 

In the light of a dozen oil lamps Dayme saw the bodies of Asphodel's missing prostitutes. They hung by their necks from metal spikes driven deep into the walls, twisted ropes biting through the bloated flesh of their throats. Plainly, though, they had been killed before they were hanged.

 

The first few women had merely been stabbed through the hearts. The purpled, crusted wounds showed visibly on their bare breasts. The next one had been disemboweled; the flesh of her belly had been peeled back to reveal emptiness; she looked like nothing more than a gutted fish. The mutilations grew progressively more cruel. The skin and muscle had been sliced from one, leaving the organs in full view. Another had been left relatively intact with only dark holes showing where the organs had been removed. On yet another body the visible veins and arteries had been precisely, surgically opened, making a strange and gruesome mapwork.

 

Blood had stained the wall a nauseating color where the corpses hung. Old puddles and rivulets of blood had dried and crusted on the floor beneath them.

 

Dayme reeled at the insanity of it.

 

He fixed his eyes on the center of the room. Bound upon a crossshaped altar a woman screamed again, her terror filling the chamber and the tunnel beyond. It was the whore he'd followed from Shipri's niche. Whatever entrancement her captor had placed upon her had faded. Her feet and wrists bled as she struggled in her ropes.

 

At her head stood her captor. The wizard's eyes snapped open and fixed suddenly on Dayrne. The chant died in his throat. The gleaming knife he'd brandished over the prostitute turned point first toward the gladiator, and he snatched a second dagger from a table of instruments close at hand.

 

Outrage smothered any thought of fear. Dayrne started across the room, raising his sword. The wizard stepped swiftly to the altar's far side, putting his victim between himself and his unexpected attacker. As he moved he brought the points of his two blades together and barked a short command in a language Dayrne didn't know.

 

A pain stabbed the gladiator's heart. The breath rushed from him, and he clenched his teeth. Still he forced another step forward, fighting the sudden agony. The pain struck him again, and as he took another step, yet again stronger than ever. His knees buckled; the arcane fire in his chest consumed his strength. A red tide flooded his vision. His fingers trembled with seizure on the hilt of his sword.

 

He forced his head up, expecting a death stroke from one of the daggers. The wizard had felled him easily; Dayrne was helpless at that moment. Yet, his foe kept his place behind the altar and his victim.

 

Then, Dayrne saw fear, not triumph, on his foe's face.

 

Fighting the pain, he crawled back toward the entrance. With each retreating step the pressure on his heart lessened. He leaned on the jamb and slowly pulled himself to his feet, gasping for one good breath.

 

The wizard lowered his blades. A fine sweat sheened on his brow, and the glow of the oil lamps lent him a strange countenance.

 

Still, the fear was unmistakable; Dayrne saw it in those dark. deep-set eyes.

 

The prostitute cried piteously. "Help me'" she begged Dayrne. "Don't let him kill me, I'm with child!"

 

Dayrne stayed by the door. He needed a moment to recover his strength and to think. For all the wizard's apparent power, he feared Dayrne. Why?

 

"Don't just stand there like a worthless eunuch!" the whore shouted when her rescuer didn't move. "He's going to-"

 

The wizard frowned and touched her temple with one finger. Her head sagged back before she could say another word. Her eyes fluttered shut. She sighed, then went limp.

 

But almost instantly, her lids snapped open again. She screamed and cowered away from the wizard's hand as far as her bonds allowed.

 

The wizard roared in frustration, grasped both his blades in his right hand, and seized the woman's hair in his left- He jerked her head up then sharply down on the altar. She let go a short gasp as her eyes rolled and closed. A fine trickle of blood oozed down the cross under her head and dripped to the floor.

 

"I get so tired of the noise," the wizard said in exasperation.

 

Dayrne leaped across the threshold, but his foe was just as fast. Again the points of the blades touched, and again he shouted in that strange tongue.

 

Dayrne screamed as fire exploded in his chest and a rush of tears halfblinded him. But he kept his feet and flung himself at the altar. Wideeyed, the wizard sprang back against the wall, clutching the daggers in shivering hands.

 

"Whatever god has siphoned my power, I've still more than enough for you," the wizard hissed. But his voice quavered.

 

Dayme sprawled over the altar and over the woman's limp form, his fingers clutching her thighs for support. He sucked for air to relieve his tortured lungs and tried to fight the weakness that numbed his limbs. He lunged with the point of his sword, but his strength faded too swiftly, and his foe retreated beyond his reach.

 

The wizard flattened against the wall, and his fear was a tangible force. Then, fear turned to anger as he realized Dayrne's impotence. "All the way from Carronne I came to this miserable dung-hole!" He was still careful to keep his blades touching and pointed at the gladiator. "The tales had reached even that far of the strange affairs transpiring here, stories of gods and demons and dead souls that walked the streets. Clearly, there was power here for the taking, and who deserved it more than I? So I came disguised as one of the laborers who build your walls."

 

Dayrne hissed through his teeth, barely able to form words. "Human sacrifice? Never in our empire-not even in this rotten town!" He tried to glance over his shoulder, wondering if he could make it back to the safety of the entrance where the wizard's spell didn't reach. But he knew that was useless. It was a struggle even to raise up on one elbow and look his foe in the eye.

 

"The sacrifices are to placate whatever god has stolen my magic!" The wizard dared to come closer. "In Carronne I was a hazard-class magician -curse the fate that brought me here! My simplest spells go completely awry. All those stories of power-there must be some secret!"

 

"No secret," Dayme managed. "Go back to Carronne." He dragged one foot, then the other, under himself and tried to stand. It was useless.

 

His heart hammered against his ribs; the room spun crazily. The wizard's face swam out of focus. "Tasfalen's,"-he fought to get the words out"magic burned out!"

 

But the wizard didn't hear or didn't understand. "I'll find the god who has cursed me and broken my skill and offer blood to appease him, until I'm strong again-strong enough to break your secret and seize the magic that pervades this city!"

 

Another voice called suddenly from the entrance. "It's always good to have dreams." Dayrne recognized it immediately and turned to shout a warning. All he managed to do was fall. Daphne didn't spare him a glance. "Have a long one in your death sleep." Her dagger flashed across the space.

 

The wizard cried out and bounced against the wall, clutching his shoulder. When he straightened. Daphne's blade protruded near his collar bone. A wet stain blossomed rapidly on his dark garment. Still, he managed to lift his own daggers and slam the points together and breathe his Word of Power.

 

Dayme thought his heart would burst. From the comer of his eye he saw Daphne double over as she stepped across the threshold with drawn sword. The weapon tumbled from her gripBut then, impossibly, she began to laugh. She straightened, threw back her head and let the mirth flow from her lips. She looked around for her sword, but as she bent to retrieve it she tripped on her own foot and fell, only to clamber up again laughing.

 

Dayrne felt it, too- The hand that squeezed his heart began, instead, to tickle it. His pain turned slowly into renewed energy. Strength flooded his limbs. He chuckled. Then, uncontrollably, he laughed. He looked at the bodies suspended on the walls, at the prostitute bound to the cross, at the astonished expression on the wizard's face.

 

It was all so funny!

 

The wizard smashed his daggers together, cursing, and stamped his foot. With a bellow he struck them once more. The blades shattered under the impact, and the pieces fell at his feet. His face paled, and his mouth gaped. Then, gathering his robes about him, he raced from the room and into the tunnel.

 

Daphne shot out a foot as if to trip him, but he was already gone. She rolled kittenlike onto her back, clutched her stomach and howled.

 

Moments passed before the twisted spell dissolved. Dayme got to his feet, wiping spittle from his chin. He sheathed his sword and turned to help the princess.

 

But Daphne rose on her own. "If you breathe a word of this," she threatened, red-faced, "I'll wear your mouth for a garter."

 

"Just see to that one," he snapped, pointing to the prostitute on the altar. "Later we'll talk about your following me. I told you this was personal business."

 

She put a hand on his chest before he could pass her. "You're my business," she answered stubbornly, her gaze hard and glittering. "Good trainers are rare."

 

He regarded her for an instant, then remembered the wizard. "We'll talk," he said, and he ran into the tunnel.

 

The echo of fleeing footsteps sounded from the direction of the Promise. Dayrne sped after, drawing his blade once again. He quickly passed the final lamp and plunged ahead. The darkness, though, forced him to slow. He put a hand to the wall and hurried as rapidly as he dared, cursing under his breath.

 

The wizard's footsteps faded. Had he reached the tunnel's end at the shrine of Us? If he had emerged, Dayme knew he might never find him.

 

His answer came as he spied the shaft of moonlight that lanced the blackness. But strange sounds wafted through the opening, swelling as he approached-shouts and curses, high, frantic voices:

 

Dayrne raced toward the moonlight. It had to be the prostitutes! He took the steps two at a time and ascended into open air.

 

The women of the Promise surrounded the wizard in a wide ring. He spun in confusion, weakling brandishing Daphne's dagger. It gleamed wetly with his blood. The whores, too, waved daggers, the small weapons they wore in their garters. Still, they didn't know their foe's power!

 

Dayme tried to warn them. "Asphodel!"

 

At his shout, the wizard whirled. Their eyes met for an instant. Hatred and anger burned in that furious gaze, and Dayme felt a force reach out for him.

 

The prostitutes saw their chance. They fell on the wizard, hacking and stabbing with their tiny blades. Arms rose and plunged with frantic outrage and swiftly blackened with the blood of their stalker.

 

Dayme could only stare as the wizard sank under the onslaught. The women did not stop. They stabbed and stabbed, giving release to all the rage and terror they had lived with the past nights. Then, Asphodel stepped back gasping and wide-eyed, her white dress a stained ruin. Dayme went slowly to her side.

 

"Who was he?" she asked, barely able to speak as she trembled.

 

She might have been a spectre that haunted the park the way she looked. Dayme wiped a smear of blood from her cheek and patted back the hair that had fallen around her face. "He came from Carronne," he finally answered. "I never learned his name."

 

Asphodel sighed and looked over her shoulder. The whores stood away from their grisly work. Pieces of the corpse lay hacked and scattered around their feet. The women stared from one to the other with expressions that betrayed confusion in some, fury and vindication in others. One by one they drifted back into the bushes. From somewhere in the foliage came the sound of weeping.

 

"I guess it doesn't matter," Asphodel said. "One of my ladies found this opening, and we waited to see who came out. I knew it had something to do with my missing ones." She sighed again and peered into the tunnel's gloom. "They're dead, aren't they, Tiana and all the rest?"

 

He nodded quietly. "All but the one he took tonight. She's still alive, though somewhat battered."

 

Daphne chose that moment to emerge from the opening with the prostitute slung over her shoulder. She dumped her burden unceremoniously in the grass.

 

Dayrne frowned and knelt beside the woman. "He didn't hit her that hard. She should have come around by now,"

 

Daphne spat. "She did. Then, she took a good look at-" the one-time princess, hesitated, looked at Asphodel, and spoke more softly. "She saw her friends and realized how close she'd come to joining them." Daphne shrugged and cocked her head to one side. "She fainted."

 

Asphodel glanced from Dayme to Daphne and back again. She realized who the princess had meant, and that the younger woman had tried to spare her some horror. Her old eyes misted over, but she blinked back any tears-

 

"Some of my brothers will bring them up in the morning," Dayme said gently. "There's no need for you to see them the way they are."

 

"They're family," Asphodel answered. She held up her dagger. With a look of disgust she flung it aside and wiped her hand on her dress. "I'll be here to help."

 

Dayme started to protest, but Daphne touched his sleeve. "It's her decision," she told him. "You know, personal business." Then, with her usual tact, she pointed to the wizard's remains. "Besides, they don't look any worse than that."

 

Asphodel walked to the corpse and stared at it for a long moment. Daphne went with her, bent down and retrieved her dagger from the ground near the wizard's hand. "It's Chenaya's," she informed Dayme. "She'd be pissed if Host it." Then, she turned away and vanished into the park.

 

Alone, the old whore turned to Dayrne and touched his arm. "Thank you," she said.

 

"For what?" he answered with a shake of his head. "I didn't do anything."

 

It was almost true. With all the blood spilled this night, his was the only clean blade in the park.

 

Daphne scandalized the palace by arriving, not in a gown, but in an outfit borrowed from Chenaya's closets. She looked as beautiful and deadly, all in soft black leather, gleaming with buckles and ringlets and weapons. Her night-black hair flowed over her shoulders. Pride stiffened her spine; she lifted her chin high as she strode into the Hall of Justice.

 

Two seats had been placed upon the dais. Kadakithis and Shupansea sat there side by side, looking down upon her. Molin Torchholder stood beside the Beysa, Walegrin by his prince. It was the audience she'd requested and no one else. Her husband simply had no sense of theatrics. But then, he had no sense, period.

 

She looked up and met his stare as she stopped at the lowest step. His jaw gaped in astonishment. It was the acknowledgment she had sworn to get from him-and it tasted sweet indeed.

 

"Second thoughts, my husband?" She rested one hand on her hip, taunting him.

 

His hands fluttered. "You look-" he bit his lip and cast a sidewise glance at Shu-sea. The sentence hung unfinished. The Beysa at that instant looked less like a carp, more like a shark protecting her catch.

 

Daphne had expected to gloat, to draw out the moment of her triumph, but she found now she had little stomach for that. Better, she decided, to end this quickly, break her ties with this pathetic little man, and get on with her new life.

 

"You want a divorce, Kitty-Kat?'' She looked at each of the four on the dais and grinned. It's all a game, Chenaya had once told her, everything is a game. Daphne realized the truth of that. These were the master gamers of Sanctuary she faced. "These are my terms."

 

"List them, Princess, and we'll consider."

 

Daphne shot Molin a withering look. "Shut up, Torch. This is between Kadakithis and me. You're merely here to witness, and I extend you that courtesy only because I know you're even more eager for these two to wed than they are. I half expect you'll share the marriage bed."

 

Molin maintained an outward calm, but Daphne knew him better than that. She turned back to her husband.

 

"First, I want the estate immediately south and adjacent to Land's End. It's abandoned right now, but the way people are flocking to this pisshole these days it's not likely to be so for long." She paused, and her brows narrowed, "I require agreement. None of this is negotiable."

 

Kadakithis rubbed his thinly bearded chin and glanced at Molin. The Torch gave a not-very-subtle nod, and Daphne smiled to herself. Puppet and puppet-master.

 

"We'll draw up a deed," the prince answered.

 

"Second term," she continued. "One half of your personal fortune."

 

Kadakithis rose from his seat. His eyebrows shot upward, and he gripped the arms of his chair to steady himself. "What!"

 

Daphne clucked her tongue. "Won't it be worth it to get rid of me? Besides, think of all that gold on the Beysib ships. I'm sure your bride will offer a dowry worthy of a man like you."

 

The prince sank back into his seat. At last, he waved a hand. "All right, damn you! Yes, I'll even agree to that. As you say," he added caustically, "it'll be worth it to be free of you." He glowered down from his high position. "You're not at all the sweet wife you used to be,"

 

The accusation caught her completely off guard, and she barked a short laugh. To her utter surprise she found within herself a sudden sympathy for Shupansea.

 

"Third term," she said, regaining control of herself. 'T retain all my titles and any property in Ranke that Theron hasn't seized along with the throne."

 

"Done," Kitty-Kat agreed disinterestedly. "What else?" She rested a hand on the pommel of her sword and let go a small, inaudible sigh. "There was one more term, originally," she said. She faced Walegrin and waited until he shifted uncomfortably. "I wanted the first knuckle of the little finger of your right hand to wear on a chain about my neck," she told the garrison commander. She watched all their faces as she said it, and she wasn't disappointed by their reactions. "Look at them," she said, addressing him directly. "They'd have given it to me, too."

 

Molin stepped to the very edge of the platform, but Kadakithis caught his sleeve and pulled him back. "You're insane!" her husband shouted.

 

"That's right!" she shot back. "You made me insane when you abandoned me to the gentle mercies of Scavengers' Isle!"

 

Only Shupansea kept a measure other composure. She leaned forward, regarding Daphne with sudden interest. "Why our commander?"

 

Daphne faced Walegrin again. "You betrayed the Lady Chenaya," she charged, "and let Zip go free after she handed the little bastard over to you. Now, the common people of the city shower her name with praise and beflower her gate while Molin and the powerbrokers of Sanctuary rant and rave about her so-called treachery. Yet, no one speaks of your treachery, Walegrin. You made love to her, then you betrayed her. You helped shape her plan, and you killed piffles right beside the rest of us." She stabbed a finger at the Torch and Kitty-Kat. "Then, on their orders, you freed the man who murdered your little niece and gutted your own sister with an ax." She gave him a cold look, finding small reward when he turned away from her gaze. "You've thrown away your honor, Commander. Molin and his cronies may praise you for your obedience and sense of duty. But the common men and women of this town know you now. Look in their eyes the next time you walk the streets. You'll find reflected there nothing but scorn."

 

She turned to Molin who seemed ready to swoop down on her like the carrion bird he so resembled. "Keep your toy soldier, Torchie. But keep him away from me. He pollutes the air."

 

"I am curious," Shupansea spoke, leaning forward. "If you wanted our commander's finger, why did you change your mind?"

 

Daphne allowed a wan smile. "It's nothing any of you will ever grasp," she answered. "But I found true honor in this city last night among some whores in a dirty park, where a group of women struggle every moment of their lives to eke out an existence you and I would die to avoid. For all their misery they take care of each other like a kind of family." She hesitated. "I've found a similar kind of honor at Land's End, but you wouldn't understand that, either. Walegrin can keep* his finger." She cocked her head to one side, recalling her night in the tunnel and an odor that still lingered unpleasantly in her memory. "It would have made a smelly bauble, anyway."

 

She gave her back to the masterplayers, then, winning her best victory by walking away from the game.

 

Just beyond the Processional Gate she found Dayme waiting. He'd washed and changed since the morning's training session, and his essence was sweeter than the day, itself. "I thought I'd walk you back," he said.

 

She grinned up at him. He really was the hugest man she'd ever seen, yet she found in him the most unexpected gentleness. Chenaya was a fool not to love him. Daphne shielded her eyes from the sun as she gazed at his face. The brightness lent a halo to his features.

 

"How about I buy you a mug, instead," she offered. "You pick the tavern. Make it someplace raunchy."

 

He frowned. But then, he clapped an arm around her shoulders, and his lips curled upward into the barest smile-t<! think I can find a place to make you blush," he said.

 

"A gold sheboozh," she answered, "that you can't."

 

 

 

THE VISION OF LALO

 

Diana L. Paxson

 

Lalo twitched the mask back into position over his nose and mouth and dipped his brush into the gray paint once more. Another three feet of this wretched wall and he could stop for a bit. The brush rasped the coarse canvas, deftly suggesting texture; a touch of black gave it depth, and another stone was finished. From somewhere out front he heard hammering. The opening of the second production of Sanctuary's first and only resident theatre troupe was two days away. The painter wondered if either their rehearsals or his sets would be finished in time.

 

Lalo stepped back to consider his work and grimaced beneath the mask. Even with shading the canvas looked like a collection of blobs. He supposed that from the audience the flat would create the illusion of reality. It occurred to him then that if he took off his mask and breathed on those rocks that they would be reality. . . . Was he resisting the temptation because he was not sure the stage would take the weight of the stones, or because he feared that he had lost the power to make them real?

 

Lalo told himself it was a small price to pay for the return to (relative) normalcy in Sanctuary. Perhaps his son Wedemir and that girl he was courting up at the Palace would be able to raise all of their children in peace. Except when some spell-supported building collapsed as its magic decayed, the debris of the explosion of sorcery that had nearly destroyed Sanctuary had been cleared away- The town was rebuilding. Lalo supposed he should be glad. But the period of escalation in magic had also seen the flowering of his own creativity. He was not sure now which of his talents were magic, and which had been simple craftsmanship. He felt half-blinded-see.

 

-"head-blind" the mages called it. But he dared not try to

 

And so he was painting scenery for a production of something called The Accursed King, which seemed more depressing the more of it he heard.

 

"We'll take it again from the beginning, then," said Feltheryn over his shoulder as he strode onto the stage- "Two days to opening, dear gods! But at least this piece can offend no one . . ," The repercussions of the troupe's first production were only now beginning to fade in public memory.

 

Feltheryn the Thespian, the troupe's founder, director and star, took his place before a post that was going to become a tree as soon as the carpenters got around to it, and thumped his staff against the floor. Simpering girlishly, Glisselrand scurried across the stage after him and took his elbow.

 

"Tell me, my daughter, where have you come to now

 

With your blind old father? What is this place, my child?"

 

Feltheryn's stentorian tones rang out with remarkable resonance for a monarch as enfeebled as he was supposed to be.

 

"It's little I ask, and am well content with less.

 

Three masters-pain, time, and the royalty in the blood-

 

Have taught me patience-"

 

The stage shuddered as something large and heavy hit the floor. Feltheryn broke off and turned. "Patience!" he roared. "Gods give me patience-I have to work with fools!"

 

"It was the hoist," came a plaintive voice from backstage. "It wasn't my fault, master-the rope slipped-"

 

"Lempchin! You misbegotten son of a sheep-swiving Rankan!" He gathered breath, and ominous tones rolled across the stage. "What fell?"

 

There was a silence, and Lalo bent to gather up the brushes that had been knocked from their stand.

 

"It was ... the thunder machine."

 

"Vashanka's rod! Do you know how much that thing cost? A gift from the Prince himself it was, and after everything-" he took a deep breath, then launched into a monologue of sorrows as eloquent as anything in the play.

 

Lalo found that he had put the brushes back into their case instead of on the stand, and grimaced. How could anyone be expected to painteven to paint scenery-with this sort of thing going on? Darkness had fallen an hour ago. Gilla would already be angry with him for being late, but perhaps dinner would not be completely cold. He was hungry and tired. As Feltheryn stormed backstage to survey the damage, Lalo finished capping his paints and putting them away, strapped the brush case to his belt, and headed for the door.

 

"Oh Lalo, are you going already?" Glisselrand called after him. He mumbled something about Gilla and continued up the aisle. "Yes, do give my love to dear Gilla-I'm working on a shawl for her-rose-colored yarn with lemon yellow and a lovely purple from Carronne. . . ." As the door closed behind him Lalo could still hear her describing the color scheme.

 

He shook his head. The tea cozy had been bad enough. The thought of a shawl large enough to cover Gilla. ... He shuddered. And Gilla would insist on keeping it! He wondered if he could persuade her to keep it somewhere out of sight. . . . Still contemplating the horror of Glisselrand's sense of color unleashed on something the size of a shawl, he hurried on through the darkness.

 

Lalo had rounded the comer of the Serpentine and was starting down when he became aware of the footsteps behind him. Close-too closethey must have been waiting in an alley, or perhaps his own abstraction had kept him from hearing them before. Reaching for his knife, he started to turn.

 

Shadows rushed toward him. Beyond them he glimpsed the mocking grimace of the Vulgar Unicorn on its sign as the door of the tavern opened and light streamed into the road.

 

"Help! Thieves! Help me!" Lalo knew the futility of his shout even as it left his throat. His knife glinted as he brought it up. He struck something soft, heard a grunt and leaned into the blade. Then a blow numbed his hand and the knife went skittering across the stones. He lifted his useless arm to guard his head. Someone laughed-his attackers, or the men who were coming out of the Unicom?

 

This can't be happening now, Lalo thought in confusion as he was knocked against a wall. Not after so many years! Not so close to home-a blade flashed toward his shoulder; he dodged and felt the sting as its tip scored his arm-as if I were a foreigner or a fool!

 

How could he have been caught this way? Someone grabbed for the case that held his brushes and Lalo struck out, tried to duck as he sensed something falling towards him, but not fast enough, not quite fast-

 

The shock of the blow stopped the world.

 

Light and shadow, the hoarse gasps of his assailants and the shouting beyond them all faded as his senses whirled away.

 

Gilla, I'm sorry-

 

And then both regret and pain were extinguished as Lalo fell endlessly downward into the dark.

 

Darkness . . . a musty smell that makes the nose wrinkle. Limbs stiff from spelled sleep, stretch, lungs draw in stale air. Dust tickles dry nostrils. and Darios wakes fully with a sneeze. Ears strain, but there is only the sound of his own ragged breathing. He sneezes again.

 

I'm alive! I survived! Even in the darkness, Darios can feel his skin flush with pride. He remembers the panic as the defenses of the Mageguild began to unravel, remembers collapsing walls, and the roar of rioting crowds. They were all running-apprentices and masters as well. Did none of the others remember this vault beneath the stables sealed by potent magics before ever the Nisibisi rose in the North or the Beysib sailed into Sanctuary's bay? Those magics would last as long as the Mageguild, preserve him in a timeless trance as long as-

 

-As long as its wards remained intact, until a ranking Hazard came to set him free. . . .

 

But Darios is alone in the vault, and the doors are still sealed.

 

He swallows, reaches out and touches cold stone. Exploring fingers find wetness. Water is sliding down the wall from somewhere above. Darios brings his fingers to his mouth, and the moisture enables him to swallow. He takes a deep breath and pronounces a Word ...

 

But the darkness remains unbroken. For the first time, Darios feels the chill touch of fear.

 

From the sounds around him it must be morning. Lalo took a deep breath, winced as pain split his skull, and thought better of trying to open his eyes. But it was not the throbbing ache that came from drinking-it had been years since he had felt that particular pain-and already he was remembering swift footsteps and the scuffle in the dark.

 

I'm still alive! he realized in wonder.

 

"Are you back with us, then, you foolish man?" asked Gilla. "What were you thinking of, to take that route home at night, alone?"

 

Anxiety had sharpened her voice, but Lalo smiled. Even her scolding was welcome when he had not expected ever to hear it again.

 

"You've been luckier than you deserve!" she went on. "Dubro was sure you were dead when he found you with that great gash in your skull." That was probably true, thought Lalo, remembering the blow, as if Feltheryn's thunder machine had fallen on him. "Sit up now, and I'll give you something to help with the pain."

 

Biting his lip, Lalo got his elbows under him, and then, very carefully, opened his eyes. But he must have been wrong about the time, for it was quite dark still-

 

"Open your mouth-"

 

"Light a lamp first," he answered. "So that I can see the spoon."

 

"A lamp? I'll open the shutters wider if you want more light, but why -" Gilla did not finish. There was a moment's silence, then a breath of air brushed his forehead.

 

"Lalo-" she said tightly. "Why didn't you blink? Didn't you see my hand?"

 

"No . . ." He turned towards the sound of her voice, straining to see despite the pain that pulsed frantically against the confines of his skull. He reached out, and felt the strong grip of her work-roughened fingers clasp his.

 

"No. Gilla, I can't see anything at all!"

 

After that, Lalo supposed he must have become hysterical, tearing at the dressings on his head until agony slammed shut the doors of consciousness again. When he woke once more, his eyes were bandaged. Blind ... he thought, as memory replayed what had happened. Will it go away? What am I going to do?

 

For a week they waited for his head to heal, hoping that the blindness would go away. The Prince sent his own physician, who examined the wound and clucked solicitously, prattling of evil humours and the aspects of the stars until Gilla booted him out the door. Wedemir came, and came again with the chirurgeon from the garrison, a man who seemed more knowledgeable, but hardly more encouraging. He could only tell them that he had seen a blow on the head cause blindness on the battlefield. Usually sight returned in a few days.

 

"But not always?" asked Wedemir. Lalo could hear them whispering in the corner. They did not realize how the loss of one sense focused concentration on those that remained.

 

"Not always-" the soldier agreed. He did not know why Lalo's sight had been affected, and the only treatment that he could recommend was time. "Are you coming, Wedemir?" The chirurgeon's voice faded and then grew louder, as if he had reached the doorway and then turned.

 

"Yes-just a moment-"

 

Lalo felt the rough grasp of his oldest son's hand.

 

"Papa, I've got to go back on duty now. I'll be back soon, though, to see you!" The tone was bracing, but Lalo could hear the waver that Wedemir tried to hide.

 

"Duty, hah! You just want to see Rhian again, I know!" piped up Latilla. "Did you know he's got a girl at the Palace. Papa? A Rankan lady, she is, and very pretty. I saw her when I was visiting Vanda last time."

 

"She's not my girl-not yet, anyway," Wedemir interrupted. "She was pledged to an apprentice in the Mageguild, and she says she is still bound . . ."

 

"The Mageguild?" said Gilla. "But the ones who survived are scattered throughout the city now, or fled-"

 

"Don't you think I've tried to tell her?" asked Wedemir. "If her lad were still alive, surely he would have sent her word by now! It has been almost a year since they broke the Globes of Power. If he is still living, he doesn't deserve her!"

 

"Wedi's got a girrill-Wedi's got a girrill!" Latilla sang, until a squeal and a torrent of giggles told Laio that her brother was tickling her as he used to when they were younger. Lalo tried to imagine what was going on, but he could only remember how they had looked as children, long ago . . . when he could still see ...

 

Lalo felt his cheeks grow wet with easy tears.

 

Wedemir accompanied the chirurgeon back to the barracks, and Vanda went back to her Beysib mistress in the Palace. Glisselrand sent over a crochetted bed-shawl which Lalo was glad he could not see. The household began to settle into a routine.

 

Lalo dreamed of the paintings that he had never foun4 the time to do and hardly noticed what they fed him, but he heard Alfi and Latilla complaining and realized that Gilla had stopped buying the delicacies the family had become used to. She was shifting back to a style of cooking he remembered only too well-beans and whatever protein was cheapestpoverty cooking. Once more he felt the treacherous tears slide from beneath shut lids.

 

She does not think 1 am going to get well . . .

 

Did he?

 

During the first week Gilla had been always with him, her sharpness sheathed in uncomplaining, patient care. But that was changing. His wife still made sure he was fed and tended, but now it was Latilla who sat with him, Latilla who cut his meat and set the spoon into his hand.

 

"What is your mother doing?" Lalo asked one morning-he could tell it was morning because of the freshness in air that would be weighted with all the smells of the city by the advancing day.

 

"She's gone up to the Palace to visit Vanda," answered his daughter brightly. "Vanda says the Beysib ladies need a lot of sewing done, because of the wedding, you know, and Mother does lovely work-"

 

Lalo groaned.

 

"Papa-are you all right? It doesn't matter if Mama's not here-I'm here. Papa, and I'll take care of you! Please, Papa, don't cry!"

 

He felt the soft touch of her hands smoothing his hair, the coolness as she sponged his tears away.

 

"I won't leave you!"

 

Lalo reached out and found her shoulder and Latilla hugged him fiercely. Her arms were still thin-a child's arms, but her body was beginning to ripen. She was twelve now. Would he ever see her promise of beauty fulfilled?

 

Gilla is looking/or sewing to do because she does not think I will ever work again-the cold fact of it shook him. Was that why she had drawn away? Lalo wondered if he was seeing what Gilla herself did not yet consciously know. He thought he understood. He had failed her for the last time. Gilla's first responsibility was to her children now. Though Lalo's body still lived, his life, and their marriage, were at an end.

 

Without meaning to, his grip on Latilla had tightened; she squirmed, and abruptly he let go. The girl straightened with a sigh and began to prattle about the bird that was perching on the windowsill. Lalo lay back against his pillows, hardly hearing her. Was this the way it was always going to be?

 

He supposed that Gilla would bear her fate in uncharacteristic silence. But Lalo was consuming resources that should have been used for the children. And Latilla-all she knew now was that she had her father to herself at last. But Lalo could see clearly how her care for him would steal her youth away.

 

Perhaps he could sit at the comer and ask charity of passersby. . . .

 

In Sanctuary? As well seek warmth from a beynit, pity from a Stepson, motherly love from Roxane! A bark of bitter laughter brought Latilla back to his side.

 

"Help me get dressed!" he said with sudden energy. "Without exercise, my legs will be as useless as my eyes' Come, Latilla-I want you to guide me through the town."

 

Once, long ago, Lalo had observed that the blind might be blessed, because they could not see the squalor of the town. Gods help him, he had thought it funny at the time. Now, holding to Latilla's shoulder, he realized that he should have known it was not true. As they moved through the town, memory and imagination supplied images to go with the sounds and stenches around him, picturing a thousand evils and never knowing which of them he imagined and which were true.

 

The Maze at night was like that, when danger coiled in every dark alley, and only the glare of a torch could bum the fear away. But all of Lalo's roads led through darkness now.

 

Slowly they made their way through the conflicting enticements of perfumes and cooked food in the Bazaar, the cacophony of hawkers crying their wares and the babble of not always good-natured chaffering, Lalo's nerves were still twitching as the" passed the mournful lowing and the sick stench of cow shit that came from the pens of the Shambles, and went on toward the harbor, where a brisk sea breeze did battle with the myriad odors of the town.

 

Gulls screamed around him as they neared the wharves. Lalo could hear the flap and the flutter as they swept past, squabbling over spilled fish guts. As Latilla led him out along the echoing wooden planks of the pier, he tried not to remember the dazzle of sunlight on waves, the pure beauty of the birds when their wings drew a silent arc across the bright sky.

 

In the play, thought Lalo, the king had lost his sight because he insisted on seeing too much-on bringing things better left hidden into the light. Am I being punished/or my vision? Have I been blinded because I dared to look upon the faces of the gods? he wondered then. But Us himself had given that gift to Lalo, and if the gods had wished to chastise him, the past few years had offered them some spectacular opportunities to strike him down.

 

Or was it because I wept/or lost magic and never thanked the gods/or the blessings that I had? I have nothing now. All my.visions must remain imprisoned behind my eyes, and I in this useless body, a burden to those I love!

 

" 'Tilla-Latilla! It is you! Where have you been?" a girl's voice cried.

 

"Hello, Karis-" there was a pause, and Lalo knew that Latilla must have made some sign that indicated his disability, for the other girl's voice was considerably subdued when she replied.

 

Lalo's hand touched the splintery, weathered wood of a piling and he guided himself down.

 

"Are you all right, Papa?"

 

"Yes-yes-" he forced an answer. "Just a little tired. Let me sit here with my back against the piling for a while. You go on-talk to your friends. I will do well enough here."

 

For a few moments he could feel her near him- Then her light footsteps grew fainter as she moved across the planks. Soon he heard the ripple of conversation, and a girl's light laughter.

 

Waves lapped against the base of the piling as a fishing boat came in, timbers creaking, sails flapping as the curve of the land cut off the wind. A man hailed the shore. Lalo felt the pier shake as someone ran forward to catch the line and make it fast. Familiar sounds, all of them-he tried to visualize exactly what the boat would be doing now, how they would take down the sails and warp the craft in to lie snug against the pier. But he could not remember.

 

He rested his face in his hands- How many times had he come here to think, sometimes in joy, sometimes in despair? Why had he never set his mind to really seeing what was going on around him, instead of chasing his own thoughts until he grew tired, or Gilla came to drag him home?

 

Memory moved back to the time of his greatest agony (until now) when Enas Yorl's gift had turned to a curse from which he saw no escaping. Lalo remembered how he had gazed into the polluted waters of Sanctuary's harbor. He would have thrown himself into them that day if it had not been for the horrors he saw floating there.

 

But you cannot see what is in those waters now. . . .

 

Were the words that came to Lalo's mind his own? Softly, how softly, the wavelets were lapping-they made a hushed, soothing sound, like a lullaby. He turned a little, head tipped toward the water, listening.

 

Gently rocking, peacefully floating . . . soon the tide would be turning, and all broken and useless things that had been cast into the bay would be carried out to sea. The weight of his head drew him downward . . . moist air cooled the tight skin of his brow. How easy it would be to let himself fall . . . When the dark waters had closed over him it would not matter if he could see.

 

He let out his breath on a long sigh, not allowing himself to think, wanting only coolness, darkness, rest. . . .

 

"Papa, Papa! Watch out!" Sharp fingers pulled him upright. For a moment Lalo tensed in resistance. "Papa, were you asleep? You almost fell in!"

 

Lalo shook his head despairingly. He had been so close! He struggled to his feet and took a step forward, then stopped, confused. Which way was the water?

 

Latilla's thin arms closed around him. "It's all right. Papa. You're going the right direction-I won't let you fall!"

 

The water was behind him, then- All he would have to do was turn, and leap-he felt wetness on his hand. Latilla's tears. . . . One leap and it would be over for him, but not for her. The child would have felt guilty even if his death had appeared to be an accident. Latilla thought she had saved him. Lalo could not kill himself before her eyes.

 

Oh, my little one-he thought, holding her, ;/ only you could set me free. . . .

 

He let Latilla lead him homeward without even trying to keep track of the way, let her bright chatter flow over him without answering. The house was full of the rich odor of roasting fowl as they came in the door, but even the relief in Gilla's voice as she announced that the Prince had awarded Lalo a pension could not cheer him. He told them that the walk had tired him, and lay down with his face to the wall.

 

Darios breathes slowly, deeply, trying to control panic with the knowledge that he is not going to exhaust the air in the room. The water that drips down the wall proves the vault is hermetically sealed no longer. That must be why he has awakened-even the magic that made this place is finally beginning to decay.

 

But not entirely. The spells that hold-and hide-the door are still intact. Darios has worn his fingertips raw, feeling every inch of stone. He has even spent some of his dwindling strength to conjure up a magelight, but the blue flicker shows him the same blank surface his fingers have found. Without some way to replenish his energy he dares not try that again. He will not die of thirst or suffocation, but without food, how long can he survive? If he uses no energy, and stills his bodily processes in trance, Darios can extend his existence. Buy why? Why, if he is bound to starve to death in the end?

 

If only he could remember the Sigil on the outside of the door!

 

That night, he had thought only of getting into the vault-he had been sure that his master was just behind him. . . .

 

Darios takes a deep. shuddering breath and forces himself to stillness again. Are all the wizards in Sanctuary dead? He tries to use his inner vision, but he has not received the proper initiations to walk the Wizards' road. All that comes to him is the face ofRhian, gray eyes clear as rainwater, auburn hair taking fire from the setting sun. . . .

 

Am I being punished for deceiving her? Darios wonders. It was only a little magic, a small glamor to make her look at me! He was a student, and he looked like one-a little round in the shoulders from hunching over a desk, and in the belly, too, though he supposed his gut was growing concave by now. Pale from long hours indoors, how could he compete with the hard-muscled, bronzed men of the Palace guard? But he had skills a soldier never dreamed of, and it had only been a small spell to make him look taller, to broaden his shoulders, to give his dark eyes a mystic gleam.

 

And it had worked! Rhian had given him her love!

 

Oh my sweet girl! His heart cries. Where are you now? Did you survive, do you remember me? The brightness of her eyes holds his fear at bay. Still clinging to that image, Darios forces himself back into the halfsleep that will preserve him another day.

 

"Papa-I've brought Rhian to see you-"

 

Wedemir's voice, brittle with that conscious cheerfulness with which everyone spoke to Lalo these days. Did they think he could not hear? He heard the rustle of silken skirts and turned his head toward the sound. What did she look like, this girl with whom his eldest had fallen in love?

 

"I'm glad to meet you."  Her voice was subdued. Lalo wondered if she were embarrassed because of his blindness, or whether she had her own sorrows? Even the privileged ones at the Palace had reasons to grieve, these past years.

 

"You are in service with the Beysa?" he asked. He wanted to hear her speak again. Silk whispered as if she had shrugged.

 

"The Prince wants to build understanding between our people and hers. I was glad to be offered the position. My father brought his family here when the Prince was made Governor, but my parents had gone back to Ranke on a visit when the Emperor . . . fell."

 

Lalo thought she sounded more wistful than bitter. Her voice had a spicy warmth to it. What kind of face would go with those tones? Drifting, he visualized cleanly modeled features, bright eyes, and hair of some warm color-something like cinnamon, perhaps. He could hear Wedemir talking to his mother in the other room. "They tell me that my son is courting you," Lalo said then. There was a pause, as if Rhian had looked around to see who else was there.

 

"Wedemir is a good man," she said slowly, "but-" Suddenly it seemed to him that her Rankan accent was very clear.

 

"But he is Ilsigi, and a commoner!" Lalo fought to subdue a bitterness he thought he had forgotten.

 

"Oh, it is not that!" Rhian said quickly. "What does all that matter, now? But before I met Wedemir, I had given my word-"

 

"To a mageling-" Lalo remembered now. "Wedemir was telling me. Did you love him so much, then?" He stopped, wondering why he dared question her so sharply. Was it perhaps just because he could not see her? And was she answering so freely because she did not fear to read condemnation in his eyes?

 

Rhian sighed. "Wedemir is very warm and alive. When I am with him, I feel safe. I know that I am loved. But I gave Darios my word." "Death cancels such pledges," said Lalo. "Darios is not dead." "She keeps on saying that!"

 

Lalo started, realizing that Wedemir had come in from the other room. "Rhian, if he is not dead, he has deserted you! You owe him nothing either way!"

 

"I can feel his presence! If he is dead, then his spirit is haunting me!" Her tone had sharpened, and Lalo's sense other presence grew clearer. She was turning from him to Wedemir, her gaze more luminous, as if her eyes had filled with tears. Or was it only the pain in her voice that made him think so?

 

"In my dreams I see him, Wedemir - . . Darios is trapped in darkness, and he cannot get free!"

 

Trapped in darkness! thought Lalo. Like me! Like me! For a moment a terror that was not his own washed through him. But he could hear voices, feel the sun on his face and breathe in the wind. It occurred to him for the first time since he had been blinded that there were worse fates than his own.

 

"He is not dead yet," Rhian continued. "But he is dying. He has been buried alive, and if I can't find him, he will starve to death in the dark. He has lost hope, but still he thinks of me. . . ."

 

Again, the sense of panic washed through Lalo's awareness, as if what the girl was feeling had somehow been transmitted directly from her to him.

 

"But where?" exclaimed Wedemir, humoring her. "Most of the wreckage from the riots has been cleared away."

 

"Not all of it-" said Rhian slowly. "No one has dared to touch the parts of the Mageguild that fell down. That's where Darios was living. What if he sought shelter in the cellars and was trapped there? The possibility comes between me and sleep!"

 

"Well that's easily checked out!" Wedemir laughed. "I'll get a permit from the Palace to excavate, go down there with a fe^ of the lads and some picks and shovels and dig the nibble out. We'll lay your ghost for you, Rhian."

 

Lalo could feel the sudden hostility between them. He understood Wedemir's reaction-he was fighting for his love. But beneath her Rankan elegance this woman was the true steel. The boy would ruin his chances with her if he went on this way, no matter what the diggers found. Why couldn't Wedemir see that? Lalo felt himself straining, as if a look could silence his son. But he knew that he was seeing through both of them, seeking, like Darios, to pierce the dark.

 

Darios knows when he is dreaming, because in his dreams, he can see. But when he opens his eyes into darkness, he is afraid. He is going to die. . . . Why does he keep trying to keep his body going when there can only be one end? He will go through the only door that will open for him now, and hope the gods will forgive him all the petty deceptions and angers of a student mage.

 

I have done nothing really bad, he tells himself. Nor anything particularly good, either, his thought goes on. But he has done one thing for which the Judge might indeed condemn him, though he supposes that hardly a man in the Mageguild or out of it would care. He has deceived a woman in order to compel her love.

 

Was that evil? He asks himself. What would that deception do to meto us-if I were to live? He thinks of Rhian's bright beauty, and knows that his own falsehood would stain it for him, in time. As outer vision is denied, his inner awareness becomes clearer, showing him a future in which one deception leads to another, until he hates Rhian's truth for showing him his own deficiency-until he hates, and at last destroys, the clear gaze that would prevent him from seeing himself as he has made her see him.

 

Is this knowledge why he is suffering? But now Darios knows his sin. Surely he has been punished enough. Once more. he tried to remember the SigH on the door, the pattern which he must trace in order to be free. . . . But he cannot see it!

 

And there is no use in praying for rescue. Darios remembers only too well how the Spell that seals the vault is set to respond if anyone tries to open it by physical means. . . .

 

Lalo knew that he must be dreaming, because he could see. He dreamed with a clarity of vision that had never been his in waking life, or even in sleep, before his sight was taken away. In his dreams, he ranged through Sanctuary at will, invisible, invulnerable, as if all the energy that had no outlet by day was fueling his nocturnal wanderings-nocturnal in their beginnings, though once he had begun his dreaming, Lalo might find himself moving through night or day, through scenes from the past, or sometimes among people and events whom his waking mind would not have recognized. But he had never tried to bring these visions into waking memory. The contrast would have been too cruel.

 

It was morning now. The clear light glowed in the faces of the young, who woke wondering what the new day would bring, and revealed without pity every line and shadow in those of their elders, who knew only too well. Still, there was a welcome freshness in the air, and the sunlight gleamed cheerfully from the temple domes. For a moment Lalo thought that he had gone back to his own youth, when the great caravans used to bring the town a rough prosperity. But as he looked more closely he saw the mended cracks the new gilding tried to hide, and turning a corner, recognized the jagged outlines of the Mageguild. This was the present then, or perhaps the future, for the City walls beyond it were perceptibly higher than he remembered them.

 

For such an early hour, the place seemed very active. . . . Lalo moved closer, and saw a familiar curly head-his own son Wedemir, with a crowd of his friends from the garrison, big, bronzed men, who laughed and traded good-natured obscenities. But they were carrying picks, not pikes, and instead of swords they swung shovels. Wedemir was trying, with indifferent success, to get them organized. A short distance away Lalo saw his daughter Vanda, and with her another girl whose auburn hair glinted beneath her veil. R h ian- suddenly Lalo was certain who this must be. But how had he known?

 

He moved toward them, calling a greeting, but they looked through him, no more able to see his spirit than he had seen their bodies when they visited him.

 

Sight and vision are not necessarily the same. . . . The awareness came to Lalo like the answer to some long-debated question ... He was on the edge of understanding when a shout distracted him. The soldiers were attacking the rubble at the edge of the Mageguild's great hall. Dust puffed up as the first of the great stones was moved. Wind lent the moving particles form and substance. Figures for which ordinary humans have no names seemed to hover for a moment above the workers, then the wind swirled them away. Was that a trick of the light, or was Lalo perceiving the elementals that had been bound to those stones?

 

Sight ... or vision?

 

That first success had encouraged the diggers. Picks shattered stones into fragments small enough to be carried away. Now they had bared the ground level. Someone shouted, and the men crowded around a rubblechoked depression next to the wait.

 

"What have they found?" Vanda asked her friend.

 

"It should be the stairs to the vaults beneath the Mage hall," answered Rhian. "Darios boasted that he knew the way-he should not have told me, I suppose, but he would never believe he did not need to impress me. . . ."

 

"His indiscretion may save his life," said Vanda. "If they do find him alive, what will you do about Wedemir?"

 

Rhian shrugged a little and colored. "I don't know. I love them bothcan you understand that? I love them in different ways."

 

Vanda shook her head. "I have never been in love with one man, much less with two. Perhaps I am the lucky one . . . Oh, look-" she added suddenly, "the men have found a door!"

 

The digging had continued while the girls were talking. As the last stones were removed, Lalo saw what seemed to be an unbroken slab of stone. A symbol was cut deeply into the smooth surface; Lalo drifted closer to see. It was nothing he knew, but its loops and angles teased at the memory. Had he seen something tike it at Enas Yorl's?

 

But he had no time to study it. Wedemir heaved up his pick and brought it down with all his strength upon the stone.

 

Violet light blazed from the sigil, then burst outward in a flare that burned sight away. But Lalo heard the sharp crack, the clatter of falling rock and then screaming and the ominous, agonized rumbling of settling stone. His cry mingled with the others', but the rush of displaced air was whirling him away. Vision was still darkened, but upon his inner eyelids he saw the Sigil imprinted in lines of fire.

 

"Wedemir! WedemirF

 

Anguish tore Lalo's throat. He fought the darkness; his flailing hands found something soft and solid, he was held, and presently his breathing steadied. An awareness deeper than sight told him who held him. With a shuddering sigh Lalo rested his head on Gilla's ample breast and breathed in the sweet scent of her hair.

 

"It's all right-I'm here . . . hush, my love-it was only a dream. . . ." Gilla was patting his back as if he had been her child. A coolness in the air told him that it was still nighttime. He could hear the distant barking of a guard dog, and a scream, cut short abruptly, from the direction of the Maze.

 

"A dream-" he muttered. "Dear gods, I hope so!" He waited for his heartbeat to steady. Images replayed themselves in his awareness-the Sigil, Wedemir's face as the stones crashed down. . . .

 

"Wedemir said he would excavate the rubble of the Mageguild," he said finally. "When, Gilla-did he say when?"

 

"I don't really know," she began, and winced as his fingers tightened on her arm. "Tomorrow, perhaps. Does it matter?"

 

"We've got to stop him, Gilla. If Wedemir tries to break those wardings, he'll be destroyed!"

 

"What wardings?" He felt her pull away a little to look at him. "The Guildhall is a ruin, Lalo. I've seen it!"

 

"So have I!"

 

"Lalo, what are you talking about?" Gilla said sharply.

 

"In my dream I saw Wedemir digging among those ruins, and I saw him crushed beneath falling stones."

 

"You are worried about him-well, so am I-" she said carefully. "Ifs part of parenthood. I've had any number of nightmares in which the children were endangered. It was a nightmare, nothing more." Her voice was so reasonable, so soothing. . . .

 

Lalo shook his head. "Gilla. don't talk to me as if I were one of the children! You're acting as if I'd lost my mind along with my sight! Listen to me, Gilla!"

 

"What do you mean? I've been treating you the way I always do. I've had to take care of you, of course, but-"

 

"Have you always secretly despised me, then?" he shouted. "Even in our worst times, you never slept in the other room."

 

"You were hurt," she began. "You needed to sleep alone-"

 

"Gilla, my head healed weeks ago! I'm still your husband-I'm still a man, even if I can't see!"

 

There was a silence. He heard her shaken breathing and fought to control his own. Her flesh was so familiar . . . Lalo knew the luxuriant hills and valleys of her body better than he did his own. But now he felt as if a stranger were lying there.

 

"Is that the way it seemed to you?" she whispered finally. "I didn't intend it. But you may be right. I was afraid-all I could think about was protecting the children. Oh Lalo, what can I do?"

 

Lalo was glad that the darkness hid his involuntary grin. Her question had sounded too much like a verse from a bawdy song that he doubted Gilla knew.

 

"Let me inside your defenses, love," he whispered, touching her cheek with fingers that had grown more sensitive, moving his hand gently downward until it curved around her breast, teasing her nipple until he felt it harden, and she gasped. For this, he did not need to see.

 

"Please, Gilla, let me come in. . . ."

 

The air had freshened and the hush of early dawn lay on the town by the time they were quiet again.

 

"After so long, you would think there could be no surprises," Gilla murmured drowsily, rolling away from him. "But each time we make the world anew. . . ."

 

Lalo emerged from the deep well of pure sensation reluctantly. He could view the images of his nightmare with some detachment now, but they retained their clarity.

 

"Gilla . . . there's been so much strangeness in my life. Do we dare assume there was no truth in what I saw in my dream? Listen-" he went on as she mumbled sleepily. "We never met that girl, Rhian, until after I was blinded, but I can describe her-someone might have told me the color of her hair and eyes, but would they have said that Rhian wears a blue gauze veil with golden scallop shells embroidered on the hem, or that she has a dark brown mole on the back of her right hand?"

 

"That's true," said Gilla, fully awake at last. "You have described the girt." Her voice sharpened. "But if what you saw was a true vision, then Wedemir is going to die!"

 

"It may be a possibility only!" Lalo answered more confidently than he felt, holding her until he felt her tension begin to ease. "You must take me to the Mageguild, Gilla, as soon as it's light. We can save our son if I stop Wedemir from breaking down that door!"

 

Once. when he was first apprenticed, Darios had broken a flagon in his master's workshop, and screamed and ran as its contents exploded in fire.

 

A prompt spell from the senior mage had sent the flames running back upon themselves until all the stuff was consumed, but the master had afflicted Darios for several days with a demon who tormented him with little pricking flames. Now he dreams that the fire is spreading, licking up the heavy draperies, even consuming the stone. The Mageguild is an inferno; the heat blisters his skin. the light blinds him. He writhes and shrieks and wakes to the cold silence of his tomb.

 

Shuddering, Darios composes himself to trance again. And again the dreams torment him. This time it is a book which he has been forbidden to read. But if he once opens it, he can escape the tyranny of his masters, for their knowledge will be his own. He makes his way into the chamber and sets his hand to the cover. Light spills from within as he lifts it, brilliance explodes as it flies open. Darios strives to force the cover down again, but he does not know the spell. He screams as the world whirls away.

 

To wake twice from such a nightmare is an evil portent. Darios would try to stay awake, but awake he is aware that he is cold, and hungry, and alone. Guarding himself with all the spells he knows, he seeks stillness once more. But yet again he dreams, though he struggles against it. This time he is with companions, fellow-students, perhaps, who are on the track of some treasure. They begin to pull down a pile of rocks, laughing and tossing away the stones. He tries to stop them, but soon they come to a slab set into the ground. Something is written there-Darios tries to see it, but the others are in the way. He sees them pulling at it, and then light explodes from the earth, flinging him away. In despair he cries out Rhian's name and wakens, hearing the regular clank of metal striking stone. - . .

 

Lalo and Gilla reached the Mageguild as the sun was topping the newly gilded dome of the Temple of Us. Wedemir and his friends were already working. Over protest Latilla had been left behind to watch Alfi, but Vanda and Rhian were here, as Lalo had known they would be. From his tone, Wedemir seemed mildly annoyed to see his parents, and more than annoyed when Lalo asked him to stop. Lalo sighed. It had been hard enough to get Gilla to believe him, why should his son listen to a blind old man?

 

"For Shipri's sweet sake, hear me out!" he exploded finally. "Wedemir, do you remember the Black Unicorn?" There was an uncomfortable silence. Behind him, Lalo could hear two of the soldiers whispering. He supposed that by now even new recruits must have heard the tale of the creature that Lalo had unwittingly created and unleashed upon the town.

 

"What does that have-" Wedemir began, but Gilla interrupted him.

 

"You're a grown man now, and so you think you have nothing left to leam?" she said scornfully. "Especially from your parents? You were not so proud when your father destroyed that black beast-don't you yet understand that he is not like other men?"

 

"Father-" Wedemir sounded subdued when he finally replied. "You know why I am doing this. I must have some reason beyond a dream to give up now . . ."

 

"Rhian is here, isn't she-" said Lalo.

 

"You might have heard her voice; you might have guessed she would be here."

 

"You don't believe me? Keep on digging then. When you have cleared away the rubble, you will find a staircase leading down to a stone slab. There is a symbol carved on it, Wedemir. You must believe me then, for if you touch that doorway, you will die!"

 

"I'll admit there's no normal way you can know what's under there," said his son. "If we find the door we'll stop. Does that content you, Papa? We will stop, but you will have to choose what we do then!" Emotion trembled in his voice.

 

That girl, thought Lalo. He won't give her up any more than I would have given up Gilla at his age.

 

They sat with Rhian and Vanda as they waited. Lalo could hear the sound of the digging, and memory supplied a picture of the scene. He knew it when they reached ground level and uncovered the beginning of the staircase. He knew when they finished digging it out, and found the stone slab.

 

The men were very quiet as Rhian led him to the doorway. Delicate fingering confirmed that the sigil was the one that he had seen. Lalo's fingertips tingled as he touched it, and he knew that the magic that warded it was still alive.

 

And in the silence after he took his hand away there was a sound-too faint to be heard above the noise of pick and shovel, or even over normal conversational tone-a distant voice that called, "Stop! For your life's sake, you must not touch the stone!"

 

"He's alive!" whispered Rhian. From Wedemir came something like a muffled groan. Lalo winced, recognizing that at this moment his son might well have preferred to have been crushed by falling stone. But he had no choice. He bent until his lips were nearly touching the rock and took a deep breath.

 

"What must we do to free you?"

 

"You cannot," came the faint reply. "The vault can only be opened by drawing the sigil, with the proper words, from inside . . ."

 

"Do you know the words?" Gilla's voice sounded very loud in Lalo's ear,

 

"I know the spell, but not the Sign," came the answer. 'Tray for the spirit of Darios, son of Wint, and may the gods bless you for attempting to help me."

 

Rhian had begun to sob. Lalo bit his lip, thinking. The contours of the sigil were still vivid in his memory. He could have drawn it, but he could not describe it. The peculiar curves and angles of which it was composed followed no normal human logic, could not be explained in human words. Could the puzzle have been unlocked by the Rankan wizard, Randal, or even by Enas Yorl? Lalo wondered. The foundations of the Mageguild had been here before either. They felt old-Ilsigi magic, or perhaps something that had been here even before. . . .

 

"He knows the words, and you know the Symbol," muttered Gilla. "Surely there must be some way-" Lalo sighed. He was glad to know that Gilla really believed him. But even if he had been able to see, he and young Darios were still on opposite sides of the door.

 

"A doorway-it is only a doorway-" she murmured. "But you can go through such things, Lalo. Remember how you took me with you through the image on the card? Can't you do the same thing for the boy with words?"

 

Frowning, Lalo reached out and felt her clasp his hand. "I suppose . . -" he said slowly. "Wedemir, my son-do you understand why I must try?"

 

"Yes, Papa," Wedemir said harshly. Better to have it over with now, whatever the outcome might be. If he had not won the girl when Darios's fate was still in doubt, he would never get her while her first love was slowly starving to death beyond this stone!  "Darios, can you hear me?" he said more loudly. "Listen-I know you've been trained to this-listen, and see what I say-"

 

"I don't understand . . ."

 

"Just listen!" From habit, Lalo closed his eyes. He had had the S'danzo card in front of him before, but he remembered each brushstroke vividly. "Calm down, steady your breathing-you know how. . . . Imagine you are looking at an archway-the arch of a gate big enough to drive a chariot through. Look at the stones. They are pale granite with dark flecks that glint in the sun ... six great stones on each side, and a larger cap, three on each side of the arch, and a trapezoidal keystone. Do you see it, boy?" Lalo saw it clearly in his mind's eye, not a thing of paint and pasteboard now, but a real gateway, solid stone. There was a faint murmur of assent from within.

 

"Look through the archway now-you see a garden. . . ." Lalo began to describe the sweep of green grass, the roses, the trees. And as he spoke, he himself saw them. He moved forward. "Go through the gateway, Darios-go into the garden . . - into the garden, , . ."

 

Lalo hardly felt Gilla's arms go around him as he left his body behind him and his own words carried him through. It was no shock to find that he could see, for this was only a continuation of his inner vision. He turned, and saw someone coming toward him. It was a tall young man, well formed, though his skin had the pallor of one who spends his days indoors. His curling black hair and beard were as glossy as the coat of one of the Prince's pampered horses, and his dark eyes glowed.

 

A handsome man, thought Lalo. No wonder Rhian loved him. A mental adjustment to his own dress clothed him in a clean shirt and one of his better coats- He lifted his hand in greeting.

 

The young man's eyes widened. "Who are you?"

 

"Lalo the Limner." It seemed such an inadequate answer to offer this young man who stood in the rich robes of his Order, watching him in wonder.

 

"I've heard of you. But you're not a mage!"

 

"I'm not sure what I am anymore . . ," Lalo looked around him. If only he could stay here, where it was so beautiful-where he could see. But at least he knew the way here now.

 

"But unless we do something, you, my son, are going to be dead very soon'"

 

A moment's concentration brought a tablet and stick of charcoal into his hands. The Sigil still blazed in Lalo's memory. He could not have described it, but his arm moved easily in the contorted swirls of the figure, and he felt a swift rush of delight in the sureness with which he drew, recognizing only now how the frustration of being unable to do so had galled him. Here, he could paint again, even if there was no one to see.

 

"Can you remember it?" He held the tablet out to the other man. Darios gazed at it, his eyes going glassy as ingrained disciplines committed the curves and angles to memory.

 

"I will remember," said Darios grimly. "I never saw it properly. The Sigil was not in the book I found-only the spell. And if I fail," his lips twisted a little. "At least you have shown me the way to an easy passage. My thanks to you, Master Limner, for that." For a moment the two men clasped hands.

 

They both looked toward the archway that led back to the world's darkness. Lalo straightened, realizing that he was almost as unwilling to return to the prison of his body as Darios was to go back to his tomb. But he could feel the need of those he had left behind him tugging at his awareness.

 

Together they moved forward.

 

Then Lalo was shaken in a tumult of darkness through which he heard a great voice crying "Be opened'", and the Sigil blossomed upon his vision in lines of white fire. There was a moment of disorientation. Lalo felt strong arms supporting him. He gazed as the Sigil coruscated through all the colors of the spectrum in a blaze of opalescence, and then both Sigil and stone misted away, and a gaunt figure staggered forward and collapsed into his arms.

 

"Darios!" shrieked Rhian.

 

But Lalo had not needed that to identify him. Something in his spirit had recognized the essence of the man he held, that wavered like a guttering candle flame. He stared down at matted tangles of black hair, a patch of blue robe whose cloth was of rather poorer quality than the fabric Darios had worn in the Otherworld, and beyond, to a patch of dusty stone. The bent back heaved; bony fingers clutched at Lalo's arms.

 

"My son, my son, don't weep!" He stroked the dusty locks as if Darios had been his own child indeed. "It worked, lad-you are free-you are free!"

 

And then Lalo's hand stilled. When he closed his eyes, he saw the glossy hair and tall strength of the man he had met in the Otherworld. But when he opened them, he knew he held a youth who would be no more than his own height even when full-fed. Instead of a verdant garden, he saw the sordid, soiled reality to which he had been born ... he saw every stinking turd and blessed battered stone ... he saw!

 

Vanda and Rhian were on either side of Darios now.

 

"Darios-my poor darling! You look like one of your own spirits!" Rhian drew his arm across her shoulder.

 

"Starved-" whispered the mageling, "but even before that . . . wasn't handsome. A spell, Rhian ... to make you think so. Forgive me!"

 

"You silly boy!" Rhian shook her head. "Do you think it mattered?"

 

"We'll take you home and let my mother's cooking put some flesh on your bones!" said Vanda, taking his other arm.

 

Lalo let go, and the two girls supported him as he stumbled toward the stairs. Gilla set Lalo's hand on her shoulder.

 

"No-" his voice cracked, and he laid his own hand over hers. "I can see my own way now." She started, and her gaze came back from Darios to meet his own.

 

"Oh! Oh Lalo!" Her arms closed around him, and he felt her tears wet on his neck. He blinked, and looked past her bent head to the stairs.

 

Darios and the girls had nearly reached the top now. Wedemir was waiting for them, stiff as a statue, with all his agony blazing in his eyes.

 

"And what of me?" he asked as they passed him, as tragically as any character in one of Feltheryn's plays. "Rhian, what about me?"

 

Rhian turned to face him. "I am taking this man to shelter. Wedemir, not marrying him," she said tartly. "At this moment, I don't know if I want to marry anyone-not him, or you!" She and Vanda helped Darios on, leaving Wedemir staring.

 

Lalo began to laugh, because of the swift toss of Rhian's bright head, and the look on Wedemir's face-and for sheer simple joy because he had been healed.

 

"I still love you, lambkin-" Lalo put his arm around Latilla, who sniffed and turned her face away.

 

"You love Mama better . . ." she mumbled.

 

Lalo sighed, aware that there was a part of his daughter that wished he were still blind. But it would do no good to tell her so.

 

"I love Mama differently-but not more than I love you. That's the way it's supposed to be. Someday you'll find a young man who loves you that way, and you'll have a daughter of your own. You'll see, . . ." He sighed, remembering how he had rejected this kind of reasoning when he was her age.

 

"Nobody will marry me-I'm ugly!" she whispered then.

 

"Did the other girls tell you so?" He squeezed her hand. "Listen to me, Latilla-you will be beautiful! This isn't just your father's love talking, sweetling-I see what you will be!" Gently he turned her to face him, and let outer and inner vision merge, seeing the color of Latilla's mouse-fair hair deepen to old gold, the fine bones define the face beneath the translucent skin.

 

It was becoming easier. When his sight first returned, Lalo had sometimes had to shut his eyes because the confusion of shape and color was too painful. While Darios lay in the next room, eating Gilla's good food and growing back into his body, Lalo had learned to see once more.

 

But it was different now. He saw the shabby streets of Sanctuary as a man long away looks upon his childhood home. Recovering one kind of vision had given him all of them, for to Lalo, the ordinary light of day was now as wonderful as the clear light of the Otherworld. He had begun to use inner and outer vision equally as he had never done before.

 

"I could paint what I see in you so that you can see it too-would you like me to?"

 

Latilla looked shyly up at him, then away again.

 

That's the first time I've ever boasted of it, Lalo realized. No, not boasted, but accepted as one of the things that he could do. / am no longer simply Lalo the Limner, he thought. But what am I?

 

"I ... don't think so. I believe you-" she added swiftly, "but I don't think I should know."

 

Lalo nodded, wondering how many girls twice her age would have been so wise.

 

"You tell me when I get there, will you. Papa? And then, maybe if Darios doesn't marry Rhian he will marry me. Do you think he might?" She broke off suddenly, blushing, and Lalo saw the student mage standing in the door.

 

"He might-who knows?" he whispered in his daughter's ear. "Run along now and let me find out if he's good enough for you!"

 

Latilla giggled, jumped to her feet, and still blushing, darted past Darios through the door. She left silence behind her. Lalo wondered how to break it. At times it seemed to him that he and Darios had shared one resurrection, but there was no reason the younger man should feel the same.

 

"Come in," he said finally. "How are you feeling? Have you decided what you want to do now?" Darios sat down on the other bench.

 

"My own master died, and there's not much left of the Mageguild," Darios said slowly. "What I would like is to finish my apprenticeship with you. . . ."

 

"But I'm not a mage!" exclaimed Lalo.

 

"Aren't you?" Darios looked up suddenly, and Lalo saw his dark eyes glowing as they had glowed in the Otherworld. "I know the spells, the recipes, the rules. But what use is that these days, when so much of that kind of magic has lost its power? You have more of the spirit of magic in your paintbrush than the whole Mageguild in their wands. Teach me vision, Master Lalo, and I will take care of the spells."

 

An apprentice! For the first time in years Lalo remembered that the man who had made him a master had not been a painter, but a mage. There was a pattern here, a power that transcended the gods. Again, inner and outer vision blended, and he glimpsed his life laid out before him like one of the great murals in the temples. He blinked, and it disappeared-like Latilla, he was not yet ready to see.

 

But one day . . . one day. . . .

 

Lalo looked back at Darios, took a deep breath, and held out his hand.