The Age of Legend 

XXX

Before science, before history, an era of magic existed in our world's dim past. Magic flowed freely, touching every aspect of the lives of men and women of the Name-giver races. It was an age of heroes, an age of fantastical deeds and mythical stories. It was the Age of Legend.

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As the levels of magic rose, so did the dangers in the world. The rise of magic lured the Horrors from the depths of astral space—nightmarish creatures that devoured all life in their path. For four centuries, entire nations hid underground as the Horrors devastated their lands during the dark time that came to be called the Scourge.

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During the past century, the people of Barsaive have emerged from their sealed kaers and citadels. Trolls, dwarfs, elves, orks, and humans live side by side with exotic races: the lizard-like t'skrang, the small, winged windlings, and the earthen obsidimen. Fantastical creatures dwell once more in the forests and jungles. Arcane energies offer power to those willing to learn the ways of magic.

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In the Age of Legend, bold heroes from all across Barsaive band together—ready to fight for life and freedom against the remaining Horrors and the oppressive Theran Empire, which seeks to bend the rebellious province again to their yoke. Through noble deeds and sacrifice, the heroes of the world forge Barsaive's future, arming themselves for their daunting task with powerful magical spells and treasures.

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Prologue

We all have to eat.

Anarya grew up in a community sliding down the long slope to extinction. She played with toys handed down through the generations, and followed her parents from plaza to farm, from farm to market stall, from market stall to plaza, without wondering why there were so few other children, or why the lights were dim, or why so much of her world was shadow and silence. And as for the sun and the sky, she never thought of them, for she had never seen them.

Fifteen generations ago, the ancestors of her ancestors lived in the fertile valley of the river then known as the Volost, which rose on the northern flanks of the Tylon Mountains. There they farmed, and sometimes fought. They traded with the human communities of the Tylon and the t'skrang of the Serpent River, and did not give undue thought to the future.

Then emissaries from the Theran Empire came among them and told them of the coming Scourge: the time when the magical potential of the world would be so great that Horrors from other dimensions would be able to enter and ravage it, devouring bodies, devouring minds. The people of the Volost took a lot of persuasion, but the Therans were persistent; and as the years went by, even farmers who never stirred from their soil could no longer deny the reports that reached them from north and south, of terrible things gathering at the margins of the inhabited lands, and breaking through to wreak havoc on the innocent and the ill prepared.So the elders of the villages along the Volost swallowed their pride and began the construction of Kaer Volost within the mountains at the valley's head. They paid a high price in coin and freedom, but they built well, hewing as closely as possible to the Theran plan; and when the time came, they retreated behind their orichal-cum doors and prepared to wait out the Scourge deep within the rock.

The doors and the barriers, both magical and physical, held against the worst that came to their world. Even as their valley was turned from fertile earth to Horror-haunted wasteland, its people survived deep within the kaer, and recounted their history in the plaza at night, comforting themselves with the hope that, though they would never again see the sun themselves, their far, far descendants would once more walk free on the surface.

But if Kaer Volost was a refuge, it was also a prison: a prison for the souls of the old, living out their days in a growing darkness, and a greater prison for the souls of the young, trapped in a cage they could not escape.

For the first ten generations after the doors were sealed it was, at least, a well-lit and well-provisioned prison. Using natural water and magical light, the people could grow all the food they needed, and though their skins became deathly pale from the absence of sunlight, and their bones were unduly prone to breaking, in most respects they were healthy enough in body.

Then the magic began to fade. Who can say why? It may be that a little knowledge was lost as each generation of magicians and adepts passed on its learning to its successors, until some irrecoverable threshold was crossed. It may be that the loss of magic within the kaer was connected with the loss of magic in the world outside, for it was at this time that the kaer's elemental clock first showed movement. The ball of True earth, suspended above its dish of True water, began, infinitesimally, to fall. The closer it got to the water, the less the level of magic was in the world outside; and when it reached the water and dissolved, then the magic in the world outside would have gone too, and with it the Horrors. Then all could rejoice, and throw open the doors of the kaer.

As the ball dropped, so the magic faded. The light quartzes grew dim. The spells that lent enchanted growth to the fruits, trees, and livestock of the underground farms lost their potency, and many people sickened of tainted food and bitter fruit. The darkness grew, and the shadows pressed around. Adults talked in softer voices. Beyond the narrow circles of firelight, the Troubadours' songs faltered and died.

Then the ball of True earth stopped falling, just two fingers' breadth above the water. Days, and months, and years went by, and still the ball did not descend any further. Soon the kaer was split between those who gave away all hope, claiming that the Scourge would never end, and those who said that the ancients were wrong, that the Scourge was already over, and that the sunlit world awaited outside.

Pity Anarya Chezarin, child of a dying kaer, if you must, but bear in mind that she is too young yet to know any of this history, except that which has filtered through, in distorted form, into lullabies and children's skipping rhymes. She plays her childish games, and pays no mind to wider troubles. Yet she hears much that will return to her memory in later years.

X

It is mid-morning, as such things are measured in the kaer. Anarya is with her father, who is tending the goats—the hardiest of creatures, and those least affected by the failing light and meagre feed. She looks up and sees her mother coming. Anarya puts up her arms, and her mother lifts her and holds her close.

"We have decided at last," her mother tells her father.

"And?"

"In seven days' time, a scouting group will be sent out."

"The True earth has still not fallen?"

"No. But we are running out of food. There will be deaths from starvation before the year is out, and there are few enough of us as it is. And in the end, little Ana..."

Anarya's father puts his arms around her weeping mother. "You have made the only decision you could, and may Jaspree prove it is the right one."

Her father held Anarya as they watched the first expedition set out, so bold, so few, to make their way to the little sally port that debouched onto the mountainside well away from the main doors. That expedition did not return, and nor did the next. But Anarya was old enough to understand, a little, when the third expedition did return, and told of the world outside: the sun, the fresh clean air, the light beating down (the members of the expedition were all red with sunburn and dizzy with dehydration), and the plants. Plants everywhere, growing wild, the distant descendants of their ancestors' well-ordered farms.

The Council ordered one more expedition. It ventured a little further, and returned as well. No sign of enemies, no sign of Horrors, no sign, for that matter, of the Therans, who had not been forgotten in all the long years of the kaer.

"The world is safe again," the Council decreed. The kaer's timekeeping had been restored to that of the outside world, and at dawn in two days' time, the great doors of the kaer would be opened, and the people would be free to leave.

Not everyone would go out at once. It was to be an orderly dispersal, and the people would return to the kaer at nightfall for many months yet, until they had rebuilt their homes and farms. And first there was the demanding business of disarming the wards and traps which protected the path from outer doors to the kaer— work that taxed the skills of the kaer's two remaining magicians to the limit, claiming the life of one.

But the traps were disarmed, and the path to the doors was opened. Ana was now a heavy weight in her father's arms, and in the end he sat her on his shoulders. They stood a few spans back from the door and watched Ana's mother, and the other members of the Council, perform the final ritual. A line of light, too bright to look at, appeared between the doors. They swung back smoothly. The way was open.

And then the Eaters came.

Chapter 1

They were three days into the mountains, and things were not going well. The trail had vanished. The clouds had come down from the peaks to drop remorseless, freezing drizzle on their heads. And Kendik Dezelek had decided that he'd made a bad choice, back in that tavern in Bilim, when he'd decided to hook up with the Turgut brothers.

Not that he'd had much alternative. As a child, sitting round the hearth in the family home, listening to his mother's tales of adventure and glory in far-off lands in the years just after the Scourge ended (tales which, he had noticed later, never featured his father), he had been fired with enthusiasm for life far from his home village, which seemed more dull, more provincial, with each passing year. His mother's savings paid for him to follow her path and train as a Swordmaster. When he was done, he said goodbye to his mother and his master and walked off down the sole, rutted street of the village on his way to adventure, fame, and glory. He cut a fine figure: tall and lean, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, his shoulders strong and arms well muscled from three years of training.

Kendik had imagined beginning his adventures in the dwarf king's palace, or bargaining for his life beneath Mountainshadow's golden eye. Bilim was just a way-station, a village three days' walk from his own which, he had been told, was frequented by adventuring parties looking for a strong arm and a keen eye. But he had been five days in Bilim, stuck on a scratchy, lice-ridden straw pallet in a narrow room above a crowded, smelly tavern. On the first evening, a young woman had paid him attention—flattering attention. That night, Marla had relieved him of both his virginity and his purse, and she was long gone by morning.

It had been long days and short commons since then, for no one in Bilim seemed to need the services of a young human Swordmaster with plenty of ability but very little experience. He had been reduced to hewing wood and drawing water for the innkeeper until last night, when the Turgut brothers rode into town. They had ordered dinner, sat down to eat it with obvious enjoyment, and noticed him looking longingly at their heaped plates. A glance passed between them, then the tall one invited him to share some of their food. When they saw how hungry he was, they paid for another plate, and a mug of beer to wash it down with. Kendik was too famished to wonder at their generosity. Perhaps they felt pity for a fellow human in need.

Prospectors, they said they were, tall Atlan with his bow, and little Mors with his shapeless bag of tools. Prospectors who made a living from what they could find in the northern reaches of the Tylon Mountains.

"There's some places we don't go, mind," said Atlan. "Wherever the lousy Therans stick their interfering noses in, for one. These mountains have got a bad reputation in some parts, but we keep out of trouble, and we do all right for ourselves."

"What do you find?" asked Kendik.

"Shhh," said Mors. "Keep your voice down. There's others besides us making a living from these hills." Mors looked round suspiciously. Kendik, following his gaze, saw naught but honest villagers engaged in honest conversation; but Kendik had believed Marla was in love with him.

Satisfied that no one was paying undue attention, Mors drew Kendik's face close to his. "Old stuff. Gems. Magic items. Gold, boy, lots of it, if you know where to look."

"Old stuff. You mean—"

"There were a lot of fertile valleys in here before the Scourge came," said Atlan. "A lot of kaers. Most of them made it through. Some didn't."

Kendik took a nervous swig of his beer. "Horrors? Did Horrors get them?"

"Sometimes," said Atlan. "But a lot of them just ran out of food, or hope. Sank into despair and died, when all the time the sun was shining outside." Atlan paused. "Makes a fellow sad, it does. But their loss is our gain, if we get there before the competition."

"Thing is," said Mors," the competition can get a mite fierce sometimes. That's why, when we saw a young Swordmaster a bit down on his luck, we asked ourselves: is that the lad for us? A bit of adventure, and maybe a bit of fighting, and if we're lucky, a good bit of loot at the end of it. What do you say, boy?"

"How much loot?" asked Kendik, whose mother had managed to drum some sense into him over the years.

"A fifth for you," said Atlan.

"Meaning I get half what you each get?"

"That's true, boy," said Mors, "but we do all the planning, see? And we'll keep you fed and sheltered, too."

"I don't have a horse," said Kendik, weakening.

"That's all right. We walk from here."

So they walked. Mors and Atlan had a map, which showed a broad trail parting the mountains with dwarfish precision. The reality was somewhat different. So long as they stayed on the left bank of the Bilim Stream, the trail was easy enough to see, and the country was pleasant, with farms and orchards driving the wilderness back into the hills. Kendik walked in front, occasionally swishing his sword, taking pleasure in how cleanly the blade cut through the air. At last, all his training was about to be put to the test. Whatever enemies lay ahead would be no match for him. He would drive back darkness at the point of his sword, and return to Bilim a rich man, ready for further and bigger adventures. He would—

"Kendik," called Atlan. "Kendik!"

"Yes?"

"You're going the wrong way. You've walked right past the junction."

The new trail was neither broad nor straight, but it followed a tributary of the Bilim back into the mountains. As long as they stayed close to the stream, they didn't have too much trouble, apart from a difficult ascent to avoid a particularly deep and impassable gorge. The sun beat down while they were climbing, but by the time they scrambled down to rejoin the river at the head of the gorge, the clouds had closed in and the drizzle was seeping down. It was getting dark.

"I've had enough," said Atlan. "Time to stop and catch us some fish."

The fish were small and shy. Kendik had to walk a long way for an armful of dry firewood, and he was well ready for sleep by the time he had gnawed his last morsel of charred flesh and spat out his last bone. It was then he discovered that the Turgut brothers' tent must have been ancient when the Scourge began, and that neither of them was a dab hand at patching. He was sleeping nearest the flap, and however he twisted and turned, he could not avoid the water that insinuated itself through any hole it could find.

He was wet and cold when he awoke, just like the weather. The Turgut brothers were still sleeping. He went outside to relieve himself—he was a well-brought-up young man, so he kept away from the stream—and peered through the murk at the route ahead. Not much comfort there: at the far end of the short flat on which they were camped, the head of the valley rose in a steep-sided cirque, carved out by some great glacier in the days long before the Scourge. Kendik returned to the tent, cleaned his sword, and tried to work out which combination of clothes had the best chance of keeping him dry and warm.

Wet weather did not agree with the Turgut brothers. While waking, while making breakfast (some glutinous variant of porridge; Kendik's job was to wash out the pot), while striking camp, they moaned and bickered. At least it was each other they bickered with; Kendik wasn't really part of the family yet. He let them get a little way ahead before he started walking, feeling the damp turf squelch beneath his leather boots.

Whatever their deficiencies in other areas, Mors and Atlan were fit. At the head of the valley, they continued to climb to the left of the stream. Atlan's long strides took him rapidly out of view, and before long, Mors was also gone. Then there was only Kendik, his gasping breath, and the maddening laughter of the stream.

When he next saw Atlan and Mors, they were standing on a rock outcrop, looking down at him with mixed exasperation and amusement. "You haven't been out in the wild much, have you, boy?" said Atlan.

"No," Kendik managed to gasp. They let him have a full thirty seconds' rest before they set off again.

That first day, they climbed to the saddle at the head of the cirque and descended into the valley beyond. There was no formed track in the second valley, but an occasional blaze or chopped-off branch provided reasonable evidence that other Name-givers had come this way.

Some time that day, they took a wrong turning. According to Mors, they were supposed to take one of the narrow side-valleys to the right of their present course, opposite a prominent bluff. But the left of the valley was full of prominent bluffs, and the right was full of side valleys, all looking equally unpromising.

"You any good with maps, boy?" asked Mors.

It looked to Kendik as though the third side valley on the right was the one they wanted, which meant that the Turgut brothers blamed Kendik for pretty much everything that followed. The valley was filled with particularly dense forest, looped about with clinging vines. Atlan put his hand into a clump of stinging nettles and was in agony for the next few hours. Mors slipped crossing the stream and emerged soaking wet. There were no fish to be caught for lunch. And, when they finally reached the head of the valley, there was nowhere to camp, so they decided to attempt to climb to the ridgeline at the valley's head in the hope that they could find a campsite there.

It wasn't a good decision. The slope was the steepest they had tackled thus far. The wet, slippery clumps of grass near the bottom were difficult to stand on, but nothing compared to the scree slope above, where the fragmented, unstable rock made climbing a nightmare for legs already bone weary. It was almost night when they reached the top of the ridge, and there was no campsite there, just a steep descent through unknown dangers into the valley below.

It was madness to go on, but unthinkable to go back. When Kendik thought back on that night, he wasn't sure whether the fear of falling to his death in the dark was worse than the withering scorn Atlan and Mors piled on his route-finding skills. They didn't let up till Atlan slipped and rolled ten meters down the slope, his descent only halted by a boulder. Nothing appeared to be broken, but the cut on his head was still oozing blood a few hours later, when they had finally made it to the valley floor and were fumbling round for their tent.

The clouds had parted to let fitful moonlight through, and that may have been what saved them. The wolves made little sound, but Kendik saw moonlight gleam off silver fur. Shouting a warning to Atlan and Mors, he drew his sword. Now, at last, he was in his element.

Atlan had time to draw his bow and fire off a couple of arrows, which whined dangerously close to Kendik's head. One found its mark; not bad shooting for a man with a head wound. Then it was close-quarter work, Kendik's sword the first line of defense, the brothers' daggers there to back it up. Kendik slew one mighty adversary in mid-leap, and then the wolves abandoned the frontal attack and circled, looking for an opening. Twice, Kendik felt jaws closing on his leg, but the boiled leather armor he wore protected him just long enough each time that he could beat the wolf to the killing strike.

The wolves must have been very hungry. Not until six of their number lay dead did they break off the attack. Kendik's left leg was badly bruised, and Atlan's head wound had reopened, but other than that, the three travelers were unscathed.

"You're not bad, kid," said Mors. "You might have saved our lives just then. Think you can find the wood for a fire?"

By the time the adrenalin wore off, they had put up the tent, built a fire, and even—praise be to Jaspree—found that the river of this valley had fish. Tired though he was, Kendik took the first watch. Beneath the moon, he sat on a log, listened to the snores of his companions, and cleaned his sword. Night birds called from the forest. Far off, he heard the howling of wolves, but they knew when they were beaten, and did not return.

They slept late. It started to rain again. Standing in the shelter of the closest tree, they took a good, long look at the map. They couldn't decide which valley they were in, though it clearly trended north. "Lake Vors will be somewhere over there, but we don't want to go that way."

"Why not?" asked Kendik.

"We've had a few problems with the Ishkarat in our time. Don't want to get mixed up with them again."

The t'skrang! Kendik had seen them, of course, had even talked with a few, but he had never spent much time in their company. To visit the Serpent River, and see the t'skrang towers rising above the water! That would be a wonder indeed.

Well, no matter. It did not seem he would be spending much time on the Serpent River while he had the Turgut brothers in tow.

"So if we don't know where we are, do we at least know where we're going?" he asked, a little impatiently.

Atlan and Mors exchanged glances before Mors spoke. "A tower, lad, a magician's tower. See, it's marked there. We found this map a week ago. Heard some men talking about the tower, we did, about how there was rumored to be all sorts left for the plundering. That night, I found this map in their room while they slept."

"If there's so much treasure there, how come it hasn't already been taken?"

"Guarded, apparently. That's why we wanted you along. Swordmaster like yourself should be able to take care of a few guards."

"But you're sure it's not in this valley?"

"It's not in a valley at all. Hidden among needle-tipped peaks, so they said. Somewhere to the west, I suspect. So what we do is, boy, we climb, high as we can, and see if we can match the map to what we see."

So they climbed. The forest was dense again, dense and trackless, and they hacked their way through it, Kendik wincing at the uses to which he was putting his sword. The forest at least protected them from the worst of the downpour; when they reached the tree line, the rain hit them with full force, and they were drenched in minutes.

Three days of this, Kendik thought as he sidled through the scrub above the tree line, scrub with thorns sharp enough to go clean through his leather armor. Three days with these two. Three days of rain. Why didn't I just hire out to the dwarfs?

But he remembered that there had been few dwarfs in Bilim, and those few had taken not the slightest interest in him. Say what you liked about the Turgut brothers, at least they were human, and he had some chance of understanding them.

Kendik had to stop to relieve himself. It would have made no difference to the Turgut brothers if he had done his business out in the open, but Kendik felt happier to duck behind a rock outcrop; so full of rock outcrops were these mountains that Kendik half fancied the outcrops were obsidimen, sitting in silent contemplation. Behind the rock, sheltered from the prevailing wind, was a little grove of shrubs that would normally struggle to grow at this elevation. As he stood up, Kendik kicked something that made a small, metallic noise. He stooped down and picked it up, old, half-covered in dirt, but recognizable: a Theran gold piece.

Kendik cleared away the accumulation of leaves and dirt, and discovered that someone had once built a little fire pit here, rimmed with stones. In the debris, he found the darkened bones of animals, a broken knife, and one more coin, a hexagonal Throalic bronze. Whoever halted here had been far too careless with their money.

Engrossed in his excavations, Kendik had forgotten all about Atlan and Mors. Not until they were almost on top of the thicket, demanding to know where by the Name of all the Passions he was, did he hear them. He felt a strong impulse to pocket the coins and say nothing; but he was a young man, with a young man's sense of honor, and he showed the brothers what he had found.

Mors took the coins from him in an eye-blink, secreting them somewhere in the folds of his cloak. "While you've been digging in the dirt, boy, we've been finding what looks like a path. I'd say we're on the way to somewhere, somewhere where there's coin to be had."

"Do you think it could be this magician's tower?"

"No, but it might be someplace easier to take. Let's see if we can find it before nightfall."

As Kendik trudged behind Atlan and Mors, he took a good look around. They were high above the valley floor now, and he could no longer make out where they had fought the wolves. The top of the ridge they had been climbing, the heights over which they had passed last night, and whatever lay down-valley were all shrouded in mist and cloud, but he could see that they were on a ledge—a shelf—on the mountainside. And Atlan and Mors were right: there was some kind of trail here, or perhaps even an old road, long overgrown but still visible, etched on the bones of the mountains.

The trail left the ledge and began to climb steeply. They lost it for a while, but picked it up again beneath a horn of rock on the ridgeline above the valley. Somewhere above the clouds, the sun was sinking towards its nightly rest. The rain had stopped, but it was bitterly cold. They had not eaten for hours, and even Atlan was stumbling as they trudged along.

Then they rounded another corner, and found the end of the trail: two great pillars of rock, and in between them, a smooth, dark tunnel leading down into blackness.

Not talking, they crept closer. Just outside the tunnel, and in the tunnel entrance, piles of bones and scraps of cloth told of sudden death. The bones were jumbled, and many cracked open: there had been a dreadful feasting here.

"Horrors got them," Atlan said, "or maybe bears."

"Do you think anyone's been here since?"

"Must have," said Mors. "Otherwise, where are the doors?"

It was true. The doors had been removed from their mountings and carried away. To where, and by what, there was no way of telling.

"So what do we do now," asked Kendik, "camp here overnight?"

"We go back a ways," said Atlan, "and find a place we can camp, and in the morning, we come back and take a good, hard look around."

It would be a cold and hungry night in these mountains, thought Kendik, eyeing the tunnel entrance once more. Would it be worth the risk to search the kaer? He had heard of what lurked in empty kaers ...

Then he heard the noise. It was faint at first, barely distinguishable from the sounds of wind, water, and rock; but this sound was coming from inside the mountain, and it was getting closer. Up from the depths of the tunnel, echoing, came the sound of footfalls.

He wanted to move, to run away, but he could not move. Twisting his head, he saw Mors to his left and Atlan to his right, also rooted to the spot. Kendik Dezelek drew his sword and waited for whatever was about to emerge from the opened kaer.

Chapter 2

They saw her armor first. Even in the entrance to the tunnel, in the dim light of evening, it gleamed. She walked slowly, hesitantly, out into the light.

She was the most beautiful woman Kendik had ever seen. Clad in gleaming silver armor, she was tall—about his height—slim, and shapely. Her hair hung long and golden about her shoulders. She carried a helmet in one hand and a sword in the other.

She stopped at the entrance to the tunnel, blinking a little, looking at them. Kendik made to take a step forward, only to have Atlan grab him by the shoulders.

"She could be a Horror, boy! Keep away!"

She cleared her throat and sang to them. Her voice was high, thin, and clear. She sang:

The Earth has stopped falling.

The Water is empty Will the Earth heed its calling The Water bring plenty?

Her voice faltered. She smiled shyly and waited.

Kendik turned to Atlan. "She can't be a Horror, or Horror-tainted, can she? No Horror could sing like that."

He heard Mors mutter "There's always a first time, boy...," but Kendik knew his dwarf lore. No Horror, and no one Horror-tainted, was capable of carrying on an art or craft—and what art could be greater than that of song?

He stepped forward. She drew back a little and brought up her sword. Kendik sheathed his sword, spread both arms in a gesture of welcome, and spoke to her.

"We mean you no harm. We were prospecting in these mountains, lost our path, and came upon this kaer. We were thinking about whether to explore it when we heard you approaching."

"There is nothing left within Kaer Volost. Nothing but memories." She hung her head and was silent for a moment, then straightened and smiled at him. "Forgive me. My Name is Anarya Chezarin. I am the last survivor of Kaer Volost. I come here sometimes, to mourn, and to remember."

"And what do you do when you're not mourning and remembering?" asked Mors. She turned her gaze on him, and Kendik felt a pang, a tiny knifelike thrust, of jealousy.

"I ride the world and hunt down Horrors," she said.

"A stripling like you? You couldn't—"

Mors stopped, for Anarya's sword was at his throat.

"I can, and I do."

Mors backed off, muttering.

"Your armor is very fine," said Kendik.

"Do you like it? It was my reward from the smiths of King Varu-lus. There was a Horror stalking the deep caverns of his kingdom, a Horror both fierce and subtle. I entered within, and slew it, and emerged covered in its blood and stench, my armor pitted and corroded. The handmaidens of the king took me, bathed me, and healed my wounds, and the king bade his smiths make their finest armor for me, and reforge my sword, so that now it is stronger and better than before."

"Sounds a lot more generous that most dwarfs I've encountered," said Mors. "And they didn't go in much for bathing, either."

Anarya smiled. "I see that you do not entirely trust me, sir. And that is prudent, for chance meeting may not always augur well in the wild places of the world. But tell me, where are you bound? Perhaps we shall travel there together."

"We're prospectors," said Atlan, "so we're bound wherever there are items of value to find. We had heard that these hills had not yet been fully explored, so we set out to see what we could find. But so far, we—"

"I found some coins," said Kendik. "Might they have come from your kaer?"

"Please show them to me."

Kendik looked at Mors, who looked blank. "You may as well show her," growled Atlan, "since somebody seems to have slipped the boy a truth potion."

Mors shrugged, and the coins appeared in his left hand. He held them out for inspection.

"May I hold them?"

With a considerable show of reluctance, Mors handed them over. Anarya stood, head down, eyes closed, running her fingers over the surface of the coins.

Then she straightened, opened her eyes, and returned the coins to Mors. "They come from our kaer," she said. "They were spent in our markets, and kept in pockets and under pillows, and once a child held the golden coin, and thought herself a princess of legend."

"Were you that child?" asked Kendik.

"Perhaps. I can no longer remember much before the day—be-fore the day the kaer was opened, and the Gnashers came."

"Do you remember what happened on that day?"

"That I will always remember. But let us not talk of it here. I would rather put some miles between me and the mouth of Kaer Volost before I speak of such things. I know of good campsites within two hours' walk of here. Shall we walk together?"

Atlan looked at Mors. "Suppose we may as well," Mors said. "Where's your gear?"

"This way," said Anarya. She led them in the opposite direction to that from which they had come. As soon as they started moving, Kendik felt as if a spell had been broken: he felt the wind again, and the cold mountain air, and that he was hungry, and tired. But he made sure he was first in line behind her, so he could watch the way her hips swayed as she walked.

Halfway round the mountain, in the very last of the twilight, they came to a tumbled mass of rock, shaken from the peak above by some ancient cataclysm. Anarya climbed over one boulder and between two others, and in a few moments reappeared with her pack, which she tossed down to them. "There is a little door there," she said when she jumped down. "No one has passed that way for many years, but I believe it may have some connection with the kaer. A useful hiding place, anyway."

Anarya leading the way, they began to descend the hillside. Anarya and Atlan bore torches. Mors seemed completely untroubled by the steep track and the dim light, but Kendik stumbled along, trying to avoid falling flat on his face and making a fool of himself. At last they came down into a quiet valley, the peace broken only by the chuckling of a stream. They made camp beside the stream and lit a fire to deter any wolves that might call this valley their home. It was too late and they were too tired for fishing, but from her pack Anarya produced sweetmeats for all of them.

"These will tide us over until morning," she said. "Another little gift from the dwarfs."

She was right: they tasted wonderful. Kendik lay in the cramped vestibule of Atlan and Mors' tent, listening to Mors snore and mumble in his sleep, and peeking out through the flap at Atlan and Anarya. Anarya had offered to take the first watch, but Atlan said—whether from misplaced chivalry or suspicion—that the three men would share the watches between them. "Very well," conceded Anarya, "But I will sit a little before I sleep." Now Atlan sat on one side of the fire, facing towards the darkness, on watch. Anarya sat on the other side, whittling something, singing softly to herself. She was going to tell us all about the kaer, thought Kendik, and then he fell asleep.

Kendik took the middle watch. He had no company, welcome or otherwise, and his stint was utterly uneventful, apart from Mors shaking him awake at the end of it. No matter. Another few hours' sleep left him scarcely better rested, but he was content enough, and the sun was shining.

As he went down to the stream for water, he met Anarya returning, clad only in her shift, still wet from bathing. "A fine day," she said, and smiled as she walked past him. He nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak.

"You took your time with the water," said Atlan when he returned.

Breakfast was a lively affair. Whether it was the glorious weather—the sun now peeking over the rim of the valley, sending beams down to warm them as they sat—or the presence of a beautiful woman in their midst, all three men were eager to talk. Kendik learned that Atlan had spent much of his youth among mountain trolls—creatures Kendik had heard naught but tales about, and had never seen—and that Mors was, by his own estimation, "the finest Thief north of the Tylon and south of the Serpent, and that's with all due respect to Ilina of Khilgit."

"I'd never steal anything from my companions, though," Mors added. Kendik, remembering the coins, could have challenged that; but now was not the time.

Kendik did not think his tales of the nursery and of schooling would do much to endear himself to his companions, so instead he said "Lady, you said before we left the kaer that you would tell us the tale of how Kaer Volost met its doom, and of how you alone survived. Now that the sun is shining, will you tell us the story?"

"I will," said Anarya, and began.

"I was the last child to be born in Kaer Volost. My father was a farmer, my mother an Elementalist and member of the Council. When I was a little girl, the Council made the decision to send expeditions into the outside world, for our numbers were few and falling, and despair crept upon us from all sides. They sent four expeditions out, and though the first two did not return, the third and fourth did, and told of a world outside that was fertile and free of Horrors.

"The people had waited in darkness long enough, and so the Council decreed that the kaer be opened. It cost the life of one of our two magicians, and the health of the other, to disarm the traps that protected the way to the outer world, for they had been made and set by hands and minds of far greater skill and subtlety, in the days before the Scourge came. When the path was clear, the members of the Council and their families led the way to the gates. The picture is still in my mind of the great gates opening, and the sunlight pouring in. And then the screaming began.

"I do not know how the Gnashers found our kaer, or why, mindless beasts that they are, they should have waited so patiently for the door to open. All I know is that they were on us at once. My father's final act, before the jaws of one of the great creatures closed on him, was to throw me from him. "Run!" he screamed, and I ran, the dying following close at my heels.

"A badly disarmed trap saved my life. I ran, and a Gnasher ran after me. Before its long arms could reach me, we fell, the Gnasher and I, into a pit that opened at our feet; and a great weight of rock fell on top of us. It crushed the Gnasher just as its scaly arm closed around my leg, but left me alive: scratched and bruised, but whole, in a small gap between the wall of the pit and the rock that almost filled it. I had no food, no water, no mother or father. I was alone in the darkness.

"I do not know for how many hours or days I remained there, mired in my own filth, slowly dying of thirst and hunger, my leg still held in the clutch of the dead Gnasher's talons. When I first fell in the pit, I could sometimes hear noises from above; perhaps the Gnashers sensed me, or perhaps they were devouring other prey. But the noises ceased after a while, and to fill the silence, my mind began to supply sounds to fill the void. Sounds, and visions: my mother's face and breast, my father's laughter.

"My captivity ended suddenly. Without sound, the rock was lifted from around me, and a moment later, the body of the Gnasher dissolved into thin smoke. A man reached his hand down into the pit, and lifted me up.

"What is your Name, child?" he asked.

"I was too petrified with fear to speak. He smiled and nodded at me, and offered me food, something sweet and yet bursting with moisture, so that my two greatest wants were satisfied at once. Surely, I thought, such a kind man cannot be bad, and so I told him my Name. 'My mother and my father are dead, sir,' I added, then 'Did you drive all the Eaters away?'

" 'They are called Gnashers', he told me. 'I am sad for your loss, Anarya, and though I have spent little time with children, I will do my best to make it up to you. Come with me.'

"He led me outside, shielding my eyes from the worst of the carnage, and took me to his horse—though I screamed and tried to run at first, thinking it another type of Horror, for though I had seen pictures of such beasts, I had no idea of their true size. We rode for many hours, and at length came to his home, a tower on the mountain's side."

"The magician's tower!" said Kendik. "We—"

He was silenced by the heavy boot of Atlan, which landed on his instep with agonizing force.

Anarya smiled. "I understand," she said. "You heard about this tower, abandoned these many years, and you came to see whether anything of value might still be found there. I am sorry to say that others have been there before you, myself included, and that there is nothing left but stones and wood."

"How about this kaer?" asked Mors.

"Nothing but bones," said Anarya softly. "Nothing but bones."

"We heard the tower was guarded," said Kendik.

"There are no guards but distance, inaccessibility, and rumor."

"Rumor?"

"Dinazhe was a powerful Wizard, and about such as he, rumor will always swirl. But he was a good man, though he knew little enough about children."

"Where is he now?" asked Mors.

Anarya bowed her head. "I do not know. It soon became clear to him that the tower was no place to bring up a child. But Dina-zhe had—has—a sister, Medzhina, a trader who lives in the town of Borzim, three days' march to the north-west. Medzhina had two sons but no daughter, and she was happy to take me into her house and treat me as her own daughter, even when I showed more interest in the arts of the blade than those of the marketplace. Once, Dinazhe came to visit, to see how I progressed, and I was delighted to see him, though he was always a reserved man; but when I came back home from my training, and returned to these mountains for the first time since my childhood, I found Dinazhe's tower deserted, his many treasures gone, and no sign of what befell him."

"But didn't his sister know?"

"She did not—at least, she said she didn't, although I have a feeling she knew more than she said. But whatever the truth of that, I have never seen Dinazhe again, nor heard any word of him, in all my travels."

"What brought you back to Kaer Volost?"

"I was lonely."

"Funny place to look for a friend," said Mors.

Anarya smiled. "It may seem strange to you, but despite all that happened there, Kaer Volost is the one place I truly feel at peace. Nevertheless, no one can live there, so now I intend to return to Borzim and wait for adventure to reach me, or I to find it."

"Anything in this Borzim that might interest a prospector?"

Anarya smiled again. "The town and its environs have been quite thoroughly prospected, but should a Troubadour, an Archer, and a Swordmaster come to the East Gate and request employment, something might well be found."

"I don't 'request employment'," spat Mors. "That's not the way the Turgut brothers do things."

"Nevertheless, there is likely to be work—paying work—available there if you want it."

"I will come to Borzim with you," said Kendik.

Atlan shot him a glance. "Let me talk with my brother for a bit," he said. He drew the still scowling Mors over to the far side of the clearing, where much muttering and waving of hands ensued.

Kendik was left with Anarya. He could think of nothing to say to her, and he didn't want to stare—more precisely, he did want to stare, but he didn't want to be seen staring. So he set to polishing his sword.

"That is a fine blade," said Anarya, coming to stand next to him.

"It is? Oh, it's nothing special, really. My mother, you know, wanted to make sure I had the best of everything—not that I rely on her, of course, I make my own way in the world ... May I see your blade?"

It was as slim and as beautiful as its owner.

"The dwarfs reforged this sword?"

"Yes."

"Where did it come from originally?"

"It was a gift from Dinazhe. His way of showing love. I do not know where he got it, or how."

Anarya sat down beside him, and they both went to work, polishing, the dark hand and the fair moving in harmony.

"All right, have it your own way!" came a protesting voice from the far side of the clearing.

"Do they always fight like this?" asked Anarya.

"I've only known them for a few days, but it appears so. Brothers, you know?"

"Do you have a brother?"

"Had." He did not want to talk about young Sikil, who had lived barely long enough to be Named. "How about you?"

"Few children were born in the kaer in the latter years. I had neither brother or sister."

Kendik was feeling quite comfortable with this level of getting-to-know-you chat, and would happily have carried on with it, but they were interrupted by the return of Mors and Atlan. "We will come with you to Borzim," said Atlan. Mors said nothing, but he joined with the rest of them in striking camp. It had been a quiet campsite, and a pleasant one. Kendik was sorry to leave it.

X

A few hours later, in mid-afternoon, a woman came to the campsite, following their trail. She was tall and slim. Her hair, once blonde, had been browned by sun and weather to the shade of honey in the comb. She was dressed in battered leather, with a bow on her back and a short and deadly blade at her side. She moved cautiously and bent often to the ground. Here they had camped. Here were the remains of their fire. There were footprints in the soft ground by the stream: a woman's footprints and two or perhaps three men's. Boot prints next to a log, and lying forgotten nearby, a polishing cloth. She picked it up and sniffed it. Cheap polish, but it would do the job.

She left the campsite and went downstream a little. A trail of broken twigs, and more boot prints, made it clear which way they had headed. She doubled back and checked upstream, then in both directions across the stream, to make sure they had not split up.

She measured the woman's footprints against her own, and nodded somberly. These men had gone to the kaer. They had met the woman there and now she was leading them—where? Anarya Chezarin did not know, but she was determined to find out.

Chapter 3

Four dusty travelers approached the East Gate of Borzim through fields of grain. Anarya was in the lead, Kendik followed close behind, and Atlan and Mors brought up the rear. Mors was muttering again. The closer they got to the walls of the town, the louder his muttering got.

"Too many guards about for my liking," he said.

Looking at the fields on each side, Kendik had to agree. For every worker getting in the harvest, there seemed to be a guard. They were all dressed in a uniform—dark brown, with a dark blue diagonal stripe on the tunic for relief—but that was where the similarity stopped, for, as the travelers passed row upon row of grain, Kendik could see a variety of Name-giver races represented: orks scowling through a faceful of teeth, trolls towering over their charges, even, once, an obsidiman, solid and still as stone, lost in meditation.

The East Gate was closed. The four of them joined a short but ill-tempered queue waiting in the hot sun to get in: a pair of dwarfs on horses, peasants pulling a cart, and some other travelers on foot, as dusty and disheveled as themselves. Even Anarya's armor had lost its pristine gleam.

Four ork guards stood in front of the gate, two on each side. No one dared complain to them. The focus of the irritation was a small door to the left of the gates, with a window above it. The window was open, but untenanted. As they watched, one of the dwarfs dismounted, stumped across to the window, raised himself on tip-toes, and yelled into it "How long do you sons of Dis need to examine two stinking permits?"

"Permits?" Kendik whispered to Anarya. "I don't have a permit."

Anarya smiled back at him. "Don't worry, you won't need one."

After a delay just long enough to be insulting, a face appeared at the window. "Looks like they're in order," said a bored voice. "You can come in." The massive gates groaned slowly open, and the dwarfs rode in to the town, followed by the sweating peasants with their load of produce. Anarya and Kendik followed the peasants, and had almost stepped into the shade of the wall when two ork guards appeared in the gateway and barred their way. The bored voice from the window reappeared in the gateway, attached to a short, stocky body and a supercilious face.

"Where do you think you're going? Nobody said you could come in. Where are your permits?"

"We do not have permits," said Anarya, "but I live here with the widow Medzhina, and many will vouch for me, for I am Anarya."

"Oh, are you?" said the guard. "Well, I've never heard of you, and if you live here, you should have a permit. And if you don't, you'll need a temporary permit to enter. We don't want any vagabonds here."

"Vagabonds!" erupted Mors. He wriggled out of his brother's restraining grasp, ignored Kendik's anxious expression, and marched up to the guard. "I'd have you know we're a Troubadour, an Archer, and a Swordmaster, come to offer our services to your stinking town! But if you don't want us, we'll take our services elsewhere!"

The guard's expression did not change, but his voice became slightly less hostile. "We can always use a few good men. But I'll have to ask my superiors, and you'll still need permits. And as for you," he added, turning back to Anarya, "where do I find this widow Medzhina? If she's respectable, and she's prepared to admit she knows you, I might find a way to let you in."

"I am a Swordmaster too," she said.

"Well, why didn't you say so? Wait here while we decide what to do with you."

So they waited. The gate remained open, and a trickle of peasants with carts, dwarfs on horseback, and travelers with permits were permitted to enter Borzim. A procession of farm workers with loaded baskets passed inside, and their guards followed them. The shadow of the gray stone walls grew, casting welcome shade over the four travelers, who sucked the last drops of water from their wineskins, talked among themselves, and waited some more. Finally, the guard reappeared. "Permits," he said, handing three rough rectangles of parchment to Kendik, Atlan, and Mors. "Report to the main guardhouse at the crossroads. And you," he said, turning to Anarya, "come with me."

His chest puffed out with self-importance, the guard led Anarya along a path that led back towards the river just inside the wall. "I'll see you soon," she said, and then she disappeared from view. Clutching their permits, Kendik, Atlan, and Mors walked together into the town.

"Doesn't look like much," said Atlan. But to Kendik, it was a wonder: the largest town he had ever seen. His mouth gaped open as he passed the two- and three-story stone and wooden buildings that crowded the roadway on either side. In fact, he stared around so much that Atlan had to tell him twice to watch where he was putting his feet. Mors looked around with a speculative air, calculating the cheap pickings on offer behind these walls. The smells of food and sweat and shit competed for space in their nostrils.

The road ran straight and mostly true, and foot traffic increased as they got closer to the center of town. Swept up in the hurrying throngs, they emerged into a square dominated by the statue at its center: a human male, fifteen feet tall if he was an inch. Lean and strong, he had a mighty sword in one upraised hand, and was using the other to shade his eyes from an imaginary sun as he stared fixedly into the north.

"Looks ridiculous," said Mors. "Who's it meant to be?"

"That's Tesek, the Father of the People, and don't you forget it!" said a dwarf dressed in the brown and blue uniform of the guards, who scowled up at them, feet planted wide apart.

"We are looking for the guardhouse," said Kendik. "Might you be able—"

" 'Might I be able'!" interjected the dwarf. "Of course I'm able, because the guardhouse is right behind you, as you could see if you used your Horror-fried eyes. What do you think that thing is, eh? Eh?"

The building was impressive, in a dispiriting way. Four stories of brown stucco wall and small dark windows frowned over the square.

"That's the guardhouse, see?" said the dwarf, answering his own question. "And I'm a guard, and I say, get yourselves over there now!"

Mors opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and shrugged. The three of them made their way through the press of the crowd and entered the guardhouse door. They found themselves in yet another line. This one consisted of citizens with complaints.

"—pushed me," the citizen at the front was telling two guards who sat in a small booth inside the entrance hall, "and while I was getting up, he stole three gourds and ran off into the crowd! So I said to Azha, begging your pardon, I said 'Why can you never find a guard when you need one?", and she said—"

Kendik tuned out the drone of complaint and looked around him. After a few moments observing the hurrying figures going about their business, so important to them and so incomprehensible to him, he found his head starting to swim and his heart starting to pound, so that he had to look down at the packed earth floor at his feet until his head cleared. There were too many people here, too much strangeness.

"Don't worry, lad," said Atlan. "We'll be out of here in no time."

Half an hour later, they had reached the front of the line. Atlan spoke for them, laying on the treacle, explaining their noble desire to serve the town of Borzim and their varied but impeccable credentials for doing so. He did not mention Anarya.

"So you want jobs," said the senior guard.

"Yes, we want jobs. Honest work and a warm bed for the night. What's so wrong with that?"

"First time I ever heard of a Thief—no, what was it again ... a Troubadour—wanting honest work. But there might be—yes, there might be something you could do." The guard rose from his chair, said "Ilnit, hold the fort," and disappeared down a corridor.

"Move out of the way," said the other guard. "We're not all here for your benefit."

So they stepped to one side and waited as the harassed Ilnit fobbed off a succession of cries for help. Eventually, the other guard returned. He walked up to them and handed over a parchment square. "Here. Go to Vyaka Longtusk's tavern—you'll find it south of the Opthia, up the hill a bit—and wait until a dwarf called Akil comes to your table. Give Akil this parchment, and then listen closely and do what you're told. You got coin?"

"We have coin."

"You'll need it, to pay for the food they serve at Vyaka's!" The guard waved them away and turned to the next supplicant.

The sun was setting on a long day. Kendik's stomach rumbled uncomfortably as they trudged past the statue and took the road heading south to the river. The crowds had thinned out a little now, and Kendik felt able to look around him rather than down at his shoes. The nearer they drew to the river, the smaller and shabbier the buildings got.

Atlan coughed. "Bloody awful smell down here."

It was rising from the River Opthia. It had once been known as the Volost, but no one had wanted to be reminded of that Name after the Scourge had come to an end. They had camped by the Opthia last night, before following it out of the mountains and along the base of the foothills to the town. At their campsite, it was a clear, sparkling stream. Here, halfway along its passage through the town, it was brown, and dirty, and it stank.

As they crossed the wide bridge across the river, Kendik lifted his eyes to the road ahead. It climbed out of the river valley and ended at a massive building, fully equal in size to the guardhouse, which winked and sparkled in the last of the setting sun. Other buildings, also massive and ornate, clustered just below the end of the road. There was money, real money, on display here.

Vyaka's tavern wasn't quite in that league, but it was far enough from the river to take the edge off the smell. Vyaka herself was, as her Name implied, a long-tusked troll who ran her establishment with a quelling glare for staff and customer alike. Her manner seemed more suitable for a riverside dive than an elegant dining establishment, but this was certainly the fanciest eating place Kendik had ever been in. He was intimidated by the snooty-faced majordomo who intercepted them as they tried to claim a table without queuing for it, intimidated by the fanciful array of eating utensils that lay before him, and rendered almost catatonic by the complexity of the menu.

Mors and Atlan looked at each other. "We'll have what's cheapest," Mors said to the human woman who came by after a few minutes to take their order.

Then they waited. Mors enlivened the delay by grumbling, until Atlan told him to shut up. Though Kendik was almost faint with hunger, he waited politely; his mother had cured him, with a few whacks from her long wooden stirring spoon, of impatience at the dinner table. He took the opportunity to look around at the clientele. Orks and trolls, sitting at the same table! Surely such a thing had never been seen before. And over there, in the far corner—was that a windling, a creature he had never seen, and had heard of only in stories? He half rose from the table for a closer look at the smallest of the Name-givers, but Atlan's hand pulled him back down.

"You might never have seen a windling before, lad, but you don't have to let half of Borzim know that."

The food, when it finally arrived, was delicious. Kendik's grandfather, a renowned cook, would have been proud of some of the sauces used at Vyaka's tavern. Kendik's father had inherited the talent, though Kendik could barely remember his being at home long enough to display it. What Kendik could remember was his father arriving home unexpectedly, armor blackened and splattered with blood, and lifting him up for a good look and a rough hug. He could remember also the arguments, and the fighting, and his mother screaming insults at a retreating back; and then the long silence.

Kendik ate mechanically for a while, lost in reverie. Looking up from his plate for a moment, he caught a glimpse of silver from the street outside. He was up from his seat and out of the tavern without conscious thought. Anarya was striding down the road towards the river. Kendik rushed after her.

She was almost at the bridge over the Opthia before he caught up with her. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she whipped her sword out of its scabbard, and he was forcibly reminded of that moment outside the entrance to Kaer Volost. Then she relaxed, and knew him.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"To Medzhina's house, and then to the south ... No one knows where she is! The old man who lives in her house says he has never heard of her. The guard would have thrown me out of the town, but I managed to recall the Name of Medzhina's factor, and persuaded the guard to take me to him instead."

"Did you find him?"

She pointed to the top of the street. "I found a man of that Name, living in luxury not far from the palace. But he was old enough to be the factor's father."

"What did he tell you?"

"The old fool spoke in riddles, as they all do. Now I must go to the northern wall; they say Medzhina's niece still lives there, and will help me." She clutched at his arm. "Will you come with me? Everything has changed."

Destiny spoke to Kendik, and it said: follow this woman, and follow your heart. But another voice competed: it was Mors, out of breath, flushed, and far from pleased. "Come back, you young idiot. We've got company. Akil has arrived."

Kendik's indecision showed in his face. Anarya resolved it with a smile. "No matter. I can find my way to the northern wall and the Street of Apothecaries. We will meet again." In a heartbeat, in a few fluid strides, she had disappeared down the darkened street.

Akil the dwarf looked up sardonically as Mors and Kendik returned to Vyaka Longtusk's tavern. "You two certainly know how to make yourselves inconspicuous," she said. "Chasing after some woman, was it?"

Kendik muttered an apology and sat down. He was far from ready to reveal anything about Anarya to a stranger. He waited for a few more pieces of choice dwarfen advice about his behavior, but Akil seemed ready to let the matter drop. He did not have much experience with female dwarfs, but he judged her to be of middle years. She had once, he supposed, been beautiful by dwarf standards, and her black hair was still thick and lustrous. Her eyes, though—they were the eyes of one who had seen, and done, far too much.

"Well," said Akil, "you've got everybody looking at you. Let's go."

She led them out of the tavern, across the street, and into a maze of small lanes and alleys in the district just uphill from the river, ending at a small, anonymous house. Though the house appeared to be empty, candles had been lit in the front room, where they seated themselves around a square wooden table.

"You've done quite well for yourselves so far," said Akil. "You managed to get past the gate, you didn't get press-ganged into the guards, and here you are, three scruffy travelers, enjoying the famed hospitality of Vyaka Longtusk. Well, now it's time to earn your keep. You're serious about serving the town of Borzim?"

"We want work," said Mors.

"A Thief, wanting work? That's a first. It's a dark night—shouldn't you be off stealing things by now?"

"Who says I'm a Thief?"

"You do. Everything about you does to one who has spent as long in the shadows as I. Do not take me for a fool."

Mors said nothing.

"Then listen hard when I say that we don't like thieves here in Borzim. We're trying to make something of this town, and we won't have outsiders coming in and taking what's ours. Have you seen the gallows yet? I suppose not—they're outside the northern gate, and you haven't been that way. There are six corpses hanging there at the moment, and three of them are Thieves. One word from me, and you could join them. Understand?"

Mors nodded.

"And as for you two—" Akil made a show of glancing at the parchment square—"we have an Archer and a Swordmaster. Let me see that bow."

Atlan handed it over. "Mmmm, not bad," said Akil. "Seen much action?"

"Some."

"Can you shoot from cover?"

"Of course."

"Good. And you," she said, turning her penetrating gaze back onto Kendik, "you say you're a Swordmaster?"

Something about this arrogant dwarf was setting Kendik's teeth on edge. "I am."

"Bit young, aren't you?"

"Are you doubting my skills?"

"No, just your good sense. I've seen lads like you before. You apprentice yourself to some run-down veteran, get a few lessons, consider yourself an adept, and swagger around the place challenging Name-givers to fights and generally making a nuisance of yourself. And chase every girl you see in the street. Does that about sum you up?"

"I am young, and have not been an adept for long, but I am not the fool you take me for," replied Kendik.

"Oh, aren't you? Well, you'd better become one in a hurry, then, because that's exactly what I need—a young fool who doesn't appear to have a thought in his head, but can still keep his wits about him. That, and a couple of companions, experienced retainers who've been sent by the young fool's wealthy parents to keep an eye on him as he attempts to make his way in the world and do his duty for Borzim."

"What duty?" asked Kendik.

"A tour of the provinces. You'll be a young nobleman sent by his lord and master to show the flag in the provinces."

"Borzim has provinces?"

"We have villages."

"Why not send a real nobleman?"

Akil snorted. "I want someone to pretend to be stupid, not to be stupid. Besides, the villagers won't know the difference."

"What's in it for us?" asked Atlan.

"Pay, for a start," said Akil, producing a purse. "More pay if you do well. And a stake in Borzim's future. This town is on the move. Better to be with us than against us."

"So what do we do?"

"You can sleep here tonight. In the morning, pack your gear for travel and go to the North Gate. Someone will meet you outside and take you in hand. Gentlemen, Borzim thanks you."

With that, Akil took her leave. Exploring the house, they found rough straw beds, a basin for washing, and a hole that led down to unplumbable, but very smellable, depths. Before long, Atlan and Mors were asleep. Kendik lay awake for quite a while, wondering whether he would see Anarya again, wondering what the morning would bring.

Sunlight slanting in through the windows provided one answer, and breakfast waiting on the square table another. Atlan raised his mug and smiled at Kendik. "To adventure!" he said.

Since conspicuousness seemed to be what Akil was looking for, they found their way to the main street and walked jauntily over the Opthia—the smell not quite so strong this morning—and through the center of town. Near the central square, shopkeepers were setting up for the day's business, and the produce of the lands surrounding Borzim was being readied for sale at the market opposite the guardhouse. The statue of Tesek gazed after them as they passed the guardhouse and walked towards the northern gate.

The northern parts of the town displayed neither the poverty of the slums along the Opthia, nor the opulence of the mansions on the southern heights. Here were the houses, small, neat, and well kept, of artisans and clerks. They passed schools and shops, and at every street corner, Kendik looked left and right for the Street of Apothecaries.

But he did not see the Street of Apothecaries, and he did not see Anarya. They reached the northern gate, barely had to queue before it was opened, and passed outside the walls of Borzim.

They first thing they discovered was that Akil hadn't been lying about the gibbets. There was no way of knowing for what offences the decaying corpses, home to flies and crows, had been hanged, but Mors still scowled.

"Amateurs," he said.

In front of the gibbets, stretching on either side along the road to the north, was a ragged encampment. Here the poor and the destitute of the plain, those who waited in vain to gain entrance to Borzim, tried to sell them trinkets or food, or begged for coin. Well, thought Kendik, I'm supposed to be conspicuous. He reached for his share of Akil's purse and gave a coin each to the nearest beggars. Within seconds, he was surrounded. Atlan and Mors shook their heads and moved away a little.

Finally, the beggars accepted that Kendik was done with charity for the day, and moved back to their hovels; all but one, who stood suddenly, swept off its hood, and revealed the long, pointed snout, flared nostrils, gray-green skin, and upswept crest of a t'skrang.

"Kendik Dezelek?" said the t'skrang.

"Yes."

"Gather your companions," said the t'skrang. "In five minutes, we ride north."

Chapter 4

"Most interesting," said Kendik. "Marvelous. And the pigs as well? I'm most impressed."

The peasant assigned to show Duke Kendik of Borzim the marvels of agricultural production in the hamlet of Pust, which squatted uncertainly on the great plain running from the River Opthia north to Lake Vors, bowed and scraped back out of harm's way. A silver coin from the nonchalant hand of the duke plopped in the mud at the peasant's feet. The peasant scrabbled in the mud, found the coin, and dropped it in the pocket of his smock with a small cry of pleasure. That silver coin could make the difference for weeks to come between food on the table and starvation.

"And now, I believe, we have a water race to inspect?"

Duke Kendik's t'skrang secretary threw back her hood. "Indeed, Your Excellence. Let it not be said that the good people of Pust make their living only by the sweat of their brows. The many fine artisans of the district have joined together to make the water race we are about to see, which draws water from the Opthia for themselves, their animals, and their crops. We will be shown its workings by—" the t'skrang peered at a parchment "—Lethik, its principal designer."

Lethik stepped forwards. He was a little taller than the peasant, a little less gaunt. The strong muscles of his upper arms, the twisting scar of a burn on the back of one hand, the crows' feet crowding his eyes, all told of a life of hard work in the open air. He endured the scrutiny of the duke's two bodyguards, one tall, one short. "If you'd care to come this way, milord ."

Kendik wondered just how a lazy, foppish junior scion of one of the leading families of Borzim would cross a muddy street rutted deeply by carts. With difficulty, he supposed, and made a production of trying to get the minimum of mud on his expensive trousers and boots. One foot contrived to land plumb in the depths of the deepest wallow. From somewhere behind him, he heard a titter, quickly cut off. He whirled around and glared at the line of impassive faces, wondering if he should order Atlan to lop off someone's head; but that might be considered an over-reaction, even for a duke. Rationing himself to a scowl, he succeeded in crossing the street. Lethik led him down a short lane that terminated in a contraption of wooden planks on wooden legs. This emerged between two hovels on the left and disappeared between two more hovels on the right. Kendik approached and peered in. A gush of water ran down a gutter of metal in the center of the water race.

"Most interesting," said Kendik, who was quite proud of his stock phrase. "And you get the water from—?"

"From the River Opthia, milord. The river flows less than a league from our village, and we draw its waters off a little upstream from here."

Kendik repressed a shudder. "From the Opthia? And you drink it?"

Lethik nodded. "After we boil it."

"Most wise. And what happens to the water you don't use?"

Lethik smiled. "There isn't much we don't use. This is pretty much the end of the flow. We draw a lot of it off for crops, and most of the rest goes into cisterns—I can show you those if you like?"

"I shall have to check my schedule—T'shifa?"

"I believe you will just have time, Your Excellence," replied the t'skrang. "But if I might have a word?"

Kendik nodded graciously and allowed his secretary to draw him a little apart from the others.

"Don't show too much interest, but you might want to ask what effect this water race of theirs has on the flow of the river."

"Not much, surely?"

"Just ask."

Well, he was meant to be a fool, which meant he could ask foolish questions. As Lethik and Kendik stood looking at the cisterns, Kendik asked "I suppose this water race of yours must have quite an effect on the flow of the river?"

"Hah!" said Lethik, before collecting himself. "That is to say, milord, there are some hereabouts who claim that we're draining the river dry, but they don't know what they're talking about."

"And who might these ignorant persons be?"

"Well," said Lethik, lowering his voice, "it's mainly the t'skrang downriver."

"Indeed?"

"They were most upset when they learned this race was being built. Said it was against their religion or their principles or something. Said they'd burn it down if they got the chance, and bless me if they didn't try one night. Made quite a mess of one section, before we drove them off. We have to post guards now, and we've had to lay in extra wood in case they try again. I did want to tell you before, but, er—"

With a fractional movement of his head, Lethik indicated T'shifa, who was some fifteen feet away, deeply absorbed in contemplation of the method of construction of the common Pust hovel.

"Oh, never mind T'shifa," said Kendik, loud enough to make sure the t'skrang heard. "She's a loyal citizen of Borzim. Proud record of service, trust her with my life. Out of the top drawer.

I have no secrets from her. But these t'skrang downriver do sound like more of a problem. Have you tried to sally forth, teach them a lesson?"

"Your Excellence may recall," said T'shifa, joining them, "that the t'skrang population becomes quite extensive as one moves closer to Lake Vors. Most, though not all, of the local t'skrang answer to House Ishkarat, and I would not imagine their raid on this, er, particular construction was carried out without sanction from the Ishkarat."

"Well, madam, spit it out," said Kendik, who was beginning to feel quite lost among the t'skrang's ornate circumlocutions. "Should we teach them a lesson, or not?"

"I recommend that the matter be reported to Lord Tesek upon our return to Borzim."

"But surely we can't let the Ishkarat get away with this sort of thing? It's an affront to, well, an affront to the good Name of Borzim!"

"Indeed, my lord, but perhaps one would not wish one's Name to be associated with an unsuccessful attempt to expunge this affront?"

"Oh, hmmm," said Duke Kendik. Lethik, watching, could see him looking around, counting the Name-givers at his disposal (four, if Lethik was included, plus whatever aid the peasants of Pust might offer), and weighing the chances that such a force might make any significant impression upon House Ishkarat.

"Yes, well, T'shifa. Perhaps you're right, perhaps you're right. Discretion the better part of valor, and all that. Report back to Tesek, certainly. Best course of action, without a doubt. How soon can we ride?"

T'shifa lifted a claw to the darkening sky. "Not until the morning."

"Ah. Very well. And have our lodgings been prepared?"

"I believe that is in hand, my lord. Lethik here has offered us the use of his house."

"What? You must be—" said Lethik, but then he swallowed hard, and looked at his feet, and continued in a calmer tone of voice. "Ah, yes, milord, yes, I have. I'd be honored if you'd stay at my humble dwelling. It's just a bit less humble than most of the others, if you take my meaning. Not suitable for a man such as yourself, no doubt, used to sleeping on fine linen and dining off fine porcelain, and all that, but nevertheless, I think it will serve. And my family will—"

"Sleep at the tavern tonight, as I'm sure you remember from our earlier discussion," said T'shifa.

"Sleep at the tavern, yes. And you'll be providing the funds, am I correct?"

"Indeed. Take this and complete the necessary arrangements," said T'shifa, thrusting a small purse at Lethik. "We expect dinner to be on the table of your house in one hour, and if it isn't fit for a duke, then I will have some stern questions to put to you. Now be off!"

"Why were you so hard on him?" asked Kendik when Lethik had gone.

"It pains me to say it, but the young nobles with whom Tesek has surrounded himself do not always live up to their benefactor's exacting standards of behavior. I am merely behaving as the secretary to any Borzim noble, rusticated for some minor misdemeanor and condemned to tour the malodorous villages of the plain, might be expected to behave."

"He's right, lad," said Atlan. "If you've never been a poor man under the heel of a rich man, you won't know how the rich act when they have the chance. But we remember, don't we, Mors?"

But Mors had gone. There one moment, gone the next, that was Mors.

"Surely even he can't find anything to steal here?" said Kendik, without much hope. "I don't want an incident to mar the duke's visit."

"I'll have a word," said Atlan, "but Mors wasn't cut out to spend his life on guard duty."

Lethik's house, though no palace, was no worse than many in Kendik's home village, and Kendik quietly told T'shifa to stow her intimidating manner after the t'skrang had spent five minutes interrogating Lethik and his pleasant wife Sa-kara about every aspect of the night's arrangements. T'shifa subsided, but continued to look around darkly.

They started with parsnip soup. It wasn't bad, not bad at all, and it was hot, which meant the water had been boiled thoroughly. Kendik began to relax. He might survive this experience after all.

The stew that followed was dominated by parsnip as well, and Kendik wouldn't have been entirely surprised had he been offered a baked parsnip for dessert, but the food was hot and it was filling, which was all Kendik had ever asked for. "You'll eat anything," his mother would say, as she took another emptied plate from him and filled it from the pot that bubbled on the stove. He decided that Duke Kendik would eat pretty much anything, too.

"Most enjoyable," said Kendik. "Have you wine?"

Five minutes later, when the oldest of Lethik's three sons had run to the tavern and back, they had wine; and not long after that, Lethik and Sakara were showing them the sleeping arrangements.

"This is our bed, normally," said Lethik, "but it's yours tonight. Not quite what you're used to, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I'm used to hardship in the service of Borzim," said Duke Kendik airily. "I've slept on worse than this, I can assure you, out in the field. This will do perfectly well. T'shifa's an old fusspot, you know—you mustn't mind her."

Lethik and Sakara exchanged glances, but no words passed between them.

Having inspected her master's bed, and then those provided for her and the two guards, even T'shifa pronounced herself satisfied.

"There's wood for the fire and a full pot of water," said Lethik, "and tapers to light your way. Will you be wanting anything else? I'm keen to get these young ones settled."

"One further thing," said T'shifa. "We require one of your children to stay behind, to act as a messenger in case we require anything more in the night."

Lethik looked stricken, and Kendik could see that Sakara was on the verge of open dissent. "Don't worry," Kendik told them, "the child will come to no harm. You can make him up a bed there by the fire, and with any luck, he'll have a peaceful night's sleep."

"Oh, please let me stay," said Kendik's middle son, "please let me!"

And they did let him stay, though with many a doubtful glance. "A hostage is always a useful asset in strange territory," whispered T'shifa as they watched the family say their goodbyes.

Kendik would have preferred the boy not to be there. He wanted to shuck off his ducal status and talk with his friends, as equals, about the events of the day. (He wasn't sure yet whether he should count T'shifa as a friend, but the t'skrang was certainly interesting.) Instead, he was obliged to maintain his attitude of bored superiority, and the social hierarchy meant that Atlan and Mors could talk freely only with each other.

The boy, Natrass, a sturdy lad with close-cropped dark hair, sat wide-eyed on his pallet, looking at them. After a while, Kendik descended from the table and went to sit by him. The boy shrank away alarmed, and for a long time Kendik could get nothing more from him than monosyllables. Eventually, the boy unwound enough to confide in a whisper that he wanted to build things: not houses, but water-races and aqueducts and roads and things no one had a Name for yet. "I want to make my Dad proud of me," he said; then he clammed up. Kendik had seen his father talking sternly to the boy before the family left for their night in the inn. Perhaps the inadvisability of confiding in dukes had featured in Lethik's advice.

"You're a good lad," said Kendik lamely, and made ready for bed. He was asleep in minutes.

It was Natrass who woke him, daring to reach out and tug at his bedclothes. The boy's pale face leaned over him, whispering.

"There's a man at the door, says he has to talk with you."

"Does he now?" said Kendik groggily. He got up and made to follow the boy quietly downstairs, then remembered who he was supposed to be and called "Guards!" Atlan and Mors roused themselves from their pallets in the hall and looked suitably embarrassed at their complete failure to detect the menace of an approaching ten-year-old. T'shifa emerged from the children's room and lifted a long face to the air, sniffing for trouble.

"Guards," said Kendik, "find out what this visitor wants, but do it quietly."

After a low-pitched conversation in the doorway of the house, the visitor emerged, with one hand twisted behind his back and held in Atlan's secure grip. He was a peasant, and he looked familiar.

"Sire," he said, wincing a little, "you are in grave danger."

"Danger? What kind of danger?"

"Let me handle this, milord," said T'shifa, pushing past Kendik. She thrust her snout into the face of the terrified peasant, who looked as if he expected to be eaten on the spot, and hissed something at him.

Kendik decided that he had had enough of being pushed around by T'shifa. "I will talk with our visitor," he said in a loud voice. T'shifa looked daggers at Kendik, but moved away from the peasant.

"As you wish, my lord," she said.

"Release his arm," said Kendik. Atlan complied.

"Now," said Kendik, "you must be cold. Come and stand by the fire."

The peasant rubbed his sore arm. "Begging your pardon, milord, but there isn't time. There's a mob planning to attack this house. They mean to burn it down and kill everyone inside, milord."

A cry, quickly stifled, came from Kendik's left. He had forgotten Natrass was there.

"Do they imagine we will stay in here to be burned alive?"

"There's a lot of 'em, and they've got clubs, and lengths of wood from the pile, and a few of them have swords from serving in Lord Tesek's forces. If you get out of the house, they don't mean to let you go far."

"What are we waiting for, then? Let's go."

"They mustn't know I told you, milord, or I'm a dead man, and my family too."

"Then you can leave, as soon as you tell us why this is happening."

"They say one of your guards has been stealing the people's wealth, what wealth they have, and this morning he knifed an old woman when she tried to protect some bits and trinkets she had. And besides, lots of 'em are sick of being under Borzim's thumb and paying all Lord Tesek's taxes, and they want to show those Borzim dandies what's what—that's just what they're saying, milord," the peasant added hastily, catching sight of Kendik's expression. "But me—well, you gave me that silver coin, milord, and I'll always be grateful for that."

"I didn't steal a single thing. There's nothing here worth stealing anyway," said Mors. "If you think—"

"Silence!" said Kendik. "We have to find a way out of here."

"I know a way, sir," said Natrass. "It will get you safely onto the Borzim road."

"Then we'll follow the boy," said Kendik. "Get your things and let's move."

Two minutes later, they were outside the door. They waited until the peasant—now with a gold coin to add to his silver—disappeared into the gloom, then followed Natrass, as quietly as they could, in the opposite direction.

The route twisted and turned among the silent houses. Twice, hearing them pass, dogs growled, and one began to bark; then it yelped, and fell silent. They pushed on, squelching through stinking mud, splashing through fetid water.

And they almost made it. Whether by plan or accident, two men emerged into an alleyway leading to open fields just as Kendik and his group were entering it. "Here they are," one yelled, "they're trying to—" His cry died in a gurgle of blood, but there were others nearby, and they ran to join the fight.

When Kendik was training to be a Swordmaster, he had dreamed of battles of champion against champion in the open fields, the sun shining on the heads of the combatants, fair maidens cheering and screaming at each thrust and parry. But this was knife work, in the dark, in an alley. He dodged a club that whistled past his head, took a glancing blow across the ribs, turned and sank his knife deep into something that grunted and cried out and fell. Atlan's sword flashed past him and skewered an opponent.

From somewhere, torches appeared: their opponents wanted a better view. It was a mistake, because the mob's best chance had lain with lucky blows in the dark. Now that the four of them, all trained in one fighting Discipline or another, could see their adversaries, the odds had changed. Soon half a dozen villagers lay dead in the alleyway, and the rest, knowing they were beaten, broke and ran. "Put those torches out, you fools!" came a gruff voice, but by then it was too late. There was a scuffle, a final hoarse grunt, and then silence but for their heavy breathing and the cries of the wounded.

By the light of a torch Atlan had seized, Kendik looked around. Almost at his feet lay the woman he had killed. In death, her hands were still clasped over the long, bloody gash in her belly, trying to stop the sea of intestines from spilling out. She had soiled herself, and she stank; and Kendik had killed her, a young woman armed only with a plank of wood and her anger. It was the first Name-giver he had ever killed. He bent over and vomited at her feet.

"No!" cried Atlan. "Mors!"

Mors was slumped against the wall of a house, holding his hands to his neck. He died as Atlan watched, the last light fading from his eyes, his hands dropping away to reveal the gaping slash in his throat. Blood bubbled out, and Mors fell forward, lifeless.

Atlan bent down and sobbed. When he straightened, his face was pale, his eyes the only points of color.

"Whoever did this, I will find them, and I will kill them," he said. T'shifa appeared, looking as unruffled as ever save for a gash in her cloak. She was pushing a squirming Natrass before her. "I caught the little rat," she said. "He was trying to escape. He led you into a trap. He deserves to die."

Chapter 5

"We need to get out of here," said Kendik.

"But," said Atlan, peering in at Kendik and T'shifa, "there are three of us, and a whole village full of them."

Kendik and T'shifa were sheltering under the canvas awning put up to protect the stockpile of wood for repairing the water race. It was just beyond the end of the alley in which they had been attacked. Atlan was on guard duty outside, getting wet. The stockpile had been ransacked for impromptu weapons by the mob that tried to kill them, but there was still plenty of wood to build a fire, should they decide to risk it. At the moment, they were staying put with their prisoner.

"Stop wriggling, boy!" said T'shifa. Her clawed hand descended and gave Natrass a smart cuff across the head.

"Leave the boy alone," said Kendik. "We have no reason to doubt him."

"You must be more naive than I took you for ... milord," said T'shifa. "He led us right into a trap. He must have realized that's where the mob would go, or maybe it's his parents who are behind the whole thing. Aren't they, boy? Eh? Eh?" Natrass, terrified, tried to scramble away from her.

"That's enough!" said Kendik. "We are not going to torture a child. Atlan, bring some of that rope. Tie the boy up, but don't make the knots tight enough to hurt him."

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Kendik added for the benefit of Natrass. "I'll see that justice is done."

The boy had used up his tears and his pleading. Now he just stared at Kendik as Atlan trussed him up.

However had it come to this? wondered Kendik. Mors dead, his body now laid to rest beside the woodpile; another half a dozen bodies in the street; and his chief adviser urging him to have a small boy put on trial for treason. Thank the Passions there was no way that demand could be carried out. If they got out of Pust with their skins intact, they would be doing well.

"I think we should simply return to Borzim," Kendik told T'shifa. "You can report to your masters, and Atlan and I can find a better line of work than threatening children."

"I'm not leaving here until I discover who killed Mors," said Atlan stubbornly, and added "By Dis, this rain is cold. How much longer do I have to stay on guard duty? It's not as if—"

"Silence!" said T'shifa. "You have sworn service to Duke Kendik. Now be true to your vows!"

Kendik wanted to tell T'shifa to drop the whole charade, but he kept silent for the sake of Natrass. If T'shifa was still keeping up the pretence that Kendik was a duke in front of the boy, that must mean she didn't intend to kill him right away. Natrass was Kendik's responsibility, and as long as he was convinced of the boy's innocence, he did not intend to let him come to harm.

"Any sign of them?" Kendik asked Atlan.

"Nothing to see but drizzle. They probably don't realize we're out here. Is a patrol from Borzim due soon?"

"The Guards—" began Natrass. T'shifa made to silence him, but stopped at Kendik's upraised hand. "The Guards come through Pust every week or so, though my father says they have been coming more often lately."

"When did they last pass through?"

"Two days ago. I went to the square to watch them. Father said I should have been at my letters. Will you let me see my parents again?"

"That depends on your behavior," said T'shifa. "Keep quiet when I tell you to, and I might let you see them."

"You will see your family again. I swear on my honor as a Duke of Borzim," said Kendik. The oath felt less hollow than he had expected.

"Your honor as a Duke of Borzim binds you also not to leave this place until justice is done," said T'shifa. "But let us see what the dawn brings."

It brought more rain. A freezing drizzle fell on the plains of the lower Opthia. From the forests on the foothills above Borzim to the banks of Lake Vors, those whose fate it was to rise early and work hard cursed the weather and huddled deeper into their clothing. The rain washed away footprints, smells, and sounds. It washed away energy and resolution, and brought only dumb endurance in its stead.

Outside the village of Pust, dawn brought the sounds of a village slowly and reluctantly bringing itself to recollect the night. A horse-drawn wagon left the village and rolled slowly southward. A few peasants emerged and went to their accustomed place in the fields. And, heart-rending, a forlorn cry rose into the leaden sky: "Natrass! Natrass!"

Kendik lifted a warning finger. T'shifa clamped her hand across the boy's mouth. "They'll look here before long," hissed Atlan.

Then there was another sound. It came from somewhere across the village, towards the river. It was a sound composed of many smaller sounds: the clink of armor, the tread of many feet, the call of voices speaking in a tongue Kendik did not know.

"T'skrang!" said Atlan.

They both looked at T'shifa, who looked back at them. "It seems a new factor has entered the equation," she said.

"Who is it?" asked Atlan.

"It is the Ishkarat, the House of the Wheel."

"What are they doing here?"

"Perhaps they were nearby, and are paying a social call," said T'shifa blandly.

"There's no one I want to see less! There's still a price on my head after our last brush with them. Mors tried to steal ...". Atlan's face crumpled, and he began to cry.

"We have waited long enough," said T'shifa. She took her hand from Natrass' mouth, stepped outside their makeshift shelter, and gave a long, ululating cry.

After a few moments, figures dressed in outlandish robes, richly cowled and booted, stepped from the alleyway. Curved swords swung at their sides. They stopped to let another t'skrang through, more plainly dressed, with a black dagger in her belt. She was a little taller than T'shifa, her skin a darker shade of gray, her green eyes vivid.

She walked up to T'shifa and said "It has been a long time, sister."

"Allow me," said T'shifa, "to introduce these humans. They are under my protection. This is Duke Kendik of Borzim, this is his guard Atlan—"

"I have heard of this one. Where is his brother, the Thief?"

T'shifa gestured with one claw to the body. "There."

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Then who did?" demanded Atlan.

"Silence!" said the newly arrived t'skrang. "We will decide what to do with you later. What of this boy?"

"We received word last night that a mob was about to attack us. This boy was meant to lead us to safety. Instead, he led us straight into an ambush."

"But I didn't know!" wailed Natrass. "I was just trying to get you out of town and onto the Borzim road, like you said! I didn't know they'd be coming that way."

"I believe the boy," said Kendik.

"What a pretty picture!" said the t'skrang. "A duke of Borzim hiding under a wet sail, a boy who may or may not be a traitor, a fugitive from Ishkarat justice and his dead brother, and you, S'thanakara, now going by the unlovely Name of T'shifa."

"Easier for the humans to pronounce," said T'shifa.

"Who do you serve?" asked Kendik.

"As well ask the cattle the path to Parlainth," said the other t'skrang. "Call me Vulumensthetika, if you can pronounce that, Duke of Borzim. And now, let us return to this damp little slum, where we will try and get to the truth of these matters."

The tavern where Lethik's family had stayed the night was the largest building in Pust. The dwarfs of Throal would never put up with this as a courtroom, thought Kendik, but I suppose it's the best we're going to get.

Not that a dwarf court, with its rules, procedures, and precedents, would have stooped to the informal and highly irregular proceedings that unfolded in the Pust Inn. Beneath the smoke-blackened rafters, next to the fire banked low for the day, Vulumen-sthetika presided, head cocked to one side, tail swishing thoughtfully as she listened to the claims and counter-claims. She was half judge and half inquisitor, listening dispassionately one minute, browbeating witnesses the next. Since she was backed by a fighting force large enough to swallow a Borzim battalion without blinking, she was in a position to throw her weight, and her tail, around.

She was a formidable figure, and, watching her, Kendik realized that there was a lot more to the river t'skrang than the swashbuckling pirates about whom he had heard so many tales. There was power here, and dignity.

Some facts were not hard to establish. While Duke Kendik and his group were conducting their inspection of Pust, someone had been stealing what few valuables the people possessed. When challenged by the widow Mecira, whose hoard was the small trinkets and spoils of victory her long-dead husband had brought back from his service to Throal, this Thief had knifed her and left her to die. Fortunately, her daughter arrived a few minutes later, and managed to staunch the flow of blood in time.

The old woman, though still weak, had described the Thief: small, cloaked, and not from Pust. Suspicion had at once fallen on the smaller of Duke Kendik's two guards, and, egged on by some hothead no one could quite seem to identify, a mob and a plan had been born. Those of the mob who survived were paraded before the court, clothing torn, heads down. None of them, on close questioning, could say who the instigator of the plan was. All of them said that the boy Natrass had not been involved. Kendik spared a glance for the boy's family, listening, ashen-faced, at a distant table. They were saying nothing, but all around them, he could hear the muttering of the villagers who had crowded the far end of the tavern. Kendik did not think that this would all end well.

One important witness could not be found. Krat, the peasant who had warned Kendik of the impending attack, had gone. His house was empty, his family missing. Someone had seen his wagon leaving the village at dawn.

"We saw that wagon also," said T'shifa.

"Well," said Vulumensthetika, "either you're all pulling my tail, or there's more to this than meets the eye. Hathilt!"

From behind Vulumensthetika's guards, a t'skrang shuffled forwards. He was tall and thin. His abnormally large eyes protruded from his head. But the most startling thing about him was his skin, so pale it was almost translucent. Though he had never seen one before, Kendik knew, before Atlan leaned over to tell him, that here was a fabled Pale One, a t'skrang of the race that lived deep beneath the Throal Mountains.

The Pale One seemed nervous, uncertain; or so Kendik judged from the forked tongue that flickered in and out of his mouth.

"I think we need some of what you have in your robe," said Vulumensthetika. They talked for a little in the t'skrang tongue, then Vulumensthetika said "Bring forward the boy, and fetch me the old woman who was knifed. This will not harm your son," she added for the benefit of Sakara and Lethik.

They brought Natrass before Vulumensthetika. "Drink what the magician gives you," she said to the boy, "and do not be afraid."

Natrass' eyes glistened with tears. He looked back at his family, then turned and, with a new sense of resolution, opened his mouth. From his robes, Hathilt took a small phial and a copper spoon. He poured a few drops of the clear liquid from the phial onto the spoon, then tipped it into Natrass' mouth.

"Swallow, boy," said Vulumensthetika. "I tell you again, you will not be harmed."

Natrass swallowed. There was no visible effect. Hathilt conducted him to a chair and waited a few minutes, then said something in his own tongue to Vulumensthetika.

"Very well. What is your Name, boy?"

"Natrass."

"And who are your parents?"

"My mother is Sakara, milord, and my father is Lethik."

"It is madam, not milord. But no matter. What is the worst thing you have ever done in your life, Natrass?"

"When I was six, I killed a cat that used to come to our door for milk. My brother Bronat loved the cat, and I was angry with my brother, because he hit me and stole my hammer. I hit the cat with a spade. It fell and lay still, and I buried it. My brother was very sad."

"Have you ever told anyone what happened to the cat?"

"No. They will beat me, and my brother will hate me."

"Was it hard to tell me what you did to the cat?"

"No. I wanted to tell you."

"Very well. I believe you must apologize to your brother, and ask him what you must do in restitution. But that is not my concern today. Natrass, last night, you stayed in your own house with Duke Kendik and his group when your family came to stay in this tavern. What happened after you went to sleep?"

"I dreamed for a bit, I suppose, and then I had to get up and go to the toilet. I went to the privy. It was dark and I stepped in some mud, so I stopped to wipe my foot. Then I opened the door and—"

"Thank you, Natrass. Tell me what happened when the man came to the door of your house."

"I heard a noise, and I got up. I was scared, but I wanted to know who it was, and I didn't want to wake the duke. I have never met a duke, and he talked to me! He asked what I wanted to be in my life. He talked with me just like an ordinary man! I wish my father would talk with me more. He—"

"The man at the door, Natrass."

"I had seen him in the village, but I did not know his Name. He said he had a message for the duke. I told him to go away. He said he had to come in. He pushed past me, though I tried to stop him. He said I must fetch the duke. The man was bigger than me, so I did."

"Did the man tell you why he had come?"

"No."

"Very well. Later, Natrass, the duke says that you offered to lead him and his group out of town and onto the Borzim road. You chose a route that led to the place where spare wood for your water race, as you call it, is kept. Why did you choose that route?"

"Because it was the best one I knew to get them to the Borzim Road."

"Did anyone tell you to choose that route?"

"No."

"Did anyone pay you to choose that route?"

"No."

"Why did you run away when the fighting started?"

"I didn't run away at first. But then I thought, the duke is a great swordsman and can defend himself, but I have to warn my family about these bad people. And I ran, till that one caught me." He pointed at T'shifa, who glared back at him.

"Hathilt is a great Illusionist," said Vulumensthetika. "Those under the sway of his art cannot lie. This boy is telling the truth. He is blameless, save for the death of a cat. Natrass, you may go."

And go he did, in the embrace of his family—with the exception, Kendik noted, of one of his brothers. There would need to be much talking, and perhaps a good deal of crying, before that story was over.

During the interrogation of Natrass, the old woman, frail and small, swaddled in blankets, with one eye partly closed by a nasty contusion, had been brought back to the tavern. Again, she was brought to Hathilt. Was she suspected of lying, too?

But it was a different potion Hathilt brought out from the folds of his robe. This one was dark, and it smoked a little. The old woman was just as reluctant to take her medicine as Natrass had been. It was well she was supported by her daughter, for she sagged backwards as soon as she had taken it. A chair was placed for her, and she lolled in it.

"Now," said Vulumensthetika, "think about the man who attacked you. Remember every detail of his face. I know it is hard, but concentrate, and keep thinking of him."

And she must indeed have been concentrating, because, in the air above her head, a face formed. Only part of it was showing—the part not hidden by the cloak—but it showed a man with dark eyes, a small nose, a dark moustache.

"That's not my brother!" cried Atlan.

"I agree," said Vulumensthetika, "for I have seen your brother's body, and this man is nothing like him. Of this crime, at least, your brother was not guilty. Does anyone else recognize this face?"

Somehow, Hathilt caused the face to rotate so that everyone in the room could see it. There were gasps of recognition. Voices called out. Many people, it turned, had seen this man, skulking in a street, talking with others in a corner.

"Whispering, he was, always whispering," one woman said.

"He is not in the spirit world, or we could learn more from him," said Vulumensthetika. "It seems this man is the answer to many of our questions. Should anyone see him, do not approach him, but tell my guards. They will bring him to me, and then he will feel the full force of our wrath."

Vulumensthetika stood and paced slowly. Her tail swung behind her, knocking chairs and bumping tables. Her head was down in what, in a human, Kendik would have considered to be a pose of intense concentration. Then she straightened, stopped, and addressed the gathering.

"Villagers of Pust! Today you see both the justice and the mercy of the House of the Wheel. Though one of our own accused him, you have seen that we found the boy Natrass innocent of any guilt in the recent attack on Duke Kendik of Borzim. He must answer only to his family.

"We have found, also, that this attack was instigated by a human male of unknown Name, origin, and affiliation. If this man is brought before me while we of the Ishkarat remain in Pust, he will be tried for attempted murder. Otherwise, should he ever trespass onto our territory, his life is forfeit.

"Those who attacked the duke and his servants were foolish," she continued. "Yet I do not think any good cause would be served by my deciding their fate. That is a matter for the subjects of Tesek to resolve among themselves. But there will be no attacks on the duke while he is under our protection."

"Vulumensthetika of House Ishkarat has spoken," she concluded. "This trial is over, and I thank you all for your patience. You may all go back to your normal occasions, or stay here drinking in the inn if you wish, since the innkeepers have lost no little custom by our presence."

Chairs scraped as people began to depart, Vulumensthetika came over to Kendik. "Duke, I would talk with you a little."

Kendik didn't see any point in objecting. "My lady," he said. "Shall we walk?"

So they walked, Kendik flanked by Atlan, Vulumensthetika by two of her guards, and T'shifa lagging a step or two behind. There were many things Kendik wanted to ask T'shifa, but now wasn't the time.

"I have a proposition for you," said Vulumensthetika, her tail swishing in the mud.

"You do?"

"We of the House Ishkarat would like to talk with your master Tesek. The town of Borzim is growing. We see this. Every day, your females bear more children, and so, every day, you cut down a few more trees, enclose a few more fields, take a little more from the world you share with your neighbors. This thing we are walking alongside, this water race . this ingenious thing ... it does little harm by itself, but what if ten of them are built? A hundred? Soon the Opthia will be reduced to a trickle, and after that, will you try to steal water from the Serpent? That would be a grievous folly.

"We of the Ishkarat do not want war, but we fear that war may be forced upon us. We are stronger than your master knows, Duke Kendik. Do not bring war upon yourselves by your thirst for water and your hunger for food and land. I bear a parchment written for the eyes of your master, and him alone. Take it for me. Take it and deliver it to Tesek, and stand by to bring me his reply."

"Where will I find you?"

"T'shifa will know where to find me."

"I fear I can no longer trust T'shifa. I fear her loyalties lie not with the town of Borzim, but with the House Ishkarat."

"What if they do?" said T'shifa. "You will always have someone close at hand to tell you what the Ishkarat want, and what they might do. I will be the voice of the Ishkarat in your ear."

"Do not presume too much, sister," said Vulumensthetika sharply. "Even I do not call myself the voice of the Ishkarat, though I bear this dagger"—she held it up: black, glassy, and sharp-edged—"and you do not."

"Very well. But if you will let me return to Borzim with you, Duke Kendik, I will serve you well, and keep your secrets as mine."

"Some secrets are foisted upon one," said Kendik, "and fit no better than chain mail on a windling."

"While others," T'shifa said, "though they chafe at first, can grow to fit like a second skin."

"Enough of riddles," said Vulumensthetika. "Will you return to Borzim with the message I give you?"

Kendik thought of Anarya. "Yes," he said.

"There is one other matter," said Vulumensthetika. "Though his death was not by our hand, Atlan, your brother has paid the prescribed penalty for his attempt to steal from the Ishkarat. You are free to return to Borzim with your master."

"I want to find whoever killed my brother," said Atlan. "Find him, and kill him."

"Then do it in your own time, at a place of your choosing. You are no longer welcome in the village of Pust, or in any place the House Ishkarat controls."

"Controls?" queried Kendik.

"For a time. We have no wish to tarry in this village, but someone must preserve good order here. Do not trouble yourself. If Borzim sends a force of sufficient strength to maintain order here, we will depart and cede the town to them. Unlike some others, we have no wish for expansion—and no need for it, either," she finished, her head tilted downwards.

Duke Kendik and his retinue had come to the village of Pust by horse, but their horses had been the first targets of the mob. For a fee, a cart was found, and a driver. Kendik sat in the cart, looking back at the village of Pust as it receded into the mists of late afternoon. A ten-year-old boy stood with his father, waving.

"Goodbye, Duke Kendik," said Natrass. "Goodbye!"

Chapter 6

Borzim, central square, mid-afternoon. A place of noise and constant motion. Patches of sunlight and shadow flit over the cobbles, which are still damp and steaming slightly from a recent shower. Boots ring on stone. Birds and rats hunt scraps and each other in corners.

It is a place where few pause for long. All of these citizens and visitors, permits clutched in one hand or tucked away in pocket or purse, have got somewhere to go: to the market, to the guardhouse, to shop or inn or tavern.

But not everyone is on their way to somewhere else. Take this young woman, for instance, standing almost in the shadow of Tesek's statue. She cuts a striking but piteous figure, for she is beautiful, and dressed in fine armor, and has a fine sword by her side; yet it seems the balance of her mind is disturbed. She is accosting passersby, holding up a picture she has drawn, saying: "Have you seen this woman? She is my aunt Medzhina. Have you seen ...?"

Most of those hurrying past do not even break stride. One or two change direction to put as much distance between this strange young woman and themselves as possible. Others look around, hoping that a guard will appear and rid them of the inconvenient necessity of noticing this creature. And most march past, unre-sponding.

But there is kindness even in the central square of Borzim. An obsidiman halts his long strides, takes the proffered picture in his hands, and examines it closely, soberly, for perhaps half a minute, before handing it back, giving a single shake of his massive head, and moving on. A windling, who has the whole of the airspace about Borzim in which to avoid the young woman, instead flies down to take a closer look. She, too, knows nothing of the woman in the picture, but she promises she will keep an eye out. An eye out! As if anyone could, while flying.

And here is a young human about town who surely means well. Blond hair flops over his forehead. Though he is richly dressed and accompanied by a servant—or perhaps a bodyguard, for it is an ork— he approaches the distraught young woman, listens to her plea, and studies the picture. He shakes his head at first, but then looks up, raises a finger, and smiles at her. "Yes, yes, I do believe I recognize this face. What did you say this good woman's Name is, again?"

"Medzhina. She is a widow, and a trader. She raised me, but I cannot find her. Do you know her?"

"Well, you see, I do not know her myself, but one of my servants, Luktia by Name, has—so they tell me, for I do not consort with servants myself, you understand—an aunt of that Name, or perhaps it is a grandmother? A kindly widow, with red hair, in any case, and after all, it is not so common a Name."

"Did Luktia say how old her aunt was, or whether she is still in Borzim?"

"Not to me, she didn't, but I'm sure she will say it to you, if you ask her. Now come! You must be hungry. I will take you to my home, and we will feed you, and give you a chance to bathe. And if you are tired—"

"You are most generous, Sir, but I would not impose on your time. Only let me speak to this Luktia, and I will not trouble you any further."

"Ah, well, there's the thing, you see. Luktia is off visiting her sick mother. She lives in the country, down Vnikitak way—don't know if you've heard of it—and she's not due back until tomorrow. She's been so worried about her mother, poor thing, and I didn't have the heart to say no. So, you see, your best chance of speaking to Luktia is to come with me and Ezkrad here. I assure you, we'll take the greatest care of you, and when you wake up in the morning, Luktia will be there, and you can ask her anything you want."

Six days ago, Anarya Chezarin would have driven this persistent young nobleman off with her sword, and put flight to his ork servant as well. She would not have believed for a minute in this Luktia and her sick mother, and though she was no woman of the world, she would have recognized well enough what the young man's gaze meant, as it traveled up and down her body, missing nothing of interest, and considering what else might be revealed once that suit of armor and that sword had been parted from their young, slim, blonde owner.

But that was six days ago, six days of hopeless searching, of finding that nothing was where it should be, that the people she knew were gone, or changed beyond recognition, that even the mention of the Name Dinazhe brought her only an audience with some obsequious fool who smiled much and said nothing. That Medzhina's house was gone, replaced by an ostentatious residence of the new nobility. That Medzhina's sister's house still stood, but there was a shop there now; that the shopkeeper knew nothing of Medzhina's sister, and cared less. Six days of interrupted sleep in the most flea-bitten room of a flea-bitten tavern, six days of intermittent and repulsive meals which was all that her dwindling funds could pay for, six days of despair. How she wished, now, that she had never taken it into her head to return to Kaer Volost, despite the odd kind of peace she had felt when she was there.

So she suffered herself to be led away by the young nobleman and his ork servant, barely caring where she was going, as long as she could eat warm food, and bathe, and sleep in a warm bed. With a corner of her mind, she noted with surprise that they were not crossing the Opthia and climbing the hill to where the nobles lived, but were passing the market and heading west. Well, there were some nice houses here too, she saw, large houses. Female laughter filled the air.

"Nearly there," said the young man. They turned into a side street, narrower and more dingy than the road to the West Gate. They had not gone five paces along it when two figures stepped out from the shadows and there were swords at their necks.

Anarya reached for her sword. Ezkrad went for his club. "Don't," said a voice, a woman's voice. "We want this one," the voice added. "For soliciting, do you understand? You do understand, don't you, Mettik?"

The young man nodded. "Quite, quite. And here was I thinking she was a maiden in distress! The very thought!" The young man rallied, motioned his guard to come with him, and swept off. "You should be ashamed of yourself, you young trollop!" was his parting shot. He disappeared into an establishment a few doors down the street.

"But I'm not—I wasn't—," Anarya protested. Her two captors— both women, both human—looked at each other.

"Of course you wasn't, dearie," said the shorter and older of the two. She looked almost motherly, if anyone in the dark blue and brown livery of Borzim's guards could be said to look motherly. Beneath her ragged fringe of graying hair, her eyes and her smile were kind. "But you soon would have been. That nice young man is Mettik, the second biggest—no, maybe third-biggest—pimp in all of Borzim. He was taking you straight to his whorehouse. Probably wanted to try you out for himself first, though."

"He'd have done no such thing!" said Anarya hotly. "Besides, I have my sword, and my armor."

"None of that would of been much use after he'd drugged you, dearie. But maybe you're right, maybe you would have fought him off, killed him even. And then where would that have left us? Say what you like about Mettik, but he pays his taxes—most of them, anyway—and Lord Tesek likes citizens who pay their taxes. Pay their taxes and don't ask questions, isn't that right, Sezhina?"

"If you say so, Qualia," replied the other woman. She was tall, as tall as Anarya, with close-cropped, honey-brown hair. Her face reminded Anarya, just a little, of her mother's. She did not look like a woman who smiled often.

"Not much of a one for talking, our Sezhina. She's barely said a dozen words since she joined up last week. But then, I talk enough for both of us, don't I? Captain Nikim is always saying I should learn to keep my mouth shut if I want to get anywhere, and I suppose he's right, but well—"

"Let's get this one back to quarters," said Sezhina.

"All right, all right. Now, you won't cause us any trouble, will you, dearie? Sezhina here has got quite a temper when she's roused. I'll just tie your hands behind your back, like this—see, not too tight—and then you can walk in front of us."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Back to the Guardhouse, dearie. Where you'll be safe, and we can ask you a few questions. Don't!"

Anarya, who had been tensing to run, felt the sword blade cold against her neck (if only she had worn her helmet!) and willed herself to relax. If these two were the best the Guards could throw at her, she might be no worse off in their guardhouse than anywhere else. She would have to think of a story, a convincing story, to explain her behavior, and then maybe she could join the guards herself—she'd had to fob off recruiters twice already, and the second time, the recruiters had become dangerously insistent before a dawdle of drunk and unwary youths came by to provide better pickings.

"All right," she said. "Tie my hands if you must."

They made their way back towards the square, just three women out for a stroll, stopping a couple of times while Qualia and Sezhina attended to minor breaches of Lord Tesek's many ordinances: a merchant whose wares were spilling out onto the street and blocking traffic, a dwarf whose horse was engaging in consistent and copious violations of the new public hygiene rules. "You clean that up!" said Qualia, and refused to move until the red-faced rider had found shovel and bucket. "And no tipping that lot in the Opthia, either!" she added as a parting shot.

At last they made it back to the main square. It had begun to rain, gray drops that seeped down from a gray sky, rendering those scurrying for shelter or home more anonymous and insectile than ever. Lord Tesek's statue glared in impotent fury at the clouds. The three women made their diagonal way among the foot traffic in fits and starts, buffeted this way and that by passersby. The dark mouth of the guardhouse beckoned.

There was a commotion behind them. "Wait on," said Qualia. "We'd best let this lot past."

It was a large contingent of guards, bearing in their midst three struggling prisoners, two humans, one (judging from her height) a dwarf. Anarya caught snatches of conversation from two passersby who had paused long enough to take in the action.

"— traitor to Borzim, they say, selling us out to the t'skrang—" "— hung at the gate as a warning, if what—" "— never trust anyone. Not even you, eh, Tvavert?" Not giving herself time to think, Anarya leapt to her left, momentarily out of reach of the distracted Qualia and Sezhina, and ran right across the bows of the guard contingent. "Stop her!", Qualia called, but Anarya was already past the guards and darting among the passersby, looking for a way out of the square. If she could get away into that warren of streets to the south-west—make up some story about her tied hands—that she had just escaped from the clutches of a pimp and procurer, maybe—she could—

"Ooof!" said Anarya, and staggered backwards. She had run into the midriff of an obsidiman. Perhaps it was the same obsi-diman she had met earlier; they all looked the same to her. She wanted to keep running, but her head and her body were no longer reading from the same script. She shook her head to clear it and made to move on, but then heard a familiar voice behind her.

"I told you not to do that, dearie," said Qualia, and hit her with something unpleasantly hard.

Chapter 7

Duke Kendik had taken the road north from Borzim in splendor. Now he was returning in a donkey cart. As he jounced his slow, painful way back to the town, Kendik reflected on the contrast. He looked down at his rich cloak, on which the Ducal sigil glittered; his fine clothes; his soft leather boots, spattered with the mud of the roads. He was beginning to get used to this fine clothing. When he next saw Anarya, he would like to be dressed like this—and to have the rank to go with it.

"This is no way for a duke to be seen," he told T'shifa. "We shall have to get out of this cart and approach Borzim on foot."

"As you wish," said T'shifa. The t'skrang had spent most of the journey ignoring him. Kendik did not know whether this represented personal enmity or a disdain of humanity in general.

They edged another few hundred feet closer, and now Kendik, peering through the fog that bedeviled the plain, thought he could begin to make out the dark line of the town wall. Anything had to be better than another day on the road and another night sleeping in the rodent-infested inn of some hamlet so benighted it made Pust seem like a model of enlightened civic leadership. Lunusk two nights ago, Murt last night. Kendik never wanted to see either of them again.

Despite the fog, they were close enough now to make out the wall, the shantytown at its foot, the gate, and the gibbets to either side. Time to stop, thought Kendik, time to—

"Stop the cart!" hissed T'shifa. Kendik had never seen her so agitated. The t'skrang's crest was suffused with blood, so that it had gone a deep crimson color, and her teeth were bared in a snarl.

The donkey ground to a halt. Its driver and, arguably, its master, an elderly and talkative woman by the Name of Ussa, turned her wrinkled face to them and asked would they be getting off now, on account of she didn't have any business in the town, and so she'd be getting back home if that was all the same to them?

"You can go to Dis for all I care," said T'shifa. "Kendik, Atlan, with me." She leapt from the cart and hurried away towards the wall.

Kendik ignored T'shifa and turned to Ussa. He apologized for T'shifa's rudeness, and added two further coins to the small pile she had already received for her troubles. As Kendik and Atlan followed T'shifa, they could hear Ussa cajoling her donkey to turn.

T'shifa was moving fast. Her tail whipped angrily from side to side, scattering peasants and their possessions alike as she strode through the tent village beside the road. When she reached the foot of the wall, though, she stopped and bowed her head almost to the ground.

Kendik caught up to her, with Atlan a few strides behind.

"What is it? Are you hurt?"

"Look up," said Atlan.

Then Kendik saw, and understood. It was Akil, neck broken, tongue blackened, dead, hanging from a gibbet. Around her neck, a hand-painted sign read 'A Warning to Spies'.

"What are we going to do?" asked Atlan.

"Tonight, we return to my tent. We will see what the light of the morning brings."

The tent village was evidently a regular haunt of T'shifa's, for she had her own tent here, and an anxious-faced man, small but wiry, who was guarding it for her. She dispatched him to buy food for the three of them, then, when he returned, paid him in kind and sent him off to wait for further instructions. When he had gone, they sat down to a cheerless supper of dispirited fish and gritty bread. Atlan seemed the worst affected. Looking at him, Kendik realized that Mors had been the driving force of their partnership. Without the foul-mouthed little Thief, Atlan was rudderless, a ship searching for a new captain.

Kendik tried to strike up a discussion with T'shifa on what they should do next, but the t'skrang, more imperious than ever, was adamant that they would talk about it in the morning. Her answers grew more and more terse, until at last she simply rolled herself up in her blankets and turned her head away. Kendik went outside to relieve himself. In this slum, those who had tents that kept out the rain could consider themselves fortunate. Beyond the tents were the shanties, and beyond them the hovels. Kendik drew his sword and carried it at his side as he walked, aware of the attention he was attracting from the furtive and the desperate.

Anywhere beyond the outermost shanty was fair game. His stream of urine hissed and steamed in the chill night air. The river fog had lifted, and the night was cold and clear. Kendik looked up and saw the stars, high above his troubles, prick the sky with light. Then he returned to the tent and gathered what bedding he could.

He slept fitfully, tossing and turning beneath his inadequate blankets. Fragments of memory and dream churned in his head: his father, his mother, their house, the village. Playing on the village street with Lenos and Klune—Klune who, even at that age, was developing a formidable temper. She screamed in frustration as their ball of hide and twine sailed over the wooden rail fence of the bull's paddock and came to rest ten feet from the grazing beast. The bull did not raise its head. It made no sign that it had seen either the ball, or the three of them at the fence.

"I'll get it! I'll get it!" said Klune. She made to scramble over the fence, but Lenos grabbed her by the ankle.

"We need a plan!" he said. He was the oldest, the wisest, always the planner. "Kendik, you go to the top end of the paddock. Climb over the fence, go a couple of steps inside, and start yelling at the bull. He'll come after you, and Klune can go inside and get the ball."

"Why don't you go climb over the fence?"

"You can run quicker than me."

It was true. Kendik's heart rose nearer to his mouth with each step, each slow step, along the length of the paddock. At last he was in position. Opposite him, at the bottom end of the field, he saw Klune, perched at the top of the fence, ready to leap inside as soon as the bull had moved towards Kendik. Kendik climbed over the fence. He walked two, three steps inside the field. And he began to yell.

"Bull! You stupid bull, you big, stupid bull! Come and get me!" And he called the bull every Name he could think of, Names he had heard from carters on the village street, Names he had heard his father call his mother after his father had come home drunk.

The bull responded. Slowly it turned and began to walk towards him. Then, seeing its target more clearly, it ran, getting larger with each stride. Kendik stopped yelling. He was fixed to the spot, his blue eyes locked to the bull's snorting face. Some part of his brain registered Klune in the field, Lenos with her, and both of them calling out to him. Move, move—

He moved aside, and T'shifa's knife missed its target. It was headed for Kendik's heart, but instead it found his blankets, and snagged. Cursing, T'shifa tried to pull it free. Before she did, Kendik freed his right arm and put everything he could into a punch that smacked into the t'skrang's bony jaw from beneath. He felt a satisfying crunch, and blood flew from both sides of T'shifa's narrow mouth.

But he was still trapped beneath the blankets. T'shifa raised her knife again. It glinted in the moonlight that seeped into the tent. Then it came down—and went askew, as Atlan hit T'shifa on the back of the head with his pack. The t'skrang slumped to the ground, unconscious.

"You hurt, boy?" asked Atlan.

"No," said Kendik. "Thanks. Got any rope?"

For a long time, T'shifa would say nothing at all. It was hard for her to talk in any case, as her jaw was broken. She stared at them venomously and refused to speak. Kendik hated the thought of torture, but he was beginning to contemplate the possibility. What could they do, what could they use? Perhaps the t'skrang's own knife ...

Or they could simply kill her and leave her here for the anxious-faced man to find. But where would that leave them?

He stared at her. She stared back. She spat out a mouthful of blood.

"Why did you try to kill me?" Kendik asked again.

"There is a house," replied T'shifa. She spat out a mouthful of blood, then began again. "There is a house, in the town, which should still be safe. Even Akil did not know about it. I will tell you how to get there without being seen."

"I'd sooner believe a Horror than believe you," said Atlan. "And besides, why didn't you try to kill me first?"

T'skrang shrugged. "You were the sounder sleeper."

"But why did you try to kill us at all?" asked Kendik, aware of the plaintive tone in his voice.

"In the wake of Akil's death, I judged you a liability. Too likely to be captured, too likely to talk. From this point on, I decided, I would have to work alone."

"Yet now you're telling us what to do and where to go?"

"My part in this mission is over, young human. No t'skrang can recover from a broken jaw. I am bleeding to death. It will take a day or two."

"That magician of yours, the pale-skinned one, could save you."

"Not even he could save me," said T'shifa, breaking off again to cough up more blood. "Besides, he is much too valuable to be left in Pust for long. He will have been moved elsewhere."

"I am sorry," said Kendik. "Sorry I killed you."

"You were defending yourself. I should have struck more quickly. I did not want to do it, you see. Give me some water."

"Please," said Atlan.

"Give me some water, please."

"Why are you telling us about this house?" asked Kendik when she had managed to swallow it.

The t'skrang shrugged again. "I would have vengeance for Akil if I could. Though she was not of my people, she served us well and faithfully. Whatever you may think by now of the House Ishkarat, young human, we are not the worst evil that has befallen this region since the Scourge was lifted. Tesek is. His plans do not end with the town of Borzim and the plains of the Opthia. He wants to bring this whole region of Barsaive under his control. He would make this place a second Landis if he could, without the arts of civilization. He will fail, of course, but there will be rivers of blood before he is defeated. Rivers of blood." She paused and coughed again. As if to emphasize her words, bloody spittle drooled from her mouth. "We want him stopped."

"What's that to us?" asked Kendik.

"I could say it is your duty to aid the poor and the weak, but you would not believe me. But I know that you, Kendik, want to find this woman of yours, and you, Atlan, wish to avenge your brother. Your answers lie on the other side of that town wall. I am tiring. Listen well, and then decide."

Half an hour later, Kendik and Atlan left the tent. There was no sound from within. They walked silently between the tents and shacks until they were clear of them, then cut across the fields to the right. The moon had gone down, and visibility was bad. They walked cautiously.

Kendik felt the ground give beneath his feet, and stepped back hastily. The smell told him that he was very close to the river.

"I'm going to risk a light," he said. He uncovered the light quartz he held. He had found it among T'shifa's possessions, and it glowed unusually brightly, an intense point of light. Kendik wondered if it was another marvel of the Pale Ones' kingdom.

Almost beneath their feet, the Opthia flowed by, dark and slow. One more step and he would have fallen in, along with the earth he had dislodged from its bank.

"Do you reckon we're in the right place?" asked Atlan.

"Look for the alder stump, she said," said Kendik.

Neither of them was big on botany, but there were not many stumps left along the river. The trees that once shielded it from the fields beyond had been cut down long ago, victims of Borzim's appetite for firewood. Most of the stumps had been dug up as well, creating little embayments as the loosened earth around them slumped into the river.

But some stumps remained, too big or too decayed to be worth moving. Working south, towards the place where the Opthia debouched from beneath the town walls, Kendik and Atlan checked beneath the bank at each stump. At the third stump, they found it: metal, just above the surface of the water.

"Time to get wet," said Kendik.

They stepped into the icy, clinging water, facing the bank. Kendik stifled a moan. When he was seven, his father had forced him to swim by throwing him in the local pond. That gave him a morbid hatred of cold water, though he knew this was no attitude for an adventurer.

"Where in the Name of all the Horrors is the catch?" said At-lan, feeling about in the water. "Can't you make that thing give any more light?"

"I'm worried enough as it is about being spotted by guards on the wall," said Kendik, though the wall was hidden from sight in the blackness. "Here, let me try." He handed Atlan the quartz and felt about beneath the water. Finally, he found the catch and forced it open.

"Stick the quartz on the bank," he told Atlan. "Now, you grab your side, I'll grab mine, and ... heave!"

The grill refused to move at first, but at last it gave, shrieking in protest, and rose slowly upwards.

"Don't pull it too far," said Kendik, "we don't want it to come out of its frame. Just a little further ... there."

The grill clicked into its open position.

"You go through," said Atlan, "and I'll follow. You're shivering."

Conditions weren't much better on the other side of the grill. Kendik stood, streaming with water and weed, water lapping at his waist, in a dark tunnel. Atlan joined him, holding the light quartz, which picked out sparkling mica highlights in the worn stone walls.

They dropped the grill back in place, then splashed through the water as the tunnel sloped gradually upwards.

"Lucky they never finished this sewer system," said Atlan. "How far did she say it was?"

"Fifty paces to the left after the junction."

As Kendik walked along, his head stooping lower with each step, he wondered whether he had made the right decision. He could have killed T'shifa, but he had chosen not to. Atlan had wanted to do it, and Kendik thought the older man would go ahead and kill her anyway, as a down payment on his vengeance for his brother; but Kendik had said no. Atlan gave Kendik a look—a long, unreadable look—then did as he was bidden. Kendik had looked back at her as they left the tent, lying still, tied up, drooling blood. Perhaps the anxious-faced man would find her and help her to a better place for dying. Kendik had not been able to bring himself to kill her, even to end her pain.

Twice Kendik and Atlan had to clamber over piles of rubble that had fallen in when the tunnel roof collapsed; in one of those places, they could hear the sound of something being dragged across a floor, coming faintly through the masonry that topped the hole.

"Someone's built themselves a new cellar," whispered Atlan.

At last they reached the T-junction and took the left-hand fork. Kendik started to count paces, making his strides a little smaller than usual. The new tunnel was narrower and lower than the first, and Kendik bent lower and lower.

"Only a windling could pace in here," complained Atlan, dropping to all fours to crouch.

"Forty-five ... forty-six ..."

He was almost past it before he saw it, a circle of metal in the tunnel wall. There was the recessed catch, just as T'shifa had said. So far, she had not put them wrong. Kendik forced his numb fingers to feel for the little nub of metal. He found it. It gave. The metal circle fell onto a pile of straw inside the room that suddenly opened to them. The light quartz revealed that the room was empty of friends and enemies alike. Kendik crawled through the hole, and Atlan after. They turned and, with frozen fingers, replaced the metal.

For good or ill, they were back in Borzim.

Chapter 8

Kendik awoke with the snorting of the bull still sounding in his ears. He looked around him in alarm, trying to get some anchor on reality. This bare room, gray in the light of early morning—where was he?

Someone was snoring, diagonally across from him. He saw a head poking out from a heap of straw. Atlan, that was Atlan, and he was in a house ... the basement of a house ... in Borzim.

It had been the full dream this time, right up to the stabbing pain in his right leg as the bull's horn caught it while he was scrambling back over the fence to safety. He shook his head to clear it of the confusion, the fear, the remembered terror. He got up, seeing no reason to disturb Atlan, found the hole into which he could relieve himself—did it lead into their last night's route?—and explored the house more thoroughly than he had managed last night, when he and Atlan had been too tired to do much more than verify that they had not walked into an obvious trap, make two rough pallets on the floor, and lay down their heads.

The safe house still appeared to be safe, and stocked for the survival, if not the comfort, of those who used it. Kendik padded about on the packed earth floors, keeping well away from the windows, most of which were shuttered in any case. Outside, he could hear the sounds of a town blinking the sleep out of its eyes; but the sounds were distant, for the most part, and he risked a quick look out of one of the windows on which the shutters were slightly askew. He saw a muddy lane and the blank brick wall of some more substantial building opposite. No one passed by.

He found the kitchen. There wasn't much there: a hot-pot, some pans, a skillet, and in the pantry—protected by a magic ward of the sort his mother had used to keep away mice, rats, and insects— three gourds filled with water and one that smelled like wine; some combs of honey; twenty or so flat, hard cakes of unleavened bread; and, stored in the darkest corner, a few scrubby carrots.

But it was more than enough for breakfast, and Kendik was so hungry that the hard bread smeared with honey tasted delicious. Atlan joined him, still yawning, and the two of them polished off a third of the bread and two combs of honey with little need for conversation. The wine wasn't bad, either, and they each had a cup, feeling that they had earned it after last night's efforts.

Kendik spared a thought for T'shifa. Was she still there in that tent, dying, blood bubbling through her broken snout?

Still, he had done what he must.

"Got that letter?" asked Atlan.

It had been in the top pocket of his tunic, but even so, the envelope was wrinkled and muddied. Kendik drew it out and looked at it. There was no writing on either the front or the back. He itched to open it, but he knew that such things could be magically trapped.

"Probably says 'Kill the man who gives you this'," said Kendik.

"You really think so?"

"No. It would be an elaborate way to kill me—I'm sure a thrust from one of those Ishkarat daggers would have done the job a lot more swiftly. But I do want to find out what it says. I'm going to an apothecary to have it checked for dangers, and then I'm going to read it."

"You can read?"

"I'm an adept."

"What about this woman of yours, this Anarya?"

"She's hardly a 'woman of mine'," rebuked Kendik. As he said it, he felt a stab of longing for Anarya, remembering her as he had last seen her, so beautiful and so distressed. "But I do want to find her. The last time I saw her"—it felt like months ago—"she was heading for the Street of Apothecaries, so maybe I can find some word of her there. But what about you? How are you going to find out who killed your brother?"

Atlan shrugged. "Tag along with you, for a start. Keep my ear to the ground and see what I can find out."

"Sounds painful," said Kendik.

A few minutes later, the two men, cloaked against the morning chill, stepped out of the lane into the street. The bustle of the central square seemed a long way away. This was a neighborhood of neat houses, single-storied, made of mud brick or wood. Wooden houses were less common, and from two vacant lots filled with charred planks and fireweed, they could see why.

They did pass two guards, who gave them no more than a quick glance, before they turned a corner into the main road to the North Gate, a-bustle with carts and carters, cursing each other as they maneuvered produce in one direction and trade goods in the other: the lifeblood of the town, pulsing through its muddy veins.

"Apothecaries? Third on your left, then second left after that. Wouldn't trust a one of them meself," said a shopkeeper who was brushing spattered mud from the small, hard apples on display outside his shop. Kendik and Atlan were glad to turn out of the thoroughfare and back into quieter streets, a mixture of shops and residences. Here adepts of all kinds, from Elementalists to Weap-onsmiths, plied their trades, advertised by brightly colored signs hanging from the eaves above their doors. There were other trades on offer, too, and the signs of these premises left little doubt as to what could be had within.

"Later," Kendik told Atlan, who was beginning to pant.

The Street of Apothecaries was exactly that, a short street in which the selling, making, and neutralizing of potions seemed to be the sole activity. The signs outside these shops were more discreet. Clearly, this was a place in which a certain level of expertise with the subject matter was assumed.

They walked up and down the length of the street, Kendik trying to decide which shop to enter. He avoided the most prosperous-looking vendors and stopped outside a shop whose sign was so faded by weather and time that it was almost illegible. The windows on either side of its peeling blue door were streaked with dirt. Kendik peered through them, trying to see some sign of life.

"This place looks quiet," he said. "Let's try it."

"How do you know they're on the level?" asked Atlan. "Might poison us themselves, or sell us to the guards."

"We'll have to take our chances with that," said Kendik. He pushed open the door of the apothecary's shop and they stepped inside.

Dust. That was the first impression. Dust everywhere, mantling the shelves and clinging to the spider webs that had long ago colonized every part of the shop but the crooked and cluttered path that led from the door to the counter. And under the dust: books, retorts, alembics, potions. A glint of sunlight shone through one corner of the grimy window and picked out the azure blue of a vial, the carmine ribbon of a scroll. Elsewhere, where the sun did not shine, everything was shaded gray and brown.

But the counter was clear—or rather, a space in the center of it was clear—and there was a bell. Kendik rang it. From somewhere in the back of the shop, behind a curtain, there came mutterings, shiftings from foot to foot, the sound of limbs long past their best being cajoled into action. The curtain twitched, then moved uncertainly aside.

This was age indeed. The dwarf who pushed the curtain aside was old even by the long-lived standards of his race. With the aid of a cane, he stumped and groaned his way to the counter.

"Young human ... young humans ... what do you—?"

The unaccustomed effort to speak brought on a fit of coughing. The dwarf coughed noisily, three times, into a large and grubby handkerchief, which he returned to a pocket so frayed that it was a wonder it could still hold anything.

"If you'd like us to leave—"

"Leave? Leave? No, I don't want you to leave. I'm open for business. I need business, young humans, as you can see. Can't live on books and air alone. Now, what do you have for me?"

"Well," said Kendik, producing Vulumensthetika's letter from his pocket, "I want to know if this is safe to open."

The dwarf took the envelope from Kendik's hand, turned it over, sniffed it.

"This has had a thorough soaking, in the Opthia by the smell of it. Stick it in your pocket and fall in the river, did you?"

"Something like that," said Kendik. "But is it still readable?"

"Can't you read?" asked the dwarf.

"Yes," said Kendik, "but—"

"Ah!" A flicker of genuine interest showed in the dwarf's brown eyes, and the tremor disappeared from his voice. "Something a little different about this letter, is there? Maybe a little dangerous? Because I'm an apothecary, not a scribe, after all."

"I don't know," said Kendik, "but there could be."

"Who gave it you?"

"A t'skrang."

"Tricky devils, t'skrang, but I've not known them to poison letters. Well, if there's to be danger, I'll expect to be well paid for it."

Sighing a little, Kendik dipped into his purse. "Two of these now, and two more when you tell us what it says. That buys your word that you won't tell anyone else."

The dwarf bridled. "Young sir, I give my word. I do not sell it.

But I will give it nonetheless. Now, I'm going to need some equipment, and a friend of mine. You'd best come out the back."

Kendik's opinion of the apothecary increased markedly as soon as they were ushered behind the curtain. This private space was as ordered as the shop was disordered. The volume of items was no less, but their organization was meticulous. Here Kendik saw things of real value: amulets, broaches, vials, and crystal boxes.

"The front's just a junk shop to discourage donkey prodders," said the dwarf. "It's not everyone who gets to see the good stuff. Paliape!"

From the far end of the corridor, another dwarf, female, aged but not as venerable as the apothecary, emerged. "This young gentleman has a letter he'd like us to take a look at. Despite his appearance, he's a well-to-do young gentleman. Here's a gold coin for you, and there's one more if you can tell him what this says."

"Can't he read?"

"He seems to think there's more to this letter than meets the eye."

"Ah. Well, now, let me see. Stand back, stand back."

They stood back, while the Wizard took the letter and bowed her head in thought. It was warm in the back room, and Kendik had the uncomfortable realization that he should have washed the river muck out of his clothes before coming out this morning.

A glint in the corner of the room caught his eye. While Paliape contemplated the letter, Kendik wandered over to see what it came from. On the corner of a table, he saw a gold medallion. It was worked in an intricate pattern, a cat's cradle of filigreed gold—a pattern that drew the eye and then the mind, without ever fully resolving itself. It was so beautiful ...

"Now, then," said Paliape. "You were right, young man. There's something magical about this letter, certainly, but I don't think it's dangerous—to you, anyway. Father, would you open it?"

The ancient dwarf produced a sharp knife and slit the envelope. "Your Name's on it," he said, "and Lord—Lord Tesek's—that's plain enough—but as for the rest ...". He pulled out the parchment within and unfolded it. He read for a moment, stopped, and looked up in surprise.

"Well," said Kendik, "what does it say?"

"No idea," said the apothecary. "I can recognize this as t'skrang script, but I can't read it. Neither of us can read it. We haven't had anything to do with t'skrang."

"Father—" said Paliape.

"Neither of us have had anything to do with t'skrang. We're sorry we can't help you further." He handed Kendik the letter with a haste that belied his age. "Now, gentlemen, permit me to escort you to the exit."

"But I want to buy something!"

"What?"

"That medallion over there."

"Where?"

"On the corner of that table?"

"Oh, that thing. Been here for years. Two gold pieces."

"Are you sure? It's—"

"Two gold pieces!" The dwarf held out his hand, and Kendik, sure that he was getting the bargain of a lifetime, handed over a little more of his dwindling stock of gold, and received gold in return.

Almost before they knew it, they were back on the street, and the apothecary was changing his shop sign to "Closed."

"Seems he can move quickly when he wants to," said Atlan.

"As soon as he started to read it, he didn't want anything more to do with us."

"He'll tell the guards if I'm any judge," said Atlan.

"What, and draw attention to himself? I don't think so."

Atlan shrugged. "You're the boss," he said. "Hope you're right."

Kendik stopped suddenly. "Why am I the boss?" he asked.

"What? Keep on walking, people are staring at you."

The conversation continued in whispers as they strode along.

"Why am I the boss?"

"Well, you're the duke, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not."

"You're not? No, you ... you aren't, are you? I remember, we met you in Bilim, and you begged and pleaded to be allowed to join us."

"I'd hardly say 'begged and pleaded'," replied Kendik with some vigor.

"Well, you asked, then. And we saw you sitting in a corner, and Mors said to me, here's a young fool deserves to be fleeced of his money. That's when we thought you actually had some money."

"I did, until Marla stole it."

"A young fool, just as I said, trusting a tavern wench. But I have to think hard to remember that. All of a sudden I have the feeling that you're in charge."

Kendik puffed out his chest a little. "Seems my True pattern has grown a thread or two."

"Well, milord, don't get too carried away. I didn't notice that Paliape bowing and scraping. Any experienced magician will see through you in an instant."

"Let's avoid magicians, then," said Kendik.

"Still, if it's all the same to you," Atlan continued thoughtfully, "I'll stick with you and try to keep you safe. Mors was my older brother, you know, always the one with the plans. I managed to keep him out of trouble most of the time, until he got this idea in his head there was stuff worth stealing in Axalekso."

"What's Axalekso?"

"You are wet behind the ears, aren't you? It's the new t'skrang city on the northern shore of Lake Vors, the one the Ishkarat built. Any Duke of Borzim ought to know that!"

"Sorry," muttered Kendik.

"I told Mors not to mess with the Ishkarat, but he wouldn't listen. 'Gold,' he said, 'gems, jewels, magical treasures of fabulous power.' He never got near any of them, and in the end, the Ishkarat got him. And now I don't have him any more."

In a dusty street just south of the Street of Apothecaries, the big Archer halted, tears pouring down his face. He cried in silence. Kendik stood awkwardly for a moment, then put his arms around Atlan's shoulders. "Now who's making a scene?" he asked gently.

Still crying, Atlan started walking again. By the time his tears had stopped, Kendik had made a decision.

"False duke or true, I'm sick of doing the bidding of others. I'm going to take this—" Kendik withdrew Vulumensthetika's letter from his pocket—"and I'm going to rip it up and throw it away, and then I'm going to find Anarya, and help you find whoever killed your brother. But first—"

Kendik ripped open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and made to tear it into pieces. Though his muscles strained, the parchment would not rip.

"Cursed thing—"

He gave one final tug, then crumpled the letter in his hand, drew back his arm, and hurled the balled-up parchment as far as he could. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, covered his head with his cloak, and moved on, Atlan by his side—two cloaked pilgrims in a dangerous world.

X

The letter landed on the roof of a house. It rested there until the early evening, when spits of drizzle turned to steady rain. The roof sloped slightly back from the street, and the rain carried the letter off the roof and down into the back garden.

The house's tenants were poverty-stricken newcomers to Borzim. They had yet to venture into the wilderness of weeds, refuse, and half-starved cats behind their house, and they did not see the letter fall between a rotting sack and a midden of fish bones.

Despite the rough handling the letter had endured, it was smooth, uncrumpled, and unmarked. It lay in the rain and waited, patiently, to be found.

Chapter 9

"Don't tell me we bought all this just for lunch," said Atlan.

He struggled over to the kitchen table and deposited a sack full of bread, parsnips, slabs of butter wrapped in cabbage leaves, new carrots to replace the disheveled ones lurking in the cupboard, apples, and two cheeses which gave off a powerful odor of goat. Kendik had waddled home under the weight of an amphora of wine and a jug of beer.

"No," he replied, "but it's a start."

An hour later, the two of them were much less hungry. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be sitting here in what Ken-dik had already begun to think of as their house, legs stretched out, mug of beer in hand, discussing the woes of the world with his companion of many adventures as the afternoon sun sent thin fingers of light to dance across floor and table.

"I think," said Atlan, "I will go and see Uthaia."

"Who's that, then?"

"Someone who was a friend of mine—a very good friend, if you take my meaning—back in the old days, when Mors was off in Bartertown learning to be a Thief and I was making my own way in the world. I did my time in a couple of adventuring groups, and she was the finest swordswoman you ever saw, no offence to your Anarya. We were in this fight once, and she ..."

He embarked on a long, beer-fueled reminiscence of long odds and desperate courage, although Kendik noticed that Atlan's narrative seemed to focus more on the suppleness of Uthaia's body than on her prowess in battle. A different woman filled Kendik's thoughts, as she had since she walked out of the darkness of Kaer Volost as if stepping out of an ancient tapestry. So strong, and yet so vulnerable. Where was she now? Was she still somewhere in Borzim, searching for her aunt? Had she received word that the old woman had passed to the company of her ancestors, or moved elsewhere? Was Anarya even in Borzim any more? Had she—he allowed himself a pleasurable stab of jealousy at the thought—met up with some other man? Was she now that man's companion, his consort, his lover?"

"— and that's what I'm going to do!" finished Atlan, lurching to his feet.

"Sorry—what are you going to do?"

"I didn't think you were listening. I'm going to find that house she bought when she decided to settle down, and I'm going to see if she's still married to that idiot she decided to settle down with. And I'm going to tell her a thing or two. And if I'm not back tonight, you'll know she realized she made a mistake marrying that idiot after all."

"Well—don't draw too much attention to yourself—"

"You think a drunk man would attract any attention in this town?" asked Atlan, giving a passable impression of one as he exited the house with a fusillade of belches.

Atlan had a point there, Kendik had to concede. He didn't give much for Atlan's chances of rekindling his old flame, but at least the man was doing something. What was he, Kendik, going to do?

Well, he had seen some attractive women in Borzim, but they were almost all dark haired. None of them looked like Anarya. Surely she would have attracted someone's attention, someone who would remember her.

So he set out to search taverns and markets. He soon found that very few traders were willing to talk with him unless he bought something first, and in this fashion, he accumulated a collection of useless trinkets. He drew the line at buying a monkey from a stallholder who specialized in pets for the rich and stupid, and decided to concentrate on the tavern part of his job description. Nothing there either, except the solace of alcohol, and much lecherous badinage from fellow drinkers wanting to know what, exactly, it was he wanted to do with this young woman he was trying so hard to find.

The afternoon sun was harsh, and his head hurt. He found his way into an establishment in which wine was the beverage of choice, and the clientele (evidently the intelligentsia of Borzim, who divided fairly neatly into philosophers and poets) could take their ease in a trellised garden wreathed in vines. To justify the outrageous prices, the owner had even provided a Troubadour, a lank-haired young man, dressed in a colorful tunic, who strummed a sad-stringed instrument from somewhere west of the Dragon Mountains and sang ballads, some sad, others bawdy. There was a beauty from Bartertown, apparently, and an eager young man from Farram. It had not ended well.

Kendik tuned out the plangent voice and looked at his fellow drinkers. He had ordered a cup of what was, in his limited experience, a very good red, but most of his fellow drinkers were working their way through amphorae. To his left, waxed aesthetes were exclaiming over the beauty of the drawings which one of their fellows was shyly and reluctantly extracting from a bulging folio. To his right, the debate about the future of magic, never entirely absent in Barsaive, had erupted anew. The disputants were a dissipated follower of the school that claimed that magic would never again exceed its present level, and would eventually fade away completely, and a woman of commanding mien who insisted that history was cyclic, and that in due course, the magic and its attendant Horrors would rise again.

Neither scenario held much appeal for Kendik. He finished his cup and decided that this afternoon had gone on long enough. He would return to the house, sleep, and see whether the morning brought better counsel. He got up and made his way towards the exit.

To do so, he had to walk past the Troubadour. He was an unprepossessing young man: under medium height, disheveled, a little chubby, his face pockmarked by some childhood disease. But he could certainly sing. His voice swooped confidently around the simple accompaniment he was playing on his lute.

Kendik stopped for a moment to listen to that voice, and thus realized what the Troubadour was singing.

"She was so young, so fair So alone in a place Not her own, and she Could find a friend nowhere

This young and foolish maid Showed all who passed her by

A picture of the kindly aunt From whose care she'd strayed

She-"

"Stop!" said Kendik.

"He's not that bad!" yelled some wit from the back of the room. But the singer stopped, and looked on apprehensively as Kendik approached him. "Who is this woman you're singing about?"

Before the singer could reply, a heavy hand closed on Kendik's shoulder.

"Management," said a voice from somewhere above Kendik's head, "does not approve of any patron interfering with the enjoyment of others."

The new voice had tusks, fangs, a large club, and an unfriendly expression. If she was not a sister of Vyaka Longtusk, she certainly qualified for the surname. It took Kendik the last gold coin in his possession to convince Management to let him borrow Viknis the entertainer for a few minutes, and a silver coin to encourage the entertainer, who was still looking distinctly put out, to talk. Kendik led the young man to a table near the door, as far from the prying ears of the other patrons as possible.

"This woman you were singing about, what do you know of her?"

"If you'd let me keep playing, you'd have heard. There was this real beauty accosting passersby at the foot of Lord Tesek's statue, demanding to know if they'd seen her aunt. I went down to take a look at her, but she'd gone—hustled off by a man and an ork, they said. It was a while before I was due here, so I was talking with a couple of friends who had seen her when there was this big commotion."

"Was it the woman?"

"Not at first. A bunch of guards marched through with three prisoners—traitors, everyone said. A dwarf and a couple of humans. Fighting and kicking like anything, they were, but it didn't do them any good. I went out to the North Gate the next day and their heads were up on poles. That taught me to hold my tongue, I can tell you!"

Fortunately for Kendik, the young man appeared to be a slow learner. Kendik poured another drink for his companion, then, aware of Management watching balefully from behind the bar, asked "But you did see the young woman?"

"Sure I did. My mum had caught her!"

Kendik blinked. "Your mother?"

"She needed a job after Dad died, so she went and joined the guards. It makes me laugh to see her in that uniform. Her partner doesn't take any nonsense, though, so I didn't say anything—just watched them go by. My friends were right about the girl, though— she could strum my zither any time! Hey, don't look like that—it's just a way of speaking. She your girlfriend, is she?"

Kendik controlled his temper with difficulty. "Where did the guards take her?"

"Looked like mum and Sezhina were taking to her the guardhouse, then she slipped them and ran off in the confusion. I thought I saw her again, somewhere ahead of me, but I can't be sure. Qualia and Sezhina were puffing and blowing to catch up with her—well, no, my mum was; Sezhina keeps herself pretty fit. I decided I was best off staying out of their way."

At that point, Management decided that enough was enough, and escorted Kendik firmly off the premises. The final shove in the back hurt, but Kendik barely noticed. At last, he had something to go on.

As he walked towards the central square, he tried to clear the wine fumes from his brain. Either Anarya had been recaptured by the guards, or she hadn't. If she hadn't, she could be anywhere. If she had, then she might be in custody. Where did Lord Tesek keep his prisoners?

He went to the guardhouse to find out. When he reached the head of the sweating, complaining queue and asked, the dwarf on duty—was it the same one who had accosted him in the central square on his first day in Borzim?—leaned back in his chair and said "Where do you think? They're under our bloody feet, though if we try to fit any more of them in there, they'll come bursting up through the bloody floor."

"Is it possible to visit a prisoner?"

" 'Is it possible to visit a prisoner?' " mimicked the dwarf. "Of course it's bloody possible! How do you think they get fed?"

Then, to Kendik's intense frustration, the dwarf informed him that visiting hours were over, the prison was locked down for the night, and he'd have to come back tomorrow morning.

"But she's alone ... cold ... frightened ..."

"Oh, 'she', is it? Your lady friend got herself in a spot of bother, has she? Well, you should have been around to save her at the time, shouldn't you? It's no use looking at me like that, lad. Get yourself outside and don't bother us till the sun's been up an hour."

It took the butt of an ork guard's spear to convince Kendik that visiting hours were, indeed, over. With a bruise on his chest to add to those on his shoulder and back, Kendik returned to the safe house in the gathering gloom and spent a cheerless night. Atlan did not return, and Kendik ate alone, sharpened his sword for a while, then went to bed and dropped off into an uneasy sleep.

In the morning, he packed a bag of food for Anarya, then went to the guardhouse. In a passageway towards the rear of the guardhouse, he submitted to another queue and another inspection, and then, at last, he was allowed down the stairs that led to the prison.

It was bedlam. From the rock walls and low stone roof rebounded the cries of prisoners, the shouted orders of guards, and the imprecations of visitors. The prison appeared to have been hacked out of the rock beneath the town yard by yard. Passageways lined with cells led off in half a dozen directions. Between rock wall and iron bars, up to a dozen prisoners per cell slept, sat, or prowled. In some cells, prisoners were chained like dogs. The only light came from guttering torches and the occasional—too occasional—light shaft, from which the sounds of freedom drifted down as the smells of feces, urine, and despair rose to greet the outside world.

Fighting back the urge to gag, Kendik set off down the corridors, passing family parties chatting to prisoners or passing food through the bars. For all the interest the guards were taking, it looked as though knives, swords, and cudgels could have been passed through the bars with equal ease.

The guards patrolled in pairs. The first two pairs he asked knew nothing and cared less, but he struck it lucky with the third pair. One was tall, lean, and silent, the other small and plump. One glance at her told Kendik that this must be Qualia, the mother of Viknis.

"Oh yes, dearie, we know who you mean. Brought her in ourselves, we did. She's a nice young thing, if a bit mixed up."

"Is she—"

"Oh, she's fine. We make sure of that. Look after her like she was our own child, we do. We put her in a cell near an airshaft, and at the end of a row, where the smell isn't so bad. She had it all to herself till last night. Matter of fact, we should go and see her now, shouldn't we, Sezhina? I said to them, I said, don't put a grown man in there with a young woman, that's not right. But they just laughed and paid no attention as usual, said they knew what they were doing. That lot wouldn't know—"

The other woman gave her a warning glance.

"Yes, yes, you're right. Walls have ears, eh? Walls have ears. Come on, Sezhina, let's take this young man to see his lady friend."

As they walked down the passage towards the hub of the prison, Kendik looked at Sezhina. He could not shake the feeling that there was something familiar about her. She noticed his scrutiny and scowled at him. He looked away.

The noise and the stench were giving him a headache. As they passed the foot of the staircase down which he had descended, the noise rose to a crescendo; then they were past, and walking down another passage. The noise and the smell lessened until they were almost bearable.

At the very end of the passage, the cell on the right held a woman. Her beauty had been dimmed beneath hunger, grime, and fear.

Her hair hung lank, and there was a dirty bandage on her forehead. She was dressed in a long white shift. Her sword and her armor were nowhere to be seen. She looked up dully, and then broke into a smile that transformed her features.

"Anarya," said Kendik, and in this grim place, he was filled with happiness.

It faded quickly. As she came up to the bars, he saw how painfully thin she had grown.

"Here," he said, "I've brought food—"

There was no pretence of delicacy. She took the fruit and bread from him and ate them with a desperate hunger, until he had to warn her to slow down or she'd be sick. She drank several deep gulps from the gourd of water he proffered, belched, and smiled again.

"Haven't they fed you at all?" he asked.

"Once a day they bring round some disgusting swill, except on all the days when it runs out before it reaches me. This one—" she indicated Sezhina "— has been bringing me food when she can, and that one there, who gave me this bump on the head, has been helping out as well. Otherwise, I guess I'd be dead."

"They told me a man had been put in with you. Has he—?"

"Of course not. He's been in no state to, and in any case, I don't think Atlan would."

"Atlan!"

Anarya went over to what Kendik had taken for a bundle of rags in the darkest corner.

"They dragged him in here last night. He's been badly beaten. Resisting arrest, they said. That's what they got me for as well."

"Who brought him in?"

"Men dressed in black uniforms. They call them—Falcons!"

At the alarm on Anarya's face, Kendik half-turned, to see a phalanx of black advancing on him. They seized his arms and shoved him up against the bars.

"Impersonate a duke, would you?" said one. Another produced a key. "Be off!" he said to Qualia and Sezhina.

Kendik could hear Qualia muttering as she walked away, and Sezhina endeavoring to calm her, but that was not his chief concern. The key rattled and caught in the lock. The barred iron door opened, and Kendik was shoved unceremoniously inside. As he fell to the floor, he heard the door being locked behind him, and got a glimpse of black-clad figures moving swiftly away down the passage.

Tender arms enfolded him, and he was pressed against a soft and yielding breast. It was what he had dreamed of ever since he and Anarya were parted, but not in these circumstances: together, but not alone, with an injured friend lying in the corner, the hubbub of the prison echoing all around, and a locked and barred door between them and freedom.

Chapter 10

I'm in love, thought Kendik Dezelek, as he lay on a pile of rags in the cell he shared with the object of his adoration. Anarya slept, turned away from him, so that all he could see was her back and rump. It was a distracting sight.

I'll never get to sleep like this, he thought, and turned so that his view was of a rough-hewn rock wall, black, damp, and cold. This deep into the night, the cacophony of noises near and far which dominated every waking moment was subsiding, though he could still hear sobbing, arguments, a cry of pain floating through the fetid air.

It was no use. Trying not to wake Anarya and Atlan, Kendik rose to his feet, stepped around the sleeping bodies, and relieved himself into the chamber pot that squatted there. The chamber pot was a luxury item provided for their comfort by Sezhina, who seemed to have adopted them as her personal project, bringing them food and various items to make their stay at Lord Tesek's pleasure at a little easier. Kendik had not asked Sezhina why she was taking such care on their behalf. He did not want the supply line to dry up, and besides, he knew what was going on.

It was Anarya that Sezhina was really interested in. She would stand outside the cell, watching the young woman's every movement, until Qualia came, clucking and pecking, to drag Sezhina away to her other duties—although, when Sezhina entered the cell, she seemed oddly cautious of Anarya. In Kendik's home village, there had been two women, Imatia and Rassarine, who had lived together in the fashion of man and wife; Kendik had found this curious, and asked his mother to explain. When she had, Kendik had been even more curious, and a little wiser in the many ways of the world.

Anarya and Sezhina, Sezhina and Anarya—this, too, was distracting. It took Kendik a long time to go to sleep that night, as it had taken every night since he was thrust into the cell. At last, he drifted off to the sound of Anarya's rhythmic breathing and Atlan's guttering snores.

Morning came early in Lord Tesek's prison. There was no organized system of bells or alarms, but the clatter of the guards on their morning inspections was enough to wake up some inmates, and their cries for bread, water, or justice soon woke others; and so the whole span of the prison, laid out like the spokes of a wheel, groaned and grumbled into life. And death: the main duty of the morning guards was to drag out the corpses of those who had died in the night.

About an hour after the morning inspections, the door to the prison was opened, and the representatives of the outside world descended the stairs and brought their own brand of chaos. Every kind of transaction was conducted then: loving partners bringing food and warm clothing to husbands or wives incarcerated inside; shrewd merchants bargaining with better-off prisoners who had, in whatever unmentionable hiding place, secreted the means to buy little luxuries; guards being bribed to perform favors; prostitutes providing the limited but essential range of services they could offer to a customer hemmed in by iron bars.

At the hub of the wheel, the din was unimaginable. At the end of a spoke, it wasn't quite so bad. The cell opposite theirs was empty. The cell to their left was occupied by an old man who had been brought in two nights ago. He had come over to the bars between their cells a couple of times and watched them, but had so far rebuffed Kendik's and Anarya's brief attempts at conversation.

Atlan was in a bad way. His visible wounds were healing, but Kendik feared that the beating he had received had done something permanent to his brain, or perhaps his spirit. He still slept most of the time, and when he was awake, he said nothing, looking straight ahead. He would eat food given to him, drink water held up to his mouth, and permit himself to be led to the chamber pot, but there seemed nothing left of the old Atlan.

He was certainly in no state to receive visitors, but this morning, he got one. A woman, lushly bodied, richly furred, stepping with evident distaste along the corridor, stopped outside their cell.

"So this is what you've come to," she said, looking at Atlan, who stared back at her blankly.

"Who might you be?" asked Kendik.

"I don't need to answer to you," said the woman, "but I will tell you, for his sake. I am Uthaia. This fool got himself a skinful of liquor and came looking for an afternoon of love. I gave him a flea in his ear and sent him packing, but he didn't take the hint. He stood there in the middle of the street bawling at me, until the guards came."

"Is this how the guards usually deal with foolish drunks?" asked Anarya.

"No," said Uthaia thoughtfully. "At first, the regular guards turned up. They popped him a couple of times, just to slow him down, but nothing serious. Then the Falcons turned up and dragged him away. They do not usually arrive to deter drunken suitors."

"Who are the Falcons?" asked Kendik.

"Lord Tesek's elite guards, and the less we speak of them, the better."

She paused for a moment. "Atlan is a fool, and I am a respectable married woman now, not the trollop with a long sword and a short skirt he used to know. But they had no call to treat him this way. When he comes to his senses, tell him that Uthaia brought these for him. If he is assailed again, he can call on them. I will send a man with food from time to time."

She thrust two stones through the bars to Kendik, turned on her heels, and left.

Kendik and Anarya examined the stones closely. They were dark blue, each a little larger than an arrowhead, with one ended rounded and one sharp.

"Magic?" asked Anarya.

"No idea," said Kendik. He rubbed the stones against his cloak, then against each other. Nothing happened.

"What have you got there, then?" asked a voice from their left.

Kendik's first instinct was to cover the stones with his cloak. When he turned, he saw the old man from the neighboring cell peering through the bars at him.

"Nothing," said Kendik shortly.

"No, laddie, nothing is what I've got. Seems like you've got plenty: food, a pretty girl to keep you company, rich ladies who bring you gifts. Can you spare any food for a hungry old man?"

Kendik was on the point of refusing the old man when he became aware of Anarya's gaze. Without speaking, he went over to their dwindling stash of food—hidden at the back of the cell in the cleanest rags they had been able to find—and gave the old man an apple, two carrots, and a hunk of bread. He caught Anarya's smile, and felt as all young men do when they have shown generosity to impress their lady—though his rumbling stomach already regretted the gesture.

"Thank you," said the old man. "If only you nobles could behave like that in your everyday lives, this might be a better place."

"'Course," he added around a mouthful of bread, "I don't believe in nobility. What are you—a baron, an earl?"

"I'm a duke," said Kendik, silencing Anarya with a glance. She had reacted with a fit of giggles the first time he had told her of his exalted rank.

"A duke, eh? And in with us commoners. Maybe there's a vestige of democracy left in this place yet."

"Democracy? What is that?" asked Anarya.

"People deciding for themselves," said the old man. "There was a time"—he had finished off the bread and was embarking on a carrot— "when this town was run by the people who lived in it. We used to get together of an evening and thrash out what we'd do next, how we'd protect the place from marauders, what we'd grow in the fields."

"So you didn't have a lord in those days?"

"This town was founded by Name-givers who'd had enough of lords. We came here to get away from them. I was just a lad then, but when I was a young man, I fought for this town, fought to keep it the way it was. But we failed, because too many people would rather let someone else tell them what to do. They wanted lords, and they got them. Nikranth, and Invar, and now this Tesek, the worst of the lot. He wasn't so bad when he started off, mind—cared for his people, or at least pretended to. But he got delusions of grandeur, like they all do. As soon as he had that statue in the square erected, I knew the power had gone to his head. Eight years that statue has stood there, and I hate it more every time I see it."

"It is a little ugly," allowed Kendik.

"Whoa, duke whatever-your-Name-is! He'll have your head on a pike for that! Not planning to foment a rebellion, are you? Is that why you're here?"

"I'm just planning to get out of here," said Kendik.

"It's a long way to the exit, unless you plan to dig a tunnel."

"Do you know a woman called Medzhina?" asked Anarya. "She was—is—my aunt. She lived in the Street of Apothecaries, but I cannot find her."

"Medzhina? No, can't say I do. Respectable folk don't want to associate with me, because I speak my mind. Speak my mind, whatever it costs me. A foolish habit, but I'm too old to change now."

"She was the sister of my protector, Dinazhe the Wizard."

At the mention of the Name Dinazhe, a remarkable change came over the old man. He shrank away from them as if they were contaminated, retreated to the furthest corner of his cell (almost, but not quite, within reach of his neighbor on the other side, an ork with a short fuse and an inventive line in curses), and turned his face away from them—though, Kendik noted, he did not return either the apple or the other carrot, which had disappeared into his ancient, much-darned cloak. He retreated into the same indifference he had shown when they first arrived, and would have nothing more to do with them.

"Perhaps," said Anarya, looking downcast, "he does not know the true nature of my protector."

Perhaps, Kendik thought, he does. But he did not utter the thought. The encounter with the old man had saddened Anarya. Kendik sat down, put his arm around her, and tried without much success to comfort her.

"My memories are all fading." said Anarya. " Everything I remember of this town, all the memories of Medzhina, of my life as a child—vanishing. It is as though this place sucks the life out of them. I will die in here."

"No, you won't," said Kendik, holding her as she cried. He thought back to the Anarya he had seen emerge from the depths of Kaer Volost. Where had all that self-assurance gone?

Later that day, Atlan woke up. He did not talk, but he reacted to sounds and looked at their faces with a semblance of recognition. Kendik told him of Uthaia's visit, and showed him the stones. Atlan reached out for them, took them, held them. Tears began to roll down his weather-beaten face, and this time it was Anarya who comforted him. In the room of the tearful, they huddled together and waited for the day to wind to its long and ragged end.

Kendik woke to the sound of the cell being unlocked. Strong arms seized him and hauled him to his feet. Anarya cried out, and a third black-clad man pointed his sword at her. "You, we'll deal with later," the man told her. "Now shut up and go back to sleep."

Left arm twisted behind his back, Kendik was propelled down the corridor towards the hub of the prison, then maneuvered into another passageway. The men did not speak. Kendik looked around for a chance to escape. This passageway was much like the others, but the last five cells on either side had been replaced by sealed rooms; and the passageway ended, not in bare rock, but in a door. A scream came from the nearest of the rooms just as Kendik passed it. It left him in little doubt what lay in store for him.

One of the three men moved ahead of him and took a torch from a sconce in the wall. Only his eyes and mouth were visible; the rest of him was clad entirely in black. A second man produced a key and bent down to unlock the door to the chosen torture chamber.

As the man put the key in the lock, the door to the room was thrown open from the inside, and a sword plunged into the man's heart. The man with the torch died a moment later, blood spurting from a deep slash across his neck. The pressure on Kendik's arm eased. Without giving himself time to think, Kendik turned and put all the force he could into a punch which caught the third, retreating man on the side of the head. It was hardly a knockout blow, but the man staggered, and that sealed his fate. A bloody sword cut him down.

"Help me get the bodies into the room," said Sezhina.

Numbly, Kendik obliged. Sezhina produced cloths from inside the room and ordered him to wipe the corridor clean, and hurry up about it. Their luck held: no one emerged to investigate, and they were far enough from the regular cells that any prisoner who was awake would have difficulty seeing what was going on. In two minutes, the corridor was clear again.

"In here," said Sezhina, "and shut the door."

Unsure whether to be impressed or horrified, Kendik did as he was told. He followed Sezhina into the room, now lit by the torch the second victim had been carrying. Sezhina was in her undergarments, changing from the bloodied clothes she had been wearing into her guard uniform. "Get your clothes off," she said, "and put this other lot on. There's two swords over there, yours and Anarya's. Hide them under this cloak, and don't let them clash together."

On the floor, bodies. All around, the implements of torture: racks and thumbscrews, chains spiked with barbs, whips with studded metal barbs at the tip. Quickly, methodically, Kendik changed. His sword needed oiling, he noted as he arranged it under his cloak. He picked up Anarya's sword, looked at it, then looked over at Se-zhina's sword, now belted at her side. Except for a slight patina of age on Sezhina's sword, they were identical.

If Sezhina caught his gaze, she gave no sign. "All right," she said. "Here's what we'll do. It turns out our black-clad friends here made a little mistake, picked up the wrong prisoner for interrogation. When they realized that, they handed you over to me, a humble guard. I've been ordered to take you back to your cell. Did they twist your arm behind your back?"

Kendik nodded.

"So will I. When you get back to your cell, you're going to wake Anarya, tell her to be quiet, and get her up and moving. Then we're going to get out of there."

"What about Atlan?"

Sezhina shook her head. "He's dead weight. We leave him behind."

"He goes, or none of us do," said Kendik.

Sezhina looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Your funeral," she said. "But if he slows us down, I'll kill him myself."

"Why are you—?"

"Later. Let's get out of here first."

From that room of fear and blood, a prisoner and a guard emerged. The guard paused to lock the door, then pushed the shuffling prisoner before her. His arm was twisted behind his back so hard that he gave off small cries of pain. They passed from the end of one passageway, through the central hub, and along another passageway, till they came at last to a cell in which a man lay still and a woman paced restlessly. The guard unlocked the cell and thrust the prisoner inside, then followed him in herself. There was a short, whispered conversation, then the cell was vacated, two of the prisoners supporting the third, who was able to walk but seemed to have little awareness of where he was going. In the cell, only a chamber pot and a few tattered rags were left as reminders of their presence, and though the old man in the next cell watched with great interest, he did not raise the alarm.

It was unusual for one guard to be escorting three prisoners; unusual, but not unheard of. In any case, none of the prisoners who watched them pass by was in any mood to object. Kendik tensed as they passed through the central hub, where two guards were dragging one prisoner down another passageway, but the guards did no more than nod to Sezhina. They started down the passageway that led to the stairs up to the guardhouse. Two more guards approached them.

"This lot don't know anything," Sezhina told her fellow guards. The guards nodded and passed them by. They reached the end of the corridor. They started up the steps. Then the door at the top was flung open, and a short, stout, bustling figure started down.

It was Qualia. "There you are, dearie!" she said, catching sight of Sezhina. Then she looked again, and realized what her fellow guard was doing.

"Oh," she said, and drew her sword.

Chapter 11

"Don't," said Sezhina. "And don't start shouting, either."

"But you're allowing prisoners to escape!"

"That's right. And I—now just shut up and listen—I killed three Falcons who were about to torture the skinny one here. So they'll be after me, but they'll also be after you, because there's no way they'll believe you weren't involved. You've got a choice. Come with us now, or get ready for the rack."

"But my Viknis—"

"Is in trouble either way. This way, you get a chance to warn him."

Qualia looked from one face to the other. "I thought I was your friend," she said to Sezhina.

'You are. Now prove it by coming with us. Two guards escorting prisoners will look much better than one."

Qualia looked at Sezhina for a moment more. Kendik could see the play of feelings move across her face: fear, doubt, regret ... resignation. Qualia shrugged, sheathed her sword, and moved to join Sezhina. No sooner had she done so than the door at the top of the steps opened again and a group of guards came clattering down.

"Where are you taking them?" one of them asked.

"Prisoner release," Qualia replied. "No one's got any further use for them."

"One less cell to dig out," said the man, and carried on down the stairs.

Kendik soon learned that "prisoner release" was a mantra that opened all doors and answered all questions. The fact that one of the prisoners had to be half dragged, half pushed between the other two merely added a bracing note of realism. "Prisoner release" took them towards the main doors, and through those doors, and out into the weak morning sunlight.

"Keep moving," said Sezhina. "We have to look as though we know where we're going."

"You promised to let me warn Viknis," said Qualia.

"He lives near the West Gate, doesn't he?"

"If you could call it living, yes."

"Then that's the way we'll go. Lord Tesek doesn't want riff-raff in his town. We have orders to take these foreigners to the West Gate and expel them. Let's get on with it."

They passed out of the square and along the street that led to the West Gate in the rising heat and clamor of the morning. The surface of the street had turned to dust that swirled around their feet in eddies as they walked, coating their legs in a thin film of dirt. They passed the entrance to the street in which the pimp Mettik maintained his establishment, and Anarya looked away, fearful that she would be seen, though in truth she was so bedraggled from her time in prison that Mettik would have struggled to recognize her.

A little further along, Qualia led them off the main road and into the maze of alleys that led to the river. The smell of the Opthia wormed its way into their nostrils. At last Qualia stopped in a street with a row of houses that stood upright only with the support of their neighbors, like three drunks at a wedding. She knocked on the middle door. After a very long time, a window opened on the floor above them, and a disheveled face peered down at them.

"Wha—?" it said "Viknis! Get down here and let us in!"

The face withdrew from the window. Another long delay. Kendik felt unbearably conspicuous, though a quick survey of the street revealed nothing but a stray dog nosing in a mound of refuse.

At last the door opened. Viknis, still bleary eyed, peered at them uncertainly. "Hello, mum," he said. "Hello, Sezhina. Sorry, the place is in a bit of a mess ..."

Viknis led them into what was incontestably the messiest room Kendik had ever seen. The apothecary's shop had been cluttered and covered in dust, but at least there was the sense that items had been placed where they were for a reason. Here there was chaos. Discarded clothes, empty wineskins, vegetable scraps, half-eaten fruit: the room was a midden. In one corner, there was a fireplace, and Kendik felt a strong desire to sweep everything in sight into it, and burn the lot. Surely only the rats, the mice, and the flies would object.

"I'll just get some proper clothes on," said Viknis, and disappeared upstairs.

The rest of them stood for a few moments in dispirited silence, then Sezhina observed "Your son isn't much of a housekeeper."

Qualia looked at her angrily. "Don't you go criticizing Viknis! I'll fetch the good-for-nothing wretch down here myself." She stomped up the stairs, calling her son's Name in a voice that brooked no argument.

"At least I stashed those three bodies away neatly," commented Sezhina.

"How long do you think it will take before they're found?"

"Hours, I hope. No one disturbs Tesek's torturers when they've settled in to work on a victim. And the rest of the prison is so disorganized that, with luck, no one will realize your cell isn't supposed to be empty."

Unless that weird old man in the cell next door tells them, thought Kendik; but that was outside his control, as was the time they were wasting.

At last Qualia reappeared. In her wake trailed Viknis, unshaven, eyes bloodshot, but clad in his best—or at least most colorful—tunic. He had clearly woken up a little more, because he noticed Kendik, and then he noticed Anarya.

"You!" he said. "Did you hear I wrote a song about you? Come upstairs and I'll play it just for you."

"You don't have time to invite anyone back to your bedchamber," said Sezhina. "You need to get your things and come with us."

"I'm not one of your prisoners," replied Viknis. "Give me one good reason why I should take orders from you."

Sezhina gave him three: three black-clad bodies seeping blood in a locked room. She told him about the friends of the black-clad men, about how they would hunt down whoever had done this to their fellows, about how, if they couldn't find the perpetrators themselves, they would go after their nearest and dearest.

Viknis still had a mulish expression on his face, so Sezhina began to detail some of the methods the Falcons used to extract confessions from their victims. She hadn't got much beyond the rack and the thumbscrews when Viknis held up a hand.

"All right, all right, I'm convinced. Just let me get my stuff."

It came down to the lute or the zither. One was bulky enough, Sezhina told him; there was no way he could take both. In the end, with great reluctance and many a backward glance, Viknis chose the lute, concealing it beneath a voluminous cloak.

They left Viknis' malodorous residence disguised in an assortment of the finest rags and tatters Viknis could find, and continued their winding path towards the West Gate.

As if the prospect of being captured and tortured wasn't enough, Kendik was growing increasingly concerned about Atlan. For the duration of their visit to Viknis' modest establishment, he had slumped in a corner, unmoving, apparently unaware of his environment. Having started to come to life in their cell, he seemed to be regressing again.

"We're getting close," said Sezhina. "You wait here while I check out the gate."

They entered a street in which the houses were solid, three-story affairs exhibiting signs of civic pride: plants in a terracotta pot here, a brightly colored lintel there. While they waited for Sezhina to return, they sat in the limited shade provided by washing hung on lines that criss-crossed from house to house. The occasional passerby looked with disdain at the five disheveled figures who had inexplicably chosen this particular road to settle on. "Beggars," muttered one passerby in a loud whisper. "I've got half a mind to call the guards and have you moved on." The local moved on down the street, nose in the air.

"He won't have to call very loud," said Sezhina, reappearing unexpectedly. "The gate is swarming with them."

"With the Falcons?" asked Qualia, her eyes wide.

"Not unless they're in disguise. No, these are regular guards. They don't seem to be looking for us. They've been lined up just inside the gate, and there's a bunch more of them patrolling the walls."

"Any idea why?"

"I couldn't risk getting close enough to find out. I saw Miratya there, and Azkaron. What would they be doing on gate duty?"

"No idea," said Qualia. "Miratya has trouble guarding her lunch."

"They were jumpy, I'll tell you that, and the gates are well and truly shut. No sense trying to get out that way."

"Where then?" asked Kendik. "The East Gate?"

"Don't think so. One of the officers up on the wall talked about the East Gate contingent. I think we'll have to try our luck with the North Gate."

So they did. They could not risk returning to the central square, so they retraced their steps a little, crossed the road to the West Gate well away from the gate itself, and then took streets which led them north and west. At one point, they came within sight of the wall, and saw guards standing atop it; but they were looking outwards, not inwards.

Something was going on. Kendik would have liked to stop and find out what it was, but Sezhina vetoed that as too risky. None of them was very surprised, when they got near the North Gate, to find it locked against them as well. Disgruntled travelers were milling about or remonstrating with the guards; from an overheard fragment of conversation, they gathered that the gates would be opened briefly in the morning, "if all was well". They moved out of range of the guards to discuss their next move.

"Looks like we need to find somewhere to spend the night," said Sezhina.

Kendik thought about the safe house he and Atlan had used. It was unlikely to be safe any more. Perhaps Atlan's lady friend Uthaia would put them up? But Atlan could not, or would not, tell them where she lived.

"I know where we can sleep," said Viknis. "Perfectly safe, and free as well."

And quite close, as it turned out. It took a lot of whispered argument before Sezhina could be convinced that Viknis might, in this instance, have something worthwhile to offer. At last, and with many a doubtful glance, she suffered the Troubadour to lead them through another maze of streets—he was going to take the Street of Apothecaries, but Kendik vetoed that option—to a carved gate opening onto a courtyard. Just inside the gate was a statue of a voluptuous woman, naked, her arms spread wide.

"These are the Houses of Garlen," said Viknis, "and they turn away none who come seeking refuge and healing. It's a lot better place than the street to spend the night when you've had one too many goblets of wine."

"No wonder you like it," said Sezhina nastily.

The Houses were located on the two sides of the courtyard, fronted by a low colonnade. At the far end of the courtyard was a larger building, from which, as the group advanced, two women emerged. "Welcome to the Houses of Garlen," one said. "We accept all who seek shelter and healing, so long as they mean no harm to the questors of Garlen or to those whom we have taken into our care. In return, we will protect you, soothe the wounds of the spirit, and heal the wounds of the body."

The two women approached them and, without touching them, began some kind of assessment or examination. The taller woman's gaze lingered on him, and for a moment, Kendik felt a tingling sensation pass through his body. There was an old man in his home village who had complained of pains in his arm one day, then, without any other warning, fallen down dead. Kendik hoped the same thing was not about to happen to him.

But whatever the women saw or sensed in Kendik did not concern them. It was Sezhina and Anarya who held their attention, so much so that the questors of Garlen called up reinforcements in the shape of a third, older women. She got Sezhina and Anarya to stand apart from the rest of the group, and conducted what were clearly magical tests on them. Lights played about them; they were obscured, momentarily, by darkness; a high-pitched, unearthly note shrilled for an instant in the late afternoon air.

"I wish I knew more about such magic," said Kendik.

"I wouldn't mess with it if I were you, dearie," said Qualia. "It only leads to trouble."

"I can detect no harm that these two mean to the questors of Garlen," said the magician at last, "and nor do they mean any harm to those we shelter. Yet there is something between them, some connection, that I cannot fathom."

"Perhaps I can help you," said Sezhina. "You see, we are family, Anarya and I. I am her mother's sister."

The magician raised an eyebrow, but said nothing further, and returned them to the care of the other two women. Anarya, Qua-lia, and Kendik were all dying to know more, but Sezhina forbade explanations until they had been assigned a room, taken a bath, eaten a simple but filling meal at the long table in the refectory, and returned to their room: simple, even spartan, but a study in order and beauty all the more welcome after the chaos and squalor of the prison. Viknis retreated to a corner and scattered his possessions about him until he felt more at home. Atlan lay sleeping with his back turned to all of them. The rest of them gathered round to hear Sezhina tell her story.

"Do you remember your grandmother Isuassa?" she asked Anarya. "She was your mother's mother, and my mother as well."

"No. I do not believe that I ever met her, or even heard my parents mention her."

"I am not surprised. In the years of your childhood, there were many strange sects and cults within Kaer Volost: cults of despair formed by those who believed that the surface world was closed to them forever. Two years after your mother was born, Isuassa became pregnant with me. The ability to bear more than one child was a rare and precious thing in those days, yet after I was born, my mother sank into despair herself. She found solace in the doom-haunted whisperings of one of the cults that lurked in the deep caverns long since abandoned by the rest of the kaer, and from time to time, sent acolytes to harvest new recruits from the well-lit levels above. Isuassa left my father—who was dead soon afterwards in any case, killed in one of the deep galleries when the roof col-lapsed—and went to live in the depths of the kaer, where members of the Council and their families would never dream of going.

"I grew up in darkness: in dark tunnels, where every glimmer of light was precious, and in the darkness of the cult's beliefs. They were waiting to be eaten, and did not know whether they would be devoured by rock, darkness, or the Horrors they longed and feared to encounter.

"Yet Isuassa loved me in her way, and, I suppose, protected me from the worst the cult might have done to me. We children of the cult made the darkness our home, and played in corridors long abandoned, far enough from the chidings of the priests that we could laugh and sing and bring a little life to that lifeless place.

"When I was sixteen, the cult underwent a schism. News had filtered down that the Council planned to send an expedition to the outside world. Our chief priest announced that we should join that expedition, not to find freedom, but to seek out, and lead back to the kaer, those Horrors who would put an end to the agony of existence."

"Then it was you!" said Anarya, recoiling in horror. "It was you who let the Eaters in!"

"It was not I," said Sezhina. "I had left the kaer by then. But it may be that some twisted plan of the cult resulted in the fate that befell Kaer Volost. If I had had any part in such activities, do you think I would have passed the scrutiny of Garlen's magician?"

Anarya subsided, but she continued to keep her distance from her aunt.

"As I say, there was a schism. My mother and many of her friends denounced the chief priest's plan as heresy. Blades were drawn. I saw my mother cut down before my eyes, and I ran still deeper into the tunnels, into lands where nothing grew and nothing lived that did not share the slow, blind life of rock and stone.

"I could not long survive there. By night, I made my way back through the territory of my mother's killers, twice escaping death by a hand's breadth. I learnt harsh lessons about life, death, and survival. Slowly, stealing food and water along the way, I made my way towards the surface, towards the lighted lands. I saw your mother, and your father, and I saw you, and envied you your childhood and your freedom. But you did not see me, and I passed on.

"I had arrived at an auspicious time. The first expedition from the kaer had gone out. At the time appointed for its return, the side gate had been opened, and as quickly closed again. Those who opened it said that there was nothing outside but blackness, and the smell of blood. All the same, the Council decreed a second expedition. Volunteers were few, and they could not be too choosy about who they included. I volunteered, and I was chosen."

"My mother watched that expedition leave," said Anarya.

"I was cloaked, hooded, booted. She would never have recognized me. We were let out the sally port, and the sun burned our eyes."

Sezhina sighed. "We had seen paintings of the view we were now looking at, but the faded paint on ancient parchment had not prepared us for the clear air, the endless sky. We had never seen anything so beautiful.

"Then, only yards from the door, we found the torn bodies and cracked bones of the first expedition. That gave us pause for a while, but as there was neither sign nor scent of danger in the air, we decided to walk a little further round the shoulder of the mountain. A fever of eagerness had taken me, and, while the others took each step in fear and trembling, I strode on ahead. After all, I more than half believed that I had been born as food for Horrors; now I would come to them, and bid them take me if they dared.

"But they did not take me. Of a sudden, I heard the screams behind me, and then the unearthly howls of laughter, the gnashing of great jaws. I ran down the mountainside, away from the place of slaughter. Though I ran in panic, it saved my life, for the Horrors preferred the easy pickings near the entrance to the kaer. I ran, and the cries diminished, until at last there were none.

"I learned to live under the open air, to hunt for my food, to sleep with one eye half open, and eight days later I turned a corner and saw a young man from another kaer, leading his own expedition to test the air of the outside world. When I had passed all their tests—for they feared me a creature of the Horrors at first—they accepted me into their kaer, and when at length that kaer was opened and the people made their way into the outside world, I went out with my young man, and we lived as man and wife together under the shadow of the mountains.

"One day, I came home from the far fields to find him dead, crushed under a tree he had been felling. Then I took his sword, and found an adept, and went out into the world to live on my wits and the sharpness of my blade. And at length I heard word of you, Anarya, and came back to see if I could find you."

"Why did you not declare yourself right away?"

"Because I have learned caution, and know that there is much in the world which is not as it seems. I had to be sure that you were really you. And now I am sure, and I will call you sister."

Then they embraced, and many tears flowed; and at length tears and stories alike ended, and they slept.

In the night, Kendik woke to hear shouting and the sound of running feet in the courtyard. Then the voices of the questors of Garlen were raised, and there was quiet again.

They woke before dawn, packed, left a token of their appreciation for the sanctuary they had received, and went out into the streets.

"Quiet today," said Qualia. They were within two blocks of the North Gate when they heard marching feet enter the street behind them. "Keep walking," hissed Sezhina, and they did, stepping to one side as the guards hurried past. Some were in armor. All had swords, and a few also carried crossbows. They hurried on ahead, and Kendik's group followed cautiously behind.

They stopped short at the sight of the gate. It was closed, as would still be expected at this hour, but the wide street in front of it was filled with heavily armed guards, citizens carrying whatever weapons they possessed, and, off to the side, bystanders young and old, watching on with nervous anticipation. Guards with torches patrolled the walls. Suddenly, one fell backwards with a cry, and the others ducked for cover.

Kendik tilted up his head to see better, and as he did, his hood fell off. Before he could pull it back up, an excited young voice called "Duke Kendik! Duke Kendik has come to lead the defense!"

Chapter 12

Kendik's first response was to pull his hood back over his head. But it was too late for that. Although most of the crowd paid no attention to the commotion, a small contingent gathered in front of a tavern called the Wayfarer's Inn began clapping and cheering. "Over here, over here!" called a familiar voice.

Kendik turned to his companions for advice, only to discover that they had gone. He looked around wildly—was that Viknis' cloak, disappearing into the crowd? But the crowd was full of movement, some of its own volition, others because guards were pushing them back to clear the road to the gate. He was on his own.

He felt exposed standing in the roadway, so, with nothing better to do, he walked over to what was clearly the Pust contingent. Lethik was there, and Sakara, and their children. It had been Natrass who has spotted him, and the boy was hopping up and down in excitement.

Kendik had a sudden desire to shorten the height of the boy's leaps with one swing of his sword. After getting so close to freedom, it was maddening to have been found out by a moment's inattention and the sharpness of young eyes. But, as quickly as it had come, the feeling left him. To these people, he was Duke Kendik. He would play his part.

"I saw you!" said Natrass. "I saw you, and I called out."

"I'm sorry about that, milord," said Lethik.

"Father's got something for you, too!" said Natrass. "I found it in the garden. I saw your Name on it!"

And Vulumensthetika's crumpled letter was pressed into his hand. "In your garden?" said Kendik weakly.

"It's hardly a garden," Lethik said apologetically. "But our friend Belleraria found an empty house we could stay in when we came to the town. I've been teaching the boy to read, but even so, I didn't believe him when he said he'd found a parchment with your Name on it."

"I stopped reading when I saw your Name," added Natrass. "I thought it might be private."

"Thank you," said Kendik. "I thought this was lost forever." He tried a smile for size.

"Well, now," said Lethik, "I'm sure you have more important things to do than talk with us."

Kendik considered that. "I'm not sure that I do. I have been on other duties for the past few days, and have only just returned. What is happening?"

There was a scream and a thump from somewhere above them. Instinctively, they moved back closer to the tavern, its stuccoed front and sturdy walls protecting them from whatever lay beyond the town wall.

"After you returned to Borzim, those t'skrang hung about in Pust for a bit, making a nuisance of themselves."

"They did more than make a nuisance," said Sakara. "They dismantled the water race."

"All that work smashed to pieces! I was furious, but what could I do?"

"I'm sorry to hear it," said Kendik. "But tell me, what happened then?"

"On the night of the second day—it was a foggy night, as usu-al—they pulled out. I sleep like an obsidiman, but a change in the breeze will wake Sakara, and she—"

"I got up to find the front door open and the boys' boots missing," interrupted Sakara. "The young fools had gone to find out what was going on. Fortunately, we caught up with them before they could get in further trouble."

"We followed the t'skrang right to the west edge of town," said Natrass, "and we could hear them trampling over the fields. We were just working out what to do next when Mother caught us."

"This one wanted to go back home," said the eldest brother scornfully.

"I did not!" protested Natrass. "That's a—"

"Boys!" said Sakara sternly. "Is this any way to behave in front of our benefactor, Duke Kendik?"

The boys stopped arguing. Kendik smiled sympathetically at them, then, recollecting himself, said "They went to the west?"

"Seems they went straight to the Opthia and took ship," said Lethik. "We woke up in the morning and it was as if they'd never been there, 'cept for a bit of mess in the tavern. We set about rebuilding the water race. It wasn't easy, what with the—"

"Why did you come to Borzim?" interrupted Kendik.

"Sorry, milord, sorry. We're here because they came back. I didn't know there were that many t'skrang in the world—armies of them, and more coming up the river by ship."

"They weren't all t'skrang!" put in Natrass. "I saw orks as well. I'd never seen an ork before. They look fierce!"

"Mercenaries, I guess. Did they drive you out?"

"They tore down the water race again and said they'd come for good this time. That was it for most of us. We packed up whatever we could and headed south. They let us through their armies, but we were held up at the North Gate for quite a while before the guards would let us in. Without Belleraria's help, we'd have had nowhere to stay."

"Have you money?"

"It's kind of you to ask, milord. We had hard times of it on our way here, but Belleraria—"

"All the same," said Kendik, and handed over one of his two remaining silver coins.

"You're most kind, milord, most kind—"

The conversation was terminated abruptly. A hand snaked out of the gloom beside the tavern and grabbed Kendik's arm. He resisted at first, until he realized that the hand belonged to Sezhina. With a muttered apology and a hasty wave, he left Lethik in mid-reminiscence.

"No telling the ways of the gentry," said Sakara, staring after him.

Kendik found the rest of his ragtag band huddled in the alleyway between the tavern and the house to its right. From the end of the alleyway came a ripe, complex smell that told him that a lot of organic matter had been cooped up here together for a long time. It wasn't a place he would choose to linger, but at least they were out of the light.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"I don't share your suicidal urge to chatter with everyone you know, despite the fact you're an escaped fugitive under sentence of torture and death," said Sezhina. "I've been looking for a way out of here."

"Found one?"

"No."

"Use tunnels," said a voice. It took them a moment to realize it was Atlan.

Part of Kendik's mind rejoiced to see that Atlan had revisited the land of the living from whatever netherworld he had been occupying, but another part was weighing the odds. If the safe house, the only entrance to the tunnels he knew, was being guarded by the Falcons, then returning there would be a guarantee of a long and messy death. But if they weren't being guarded, then the town lay open to the t'skrang army—surely T'shifa hadn't been the only t'skrang who knew about the tunnels.

Kendik was already quite sure that he was no friend of Lord Tesek, but he did not fancy having the blood of civilians on his conscience because he had failed to warn the defenders of the town about the threat that lay beneath their feet.

"Atlan's right," he said. "But we'll have to be careful."

If it had been difficult to make their way inconspicuously to the North Gate in the hour before dawn, it was even more difficult to make their way back through the town now that it was awake and astir. There was an extra desperation in the cursing and the haggling over bargains. The inhabitants of Borzim—those, that is, who weren't making their way to the North Gate to join the growing throng of the curious—had heard what was afoot, and were stocking up for a long siege. Twice, Kendik saw fights break out between shopkeepers and the queuing customers who would not believe that there was no more bread, nor fruit, nor wine. Qualia's sword tip twitched with the urge to restore order, but both Sezhina and Viknis whispered some sense into her.

They tried to keep to the back streets, but at one point, Kendik lost his bearings, and had to return to the main road from the gate to regain them. Here, the guards were making their presence felt, clearing pedestrians and carts alike away from the center of the road. The carters, an independent breed, did not take kindly to this. One was telling the guards, in loud and fluent language, exactly where they could stick their cavalry, and other carters were lending verbal support from the sidelines. This provided enough of a distraction to let their well-behaved little group slip by unmolested.

They approached the safe house with the caution of a field mouse who feels the sun on her back being dimmed by the shadow of a falcon. Inconspicuous as noonday shadows, they gathered in an alleyway opposite.

There was no sign of trouble. This seemed to alarm Sezhina even more than a battalion of armed guards would have done. She told them several times that she didn't like it, not at all, and then announced that since somebody had to check the place out, it may as well be her. Nobody tried to dissuade her. She flitted across the street and into the lane. They heard the small sound of a door being opened. Then there was silence.

Time moved as slowly as the water in the marshes of the Mist Swamps. Then Sezhina reappeared in the lane and motioned them across. Trying to look as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they sauntered across to join her.

"Place is deserted," she whispered. "I found your tunnel. The entrance to it is open. I can hear sounds from down there, but too far away to make out."

Kendik shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know any other way out," he said.

Somebody had been in the safe house since Kendik left. They had searched the place, but taken care not to cause damage. There were still carrots and parsnips left in the pantry. Viknis reached for a carrot, but Sezhina slapped his hand away. "Might be poisoned," she said.

"I'm starving," grumbled Viknis, but he left the food alone.

Kendik was hungry, too, but hunger and fear were overridden by the desire to escape Borzim, whatever perils might lie outside. He had managed to talk his way out of t'skrang trouble before, and thought he could do so again if he had to. "I think we should take the plunge," he said.

"I agree," said Sezhina. She produced a light quartz from her bag, and Qualia did likewise from hers. Sezhina took the front. Anarya followed Sezhina. Next came Kendik, leading Atlan by the hand. "You're going right where I can keep an eye on you," Qualia told Viknis, and since she was taking the rear, that meant he had to walk in front of her. A bizarre procession of arms, legs, and backs, they crawled their way into the tunnel.

When Kendik had entered Borzim through these tunnels, he had been wet, cold, and worried about whether they would find an exit, but he did not recall being scared of the tunnels themselves. Now, despite the presence of his companions, faintly visible in the light from ahead and behind, he felt the walls pressing in on him, and for a moment, had the panicky sense that he couldn't go on. He forced his legs to move him another step forward, then another. At least the roof was getting a little higher, so that he could stand.

Then they all stopped, bumping into each other.

"What—?"

"I've reached the junction," whispered Sezhina. "Whatever's making the noises is down the way you said you came. Where does the other way go?"

"No idea," said Kendik. "We never explored it."

Sezhina made a muted sound of exasperation. "Well, we can't stay here for the rest of our lives. I'm going to push forward towards the river. The rest of you wait here until I return."

Sezhina and her quartz disappeared to the right. The rest of them sat as comfortably as they could and waited.

Why does she get to give the orders?, thought Kendik. I'm the duke around here. Then he recollected himself, and smiled wryly. His mother had told him the usual stories of orphans, abandoned in the woods, raised by wolves or peasants, who, by a chain of miraculous or magical coincidences, had been revealed as chiefs or kings and claimed the throne of their people. But he knew whose child he was. He had his mother's brown eyes, sharp nose, and long fingers. He had his father's lanky height and unruly shock of dark brown hair. He wondered whether he had his father's prowess in battle, though he had seen none of that for himself; it was all in the tales his father told him on those rare nights when he was home and felt prepared to give something of himself to the boy.

"I love you," he whispered to Anarya, just in front of him.

"I can't—" began Anarya, but she was interrupted by the sound and light of Sezhina returning. The older woman did not look happy. "There's a detachment of guards down the tunnel that leads to the Opthia," she whispered, voice pitched even softer than Kendik's had been. "I think they're trapping the tunnel. Once they've finished, they'll have to come back this way. We need to get out of here before they do."

Kendik was opening his mouth to reply when they were hit by the shock wave of an explosion. Sezhina was thrown forward by the blast and slammed into Anarya, who in turn hit the wall. Kendik, just inside the tunnel that led from the safe house, was buffeted by the shock wave in the enclosed space, and banged his head hard against the tunnel wall. Behind him, he heard the rumble of loosened rock, and then a cry of pain from Qualia. The noise and the buffeting died away, and there was silence.

Silence until Viknis yelled "Help my mother!" so loudly that Kendik could hear it above the ringing in his ears.

That was much easier said than done. Sezhina and Anarya were both badly bruised and cut. Anarya, caught between Sezhina and the wall, had come off a little the worse. Once Sezhina found her light quartz, she and Anarya moved as far back as they could to allow Kendik—shaken, bruised, with a bowl-shaped lump already forming on his head—and Atlan out. Atlan showed no great signs of either animation or injury. It was just one more strange dream in his long slumber.

That left Viknis and Qualia. Viknis had been banged about, and worse, his precious lute had been broken. But it was his mother he was really worried about.

"The roof fell in on her," he told Sezhina. "She's got a lump of rock on her chest, and she doesn't sound good."

"Can you lift it?"

"I can barely move one corner."

"I'm strong, but I bet Atlan's stronger than me. He's going to lift that rock, and we're going to pull Qualia out."

It wasn't easy. Getting Atlan to grasp what had to be done, and then getting him in position to do it, was hard enough, but they also had to get Qualia out. In the end, they worked out that if At-lan squatted almost over Qualia's head and straightened up as he lifted, Sezhina, crouching just behind him, would be able to reach between his legs and pull Qualia out. Kendik, meanwhile, held the light quartz as close as he could.

"When I say 'Lift' ", Sezhina told Atlan, "you're going to lift that rock. Are you sure you know what to do?"

Atlan nodded once.

"Lift!"

The big man got both hands under the masonry and lifted. Slowly, slowly the weight lifted from Qualia. Sezhina grabbed her arms and dragged, despite Qualia's whimpers of pain. It was Qua-lia's great good fortune that, although the roof had fallen in completely just behind her, her legs and feet were clear.

Atlan gave a grunt of effort. His shoulders began to sag. "Hurry!" said Kendik. Sezhina pulled Qualia the rest of the way clear, and Atlan dropped the rock with a cry. A few more pieces of brick fell down, and for a moment, Kendik feared the whole tunnel would collapse on top of them.

But it didn't. "Where does it hurt the most?" Sezhina asked.

"Ribs."

She felt carefully along the left side of Qualia's body. "Couple broken, I'd say. What about your legs?"

"They still work. I wish I'd never met you."

"You're still alive, aren't you? Not all who've met me can say that. Let's move you into the main tunnel—that looks a bit less likely to collapse. Got your healing kit?"

"Yes. But it won't mend a broken rib."

"You're right there, but we can deal with most of the rest of the damage. Then I'll bind you up as best I can, and we'll have to move on."

It seemed to Kendik, waiting in the half-light, that it took an eternity before Sezhina pronounced herself satisfied and Qualia, still wincing, climbed gingerly to her feet. "Ow," she said, then, after walking a few steps, she said "ow" again. She had become a woman of few words, and none of them long.

They didn't have to go far to confirm that the direct route to the river was blocked. Two hundred or so paces from the junction, the roof had caved in spectacularly—so much so, in fact, that a chink of light from above showed through. Anarya, the slimmest among them, climbed up for a look but reported that, if they solved the problem of getting through the tiny gap, they would emerge in a busy street. "I saw the boots of a couple of guards," she reported when they had moved back from the cave-in. "No sense going that way."

"Looks like the guards were too keen to set off that trap," commented Sezhina, looking down at a brown-clad arm protruding from the rubble. "Well, there's only one way left to try."

They returned to the T-junction and took the tunnel that led to the left. It was narrow, but tall enough that everyone save Atlan could walk without ducking their heads. It carried on without deviation for so long that Kendik lost track of the paces he had been counting. It seemed to him that he had been walking for ever in this netherworld, one light quartz shining faintly from ahead, the other (now held by Anarya, who had dropped back to take the rear) shining faintly from behind. Strange phantoms of the astral plane began to trouble his mind. He fancied that he heard voices calling, seeking him out. They lived in the outer darkness, and they were searching for warm flesh and a warm soul to devour. He walked on a dark plane, an insignificant speck moving through the great darkness.

"Air is changing," said Atlan, surprising them. It was true. A richer, more complex smell was wafting from the tunnel ahead of them. It became stronger as they resumed their journey. It was the smell of the River Opthia, and since they were underground, this was not reassuring.

The tunnel turned sharply to the left and widened so they could stand two abreast. The smell was stronger, and now they could faintly hear the splash of water. Their way was blocked by an iron door that appeared to be rusted in place.

"How—" began Kendik, but Sezhina motioned for silence. "Back," she mouthed. As they shuffled backwards, Kendik saw that the iron in the middle of the door was changing color. Then, almost too suddenly to follow, it melted away. The remains of the door fell inwards, and were followed by a rush of water that swirled about their feet and began to rise up their legs. Following the water came a group of t'skrang. Their leader had a bandage on her snout. She stopped and looked at them.

"You again," said T'shifa.

Chapter 13

Kendik's first thought was to take out his sword and wipe the smirk from T'shifa's face forever. His second thought was to see whether he could turn this meeting to his advantage. Before he could decide, the sound of splashing and curses, quickly hushed, came from behind them.

"The guards are after us!" hissed Anarya.

"Move out of the way," Kendik told T'shifa, "or we're coming through you."

T'shifa gave a dry chuckle, and said "Come with us instead."

Beyond the melted door was a short, arched tunnel, about thirty paces in length. One end was open to the sun, and to the sight and smell of the River Opthia, glistening in the light. A channel—the source of the water that had swirled in on them—ran from the Opthia up the center of the tunnel, and there were stone-flagged paths on either side.

"You take that side, we'll take this," said T'shifa.

While the nine t'skrang deployed themselves on one path, Kendik and his five companions squeezed onto the other. Tiptoeing past each other, they arranged themselves so that Kendik, Sezhina, and Anarya were nearest the melted door, and Qualia and Atlan, the most wounded in body or spirit, were furthest away.

Over the flow of the water, they could hear the sound of stealthy movement. T'shifa stood, scimitar in hand, right beside the mouth of the small tunnel. A head poked through—a head that flew from its body before its eyes could fully widen in shock. Another guard followed, and this time, she almost had time to raise her sword before she died.

"Now!" said T'shifa. Four of the t'skrang jumped in the channel and sped with dreadful eagerness into the flooded tunnel. T'shifa remained, smiling at Kendik.

"Once again we come to your aid," she said.

Kendik did not answer. He was too busy listening to the sounds of slaughter coming from the tunnel, as men and women whose only crime was to wear the blue and brown of Tesek's guards lost their lives to enemies who could see, move, and strike with ease in water and near darkness.

The t'skrang reappeared, wet and bloodied.

"Did you kill them all?" asked T'shifa.

"No. Two ran as soon as we entered the tunnel. By the time we fought our way through the rest, they were gone."

"So. They will come in force soon. We must go, and report the failure of both our attempts. I fear Vulumensthetika will be unhappy with me. But what's new in that?"

T'shifa looked across at Kendik. "I take it you were trying to escape from this place?"

"Yes," Kendik replied. There didn't seem much point in lying.

"You didn't make a very good job of it, then. We're still inside the town walls."

"You must have got in," said Kendik.

"Your powers of deduction grow ever sharper, Your Excellence. But can all of you swim under water?"

No reply.

"Then you'll have to learn fast."

The one thing that reassured Kendik, as he lowered himself into the turbid waters of the Opthia and felt the water cling to him like a clammy second skin, was that no one lingered near the Opthia if they could help it. He remembered how much he had loved picnicking with his mother, and occasionally his father as well, near the stream that flowed through their home village. But no one would willingly picnic by the Opthia, not after it had ingested the wastes of Borzim on its journey through the town.

So, dog paddling with only their heads above water, the six of them were able to float unseen and unheard down the Opthia towards its exit from the town. Occasionally, a t'skrang head would surface near them, grab a breath, and dive back under. They passed crumbling walls; pipes which dribbled a noxious green goo into the water; and the occasional plant, leaves gray and limp, struggling to survive by the river bank. One sprawled across a pile of bones.

Twice, they passed the bloated carcasses of pigs.

T'shifa surfaced for a moment. "Almost there," she said. "Get ready to dive."

Disconsolately, Viknis removed his broken lute from under his coat. "I'll catch up with you on the other side," he said, and set it floating ahead of him.

As they floated around a gentle bend in the river, they saw the outer wall, stretching high above them. It spanned the river as well. Just above the level of the stream, a metal grill had been set in place to prevent anyone entering by water. Clearly, it had not done its job.

"Dive!" said T'shifa, and they dived. It was hardest for Qua-lia, and for Atlan, so t'skrang seized their arms and dragged them downwards. Kendik counted himself a good swimmer, but he was no match for Anarya or Sezhina. The two of them swam as if born in the water, and they quickly drew ahead of him. Kendik forced himself grimly downwards. As he began to feel he had reached the limit of his endurance, he saw that a Name-giver-sized hole had been created in the bottom right corner of the grill. A t'skrang hung, seemingly effortlessly, in the water, ready to help him through. It was a squeeze—his body wasn't as limber as a t'skrang's—but eventually he made it, and shot upwards, almost banging his head on the base of the wall when he surfaced, drawing in great gulps of air.

Sezhina, Anarya, and several of the t'skrang were already there, and Viknis and his mother popped up almost together. But Kend-ik was beginning to worry by the time Atlan appeared, gasping hoarsely. "Got stuck," Atlan said. "Pulled me through. Hurt leg."

It was the most Kendik had heard him say since his beating.

The wall must have been at least ten feet thick, and they were well sheltered beneath it. But T'shifa was anxious to be gone.

"We can't stay here," she said. "This is the dangerous part. The defenders are looking out and down, so there's every chance they'll see you. Go right to the outside edge of the wall, take a deep breath, and dive. We'll help you."

Animated by some vestige of the herd instinct, they moved together to the very edge of the overhang, looking out at the river ahead of them. On the right, there was a small dock that had sometimes been used by t'skrang trading vessels—those that were shallow-drafted enough to get up the river—in happier times. Now it was deserted. On the left, cut-down tree stumps separated the river from the fields beyond.

"Now!" said T'shifa, and dove. This time, he felt a t'skrang claw close over his hand. He was pulled through the water faster than he would have thought possible. At first, it was exhilarating. Then it was terrifying, as he fought the overwhelming urge to breathe. Just as his mouth forced itself open against his will, the t'skrang let go of his hand, and he shot up to the surface, gasping for breath. Around him, he heard the others doing likewise. Then there was a new sound: a whir, a sizzle.

"Dive!" called a familiar voice.

Kendik never forgot what he saw as the t'skrang pulled him under again: an arrow, fletched with bubbles, sinking gently towards the murky bottom of the river. Another dizzying haul through the underwater world, another gasping return to the surface. Again they heard the whine of arrows, but this time, they fell short.

"Now you can swim on the surface," said T'shifa. "I doubt they'll bother to use anything more powerful."

So they did, letting the current—a little stronger here, outside the town—carry them downstream. Kendik looked back at the walls. Small figures swarmed, heads showing over the parapet. One or two more arrows sailed towards them, falling so far short that he could not hear them splash. As the river curved to the north, Kendik could see the West Gate, and the road that led to it from the dock.

For all that had happened since they left the Houses of Garlen, it was still only mid-morning. The sun was shining. The fields on either side of the river had been abandoned by peasants and guards, and the birds had the pickings to themselves. A vole climbed out of the water and hurried off into the sedges at the river's edge. The scene was almost peaceful.

They passed under the arched bridge that carried the main road from the West Gate across the river, then drifted on a little further before T'shifa said it was time to get out.

They dragged themselves out on the east riverbank—last of all Viknis, who had been hoping to find his lute drifted up in the shallows. They made a sad and sorry bunch, dripping wet, stinking of the Opthia, and festooned with weeds. The gentle breeze was enough to start them shivering.

"This way," said T'shifa, leading them off downriver.

They had walked on no more than a hundred yards when trouble sought them out. With a clank that echoed hollowly from the walls, the West Gate opened, and a group of black-clad horsemen sped out of Borzim towards the bridge.

"You run!" said T'shifa, and disappeared back into the river.

There was no point in concealment, for the Falcons had spotted them. Kendik's long strides took him quickly to the front, and Atlan was not far behind. A quick look back revealed Sezhina and Anarya matching strides behind him, but, to his alarm, he saw that Qualia was dropping well behind, and Viknis was staying with her. Part of his mind, colder and more calculating than he had thought himself to be, told him that Viknis and Qualia were, after all, expendable. The better part made him stop, and turn, and run back to aid them. Atlan turned and followed.

Outdistancing his fellows rode a Falcon with spear poised. His cloak was thrown back, and his hair streamed in the wind. He was perhaps twenty strides behind Qualia and Viknis. He drew his arm back, ready to dispatch his chosen foe—and fell from the saddle, his heart pierced by a thrown dagger.

"Good," said Atlan.

The riderless horse raced past them. "Come on!" yelled Kend-ik, reaching Qualia and Viknis. The three of them put in an extra spurt of effort, though Qualia was grimacing with every gulp of breath. They were approaching a small rise in the land, no more than a hillock, but climbing it seemed to sap the last energy from their legs. As they reached the summit, running now almost in line abreast, Kendik heard Anarya cry out. An arrow from a Falcon's bow had lodged in her right arm, just below the shoulder. Sezhina and Kendik, two souls with one thought, grabbed her and carried her over the crest of the incline as more arrows flew past them.

Then everything happened at once. Stretched out below them, next to the river, they saw the tents and fires of the t'skrang army. T'shifa called something from near the water's edge. And, from the grass around them, mighty figures rose, uttered a hoarse battle cry, and charged. The t'skrangs' ork mercenaries, guarding the encampment, had entered the fray.

The orks had spears, and were on foot. The Falcons were mounted, and had spears, swords, and bows; but the Falcons, for all their fearsome reputation, were more suited to torturing and killing unarmed civilians than engaging in actual fighting with a determined foe. Besides, the orks had the advantage of surprise. In moments, three more horses were riderless, and the eight remaining Falcons had called off the attack. They circled out of spear range for a while, firing arrows—two of which found targets in ork flesh—before retreating to the comparative safety of the town with a final cry of "Death to the traitors!" lingering in the air.

While Sezhina applied a tourniquet to Anarya's arm, Kendik looked back at the aftermath of the battle, at the orks tending to their wounded comrades and the group of horsemen returning to Borzim. How did one go about thanking an ork war band?

He didn't get the chance. "Come on," said Sezhina. "We still need to get this arrow out of her, and Qualia's ribs need proper attention."

Kendik and Sezhina shepherded their walking wounded through the lines of the t'skrang encampment, heading for the cluster of larger tents at its center. They were all pretty much done in—wet, cold, and hungry—and Kendik, at least, felt only a distant, inconsequential fear at being in the heart of the t'skrang forces. He was actually relieved to see T'shifa when she materialized from among the tents.

"Food and medicine, then I'll take you to see Vulumensthetika. I'm sure she's looking forward to a little chat with you."

"Is she the one responsible for all this, then?"

T'shifa gave her dry laugh again. "Vulumensthetika? She'd like to think so, but no, she doesn't have that kind of power. We could have killed you in that tunnel, you know. Remember that when you speak with her."

"Why aren't you dead?" asked Kendik.

"You really must stop believing everything you're told," replied T'shifa. "My broken jaw was real enough, and the pain was intense, but it certainly wasn't fatal. Whoever told you it would be?"

"You did," said Kendik.

T'shifa laughed again. "Precisely."

"You need someone looking after you, my lad," said Sezhina.

"I'm sick of having someone look after me," Kendik replied irritably.

"Stop bickering and get on with it, would you?" said Viknis. "We've got sick and injured people here."

Abashed, Kendik let T'shifa lead them to the healers' tent. She left them just outside the entrance, promising to rejoin them later. "Don't hurry," muttered Kendik to her retreating back.

No sooner had they entered than t'skrang descended on them from all directions. "I'm not wounded!" Kendik protested, as a richly robed t'skrang commenced upon an examination of his body that was rather more intimate than he was used to.

They were all bumped, bruised, bloodied, and scraped. The t'skrang's healing magic flowed over Kendik like a warm balm, leaving him calm and refreshed. The t'skrang gave Anarya something to dull pain, then removed the arrow and used a combination of healing magic and bandaging to restore most of the use of her arm. They wanted to splint it, but Anarya refused.

Qualia's ribs needed rest and time to knit together, but the t'skrang bandage would do a better job of protecting her than the field dressing Sezhina had applied. As for Atlan—he bore their attentions stoically, but other than resisting when they tried to take the blue stones from him to examine them, showed little reaction. "This one has been injured in mind and spirit, as well as in body," the chief healer, a slim oasis of calm amid the frantic activity, said. "We cannot heal such wounds here."

"Will he get better?" asked Kendik.

"I hope so," the healer replied. Then he turned to Viknis. "We do have something for what ails this one."

"There's nothing wrong with me," said Viknis.

"Your hands yearn for the touch of music," said the t'skrang. " And therefore ..." He waved, and another t'skrang came forward with a lute.

"By Jaspree!" said Viknis. "This is good work. Not elvish, but good. Is it for me?"

"While you are our guest, you are welcome to play it."

Viknis was delighted, and entranced. His fingers explored the soundboard, the strings, the grain of the wood. Softly, hesitantly at first, he began to play.

"That's that," said Qualia, coming over to join Kendik. "You won't get a word out of him for days."

Kendik wasn't quite sure what to say to her. He and Sezhina had, after all, dragged Qualia and her son into the middle of a war, and fetched up on the other side of it.

As if she had guessed his thoughts, Qualia grinned at him and said "Don't worry, young man. My whole life has been like this. One minute, I was a young woman in a village near Darranis, wondering whether anything worthwhile would ever happen in my life. The next, I was married, pregnant, and living in Vorst. Then my husband was killed in battle. Then I followed a man to Borzim. My previous partner in the guards was a man, too. When he retired and they decided I should teach Sezhina the ropes, I thought, at least a woman won't get me into any trouble. But these things happen. Sorry for anything bad I said when I was injured, Sezhina. My son's safe, and whatever you might think of these t'skrang, at least they're treating us well."

"They'd be treating us a whole lot better if they gave us some food," said Sezhina.

"Oh yes, food," said the chief healer, who evidently had sharp hearing. "My apologies. T'shifa says that Vulumensthetika requests the pleasure of your company in her tent for the afternoon meal."

Chapter 14

Fish. Kendik had never realized there were so many ways to cook fish. All of them, taken individually, were delicious, but after three fish courses, he didn't really feel he could look another fish in the gills. All the same, it would be rude not to at least pretend to enjoy the meal—especially as, to either side of him, piratish t'skrang were ingesting their meals with great and evident enjoyment, sucking down the succulent flesh and calling out for more.

So he ate as few morsels as he could and used the opportunity to observe his companions and his surroundings. The diners were sitting cross-legged inside a large tent, on a richly patterned carpet, with their plates, drinks, and utensils spread out in front of them on wooden platters. The plain canvas walls of the tent were decorated by tapestries of great subtlety and beauty, illustrating scenes from t'skrang history and mythology. Stylized riverboats and fearsome water creatures abounded. The diners were arranged in a rough oval, with Vulumensthetika at its head, surrounded by her courtiers and advisers.

It had been clear from the first time Kendik met her that Vu-lumensthetika was a t'skrang of power and repute, but it was only now, seeing her in her pomp, that Kendik realized just how important she must be in House Ishkarat. He fingered the crumpled letter in his pocket. Maybe he should have tried a little harder to deliver it, and been less ready to throw it away.

By accident or design, the humans had been separated from each other. To his left, and three t'skrang away, Atlan was sitting blankly, his half-eaten food in front of him. Further round the circle, Viknis and Qualia were one t'skrang apart, and that t'skrang was deep in conversation with Viknis, who was trying to persuade her to let him play a small reed flute the t'skrang had hung from a thong around her neck.

To his right was Anarya, and beyond her Sezhina. Kendik desperately wanted to get some time alone with Anarya—his declaration of love in the tunnel, and her truncated response, were still replaying themselves in his head—but that didn't seem likely any time soon. Anarya was looking pale, even by her standards, but it had not stopped her from polishing off plenty of the fish-based delicacies on offer. She became aware of his gaze and smiled at him. Kendik, smiling back, was aware of an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with fish.

Sezhina had been tucking into the food with all the enthusiasm of the professional adventurer who can never be sure when she will next get the chance to eat. But she, too, had caught Kendik's glance, and was now looking across at him as well. Kendik had never met a person whose true feelings were so hard to read. He had thought she was Anarya's lover. Now she claimed to be Anarya's aunt. Kendik didn't know what to believe, but he did know that it was much better to have Sezhina as a friend than an enemy.

Opposite him, Vulumensthetika clapped her hands. "Music!" she said. Expecting some band of players to appear from the shadows, Kendik was surprised to see several of the diners, including the t'skrang next to Viknis, climb to their feet and retrieve musical instruments from the corners of the tent.

Kendik saw Viknis look on longingly as the musicians, with flute, pipe, lute, and drum, set to work. He was expecting some lengthy, ceremonial piece that would allow him to drift away into his own thoughts, but instead the musicians played tunes he was familiar with, including some his mother had sung to him. Had those tunes been t'skrang in origin? Now he came to think of it, they seemed too lively to have originated from the elves, supposedly the fount of all things musical. There was clearly more to the t'skrang than a spot of river piracy—but as long as no one asked him to play anything, he'd be happy.

The music halted. Looking up, Kendik saw that Viknis' t'skrang neighbor, the flute player, was trying to coax Viknis to join them. In truth, he didn't need much coaxing. With a bashful smile, Viknis got to his feet and joined the group, though he lurked near the back and did not attempt to do more than follow the rhythm on his borrowed lute. Qualia looked on, delighted.

After a couple more tunes, and without any evident signal from Vulumensthetika, the musicians stopped playing, and the crowd of diners dispersed—t'skrang leaving the tent and resuming whatever duties they had among the rest of the army outside. That left Vulumensthetika, T'shifa, one or two other t'skrang whom Kendik assumed to be guards, and the humans, who gathered a little closer to each other, uncertain of what awaited.

Vulumensthetika looked across at Kendik. "We meet again, my duke," she said. "I take it that you never delivered your letter?"

Kendik fought hard not to look embarrassed. "When we returned to Borzim, we found that circumstances had changed."

"Indeed," said Vulumensthetika. "My intelligence network— most of it—taken apart, and its most prominent members hung on poles outside the North Gate. They spared two of my humans, and gave them a message for the shivalahala herself. Needless to say, we did not permit them to enter her presence, but the message was highly insulting—so insulting, when taken in the context of Lord Tesek's recent behavior, that our honor required us to avenge the insult. Hence we did what we would rather not do: gather an army and set out to take the town of Borzim, by sword or by siege."

"Do you command this army?" asked Kendik.

"The army travels under the banner of the House of the Wheel," said Vulumensthetika. She meant it literally: there was a banner behind her, a white paddle wheel set against a red background. "We do the bidding of the shivalahala, of whom I will not speak further. She has entrusted her counselors with various tasks, and it is my task to deal with the Name-givers of Borzim and the plains villages, and with the representatives of Borzim, such as yourselves."

"We do not represent Borzim!" protested Kendik.

"And yet what do I see before me?" replied Vulumensthetika imperturbably. "Two guards of that town, one accompanied by her son, evidently a musician of promise. One who has been passing himself off as no less than a duke, and his companion, a man who lost his brother in the service of Borzim. Only you, my dear," she said, turning to Anarya, "might with some justice proclaim your independence from the ruler of Borzim."

"I am a swordswoman," said Anarya, "and seek to protect virtue and punish wrongdoing."

"Virtue and wrongdoing!" exclaimed Vulumensthetika. "Your aims are lofty indeed. And where, my dear, do you consider that virtue lies in the present situation?"

"I was a prisoner of Lord Tesek," said Anarya. "I have no love for his reign."

"So would say many of Tesek's subjects, had one the chance to question them away from the prying eyes of Tesek's guards. And yet they stay loyal to him, for fear of the alternative."

"Better rule by Tesek than rule by the Ishkarat!" burst out Viknis.

Kendik winced, expecting that Vulumensthetika would have Viknis dragged away to some horrible fate, but, although her snout drew downwards a little in what Kendik fancied to be disapproval, she did not raise her voice.

"What do we of the Ishkarat desire?" Vulumensthetika asked. "Do we desire to foul the waters that feed the Serpent with the filth of our slums and our manufactories? Do we desire to cut down the forests that clothe the land to feed our cooking fires? Do we desire dominion over others?"

"Ask those who died building Axalekso what the Ishkarat desire," said Sezhina. "Ask the slain Marathans whether the Ishkarat desire dominion."

Vulumensthetika hissed, and stood, and drew her scimitar. "Lies!" she said. "Lies put about by our enemies, who seek to cloak their weakness in words. What we of the Ishkarat desire is order, and the right to trade in peace. The shivalahala does not tolerate traitors and rebels in our midst, but what ruler does? Does Lord Tesek? Your own example makes it clear that he does not." She turned to Kendik again. "Twice now I have offered you hospitality. Is this how you repay me, by bringing libel and dissension into my very tent?"

The child in Kendik wanted to dash for the exit, run for the hills, make his way back to his home village and hide under his mother's skirts until the danger was past. The man drew himself up to his full height, overtopping Vulumensthetika by several inches, and took two paces towards her. Her scimitar remained drawn.

"I did not seek your hospitality," he said, "though I thank you for it. Nor do we seek to do you any dishonor. But we are not your subjects, and have the right to act and to speak as seems best to us."

"Fine words, and well said," replied Vulumensthetika. She sheathed her scimitar, though her hand hovered near the hilt of her ceremonial dagger. "But let us stop talking of desire and of honor. Let us speak of practical matters. T'shifa?"

T'shifa, who had sat placidly throughout the previous exchanges, now rose to her feet. "Though Tesek has not learned all the secrets of the tunnels beneath his town, nor of all our safe houses and our agents, it is clear he has learned enough to repel an assault by stealth. We cannot take the town from beneath. As matters stand, we lack the mechanisms or the magic that would allow us to breach the walls, and though some of us—"

"No," said Vulumensthetika. "We will not discuss that matter again."

"As you wish," said T'shifa, snout drawn downwards. "In the air we do not go. That leaves siege, or parlay. Hunger is our most powerful ally. In the end—with losses on our side, perhaps, but losses we can bear—we can bring this town to its knees, and leave its people dying of hunger in the streets."

"Or," said Vulumensthetika, "we could appeal to whatever shreds of reason Lord Tesek still possesses, and ask to talk."

"What would be your terms?" asked Kendik.

"That he and his counselors leave Borzim, never to return. If they ever come within range of Ishkarat ships or crews, they will meet a swift and bloody death. In this, we are being generous, for an insult such as they have delivered us should not go unavenged."

"And who would rule the town then?"

"One who is acceptable to us. Doubtless there are those in Borzim who would put themselves forward once Tesek is gone."

"If you were so certain you could take the town, you wouldn't be offering Tesek a way out," said Sezhina.

"Oh, we can take it," said T'shifa. "But what t'skrang would want to lay siege to a town, when the river flows nearby and the boats are bobbing on the current? And as for our ork friends, they are great fighters, but their services do not come free. Our pockets are not so deep—"

"Silence," hissed Vulumensthetika.

For a moment, as T'shifa and Vulumensthetika glared at each other, Kendik thought that blood would be shed; but then T'shifa shrugged her shoulders, in the most human-like gesture Kendik had seen from her, subsided, and sat down.

"Tesek is an oaf," Vulumensthetika continued, "but some of his advisors have more subtlety. It is whispered that several of them warned him against insulting the House of the Wheel, but, mastered by pride, he would not listen. Even his chief advisor, the Wizard Niatos, could not dissuade him."

"How do you know?" asked Kendik.

"Many of our spies were captured," said T'shifa, "but not all."

"Now," said Vulumensthetika, "Lord Tesek was very clear on the matter of what he would do to any t'skrang who entered within the walls of Borzim. Therefore, we need other emissaries. It seems to me—"

As Kendik realized what she meant, he also realized that a number of other t'skrang—large, sword-bearing t'skrang—were entering the tent. For a moment, Sezhina looked as if she might make a break, either for the entrance or to get her hands round Vulumensthetika's neck, but she did not. It was too late.

Kendik tried his best. "We are fugitives, wanted for our parts in the deaths of three Falcons!" he said. "It would be death to send us back there!"

"We do not think it will be. Yet Lord Tesek is angry with you, so perhaps there will be difficulties. We would not dream of subjecting your injured colleagues to this ordeal, so they will stay with us, to await your return. As you see," said Vulumensthetika, waving languidly at the newcomers, "our healers are anxious to resume their care. We have, I believe, one with damaged ribs, and her son, whose skill with the lute greatly exceeds his skill at holding his tongue. You can practice your playing, young man, and watch over your mother. Then we have the young lady of high ideals, whose shoulder will take some time yet to heal before it can be put to the task of upholding virtue. Clearly, Kendik, who knows our ways and the ways of the town alike, should go. For his companion and protector, I would choose Atlan—you will note that we have waived our previous strictures on his presence in Ishkarat lands—but he is not his right self at present, and is in especial need of our healers' arts. That means that we will send you, Kendik—and I recommend a little less emphasis on your Ducal status when you are in Lord Tesek's presence—and you, Sezhina."

"This is a death warrant for both of us," Sezhina said.

"If it is, then is it any less than you deserve, defender of rebels? But we think that Tesek has had time to reflect on the rashness of his actions. He may not be pleased to see you, but he will listen to what you have to say, and he will read the letter you will carry." She turned to Kendik. "If you feel any urge not to deliver this second letter, Kendik, reflect that the health and welfare of your companions depend on your actions once you leave this tent. I am sure they will be as anxious for the successful completion of your mission as I am."

Vulumensthetika made a signal, and the guards escorted his companions, all but Sezhina, out of the tent. Viknis protested, but it made no difference. There was no time for farewells, and nothing Kendik could do. Anarya threw him a glance and a smile as she left. Then she was gone.

Vulumensthetika handed him another letter, snug within its envelope and seal. "You will deliver this to Lord Tesek, and await his reply. Whatever that reply is, if you bear it back to me and deliver it, you and your companions are free to go in any direction you desire—even to Axalekso, if you wish, to stand on the cliffs high above Lake Vors, and see what marvels of magic and art we have wrought there."

"Even Atlan?"

"Even Atlan."

"And if we do not return?"

"Think only that you shall," said Vulumensthetika.

T'shifa led them outside and handed them over to the care of an ork chieftain and his band. With a white flag of truce held incongruously in the chieftain's massive hand, they left the camp and began to march towards the West Gate. Kendik saw Archers on the walls, but they did not fire. The noises of wind and of the birds were stilled. There was no sound but the ringing of the orks' boots on the stones of the road.

They stopped a spear's throw from the gate. The chieftain walked up to the gates and banged on them with his hand, the hollow "boom" reverberating from the walls.

"Open up!" he said. "The House of the Wheel has a message for Lord Tesek!"

There was a long, tense silence. Then, slowly, the gate opened. Behind it Kendik could see masses of guards, most in blue and brown, a few in black. One stepped forwards.

"Lord Tesek invites the impostor Kendik Dezelek and the traitor Sezhina Chezarin to enter Borzim," she said.

The ranks of the orks parted. Kendik and Sezhina stepped forward. Walking slowly, bearing their swords proudly at their sides, they passed through the gates and advanced towards their fate.

Chapter 15

Lord Tesek had got the builders in. His palace uphill from the Opthia was already ornamented with sheets of beaten gold, gargoyles, statues of various mythologized ancestors, and curlicued pillars. Now he was turning the swept and graveled path that led to his front door into a colonnaded entranceway, and replacing the comparatively modest front porch with a porticoed entrance as opulent as it was tasteless.

When finished, the result would doubtless impress and overawe his neighbors—whose houses, not inconsiderable in themselves, were already cowering in the shadow of the palace—and all his other toiling subjects. At the moment, though, the place was a mess. The slow and solemn progress which Kendik and Sezhina's escorts had contrived from the West Gate to this point was sabotaged by the need to avoid piles of masonry, trenches across which a single plank had reluctantly been laid, and little knots of laborers who were standing round in the late afternoon sun, leaning on shovels and looking as if they owned the place.

"Make a break for it?" muttered Sezhina out of the corner of her mouth, as they passed in single file across the first plank bridge.

Kendik shook his head. His stomach was churning, but for the sake of Anarya and her fellow hostages, he was determined to see this through.

It had been nerve-wracking enough getting this far. A number of citizens had conquered their fear of the Falcons sufficiently to come to jeer at the traitors who, in their minds, personified the threat facing Borzim. There had been no overt violence, but Kendik and Sezhina had been hit by various bits of rubbish—most of it soft and squishy—thrown from the crowd. Their escort had maintained a dignified silence.

Not far past Vyaka Longtusk's tavern, the crowds had petered out, and as the group climbed towards the palace, they had passed the houses of the rich and powerful, whose households had contented themselves with glimpses of the miscreants from their windows.

Now they were almost at the gates of Tesek's palace. Three wide steps of polished marble led up to the building's imposing entryway, though the effect was rather ruined by head-high piles of tiles laid out on the topmost step.

"Halt!" ordered the leader of their escorts. Obligingly, they halted. A runner was dispatched inside the building, and in a few minutes, a new batch of guards, clad in scarlet and gold, marched out the front door. Saluting ensued, and Sezhina and Kendik were handed over to the care of the palace guards. No one was sorry to see the back of the Falcons.

The commander of the new guard detail, a large, square-rigged man, addressed them. "Envoys of the t'skrang!" he said. "You are about to be admitted to the palace of Lord Tesek, ruler of Borzim. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will follow our orders. You will come."

The commander turned on his heel. His detachment surrounded them, giving them no choice but to obey the commander's orders, and escorted them into the palace itself.

If anything, the scene immediately inside was even more chaotic. Teams of workers, shouted at by overseers, were moving a large stone pillar into position to their left. To their right, footings were being prepared for more pillars. Behind these eddies of activity, there were doorways leading off into shaded corridors, but the guards moved straight ahead, towards another set of doors that opened onto a gravel path. To his surprise, Kendik found himself in a garden, surrounded on all four sides by the palace. The sun had left the garden now, and the air was cool, but at noon this must be a fine place for Lord Tesek to disport himself. Only the stacks of stone—including another half dozen pillars-in-waiting—and some wooden buildings to their right disfigured this little oasis of peace and good order.

All too soon, their boots had crunched down the length of the gravel path and into the far entrance of the palace. Here they turned right and made their way along a dimly lit corridor to an ornate set of wooden stairs. They climbed up two stories, turned left, walked along another corridor—this one more richly decorated and more brightly lit than the last—and stopped at a high wooden door flanked by yet more guards.

"Step forward," said the commander of the guards who had escorted them. Kendik and Sezhina obliged. They were ordered to remove their swords, then subjected, despite their protestations, to a thorough search. There was nothing Kendik could do to prevent the guards finding the original letter, so he made no attempt to hide it. The guard who found it passed it on to her commander.

"Can't read this," said the commander. "You know what it says?"

"No."

"This needs a Wizard. Devlit!"

In answer to this summons, a thin, harried-looking man emerged from a door on the opposite side of the corridor.

"Take a look at all this stuff and make sure it's what it seems," said the commander. "Sword, letter, another letter from this pris-oner—what have we got from the other one?—another sword, a dagger, a cestus—plenty to go on with."

"We are charged to deliver the letter—no, that letter—to Lord Tesek," said Kendik. "You must check it here and return it to us."

"I don't take orders from you," said Devlit, but he subjected the envelope to close, and evidently magical, scrutiny.

"It's just a letter," he said, returning it to Kendik. "As for this other one, I'll take it away and examine it."

"Better check what they're wearing as well," said the guard.

Looking more apprehensive than ever, Devlit stood in front of Kendik, made a complicated gesture, and passed his hand slowly down his front. Shaking his head, he moved on to Sezhina, who was not looking happy.

"Put your hand there and you'll lose it," she said after a moment. Devlit hovered his hand a suitably modest distance from Sezhina's torso, then pronounced himself satisfied that she, too, was what she seemed. He staggered off under the weight of their weaponry.

"Right," said the guard attending Kendik, "You can deliver your letter now." He opened the door, and escorted Sezhina and Kendik within.

They were facing a desk so massive that the t'skrang could have made a ship out of it. On the far side of the desk, a man in scarlet and gold robes sat, appraising them, framed by the light from a window that overlooked the interior garden. From his be-ringed fingers to his waxed moustache, he dripped excess. The office was decorated to match the man: a riot of trophies, statues, weaponry, tapestries, gold, silver, and bronze.

Standing behind and to the left of the seated man was a contrasting figure, slim and straight, his robe an unadorned brown, his nose a prow that stuck out proudly from his face. Graying hair betokened advancing years, but his gaze was steady and his stance erect.

Two guards who had been standing inside the door escorted Kendik and Sezhina to the edge of the desk.

"You must bow in my presence," said the seated man.

Kendik sketched a bow, and saw Sezhina, on his right, do likewise.

"I understand you have something for me?"

"Vulumensthetika of the House of the Wheel gave me this letter to deliver to you," said Kendik, placing the envelope on the desk in front of Tesek.

"Perhaps you would let me examine it, milord," said the standing man. "There is no fathoming the depths of trickery to which the t'skrang will sink."

"Very well, Niatos."

Niatos produced a pair of silver tongs from a pocket in his robe and picked up the envelope. He examined it closely on both sides.

"I believe it is safe to open," he said, and did so, extracting the letter within with the tongs and subjecting it to further scrutiny, his lips moving soundlessly.

"There is no harm in it that I can detect."

"Is it written in some odd language?"

"No, milord."

"All right, hand it over."

Either Vulumensthetika had poor handwriting, or Tesek was not a fluent reader. He pored over the letter for some time, asking Niatos for advice on several words. At last he got to the end, and looked up at Kendik with barely suppressed anger.

"So these are her terms, are they? To abandon the town I have built up from a few mud huts by the Opthia, never to return? To let those long-snouted vermin pick and choose who rules Borzim, and make my town their fiefdom? This I will never do! I'll give her a reply, all right: your heads on pikes outside the North Gate!"

A reply flared up in Kendik's throat, but he caught Sezhina's warning glance, and said nothing.

"My lord," said Niatos, "it is of course out of the question that you could accept such terms, but a pause for reflection may be in order. Let us ask ourselves why the t'skrang sent these envoys to us."

"I don't care what their reasons are! All I know is that I will not tolerate them camping on my doorstep. If they think that I will not react to these provocations, then they will soon have to think again!"

Kendik saw a look of exasperation flit across Niatos' face. "But have you considered, my lord, that this may be precisely the reaction they wish to provoke? Their forces outnumber ours, and with all respect to your guards, they are trained for keeping order and interrogating prisoners, not for open war. Battle suits the t'skrang, not us. Our advantage is that, given time, the t'skrang forces will start arguing among themselves. It is neither natural nor profitable for t'skrang to lay siege to a town, and no matter how well they are being paid, their orks are going to get restless, too. My lord, there is enough food and wood within the town to withstand three months' siege. Not until our stocks of either draw low should we attempt any action that places our forces at risk. In the meantime, I am doing what I can to bring aid."

"Couldn't you just perform one of your spells and make them go away, or turn them into sheep, or something?" grumbled Tesek.

Niatos raised an eyebrow. "As ever, my lord, your opinion of my powers flatters me. However, the t'skrang are not without powerful magicians of their own. A war of spells is unlikely to end well for any of us."

"So what do you think I should do with these two?"

"They interest me. Permit me to take them—under guard, of course—to my quarters, and I will question them further. They are not worth another moment of your time."

Tesek gave Sezhina and Kendik a venomous glare. "Don't think you're getting off lightly. Niatos has ways of asking questions that even I wouldn't use. You'll be wishing you were a pair of heads on pikes before long."

Then the guards within the room escorted them to the door, and the guards outside led them back down the stairs to the ground floor, to a room which, Kendik guessed, was roughly underneath Tesek's room two floors above. The lead guard knocked on the door. "Enter," said Niatos.

"How did he get there?" asked Kendik. "Magic?"

"Stairs," replied Sezhina as they entered, gesturing to a metal staircase at the back of the room that spiraled tightly out of sight through a hole in the ceiling above.

It would have been easy to miss it. The room was as full of eye-catching objects as Tesek's has been, but the ostentation of the ruler's lavish premises was missing, replaced by the multifarious tools of magic: alembics, retorts, jars full of oily liquids, sealed tins, and most of all, covering every available surface, scrolls. Kendik was reminded of the crowded shop in the Street of Apothecaries, although this room did not have a thick film of dust. It was somebody's job to keep this room clean and in a modicum of order.

Kendik didn't know what many of the objects were, other than the ubiquitous scrolls, but his overriding impression was that they were of great age. Surely much that was here dated to before the Scourge?

Kendik heard Sezhina's breath draw in sharply. "That's—" she started to say, but then she saw Niatos looking at her curiously, and swallowed whatever she was going to say next.

Niatos considered them each in turn, and began to speak. "Two humans, working for the t'skrang, with the courage—I do not think it is too strong a word—to bring Lord Tesek a message that displeases him considerably. One was, for a short while, a member of Tesek's own guards. Another, I hear tell, has been masquerading as a duke, and has even gained something of a following among credulous provincials. Both of you interest me. Before Lord Tesek decides on your fate, I would like to know your stories. I prefer that you tell me the truth, though, for the present at least, I will not compel it. You first, I think," Niatos said, turning his thin, aged, but still vigorous face to Sezhina.

Sezhina's story was much as Kendik had heard it before, though she went on to describe more of her adventures in the lands outside Kaer Volost, tales of predators, both natural and supernatural, evaded and defeated. As he listened, Kendik realized that his home village had been an oasis of peace and tranquility compared to some. He had never had to face the sight of a Horror oozing down the village's main (and only) street. He shivered, and clutched the pendant around his neck for reassurance.

Niatos asked questions from time to time, but appeared to take Sezhina's story at face value. Then he turned to Kendik. Dutifully, Kendik embarked on tales of village life, his parents, the conflicts of adolescence, but Niatos waved an impatient hand. "Tell me what happened after you came to Borzim and made the acquaintance of the traitor Akil."

Since Akil had been captured, tortured, and killed, Kendik didn't see much point in attempting to preserve the secrets of her intelligence network. Nevertheless, Niatos made him go back over several points, and quizzed him at length about the location of the safe house to which Akil had first sent Kendik, Atlan, and Mors.

"And then she sent you to Pust," said Niatos. "Tell me about this t'skrang that accompanied you."

To his surprise, Kendik found himself reluctant to paint T'shifa in as bleak a light as she deserved. He did not tell Niatos that T'shifa had tried to kill him, or that he had tried to kill her. He also left out the Names of his contacts—perhaps he could call them his friends— from Pust. It was possible that Niatos already knew who they were, but Kendik wasn't going to do anything to add to the troubles of Natrass and his parents and brothers. Unsurprisingly, Niatos was very interested in whatever Kendik could tell him about Vulumen-sthetika, and Kendik described her as carefully as possible—though feeling, as he did so, that Vulumensthetika was less comprehensible to him than any other Name-giver he had met, too essentially t'skrang to be easily understood by a simple human like himself.

He said as much to Niatos, who replied "She is no different from anyone in a position of power. She is motivated by pride, ambition, and fear. But you say she employed the services of a magician? Tell me as much as you can about that one."

Niatos was frustrated at how little detail Kendik could supply about the spells Hathilt had used on Natrass and on the old woman, but his description of Hathilt's appearance—the pale skin, the protruding eyes—both impressed and, he fancied, alarmed the Wizard. "A Pale One, eh?" he said. "A dangerous ally, by all accounts."

Kendik had no idea what he was talking about, though it was plain from her expression that Sezhina did.

After tiring of Kendik's fumbling efforts to describe magic, Niatos said "Very well. If that is all you can tell me, let us move on to some other points that are less than clear to me. Exactly what did Vulumensthetika want you to do when she first sent you back to Borzim?"

Kendik was spared from answering by a knock at the door.

"Tell whoever that is to go away," said Niatos.

A guard opened the door and relayed these instructions to whoever stood outside. A whispered but agitated conversation followed.

"It's Devlit, sir. Says he has to see you."

Niatos lifted his eyes skyward. "Very well. Send him in."

Looking more nervous than ever, the young Wizard entered the room, his gaze skittering from person to person. With impressive synchronicity, he was holding Vulumensthetika's original letter out in front of him, as if it could protect him from Niatos' wrath.

"It's this letter, sir. They found it on the male prisoner when they searched him, and gave it to me to examine. It's plainly enchanted, sir, but it's beyond my arts to decipher. Seeing as how it was on the prisoner, I thought you'd best take a look at it."

"Evidently there are some things you haven't been telling me," Niatos said to Kendik. "That is unwise." He turned to Devlit. "Put the letter on my desk and leave us."

Devlit scurried out in fear and relief. Niatos picked the letter up with the silver tongs he had used earlier, looked at it closely, even sniffed it. "This is written in some t'skrang dialect. It will take a little work—"

He was holding the tongs in his right hand. He reached out his left hand to take the letter. The instant his hand touched the parchment, he drew it back as if burned. Tongs and letter clattered to the desk. Niatos reeled backwards. His left hand was withering, the bones showing through ancient flesh. Even through his thick robe, Kendik could see the withering effect moving across the magician's body. With his right hand, Niatos was reaching for something behind the desk; but, whatever it was, he was shaking too much to be able to grasp it. The shriveling reached his neck and then his face. His hair burst from his scalp and fluttered downwards in a cloud. What was left was a skull-like face, something between man and vulture: clouded eyes, a long nose, and a lipless mouth.

"Dinazhe!" said Sezhina. "Run!" She dashed for the door. Ken-dik looked back. The lipless mouth was opening, trying to form a word. He did not want to hear that word. He ran after Sezhina, slamming the door shut on the terrible sight behind him.

Chapter 16

The guards outside Dinazhe's door were not used to it being flung open from the inside. Their surprise gave Kendik and Sezhina a moment's head start. Sezhina burst out first, and Kendik followed. Though he was younger, he certainly wasn't fitter, and it was all he could do to keep up with her.

They ran along the corridor and took the first turning they could, which was into the passageway that led to the garden. Ahead, they saw laborers lugging crates. The idea came to Kendik without conscious thought. "Slow down," he told Sezhina between gasps.

"What?"

"Slow down. We're builders."

She understood at once. Slowing to a dawdle, they joined the back of the group of laborers as they made their way through the interior garden.

"I'll give you a hand," Kendik said to the nearest.

"Thanks," she replied. Sezhina joined in on the other side. Guards ran past, paying the laborers no attention at all. "What do they look like, anyway?" he heard one shout.

They picked their way through the main building site at the front of the palace—no easy task when carrying heavy loads—and deposited the crates as directed by their foreman, a choleric individual who, from his demeanor, had spent a long and stressful career as a sergeant in the guards. He didn't actually call them "you horrible lot," but all other expected behavioral traits were present and correct. If he was surprised at the acquisition of two new workers, he gave no sign.

They put the crates down twenty yards from the front door of the palace. Kendik entertained thoughts of simply sauntering off down the road to freedom—though they would have to pass a guard post to do so. He leaned over to Sezhina as they straightened from their labors and suggested to her what she had not so long ago suggested to him: "Make a break for it?"

"Get on with it, you two!" shouted the foreman, almost in his ear. "There's plenty more rubbish to clear out where that lot came from!"

So they postponed thoughts of escape and followed their new workmates back through the interior garden and into the far side of the palace. To Kendik's relief, they turned left, not right, when they got to the main corridor. There appeared to be no coordination between the guards and the builders, and as long as things stayed that way, and they didn't bump into Dinazhe, Tesek, or the persistent Devlit, they stood a good chance of getting away with this. For a while, at least. Still ...

"They're bound to catch us eventually," Kendik whispered to Sezhina when he next had the chance.

"I'm not leaving here until I find what's going on with Dinazhe," said Sezhina irritably. "Do you want to go back and tell Vulumen-sthetika we've failed?"

"We delivered the message," pointed out Kendik. "That's all she asked us to do."

"Fine, then, get away when you can. I'm staying here."

"I will," replied Kendik. His best chance would be at day's end. These laborers would have to sleep and eat somewhere. But something was nagging at him. Where had he heard the Name Dinazhe before? And what was in that letter, to have such a terrible effect?

T'skrang are not to be trusted, he reminded himself. Not those who sail beneath the banner of the Wheel, at any rate.

The afternoon wore on, and Kendik's fear of discovery was numbed by his increasing tiredness. He had been used to hard physical work in his home village, but his arms were now honed for sword wielding, not for lugging crates of discarded fittings, tottering piles of tiles, and wooden boxes to and fro across a building site. One of his companions, a tall, shapely woman with a few streaks of gray in her black hair who was carrying a pile of six tiles without evident difficulty, looked at the three tiles Kendik was struggling with and remarked, with wry amusement rather than disapproval, "You're new at this, aren't you?"

"Fairly new, yes."

"Come off it. I haven't seen you before today."

This conversation was edging onto dangerous territory. Right now, Kendik didn't think he could beat a five-year-old in a fair fight, let alone this woman. Sezhina was fifty yards to his left. She was carrying five tiles, and looked as fresh as a daisy.

"All right," Kendik conceded, "I started today. Didn't want to sound like a complete beginner."

"Big strong lad like you, a few days with us and you'll be carrying ten tiles without blinking. Nice legs you've got there. Do a bit of walking, do you?"

Kendik looked at the woman and realized, to his mingled pride and alarm, that he was fearing the wrong sort of exposure entirely. The gaze her frank brown eyes were running over him had nothing to do with any threat he posed to Lord Tesek. Still, it might be just as dangerous. How to extract himself without causing offence?

"We travel around a bit, yeah."

The woman's eyes widened. "Oh, so you and her are together, are you? Still, you can't blame me for trying. It's clear you like older women." With a smile, she turned away.

To Kendik's immense relief, he had to carry only one more lot of tiles before the foreman bellowed "That's it! Food's on the table!"

Workers from all points of the site made their way to the largest of the wooden huts in the interior garden. Just outside the door, there was a trough, and Kendik followed the example of his workmates by plunging his hands into it, swirling them around in the rapidly graying water, and vigorously shaking them dry. Then he went inside, where plates of stew and mugs of beer were lined up along trestle tables, and set to eating as though the provender was about to be whisked away.

The food was surprisingly good, and as a bonus, appeared to be completely free of fish. For the first time, Kendik allowed that Lord Tesek, or those who administered Borzim in his Name, might have their good qualities. When he came up for air, he joined a lively conversation to his left between the woman who had given him the once-over earlier and a dwarf. There had been several dwarfs strutting about looking important with rolled-up plans under their arms, ordering the workers about, but Kendik was surprised to find a dwarf getting his hands dirty alongside humans.

The woman turned to him and said "Where's your lady friend?"

"She's—" Nowhere to be seen, he was about to say, but then he saw her, hurrying in to the hut and searching about for a vacant seat and a full plate of food. "—over there," he concluded.

"Trusts you with me, does she?"

There was no obvious way of answering that question, so Ken-dik fell back on politeness.

"May I ask where you're from?"

"Little village between here and the Serpent. Name of Pust. Ever been there?"

Never ask questions when you don't want to know the answers, thought Kendik. Should he lie?

"I passed through it once," he said.

The woman laughed. "Most people who pass through Pust don't care to repeat the experience. I certainly got out as soon as I could. The Name's Ormanaria, by the way."

"Kendik," replied Kendik, unable to think of an alias at short notice.

The woman looked him over again, until Kendik felt a blush spreading over his cheeks.

"My, you're a fresh one, aren't you! You'd better watch your step, young man—I'm not the only woman in this town on the prowl for a man who still has all his working parts. Our lord and master has managed to get a good proportion of the eligible men killed or maimed in his wars and skirmishes. But the thing is, you look like you're used to better times and better fare than this. Hiding from something, are you, down among the workers?"

I'm going to have to either kill or kidnap her if this goes on, thought Kendik, and neither would be easy. He looked over at Se-zhina, but she was deep in conversation with her neighbor. Playing for time, Kendik said "How do you think this thing with the t'skrang will play out, then?"

Ormanaria screwed up her face. "Depends which side is more stubborn, or more stupid. One's thing for sure, us laborers will go onto short commons a long time before the likes of Tesek and his cronies have to ration what they put on their golden platters."

Having recently seen the size of Tesek's stomach, Kendik was inclined to agree. "What happens now?" he asked.

Ormanaria smiled wolfishly. "That depends on you!" she said.

Maybe it was the food, maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the unmistakable invitation that Ormanaria was giving him. But it had been a long time since Kendik had enjoyed the dubious favors of Marla the tavern girl in Bilim, and Anarya was neither present nor, as far as he knew, available. He leaned forward towards Or-manaria's expectant face and parted lips—took a moment to savor the tantalizing view down her partly-unlaced tunic—opened his mouth, moistening his lips a little as he did so—

And a hand descended on his shoulder. "I think this has gone far enough," Sezhina said.

"If you want him not to stray," said Ormanaria, "you should take better care of him."

The pressure on Kendik's shoulder increased. "Oh, I'll take care of him all right. He'll be begging for mercy by the time I've finished with him."

Ormanaria slumped in her seat, defeated for the present. "You just watch yourself," she told Kendik. "She'll use you up and spit you out, that one."

As Sezhina drew him to his feet and led him outside the mess hall, Kendik was more confused than ever. Was Sezhina—did she—? He had no idea she thought of him in that way.

He twisted and turned in her grip, but though Sezhina had now taken one hand off his shoulder, she was pushing him along with the other hand in the small of his back. "This way," she said when they got outside the mess hall. She led him around the corner of the wooden building, where there was a narrow alleyway between it and the inner wall of the palace. Then they crossed the gap between the mess hall and the wood that occupied the western end of the interior garden. It was very dark in there, and from somewhere not too far away, Kendik could hear a rhythmic moaning.

In the faint light that filtered in from outside the wood, he saw her turn to face him. "Now," she said.

Kendik's heart was pounding harder than ever. Did Sezhina mean what he thought she meant? He was scared even to touch her—though she no longer had her sword, he was sure that she could lop off protruding parts of his body with her bare hands if she chose to. This was definitely a case in which it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Now what?" he said cautiously.

"Now we break in to that palace and find out everything we can about the Wizard who calls himself Niatos."

Relief and disappointment jostled for control of Kendik's limbic system, then panic rushed in to sweep them both aside.

"What?" he said, in as loud a whisper as he could manage. "Are you mad? We delivered our message. We just need to find a way past those guards and get out of here."

"This is the thanks I get for risking my own life to get you out of that dungeon?"

"You didn't do it for me! You did it for Anarya. I don't even believe you're her sister. I think you fancy her."

Even in the darkness, Kendik could see the faint flash of Se-zhina's smile. "And you don't?"

"I never said that. But tell me, why do you want to get yourself killed?"

"Because, when that t'skrang letter worked its magic on him, Niatos was revealed as Dinazhe, the chief priest of the cult that took my mother Isuassa from me. He passes himself off as a Wizard, but he is a Nethermancer as well, a dark and dangerous one. Anarya and myself are not the only survivors of Kaer Volost."

"But he was the priest of a Horror cult! What is he doing as the chief adviser to the Lord of Borzim?"

"What indeed? It may be that there is a greater danger to the inhabitants of Borzim than the t'skrang camped outside their gates. I cannot leave here without finding out more about him. I have long sworn to eliminate Horrors and their acolytes wherever I find them."

"How can you be—" Kendik stopped, silenced by the finger that Sezhina put to his lips. Deeper into the wood, the rhythmic moaning climaxed in a crescendo of shrieks, then fell silent.

"Perhaps that is how you would have preferred to spend the night?" Sezhina asked, whispering so quietly that Kendik could barely hear her. "I would not have objected to you going with that woman, except that we have work to do, and besides, you might have been caught by the guards. I am not so old that I have forgotten the fires of youth."

Kendik thought to himself that Ormanaria's fires clearly hadn't gone out, and she was older than Sezhina if he was any judge. Despite, or because of, the turn the conversation had taken, Kendik's body was responding to Sezhina's closeness, though he hoped she was not able to tell that, here in the dark.

"So how do you plan to go about breaking into the palace?"

"By taking a fragment from your parchment, as they say. If we could escape from the palace by passing ourselves off as builders, we can return to it by passing ourselves off as cleaners."

"Cleaners?"

"While you were imagining yourself between that woman's thighs, I was finding out how things are done around here. Lord Tesek likes his palace to be tidy. Each night, cleaners come in from the town, pick up their mops and buckets, and set to work, so that when Tesek rises, his palace is spotless. They will arrive soon, and make their way to the storeroom where their equipment is held. All we have to do is join on to the tail of their little procession, act as they act, and find our way to the room we entered before. I cannot force you to join me, but I appeal to you, as one who seems to me honorable, to do your duty to the citizens of Borzim, and to all those you love, and play your part in defeating this evil."

"So I can go once I've helped you?"

"We will both leave then, if we can."

Though he was scared, though he was desperate to return to Anarya, Kendik decided that he would not be able to live with himself if he did nothing to help Sezhina. So he waited with her while the minutes ticked by; while a couple, talking quietly to each other, made their way out of the woods and back towards one of the smaller huts; while nocturnal birds made their doleful calls among the trees, and the moon, hidden behind cloud, emerged briefly to dry-brush the scene with silver.

After a few minutes, Sezhina led him along the eastern edge of the wood, keeping just inside the fringe of trees, until they stood in a little tongue of ornamental woodland which extended near to the path as it neared the entrance to the southern side of the palace. It was from this vantage that they saw the motley crew of cleaners walking towards them. The moon shone out again, and they saw that the cleaners were dressed in tunics and trousers no more distinctive than their own. Obligingly, the moon disappeared as the cleaners neared the tongue of woodland.

"Now," said Sezhina for the second time that night, and they stepped out as the last of the group passed, and joined it without incident.

It all went remarkably smoothly at first. No one questioned their presence. The only problem was that, when it came to handing out areas to clean, the ground floor was already taken.

"No," said their forewoman to Sezhina and Kendik, "you don't get to do the easy parts. You can go and do the stairwells. And mind you don't leave a single spider web up in the corners. They're terrible things for leaving flies buzzing half the day. Lord Tesek doesn't like the noise, you see. Doesn't like the noise."

"There must be plenty of spider webs in that Wizard's room, the one on the ground floor," said Kendik.

"Ooh, you're brave. That place gives me the shivers," said one of the other cleaners. "I'd willingly do the stairwells if you do that room and the ones around it. But whatever you do, don't touch anything magic in there. He'll turn you into a toad if you do."

The forewoman looked irritated, but she did not forbid the exchange of duties. "Well done," said Sezhina to him once the pair of them were alone. "But somebody's sure to remember you volunteering to clean that room."

"It won't matter as long as we get out of here tonight," said Kendik.

He had feared some magical protection on Dinazhe's door, but if such existed, an exemption had evidently been made for cleaners. The guards on duty stood outside to let them in without even looking at them, and despite the fear that was rising to engulf his heart, Kendik marveled a little at the way in which one could get away with almost any imposture so long as one had the right equipment and behaved in the appropriate manner.

The guards closed the doors behind them, and they were alone in the haunt of the magician. Sezhina unshielded the light quartzes placed in brackets around the walls, and they began to search the room.

But what were they searching for? "Anything unusual," Sezhina told him, but what wasn't unusual in the den of a Nethermancer? Kendik had heard that some Horrors could mark ordinary ob-jects—a coin, a shield, a mirror—so that one who gazed upon the marked object could be ensnared and corrupted. If he lifted that retort, would an eye open on its base? If he moved this parchment, would some ancient Horror form itself out of dust and quartz-light to claim his soul?

Sezhina gasped. Kendik jerked round, dreading what he was about to see, and dislodged a pile of parchments, which slid to the floor.

"Clumsy oaf!" said Sezhina.

Clearly, her personality remained intact. "What have you found?" he asked.

In answer, she held up a small sculpture carved out of green stone that glowed faintly in the quartz light. "This came from Kaer Volost," she said. "I have not, as I half feared, been dreaming or been poisoned. This is the lair of Dinazhe."

She put the sculpture down and resumed her search. Kendik bent to retrieve the parchments, praying that none of them had been visibly damaged. Though many of them were clearly ancient, all had survived the fall. He was straightening to replace them on the table when the doors opened. Dinazhe stood there, bearing no mark of the terrible damage so recently inflicted on him. He looked at Sezhina and said "Again you return to me, Anarya."

Chapter 17

It was barely dawn. The river mist held Borzim and the plains beyond in its sway. Those few citizens who were abroad at this hour felt themselves to be alone in a universe of fog, in which all sounds were muffled, all vision limited to a few paces. Each time someone else loomed out of the mists, it took a few heart-in-mouth moments to determine whether this was another citizen going about his or her legitimate business, a footpad, or even worse, the vanguard of the invading t'skrang army, launching their assault on the town at last.

Beyond the walls of Borzim, near the Opthia, the nerves of the t'skrang sentries were also on edge. Since the brief sortie by the Falcons had been repulsed, there had been no sign of movement from the town's defenders, but what if, even now, an assault force was sneaking silently through the mist, moving into prearranged positions around the encampment, preparing to strike? Each birdcall sounded like a signal to attack. Each guard, ork or t'skrang, stood wrapped in mist, looking forward to the time, not far off, when the rising sun would burn away the fog and reveal things as they truly were.

Down the front steps of Lord Tesek's palace came a small group, well cloaked against the cold. After a brief exchange with the guard, they passed the front checkpoint and embarked on the long trek to the North Gate. Kendik Dezelek walked in their midst, his sword at his side.

Though the group made no effort at concealment, Kendik and his black-clad escorts attracted little attention from the citizens, who knew well enough the consequences of impeding the business of Lord Tesek's finest in these troubled times. They strode through the town at a fast clip, and came to the gate. It was shut, but a sally port in its center could still be opened. The guards escorted Kendik to the sally port, opened it, and pushed him through. It slammed shut behind him, and he was on his own.

He was very tired. He had neither slept nor eaten since the plate of stew he had shoveled down in the workers' mess. He was walking from one danger into another, and there was no telling which was the greater. But that was nothing new. He hoisted his white flag high above his head—the same white flag he and Sezhina had borne towards the town—hoping that it might be more visible than he was, and walked away from Borzim.

The mist was still clinging to the plains, and Kendik had no wish to be spitted by an overzealous ork as he neared the encampment. He walked on slowly. The ground rose slightly, then fell away towards the river. There was no noise. No one saw him, and he saw no one.

He came within a step of falling in the Opthia. He stared at the rushing water foolishly, wondering whether the t'skrang encampment had gone. Had they simply packed up and departed overnight?

They had not. From his left, upstream, came a shrill piping, and the unmistakable sound of a large number of Name-givers groaning and complaining their way into a new day. He had overshot the mark, then. He began to walk upstream, and had not taken fifty steps before he was challenged by a pair of orks. Kendik was careful not to show any sign of aggression, and they let him through without molesting him once they were satisfied with who he was.

He went straight to Vulumensthetika's tent. She was having breakfast with her advisers, including T'shifa. Vulumensthetika turned and rose when she saw him.

"I said that you would return!" she told him. "But where is Sezhina?"

Where indeed, thought Kendik. "She was detained," he said.

"Detained?"

"By the Wizard Niatos."

"And you were not detained?"

"I was, but I was let go, to bring a letter to you."

"From Niatos, or from Tesek?"

Remembering Vulumensthetika's conditions for the release of his companions, Kendik was tempted to say "Tesek"; but he was sure any deception would be found out. "It was from Niatos. I watched him write it."

He had been standing not two feet from the magician at the time, paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch and listen. Somewhere behind him, Sezhina had strained against her bonds.

"Do not trouble yourself unduly," said Vulumensthetika. "You have brought me a reply, and thus done as I asked. I will keep my word. But some caution is required when dealing with letters from Wizards. Hathilt!"

The pale-skinned t'skrang Illusionist came forth from wherever he had been lurking, his large eyes blinking. Hathilt did not like the limelight, or any light for that matter.

"Examine this carefully, and tell me whether it is safe for me to read. If it is in some obscure language known only to you magicians, then tell me what it says. Oh, and Hathilt!"

"Yes?" The t'skrang paused in the act of opening a set of tongs very similar to that used by Dinazhe.

"Cast your magical eye over this one and tell me if there is a Wizard riding him."

Hathilt stared at Kendik and made a complicated motion with his hands. Kendik felt himself sink into a stasis in which he neither had volition nor regretted its absence. Abruptly, he was released.

"There is some shadow on him—his destiny, perhaps—but no Wizard is controlling his actions or listening to his thoughts. The letter itself is in the common tongue, and harmless."

"Good. In that case, Kendik, come and eat some fish with me."

"I would rather find my companions."

"You will see them soon enough. Eat with me first."

While Kendik chewed his way slowly through yet another fish, Vulumensthetika read the letter, raised and lowered her snout in a gesture that conveyed nothing to Kendik, then began to grill him about his mission. He was glad that Hathilt was not—at least visibly—testing the truth of his replies, for he left quite a lot out. Nevertheless, even to his own ears, his story was not one of resounding triumph.

Not that Vulumensthetika seemed to mind. She chuckled appreciatively at the disguises they had adopted—builders, cleaners—and said that there was a place in her intelligence service if he wanted it. He politely declined. She listened closely to his description of the change that had come over Dinazhe when he touched the first letter.

"Were you trying to kill him?" asked Kendik.

"That was our first plan, yes. Eliminate Niatos, we thought, and Tesek's power would be greatly diminished."

"And you chose me as the assassin?"

"Akil chose you, actually. Do not look so shocked, young Ken-dik. If you choose to meddle in affairs of state, you cannot expect to emerge unscathed."

Kendik opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. He did not think it would do any good. And besides, was it not to find adventure that he had trained as a Swordmaster, and left his mother and his home village behind? Had he not resolved, with the ardor of youth, to make a Name for himself from the Serpent to the Sea? He had certainly found adventure, and, in this little region at least, his Name was becoming all too well known.

Vulumensthetika was talking again, asking about Niatos' final words.

"He left with Sezhina, you say? And they appeared to know each other?"

"Yes."

"But they were not friends?"

"Indeed not." How bitterly she had accused him ...

"And Niatos, or Dinazhe as he is also called, said that he was leaving Borzim?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe him?"

"I saw him go." Dinazhe had gestured, and a portal had opened. With another gesture, he had released Sezhina from the ropes that bound her, and she had marched, no more free than a puppet, across the room towards the portal. Something had reached out for her—something tentacled. For a moment, Kendik had felt its malice, its hunger. The thing had seized her, Dinazhe had followed, and the portal had closed. No sooner had the Nethermancer departed than the Falcons came to escort Kendik back to the North Gate, the letter to Vulumensthetika in his hand. It seemed to him that he spent his life doing the bidding of those more subtle, more powerful, and more well informed than himself.

"You do not know where he went?"

"No." He had a theory, but not one he preferred to share with Vulumensthetika. "May I see the letter he sent you?" asked Kendik suddenly.

"Sometimes you presume too much!" said Vulumensthetika sternly. "I will tell you what you need to know."

"He told me that he would make a new proposal to you."

"And he has. Lord Tesek would be angry, if he knew."

"Does this new proposal contain a way to avert war?"

"It does."

"Then I hope it succeeds. The people of Borzim should not be made to suffer for the foolishness of their leader."

"Yes," said Vulumensthetika. "Neither do t'skrang enjoy being pent up on land when a river is flowing nearby; and an inactive ork is an expensive ork. It is well to avoid wars, especially long ones."

After a little more fish had slipped down his protesting gullet, Kendik was allowed to leave to find his comrades and get some rest. Kendik squared his shoulders. The conversation with Anarya was not going to be easy.

His companions had been given separate tents, which made it a little easier. He saw Qualia emerging from the mess tent, bearing two plates of food. She was delighted to see him.

"You made it back! I thought it might be weeks before we saw you. Does this mean we can leave?"

"I guess so. Vulumensthetika doesn't seem inclined to stop us, anyway."

"But where's Sezhina?"

It was the question he was forced to answer by each of them— by each, that is, except Atlan, who, though he seemed a little more alert than previously, was not yet up to asking complex questions.

It was not so hard to tell Qualia, and Viknis when he woke up (he was still keeping musicians' hours), that Sezhina had been taken away by the Wizard Niatos. He left Anarya till last, partly because he was not sure what to tell her, partly because he no longer knew how to feel about her. Who was she, really?"

He found her in her tent, brushing her hair. She turned and smiled at him.

"I knew you would come back! Where is my aunt?"

So she was sticking to the story Sezhina had concocted. Perhaps she genuinely believed it.

"She was taken by the Wizard who is the power behind the throne. He said that he was taking her where they could both turn back the clock."

"What is the Name of this Wizard?"

Kendik paused, considering. In the end, he decided on the truth. "He calls himself Niatos, but we discovered that his real Name is Dinazhe."

"Dinazhe! My protector! But how did he appear?"

"As Niatos, he was a vigorous man of middle years. As Dinazhe, he appeared very old. Old almost unto death."

"But he was young when I last saw him! No older than my father, in any case. What could have happened to him, to make him grow so old—and to turn him into a supporter of that hideous man, Lord Tesek?" She got up and began to pace the confines of her tent. "I must go to him! You must accompany me!"

"What would that achieve?"

"I would plead for the life of my aunt!"

But she's not your aunt, Kendik wanted to say. She's you.

He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. His task had seemed clear to him as he walked back to the t'skrang encampment. He must challenge her with the truth, even if she refused to accept it, even if it broke whatever bond there was between them. But now, looking at her, tall and slim, tears starting at the corner of her eyes, he could not bring himself to do it. Cursing himself for a fool, he forced a wan smile and said "Whatever Di-nazhe was to you, he is not that man any longer. He will not listen to your pleas."

"But he let you go."

"Only to bear a message. That is all I am to the powers of this world, a messenger boy."

Anarya turned away from him, bent down, and stood up brandishing her sword. She held it, tip upwards, between them. Kendik drew his sword and placed its tip against hers.

"We are no messengers," said Anarya. "we are Swordmasters. We carve our way through the world, and we do not allow others to stand in our path." Then she lowered her sword and smiled at him. "And besides ..."—she moved closer and put her arms around him—"... you told me something, while we were scrambling through the tunnels beneath Borzim, that I never had the chance to answer. I am going to give you my answer now."

She drew her arms away from him and began to unfasten her tunic.

Kendik's stomach lurched. All the arguments he could muster against this moment—the time, the place, the fact that the woman before him was, it appeared, the result of some bizarre magic, and that her other half, her older self, was now being held captive by the originator of that magic—flashed through his mind, mouthed their objections, and were thrust aside. All Kendik was conscious of now was Anarya's breasts as her nipples rose to meet his hands, her mouth as he kissed it, his clothes as she removed them, the softness of the furs to which she drew him, and the pounding of his blood as it sang through his veins. She drew him down to her, and then the only conversation took place between their bodies.

He slept a little, and when he woke, Anarya was asleep beside him. He looked at her, and saw, not the creamy beauty of her flesh, but Sezhina. She was cursing Dinazhe as he drove long, sharp iron pins into her body. The pins were slender, and Dinazhe did not push them in very far, but the Nethermancer knew where to place them to cause Sezhina excruciating pain. She went from cursing to crying out, and from crying out to sobbing, and then, at last, she pulled herself upright, face drawn, and told Dinazhe what he wanted to hear: that she was not Sezhina, a loyal member of Tesek's guards; that instead she was Anarya Chezarin, his ward, browned by many years lived under the sun. "The real Anarya Chezarin," she added, "with real memories."

Dinazhe had removed the needles then—a process that caused Sezhina almost as much pain as their insertion—and turned towards Kendik. He had hefted the needles in his hand, looked at Kendik thoughtfully, then smiled and slipped the needles into the pocket of his robe. "Later, perhaps," he had said, and turned to resume his conversation with Sezhina. I will kill you, Nethermancer, Kendik had thought as he stood there, securely bound, powerless to intervene. I will kill you ...

It was T'shifa who woke him. She stood in the flap of the tent and coughed her dry cough until he emerged from his post-coital slumber. He scrambled to his feet in confusion, then dropped to his knees again, horribly aware that he was defenseless both from her gaze and from any weapon she might bring to bear against him.

"Do not concern yourself with modesty," she said. "The sexual organs of humans are of no interest to me."

"That's good," said Kendik weakly.

"Vulumensthetika would like to talk with you and your fellow hostages," said T'shifa.

"Hostages?"

"Guests, then. It amounts to the same thing. Your partner is washing herself. Do likewise, and meet me in Vulumensthetika's tent."

Clearly news—or noise—traveled fast in the camp. As he entered Vulumensthetika's tent, Viknis elbowed him in the ribs, and Qualia raised a playful eyebrow. Anarya, already seated near Vulumen-sthetika, made a space for him and patted the ground. Feeling mingled embarrassment and pride, he joined her.

The tent was crowded with the usual mob of advisers and hangers on, but Vulumensthetika addressed her words specifically to the humans. "Though one of your number has been unable to return, Kendik has fulfilled the mission we required of him," she said. "I am one who keeps her word, and therefore, you are free to leave our encampment and go where you will. Before you do, I will give you tokens of my protection, which will hold within all lands controlled by the Ishkarat, so long as you do not enter those places which are forbidden to any save the aropagoi. If you wish to enter my service, then you are welcome to do so."

Qualia stood up. "We'll take a little time to think about it, if it's all the same to you."

"Very well," said Vulumensthetika, and Qualia, Viknis, and Atlan left the tent.

"What I have to say next is for the ears of Kendik only," Vulumensthetika told Anarya. Reluctantly, she left to join the others.

"Walk with me," said Vulumensthetika. They left the tent, T'shifa a few steps behind. The mist had well and truly burned off in the sunlight, and the chill was now almost gone from the air. Birds and the river trilled and chuckled to each other. It was a beautiful day to be walking with a powerful t'skrang along the well-trodden lanes of the encampment.

"In his letter," said Vulumensthetika, "Niatos makes a proposal. It is one I find congenial, on the whole, though I wonder at his motives in making it."

"And what is this proposal?" asked Kendik, deciding to play his part in this little drama.

"That Tesek be overthrown, and a new ruler installed in his place. That Niatos withdraw from the town for the present—as he has already done, by your account—but that he be allowed to return in due course, with the consent of the new ruler. That the new ruler be someone who is acceptable to all sides, and who will also prove acceptable to the people of the town. That he agree to accept wise counsel from all sides, and that, upon his ascension to office and the adoption of certain policies and treaties of mutual benefit, the t'skrang army withdraw from the field, and the town return to a peacetime footing."

"It all sounds wonderful," said Kendik. "But who might this new leader be, and how is the overthrow of Tesek going to be accomplished?"

"As for the second," said Vulumensthetika, "Niatos hints that this may already be in train. As for the first"—and here she turned to face him—"surely you have already worked out the answer to that?"

Chapter 18

At the front of Lord Tesek's palace, jutting out from the top floor, was a balcony which gave an unequaled view of the town and the lands to the north. Though Tesek preferred, for security reasons, to maintain his quarters at the back of the palace, he found himself drawn to this balcony, which was accessed through the office of an unassuming clerk.

Here Tesek would stand, look out over leagues of air and land, and chew his fingernails. It was a maddening affliction that he had suffered from since childhood. His father, a petty tyrant and aspiring merchant, was determined that Tesek should grow up strong and tough, and worked towards this goal by imposing a punishing regime of physical and mental exercise on the boy, while denying him any affection whatsoever.

The success of this strategy was shown by the dedicated manner in which Tesek, upon leaving the family home, accumulated enough funds and influence to have his father killed at the earliest opportunity. But the exercise regime did not really take. His nightly entanglements with a range of courtesans and young women of good family, selected by his indefatigable assistants, provided all the exercise Tesek considered necessary.

As a young man of little imagination, Tesek had settled on crime as the best way to accumulate enough money to purchase the death of his father. (It also purchased, until her untimely death, the comfort and the silence of his mother.) Borzim, the riverside village in which he had been born, was a lively, brawling sort of place where road and river intersected, a place through which goods both licit and illicit needed to be moved. A childhood attempting to stay beyond the reach of his father's hand and the lash of his father's belt had made Tesek a shrewd but jaundiced judge of human nature. He found his level among petty thieves and ruffians, the purveyors of worthless cures to non-existent diseases, the vendors of magical items of no discernible power.

Though he was not a fit man, he was a big man, and that helped. He put people who needed packages moved in touch with people who could move them, and took a good cut of the proceeds. He acquired helpers, a motley crew of Name-givers who provided protection and transport services in exchange for a somewhat smaller cut. Having succeeded in the assassination of his father, he learned that one or two murders a year, discreetly advertised, could by themselves make a man formidable.

One day, he paused in the middle of his affairs, looked around, and realized that Borzim was growing. There was money to be made here, and true to form, Name-givers were coming to town to make it. They didn't just need quack cures, drugs, and hot pots that didn't heat; they needed housing, food, and water. Businesspeople of impeccable respectability—the widow Medzhina, for example— had come to Borzim to help provide them. A little investigation convinced Tesek that he could make just as much money in these fields of endeavor; and, in truth, he had grown weary of crime. He moved into legitimate business, but made sure that it was the most able of his lieutenants who filled the vacancy his change of career had created.

Over the course of the next few years, he transformed himself from a man who lurked in the shadows to a man who went about in the light. He did not feel entirely comfortable with either the scrutiny or the exposure to danger that resulted, and thus gathered around him an elite team of bodyguards that would, after he came to power, be formalized into the Falcons. But he prospered nevertheless, and the town prospered with him.

There came a time when the people grew tired of making their own decisions, and set lords to rule over them. Nikranth was a weakling who lasted barely six months. His successor, Invar, though possessed of a strong arm and a loud voice, was also possessed of a fatal belief in his own invulnerability. It was the work of a night for Tesek to overthrow him and seize the throne.

Decisions were needed. Public works—for example, a network of tunnels, and a wall that would encompass the town and plenty of land around it for future expansion—were required. Tesek made the decisions and came up with the cash to pay for them. As long as the cash was found, few scrupled to ask how he obtained it.

He discovered that he had become something of a hero to his people, and that, if he went among them and spoke with them, they would cheer him and shout his Name. It was a sound inexpressibly sweet to his ears, a sound that, all too briefly, blotted out other, longer-remembered sounds: the anger in his father's voice, the slap of a descending hand, and his own desolate sobbing in a childhood bed.

Tesek would have paid no attention to the widow Medzhina, save that Medzhina had a brother. This brother, who came to Borzim from time to time to visit his sister, petitioned for an appointment with Tesek. Tesek had reached the stage where he could approve or reject such requests as it pleased him, but a few enquiries by his spies revealed that the man was rumored to be a Wizard.

Tesek did not believe in magic. Oh, he believed in its existence: the reality of magic was all around him, running through the earth, embodied in the water, coursing through the air. But he would have preferred a world where there was no such thing as magic, where things were only ever as they appeared. In such a world, power would be the only reality; and he had power.

Yet Tesek was a realist. Magic existed, and therefore, those who controlled it and channeled it were a threat to his power. He granted Medzhina's brother an audience.

The brother was a man of middle years, tall, gaunt, and balding. He came straight to the point.

"I wish to offer myself as your adviser," he said.

"Adviser? What makes you think I need an adviser? I have too many already, always getting in my ears with their petty schemes."

The Wizard—Dinazhe, he called himself—smiled indulgently. "I am sure you do. My advice would be of a different sort."

"Advice about magic?"

"Yes, and its practice too."

"I need no magician."

"You have needed no magician yet, because you have been weak, and your town has been weak, and those who have true power have not troubled themselves about your ambitions. But, from my tower, I see you grow stronger. Others are attracted by strength. Name-givers, and other things."

Tesek's hands went to his throat, where a gold medallion of office he himself had designed hung comfortingly. "You mean ... Horrors?"

Dinazhe nodded. "They seek out power, power of all sorts."

"What would you have me do?"

"Take me on as your magical adviser."

"I do not know you well enough for that."

The Wizard shrugged. "Very well, then. Wait until you know me better. In the meantime, take these." He withdrew two blue stones from a fold in his tunic and placed them on the edge of Tesek's desk. "When you are hard pressed, squeeze these together. They will aid you."

"How?"

"As circumstances dictate. Good day to you, my Lord Tesek."

'Lord' sounded so well in front of his name that Tesek found himself willing to forgive the man's rudeness in walking out on him. He ordered a guard to pick up the stones. Nothing fatal happened, so Tesek took the stones himself and rubbed them together. Again, nothing happened.

He put them in his pocket, and over time, they became part of his routine for facing the day. Medallion of office around neck-check. Stones in pocket—check. He still bit his nails, but less often, because he had the stones and the medallion to finger. He slept with them under his pillow.

He never learned who had sent the assassin. She burst into his chamber at night, having killed half a dozen guards to get there, and tripped over the guard she had not accounted for: the mastiff who slept inside his door. The noise, and the single knife thrust that dispatched the dog, gave Tesek just enough time to find the blue stones and squeeze them together in his hand. The assassin approached him, bloody knife upraised. Tesek squeezed harder. The air in the chamber split in two behind the assassin, and—some-thing—reached out, seized her, and vanished through whatever gate it had opened. With her last motion, the assassin threw her knife. It brushed Tesek's ear and quivered to rest in his pillow.

Within the week, Dinazhe was installed in a house neighboring Tesek's. He spent most of his time on his own research, the precise nature of which Tesek did not care to learn, but he was always available when threats of a magical kind, real or imagined, troubled Tesek. With Dinazhe's aid, Tesek's position within the town became impregnable. He began making plans for the palace at the top of the hill and the statue in the town square.

As his influence grew, so did the reserves of fawning adulation and no-questions-asked obedience that he could use to fill the aching gap in his soul. He increased his control over the lives of the citizens by greatly expanding the Guards. He extended his sway over the villages to the north of the town, and thereby began to come to the attention of House Ishkarat. He grew fatter, and he grew foolish—for only a fool feels invincible.

Not everyone did his bidding. Dinazhe was his own master. When, one day, Dinazhe announced that he would soon look thirty years younger, and wished the story to be put about that Dinazhe had died and left his son, Niatos, to provide magical advice in his stead, Tesek did not demur.

In addition to his regular nightly entertainments, who were paid to please and be pleased, Tesek had for some time been conducting a dalliance with a swordswoman whose leather skirt and pleated bodice concealed, in his practiced opinion, a body that approached perfection. He knew he was not her only lover, but for her sake, he did not have his rivals killed—although several found that their luck was always bad in Borzim. When the woman announced that she planned to marry and become a respectable citizen, Tesek gave her his blessing and a gift: two blue stones, which he had long ago ceased to need. Once or twice a year, for old times' sakes, she left the marital bed—her husband, a dull but worthy man, snoring peacefully—and went up to the palace for a night of rekindled pleasures. Tesek liked those nights best of all.

So matters had continued, Tesek and Dinazhe alike prospering in their endeavors, until the t'skrang spy ring—with a dwarf at its head—had been unmasked, the t'skrang army had arrived at his gates, and now, worst and most unexpected of all, Dinazhe had vanished, without word or explanation. Something had happened to the Wizard, something terrible, connected to those accursed envoys of the t'skrang.

Now Tesek shuffled with slow steps through the corridors of his palace, his guards before and behind him. He turned into the office of the frequently interrupted clerk, who resignedly, without being told, packed up his papers and moved into the corridor to work while Tesek's entourage took over his office. Tesek's private air force—his two windling guards—rose up from the balcony to search the air and the ground for threats. Devlit, Tesek's personal magician in Dinazhe's absence, looked worried and wrinkled his brow impressively. Apparently, he was searching for magical threats. Tesek thought that the young fool would not know a magical threat if he tripped over it, but, with Dinazhe gone, he was the best on offer.

Pronouncing himself satisfied, the commander of Tesek's guards allowed his master to go out onto the balcony. A chill wind from the North swept across the city, scudding clouds before it. Tesek could see almost all the town from here, and hear, borne on the wind, the cries of commerce, anger, and pleasure that rose up from its citizens. Borzim was starting to strain up against its walls. If Tesek came through this battle of wills with the t'skrang, he would have to tear down the northern wall and rebuild it further out into the plain. He thought about building a new and grander North Gate beyond the wall, with twice as many gibbets, and was comforted.

The t'skrang. His gaze found the silver ribbon of the Opthia, and beside it, the muddy discoloration that was the t'skrang encampment. If they thought he was about to cede the city to them, they were in for a rude awakening. He would ...

A shadow distracted him. He looked up, alarmed, but it was only one of the windlings, setting out on another swoop over the houses of his neighbors.

He would what? The depressing truth was that he had no idea what to do next. There was still food, wood, and water (stored in great cisterns; he had long feared the river being poisoned) for, in truth, perhaps two months. The citizens were anxious, but not so anxious as to rebel. He clung to the hope that the t'skrang would not be able to stomach two more months dawdling in the fields. If the Ishkarat could keep their army together that long, then they were a formidable foe indeed.

Unwillingly, his gaze traveled northwards. He could see Murt, and beyond it, the gray line of a squall of rain, marching south across the plains. On the clearest of days, he could see the glint of water in Lake Vors from here, and the silver thread of the Serpent. There, beyond his reach for the present, the chiefest of his enemies, the shivalahala of the Ishkarat, plotted. He looked forward to the day he got his hands around her scrawny neck.

Another shadow moved overhead. By the time he realized that it was neither windling nor cloud, it was too late. He saw two broken windling bodies fall uselessly to the ground below, and was confronted by two massive figures, clad in crystal armor, descending with eye-watering speed on ropes. Before he could act—before he could defend himself—he was seized by hard hands and borne upwards to the already-departing drakkar. His bowmen rushed to the balcony and started firing, until Tesek screamed at them to stop: he was in far more danger from the arrows than were the crystal raiders. As the two trolls drew him upwards, he saw Devlit appear on the balcony, hands forming patterns in the air. Before the spell could take effect, Devlit jumped backwards with a curse and a scream; a crystal raider spear had pierced his leg. Then Tesek could see nothing but troll, as he was seized ever tighter by his captors, dragged over the railing of the ship, and thrown on the floor.

He was bruised, dazed, and bleeding, and in no state to defend himself, but his captors did not finish him off. The two trolls who had seized him returned to their oars. The drummer started up his beat, and the ship began to sail north into the wind.

It was not the first time Tesek had been confronted by crystal raiders. Not long after Dinazhe had gone on Tesek's payroll, two Firescale drakkars from the Scol Mountains had paid a visit to Borzim. While the people ran and screamed, and Tesek took cover in a cellar with his guards about him, Dinazhe had gone forward, quite calmly, to meet the raiders. The few close enough to bear witness said there had been words of power, a glowing mist, and the sight of raiders scrambling back into their airships and disappearing rapidly to the northwest. Dinazhe refused, afterwards, to say what he had said or done. "I convinced them to leave," was all he said—a reticence that only enhanced his reputation. Tesek lived in fear of the raiders coming back, but they had not.

Not until now, when there was no Dinazhe close at hand to save him.

Tesek wished he had paid more attention to what Dinazhe had told him of the crystal raiders, their clans, their divisions, their tactics. This drakkar was nowhere near as imposing as the two Firescale ships. It had but a single sail, currently furled, and only eight oars per side. His spirits began to rise a little. Surely these trolls could be reasoned with, bargained with ...

A female troll was giving the orders. He approached her, opened his mouth, said "I can pay—"

He got no further. A hand harder than his father's swung round and hit him in the face. He fell to the floor of the drakkar and banged his head. Blood spurted from his cut lip. He sat up, shook his head, and spat a tooth from his mouth.

Surrounded by trolls, he had never felt more alone. He stared up at the mast, then, wincing, stood up and walked to the prow. No-one tried to stop him. He looked down through half a league of air at his town, his city, the place he had built up from a few rude huts at the bend of the river. They were almost over the northern wall, to the left of the North Gate. Now he could see the t'skrang encampment. Were they taking him there? He shuddered. He would rather take his chances with trolls than fall into the clutches of the t'skrang.

As they passed over the encampment, two strong arms seized him. He opened his mouth to protest, but the protest turned into a long, despairing wail as the troll picked him up and threw him headfirst over the railing. The ground approached with shocking speed. He cried out one last time for his mother, and then there was only silence.

Chapter 19

"To be a leader," Vulumensthetika instructed Kendik, "is to be one whom the people will follow. You are such a one. Akil was a keen judge of dwarfs, and of humans; why else do you think we paid her good t'skrang coin to lead our spy network in Borzim?"

"Her eye must have dimmed by the time she met me," said Kendik. "I am no duke."

"She wanted someone to make a fool of himself on Tesek's behalf in front of the villagers of Pust, and she saw in you a young man who could play the part. Tesek's crop of young dukes and duchesses are proverbial for their foolishness. But now—". She paused in her pacing to look at him. "Now you have grown into the part, I think."

"But I have no noble blood," said Kendik.

"Do you think that Tesek's apparatus of dukes and dames and earls has a drop of what you call noble blood? That system was set up by Tesek as a cheap way to reward service and curry favor. It seems too subtle for Tesek; perhaps Dinazhe suggested it. In any case, it allowed him to buy loyalty without having to pay in coin. There is, in truth, no such thing as noble blood, except—perhaps— among the dwarfs."

"There is only one king under the mountain," said T'shifa, "and he is not a dwarf."

Vulumensthetika flicked her tail and kept on walking.

This mobile leadership seminar had being going for almost half an hour. Vulumensthetika patiently explained to Kendik that yes, she had meant that he was to be the new ruler of Borzim, and no, it wasn't a mistake, and yes, the t'skrang forces would withdraw once the terms of an agreement between themselves and Borzim had been hammered out. When she saw that the look of mingled fear and outrage remain on his face, she suggested that they walk. T'shifa, unbidden but unwilling to miss the chance to put her oar in, had joined them; and so they had walked about the muddied paths of the camp, and even strayed out of the main encampment, though always staying within the outer perimeter of guards.

As they went on, Kendik, although still profoundly disturbed by the turn of events, had calmed down enough to begin to pay attention to what Vulumensthetika was trying to tell him; and a small part of him was thinking that much could be done with Borzim, if one only had the means.

"The ability to lead can only be exercised if one has power," said T'shifa sententiously.

"This is scarcely a new discovery," said Vulumensthetika, flattening her ears a little. "And, should Dinazhe keep his side of the bargain, Kendik will have power soon enough."

"I will have no real power," said Kendik. "I will be beholden to a powerful magician who may come and go as he pleases on the one hand, and a foreign power on the other. I will be a weakling and a laughing stock."

Vulumensthetika lifted her snout in a gesture that Kendik now recognized as one of amusement. "A foreign power! Spoken like a true ruler of Borzim. But you will commence your rule as neither a weakling nor a laughing stock. With the throne comes a measure of respect, for a time at least, and beyond that, how you fare will depend on how you act. And we are only a foreign power if you treat us as such. We first sailed up the Opthia when Horrors could still be seen on its banks, and we lost ships and crews in doing so. We have every right to claim this entire region for ourselves. But we have not done so. We need trade, and others to trade with; and, so long as you do not make Tesek's mistake and foul our waters, then Borzim may have our approval and, if it wishes, our protection."

Kendik drew his tunic closer about him, and wished he had put on a cloak. The day was growing colder, and as he looked to the north, he could see cloud approaching, a shapeless garment of gray trailing loose threads of rain beneath it. The muddy streets of Pust, Lunusk, and Murt would be turning to puddles. Would it really be his job to bring some hope to those desolate streets, and their desolate people?

Their perambulations had taken them somewhat north of the encampment. Seeing the rain approach, Vulumensthetika turned on her heel and began to walk back towards the warmth of her tent. They had not gone more than ten paces when cries of alarm and a scurry for weapons told them that something was wrong.

"They're pointing upwards," said T'shifa. "What is it?"

"There!" said Kendik. Though he had never seen one in his life, he had heard enough stories to know what it must be. A crystal raider airship was flying high over Borzim, heading in their direction.

"Run!" said Vulumensthetika, her tail flicking furiously. Neither she nor T'shifa waited around to see whether he was following suit. He ran, but not until he had taken a moment to savor one of his dreams turning to waking life.

The ship was making good progress into the wind. Kendik could see the oars, looking like matchsticks at this distance, sculling through the air. He wondered why Vulumensthetika had been so alarmed, then realized that the t'skrang and the trolls—or at least, the mountain trolls—were probably enemies who had fought many battles over the years. Was this some trade dispute gone badly wrong, or had Tesek called up unexpected allies?

Kendik could outrun t'skrang when he set his mind to it, and he caught Vulumensthetika and T'shifa before they made it back to the center of the encampment. Vulumensthetika was already shouting orders, getting everyone to leave the tents and spread out. "Unless other ships are on the way, I doubt they'll land," she told Kendik when she had got everyone moving, "so they must be planning to drop something on us. Find your people, but tell them to keep some distance around them. You may need room to run."

'His people' had sought each other out and were standing in a tight huddle, so Kendik told them to spread out. "She's worried they're going to attack us from the air," he explained. His boyhood dreams of the crystal raiders had been of them attacking Theran behemoths—islands of floating stone, kept aloft by powerful magic—against overwhelming odds; it had never occurred to him that they might fly unchallenged over lands and fields, raining destruction from above.

The airship was now nearly overhead, and it was slowing. Dark against dark clouds, it was surprisingly hard to see. He did not even realize they had thrown something overboard until it splattered at his feet. He leapt backwards from the filth and stench. He looked up to see if the bombardment was continuing, but the airship was already leaving, curving round towards the southwest.

No one moved for a moment. Then, bidding the others to stand back, a captain of the ork guard went to investigate. He bent down and poked at the mess.

"This was a Name-giver," he said. "Human. Wearing this." With the tip of his spear, the ork lifted a chain made of gold. It was an ugly thing, even without the splatters of blood and flesh that disfigured it. A diamond pendant hung at its base, intact, its brightness shining through blood.

"I recognize that," said Kendik. "Tesek wore it round his neck."

Qualia started forward and looked at the mess on the ground. "This is Tesek," she said, "or what's left of him."

A dry chuckle told Kendik that T'shifa was just behind him. "We better get that cleaned up," she said. "The new ruler of Borzim will be needing it." Taking the chain from the ork, she held it in one hand, and carried it towards the river.

Kendik spared one more look upwards. The airship was almost out of sight now. Despite the service the crystal raiders might be said to have done him, he now wished, most fervently, never to see the ship or its like again.

Then the rains came, sweeping in on the wind from the North. Kendik turned his back to the rain and the sky, and made for the warmth of Vulumensthetika's tent.

The unexpected visitor from on high was all the t'skrang could talk about. None of them thought a t'skrang could have set the whole thing up, because, as he was told many times and with varying degrees of force, no t'skrang would have dealings with crystal raiders.

"So who do you think arranged Tesek's little accident?" Kendik asked Vulumensthetika.

"I don't know. But can it be any coincidence that Tesek's Wizard leaves the town one day, and Tesek meets his death the next? I think that Dinazhe has an unhealthy degree of influence over what transpires in Borzim."

"An influence he will soon exert over me," said Kendik.

"Leadership is the art of balancing competing influences," said Vulumensthetika. "And of making agreements, and keeping them. We will honor our agreement with you, so long as you do likewise."

"We haven't made an agreement yet."

"We shall make a binding agreement once you sit in the palace of Borzim, but we are prepared for it to be based on the proposal made by Dinazhe—though we reserve the right to argue what the finer points of such an agreement should be."

Kendik rubbed one hand through his hair and sighed. This talk of agreements and conditions and proposals wearied him. Was this what he would be faced with as a leader, this endless rattle of lifeless words?

"What do you want me to do?" he asked Vulumensthetika. "Rap my knuckles on the West Gate and demand admission?"

As he spoke, a t'skrang he did not know whispered in Vulu-mensthetika's ear.

"You will not need to," Vulumensthetika replied. "Come with me!"

She led him out of the tent and towards the small knoll over which Kendik and his companions had once escaped from the Falcons. With a thrill of dread, Kendik saw that a group from Borzim was approaching again, and that there were black-clad figures guarding its flanks; but there were other figures as well, portly and richly dressed, mounted on horses which they were plainly unused to riding; and at their front came a single rider with a white flag of truce.

"Perhaps you should advance to meet them alone," said T'shifa. "We have your own white flag hereabouts."

"You should speak with more respect to the future ruler of Bor-zim," said Vulumensthetika. To Kendik's surprise, T'shifa inclined her head respectfully and kept her mouth shut.

Protected by ork and t'skrang, they waited for the riders to approach. Kendik recognized Devlit in their midst as they drew closer. "It might be advisable to get Hathilt out here," he said, "That man is their Wizard."

For answer, Vulumensthetika gestured behind her. Turning, Kendik saw the t'skrang Illusionist standing a few steps behind them, trying to hunch his whole body away from the weak sunlight.

"He's not really the outdoors type, is he?" said Kendik.

The rain swept in again, and t'skrang and human alike huddled deeper into whatever garments they were wearing.

"Halt!" called the leader of the ork guards, his formidable tusks jutting towards the interlopers. The group from Borzim, wet, miserable, but resolute, duly halted.

"What do you want?" called out T'shifa.

A black-clad figure said "Lord Tesek left instructions concerning his successor. He told us that he had settled on a young man recently arrived in this town, who had been serving as an envoy in negotiations between himself and the t'skrang—negotiations which, so Lord Tesek's testament tells us, have been going unexpectedly well."

"Did he Name this young man?"

"One Kendik Dezelek. Is he among you?"

"He is," said Vulumensthetika. "Duke Kendik, step forward."

It took an effort of will, and a whispered word of encouragement from Anarya, for Kendik to step out from the protection of his fellows. He felt ridiculously young, inexperienced, and exposed.

"I know this lad!" said a female voice. One of the horse riders threw back her fur hood, and Kendik recognized Uthaia, who had shown kindness to Atlan when they had been detained in the cells beneath the guardhouse. "A young man of good character," she went on, smiling.

Not everyone shared her point of view. The Falcons kept their expressions professionally neutral, but surely there must be those among them who remembered him as escaped prisoner or accused traitor. From the uneasy riders came resentful muttering.

"This is a farce! You t'skrang raise up a figurehead so you can rule in his Name!" accused one of the merchants. A forest of spears pointed in his direction, and Tesek's other satraps edged away.

"Whatever we may think of his choice, this is Lord Tesek's sworn testament," said the Falcon commander, "and we will see it carried out."

"May I see the testament?" asked Kendik.

After a moment's hesitation, the Falcon proffered the document. It did indeed Name him as Tesek's successor, gave a reasonably accurate—if unflattering—description of him, and said where he might be found. A memory came to him from the dreadful night of interrogation by Dinazhe. It had been not long before the Nethermancer departed. The questions had stopped, the magical investigations to which he had subjected them had finished, and Dinazhe had been writing at his cluttered desk. Sezhina strained against her bonds, fury on her face. Kendik sagged in his, trying to conserve energy for whatever might come. Dinazhe had finished writing, risen, stretched, and left the room for a few minutes with something in his hand. When he returned, he had freed Kendik with a gesture, given him the letter to deliver to Vulumensthetika, and told him to go. Kendik had refused. "I will only leave if Sezhina comes with me," he had said.

Dinazhe had merely gestured three times. The first gesture: a dark doorway had opened in the air of the room. Another: Sezhina was free of her visible bonds, but floating helplessly in mid-air. A third: Sezhina was seized by writhing arms and whisked into the doorway. Dinazhe went after her, the doorway closed, and a detachment of guards entered the room to escort Kendik on his way.

This was not Tesek's testament. It was Dinazhe's.

The rulership of Borzim was a poisoned chalice. Kendik thought of refusing the cup. Perhaps, if he broke down and sobbed, soiled himself, cast insult after insult on Borzim and his citizens, they might all agree that he was not the man for the job. But that was unlikely; he knew that it suited all the groups gathered on this field, except those of Tesek's subordinates who wanted the job themselves, to have a figurehead ruler on the throne so that they could advance their own agendas unchecked. Something in him wanted the chance to prove them wrong; but, more than anything, he wanted to find Sezhina, to bring her face to face with Anarya, and to discover the truth. If Dinazhe had to be confronted in the process, then so be it.

"I am Kendik Dezelek," he said, "and I will take up this burden."

"Take this up as well," said Vulumensthetika. She handed him Tesek's chain of office. He scrupled to put it on; though it had been washed, he fancied he could still see drops of blood and flecks of flesh between the links. But he did as he was bidden. To his surprise, the leader of the Falcons bowed low before him, as, less flamboyantly, did the merchants, Uthaia urging them on.

And it felt right. His two medallions—one bought from a dusty shop, the other fallen from the sky—nestled comfortably together on his chest. He could feel their weight around his neck, but it was no burden.

"My first act as ruler of Borzim," Kendik said, "is to declare an amnesty for the following persons, who are henceforth free to come and go in Borzim and its environs as they wish." He Named Sezhina, Anarya, Atlan, Qualia, and Viknis. Though his lips were pursed, the Falcon commander nodded.

"Let us,"—he was beginning to enjoy this, Kendik noted to himself, beginning to savor the language—"return to Borzim."

It was a slow procession, for his friends all returned with him, and none of them had horses. Before they left, Vulumensthetika put a companionable arm around him. "Tomorrow, with your leave, we shall come to the town and begin to negotiate our agreement in detail. As a token of good faith, I am reducing the size of my army today." She pointed towards an ork detachment that was already striking its tents.

"It helps the treasury as well," noted T'shifa. "Let us meet as friends from now on." Kendik, taking this as some sort of apology, nodded and even managed a smile. This was one t'skrang he could never trust, yet he valued her skewed perspective on the world.

It was a slow procession, but in time they reached the West Gate. It was opened. They entered within. There was no crowd to greet him, for the citizens of Borzim knew little of what had transpired outside their gates. Save for a few furtive glances, they made their way unmolested and unremarked towards the palace.

Chapter 20

Kendik slept poorly and woke early. He stared up at a ceiling barely visible in the pre-dawn light. For a moment, he thought that he was back in the family home. He must get up and be about his chores—

Then he remembered, and with the memory, felt the warmth of Anarya's body against his. He was in Tesek's bedroom, in Tesek's bed, and last night, he and Anarya had made love there. Slow, sleepy love. He had been going to ask that some other room be made up for them, but in the end, he was just too tired, and Anarya was too deliciously present, to make it worth arguing about.

He got up, put on his clothes and, without waking Anarya, opened the door and padded out into the corridor beyond. Almost at his feet, a long figure sat soundlessly against the wall. It was Atlan.

"Have you been sitting there all night?" asked Kendik.

Atlan nodded.

"Do you have somewhere to sleep?"

Again a nod.

"You go there, then. I'll be all right. But thank you."

To the left of Tesek's bedroom was the elaborately decorated room in which Kendik's short but memorable meeting with the former ruler of Borzim had occurred. He did not want to go that way, and in any case, there was a connecting door to Tesek's office from the bedroom. He turned right and began to explore his new home.

Security at the palace was surprisingly light—a sign of how much Tesek had come to depend on the magical protection offered him by Dinazhe. Kendik had explored two sides of the rectangular floor before he was challenged by a tousle-haired guard who emerged from a doorway right in front of him.

"Who might you be, then?" asked the guard, drawing his sword. "I've never seen you around here before."

"I work here. I just moved in last night."

"Prove it!" said the guard.

That might not be easy. The only proof of identity he had was Lord Tesek's chain of office, and he wasn't going wear it until it had been washed at least twice more. If he was going to be arrested, he'd better demand that he be taken to the ruler of Borzim for judgment. But did anyone in this palace know who the ruler of Borzim was?

He was still formulating his response when the guard's expression changed completely. He passed from aggression to submission in an instant, and began to back away.

Kendik was at a loss to know what he'd done, until it emerged that he hadn't done anything. From behind him, a voice said "That will be all. Return to your post." The guard scurried off down the corridor, and Kendik turned to see the stern visage and black garb of a Falcon; not just any bird of prey, but the Falcon commander who had come to treat with the t'skrang.

"Perhaps you should return to your quarters," the man told him. "The situation here is still somewhat ... fluid."

"Then I shall have to take account of that," replied Kendik. "Please provide two of your guards to escort me as I continue my inspection of the palace."

"As you wish ... milord," said the commander, withholding the "milord" just long enough to skirt the boundaries of active insult.

Though Kendik enjoyed a fleeting feeling of satisfaction from having bested the Falcon commander, the presence of his escort put an end to his hopes of getting to know the palace, and its inhabitants, unobtrusively. In the end, frustrated and a little ashamed at seeing people shy away from him in fear, he asked the guards to escort him back to his quarters—where Atlan, contrary to his instructions, still sat guard—and dismissed them.

Inside, Anarya slept. He removed his clothes and slipped into bed beside her. Before his body's stirrings could get themselves organized, he fell back to sleep.

Anarya woke him. He winced at the full impact of the morning light on his tender eyelids. "A guard came in a minute ago. He was most respectful, but he said that you needed to get up. A group of t'skrang is at the gates to the palace, requesting admission."

"Right. Oh—I wonder if I need better clothes?"

"I think they already know what you look like."

There was a knock at the door. "Coming!" he said. He should really get a wash. Where could he do that?

He opened the door to find two imperturbable guards outside it, Atlan no longer at his post—presumably he had finally gone off somewhere to sleep—and a dwarf waiting for him with an attitude of barely disguised impatience. The dwarf's bald head and brown-cheeked face were offset by an especially luxuriant brown beard.

"Ah, there you are!" said the dwarf. "My lord—may I call you that?"

"No, you may not", said Kendik. "Call me Duke Kendik."

"Very well, my lord duke."

"Just 'duke'."

The dwarf looked pained. "If you insist. My Name is Kullik. I have been told by those in a position to know that you are the new ruler of Borzim."

"It seems so," allowed Kendik.

"In that case, your time will not be your own. A ceaseless throng of Name-givers will press upon you, seeking your blessing, your protection, and especially, your money."

"Do I have money?"

"You command a sizeable treasury, though it has been depleted by the costs of withstanding the t'skrang siege. In any case, it is my task to ensure that your time is used in the best possible way."

"Best for whom?" asked Kendik.

"Why, for yourself, of course," said Kullik.

"Did Lord Tesek allow you to control his every move in this way?"

The dwarf hesitated for a moment. "Lord Tesek always valued my advice," he replied.

"I see. And I shall value it equally. I need a room into which we can usher our t'skrang guests and make them comfortable."

"There is, I suppose, a suitable room on the bottom floor. It is brightly carpeted and has colored hangings on the walls. I am told that t'skrang are much taken with this sort of thing."

"Indeed they are. Tell the guards to escort them there, with all due courtesy, and make sure that they are well fed. With fish. Spiced fish. Tell them that I will be with them shortly. Before I see anyone, I must bathe. And then I have a proclamation to make."

The dwarf brightened noticeably. "Indeed, my lord—indeed, duke! Do you require the assistance of a scribe?"

"You could have someone standing by to take it down, yes. Is there a room for making proclamations?"

"Does it need to be heard by the people?"

"Not in this case. It needs to be heard by the Commander of the Falcons. He is already in the palace in preparation for the meeting with the t'skrang. Please summon him to me."

Twenty minutes later, feeling much better for a wash and a change of clothes, Kendik was seated, albeit uneasily, behind Tesek's enormous desk. I'm going to make some changes in here, he thought, but there were more important matters to attend to first. The Commander of the Falcons stood on the other side of the desk, not quite at ease, but not quite at attention either.

"I presume you know," said Kendik, "that I was, not long ago, an inmate of the prison beneath the central guardhouse."

The Commander inclined his head.

"The conditions in which prisoners are kept are unacceptable. I shall be launching an investigation into the conduct of the prison as soon as the forthcoming negotiations are over. In the meantime, you are to make it your personal responsibility to ensure that prisoners are adequately clothed and fed. Furthermore, there is to be no more torture of prisoners. Is that an order you will find difficult to enforce?"

The Commander smiled blandly. "If my ruler commands it, no matter how inexperienced he be, then I will enforce it. But as for the food, there is little enough left to feed the citizens, now that we are relying on our stores. Shall we take food out of our citizens' mouths to feed thieves and rapists?"

"It seems to me that the biggest thieves in Borzim live in finer surroundings than your prison, and could benefit by giving up some of their food. In any case, there will be more food soon. If all goes as planned, the t'skrang will soon release their grip on our fields. Please convey my orders to the prison, and then rejoin us for the negotiations."

"As you command, milord," said the Commander. He bowed, and then departed. Kendik leaned back in Tesek's chair. I could get used to this, he thought. But, before he got the chance, his majordomo reappeared.

"Our guests are wondering where you might be," said Kullik.

"I suppose I have kept them waiting long enough," said Ken-dik. "I presume you know who should be invited to this sort of thing?"

"The Commander, who will soon rejoin us—Devlit, as the senior Wizard—"

"Invite them, then. And I want Anarya with me. She's spent more time with the t'skrang than I have. Atlan will want to guard me. Let him."

"And your other companions?"

"Free to go home, if they wish. Free to attend, if they do not."

Qualia and Viknis did attend some of the negotiations, until they got bored, but Kendik barely noticed either their presence or their departure. As a youngster, he had pictured himself facing enemies on the field of battle; in this carpeted room, with the sun streaming in through the windows, with its walls ornately decorated, he found that he was engaged in a battle of a quite different sort, its weapons words, its order of battle unspoken, and the identity of friend and foe never entirely clear.

The rest of the Borzim negotiators were a mixed bunch of local merchants and guard commanders. The only one Kendik knew even remotely was Uthaia, and he found himself relying on her good sense. Her acerbic comments on the participants during breaks helped to both entertain him and enhance his understanding of how things were done—or had been done—in Borzim.

For all their reputation for subtlety and subterfuge, Vulumen-sthetika and her team of negotiators—which consisted of Vulumen-sthetika, T'shifa, the skulking Illusionist Hathilt, and a bunch of tough-looking types who were presumably chosen for their ability to fight their way out of a palace rather than their negotiating skills—had a clear position, and stuck to it. They would withdraw their forces and undertake to leave Borzim and its lands alone in return for agreement on where those lands ended, how much water the farmers under Borzim's control were allowed to take from the Opthia, and how much of the forest in the hills behind Borzim could be cut down.

"Why do the t'skrang care how many trees we cut down?" Kend-ik asked Vulumensthetika.

He had never before heard a t'skrang sigh. "The trees control the river," said Vulumensthetika. "The more trees you cut down, the more the river will flood. Floods help neither your farmers, nor us. But you humans seem incapable of remembering this for yourselves. Therefore, we require agreement on this matter."

This provoked howls of outrage from those merchants who profited from the sale of wood. Indeed, to Kendik's surprise, the boundary was the easiest issue to decide. Nobody was about to draw a line on the plains with a stick, but it was agreed that the plains villages of Murt, Lunusk, and Pust would continue to owe allegiance to Borzim, and that Borzim had the right to station guards in the three villages, and along the highway between, to protect them. Twenty minutes' ride north of Pust, that right would end. Boundaries were also agreed to the east and west.

"To the south," said Kendik, "our boundary is the mountains."

"If we agree to that," said T'shifa, "then we agree to your control over the forests. This we cannot do."

So they were back to the forests again. Argument on this point dragged on until the evening meal—produce from their palace's still-extensive stores for the humans, and fish in all its glory for the t'skrang, prepared by the palace's cooks under the hyper-critical supervision of T'shifa. After the meal, they talked for another hour or so, then rested. Instruments were produced, and the minstrels came to the fore. Musical ability seemed to be the birthright of the t'skrang, and both Vulumensthetika and T'shifa took a turn singing and playing. Kendik's head hurt at the very thought of playing, so he preferred to sit back and listen to Viknis—who had reappeared as soon as the music started—demonstrate his mastery of the lute and his growing prowess with the t'skrang pipes. Qualia, sitting near Kendik, smiled with joy at her son. Kendik put his arm around Anarya and let himself relax.

Next morning, the merriment was forgotten. The Borzim delegation bolstered their case by bringing in foresters, and Lethik was also found and brought before the gathering. He was amazed and delighted to see the position of prominence to which his benefactor Duke Kendik had risen. Inspired, Lethik conquered his nerves and gave a heartrending description of the destruction of his beloved water race. This stirred passions on both sides, and the whole gathering threatened to degenerate into chaos.

Uthaia's voice spoke up clear above the din. "Listen," she said. "Listen!" The quarreling voices died down a little. "What you t'skrang really care about is the water, right? The trees are just a means to an end."

"You are correct," said T'shifa. As the negotiations went on, she had increasingly taken the lead in speaking for the t'skrang, while Vulumensthetika confined herself to occasional comments.

"So if we can agree on how much water there should be in the river at different times of the year, and how clean it has to be, then we can cut down trees for as long as the river is still high enough and clean enough. That sound right to you?"

T'shifa opened her mouth to respond, but Vulumensthetika forestalled her. "Continue," she said.

"So let's have a group of us that gets together to check the river. We agree on places and times to measure, we agree how much water there's got to be and how clean it is. We hire some windlings to go tell the foresters to stop chopping and start planting if the river's getting too bad."

"Will you tell your citizens to stop defecating as well? Since that also fouls the river."

There was snickering laughter in the t'skrang ranks at this sally from T'shifa.

"Maybe we can work something out there too," said Uthaia. "But the point I'm making is, you don't really care how we keep the river good enough to fish and sail in, so long as we do. So why not leave the method up to us, as long as we agree on the results?"

"Lord Kendik," said Vulumensthetika, "do you agree with this proposal?"

Kendik was still sitting there open-mouthed at this stroke of genius by Uthaia. He could see some of the merchants making frantic signaling motions, but he chose to ignore them—even when the signal was a hand passed horizontally across the throat.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I do."

That was not the end of the negotiations—far from it. It was one thing to agree that the river should flow at a certain level, and quite another to agree what that level should be, or how or where to measure it—and how could you decide how clean a river was, anyway? But these were details, and here Lethik came to the fore, forgetting his discomfort at being in the presence of his social betters in the excitement of solving such interesting technical problems.

It was near lunchtime on the third day before every last point was settled. Kendik decreed a short recess while scribes from both sides copied out the agreement to be signed. His back was stiff and sore from sitting in one position for so long. He and Anarya walked around the inner courtyard of the palace, watching the builders at work. This time, Kendik did not offer to help, but he did say hello to Ormanaria when he saw her walking by.

She did not recognize him for a moment. Then she said "My, you've fallen on your feet! And who's this? Taken up with your girlfriend's daughter, have you? Don't trust him, missy, he'll leave you for your grandma next week, like as not." It is difficult to sashay while carrying a load of ornamental tiles, but somehow, Ormanaria managed it. Kendik watched her departing posterior thoughtfully. Anarya noticed him watching, and had some questions for him.

Kendik took her into the wood so he could answer them in private.

When they sauntered back into the palace, it was to find the majordomo looking harassed. "They are waiting for you!" he said. "In there!"

Kendik hurried inside. "Sorry," he said, as faces turned to him.

"Don't be," said Dinazhe.

Chapter 21

His lipless mouth stretched in an insolent smile, Dinazhe sprawled in Kendik's chair. As Kendik and Anarya stood in the doorway, Dinazhe stood up and, with a bow, gave up the chair to Kendik.

"I warmed your chair for a moment. Now you have arrived, I cede the place of honor to you," he said. Dinazhe looked at Devlit, who hesitated for a moment and then hobbled away from his own chair, leaving it to Dinazhe.

"Where is my aunt?" asked Anarya. She was still carrying her sword, and the whisper as she drew it was heard by everyone in the room.

"Please, please, my dear, put that away. Is that how you repay your debt of gratitude to me? But we shall talk of this at some other time. Surely you did not think I would let these negotiations reach their conclusion without making sure that my interests were properly represented?"

"And what might your interests be?" asked Kendik, still standing.

"Peace. Order. Good governance, and non-interference in those matters that do not concern others. I obtained a copy of the agreement from one of your scribes, though he was most unwilling to give it to me." Dinazhe indicated a figure hunched over in one corner of the room. His arms and legs were twitching uncontrollably. "Devlit, be so good as to attend to that poor fellow."

Devlit looked at Kendik. Kendik nodded, and Devlit went to snap the man out of whatever spell had been laid on him.

"And as for you, Pale One," added Dinazhe, looking across at Hathilt, "I do not know what you are doing so far from your caves and your king, but do not think that any power you possess is sufficient to thwart my intentions or hinder my desires. When the mother of your mother was still breaking out of her egg, I knew more magic than you ever will."

At this gross insult to both their magician and their species, hands went to weapons on the t'skrang side of the room, and in response, swords came free of scabbards on the human side. Kendik knew he must act.

"Silence!" he roared. "This is a place of peace, however much Dinazhe tries to defile it with his foul presence and his foul words. He was not invited here, and he is not welcome here. Wizard, go back to whatever hole you came from and leave us in peace!"

"Oh," said Dinazhe, "it has grown brave, now that circumstance and ambition have raised it to the lordship! It does not show gratitude for the boons I have granted it. It mouths its threats and expects me to cower in fear. Let me tell you, young upstart, that I will come and go as I please in Borzim, whenever and wherever I like. None of you can hinder me. Do not try."

Dinazhe and Kendik stared at each other, the air thick with mutual dislike.

Dinazhe shrugged. "Let us talk of more pleasant things," he said. "This agreement is well enough, as these things go. You will end up breaking it, of course, but in the meantime, the t'skrang may go back to their piracy and their dreams of empire, and the good merchants of Borzim may go back to filling their money bags and their bellies."

"You always were a snake," said Uthaia, rising to her feet.

"And Tesek always was a fool. I never knew what he saw in you. Perhaps you should tell your husband all about those nights you spent in the palace." Dinazhe leaned forward, his finger jabbing angrily towards Uthaia. Kendik held his breath, expecting to see Uthaia magically shriveled, or transformed into some small, scuttling creature. Uthaia stood with her hands on her hips and stared back at the magician. For the second time, Dinazhe shrugged.

"Enough of this banter," he said. "Your agreement has my blessing. I bid you farewell." He tossed the parchment at Kendik's feet, then made the complex hand gesture Kendik had seen before. For a moment, there was a sense of a dark room opening behind him; then Dinazhe took one step backwards and winked from view.

"I apologize for that intrusion," said Kendik. "I neither intended it nor wished for it. But he has gone now, and there is no reason that Dinazhe's little performance should delay the signing of our treaty. With one minor exception. Guards, seize the Wizard Devlit and hold him until I am ready to question him. Do not ill-treat him, but do not allow him to escape."

The guards did as they were bidden. For a moment, Devlit raised his hands, as if he were contemplating the use of some spell. When he saw Hathilt rise to his feet, he put his hands down again, and suffered himself to be led away.

"We agree that there is no reason for further delay," said Vulu-mensthetika. "Though I will have Dinazhe's hide flayed from his body before I am done."

After the principals read through the treaty, agreed that it said what it should, and signed it, the gathering broke up with little formality and less euphoria. Any feelings of satisfaction had been deflated by Dinazhe's intervention. The merchants of Borzim straggled off to return to the making of money. Uthaia stopped for a moment to talk to Kendik.

"I should have known that a snake would have a poisoned tongue," she said.

"Does your, er, did you ..."

"Oh yes, he knows. My husband is no fool, and besides, I told him before we were married. Better that he found out then than after." She paused. "Tesek was not always as you saw him. He was always a brute, I suppose, but he had such energy when he was young. Such stamina, too ... And then, later, I pitied him ... Young man, you have started your reign at least as well as could have been expected. Call on me if you need me—for advice, I mean," she added, catching sight of Anarya's expression. "I find nowadays that most of my money makes itself, so I have more time to devote to good works, such as offering sage advice to my handsome but inexperienced ruler." She smiled and went away.

Before long, the only humans in the room were Anarya, At-lan, Kendik, and his assigned guards. The t'skrang had remained. Kendik looked quizzically at Vulumensthetika.

"Before we go," she said, "we thought you might require assistance in the interrogation of Devlit. I offer the services of Hathilt in this task. T'shifa would also like to attend the interrogation, if you will permit it." She saw the doubt on Kendik's face, and added "Hathilt will do no more than you ask. Devlit may not be a great Wizard, but is there any magician you trust in this town who has the necessary skills to wrest from him what he knows?"

"No," said Kendik.

"Very well. I assure you that the rest of our delegation will remain in this room until we are all ready to leave. While we wait, might we request more of that delicious fish?"

Ten minutes later, Kendik was sitting behind Tesek's desk. Across from him stood Devlit, his hands bound behind his back, two guards watching his every move. Should Devlit work magic that did not need his hands, Hathilt was also in the room, with T'shifa along to keep an eye on proceedings.

Devlit looked miserable. His guards had clearly exceeded their orders, for there was blood on his lip, and one eye was swelling shut. Kendik decided to have words with the guards about that. He would not permit them to behave as they had under Tesek.

"Whom do you serve?" Kendik asked Devlit.

"I serve the town of Borzim. I serve the art of magic. I do not serve Dinazhe."

"Do you serve me?"

"I serve the ruler of Borzim."

"But you do not concede that I am the rightful ruler?"

Devlit licked his lips but did not answer. "Hathilt can make him talk," came a dry voice from the corner.

"I take it that you do not so concede," said Kendik. "Still, you see the chain I bear." The chain—Tesek's chain—gleamed in the light as Kendik lifted up the medallion at its base.

Devlit nodded.

"Speak up! It is your deeds, not your thoughts, that concern me. Do you agree that this is Lord Tesek's medallion of office?"

Devlit peered at it. "It looks different somehow. Thicker," he said. "But no—no, I see it is the same."

Kendik put the medallion back under his tunic.

"They say," said Devlit, "that you took it from his body, after you had killed him."

"They do, do they? Well, they say wrong. He was killed by crystal raiders. They dropped him from a great height out of their drak-kar, almost on top of me."

"I tried to stop them taking him, but before I could finish my spell, they speared me in the leg," said Devlit.

"He's right about that," put in one of Devlit's guards. "We'd been called to the balcony and I saw the whole thing. Tesek being pulled upwards, and spears raining down. What I hear is," added the guard, looking hard at Devlit, "it was your master who paid the crystal raiders to do it."

"Dinazhe was loyal to Tesek," said Devlit. "I do not believe he would not do such a thing."

"Then you admit," said Kendik, "that Dinazhe is your master." He nodded to Hathilt, who produced a small vial of potion and a copper spoon from the folds of his robe. It took all the strength of the two brawny guards to hold Devlit's mouth open long enough to make him swallow. After a few moments, during which Devlit vainly attempted to spit the foul-smelling stuff out, Hathilt nodded at Kendik.

"You are now obliged to tell me the truth, Devlit," said Kendik.

"Yes," said Devlit.

"Is Dinazhe your master?"

"No."

"Has he ever been your master?"

"No. But I wanted him to be."

And Devlit embarked on his story. Even as a child, it had been plain that he had a talent for magic. His parents had seen to it that he received what training they could afford, and he seized the opportunity, rising to the rank of journeyman. When he returned to Borzim, he had come to the notice of Niatos, who invited him to the palace. Devlit thought he was to be taken into the older man's confidence and treated as his protege.

What followed was three years of growing frustration. Niatos, as Devlit then knew him, granted Devlit the outer trappings of success—the Name and the cloak of a Wizard—while withholding from him everything that Devlit most wanted to know. Occasionally, Niatos would drop a hint that he was ready to take Devlit into his confidence, to allow him to participate in the experiments that, as Devlit knew, Niatos conducted when the rest of the palace was asleep. "I travel to strange places then," Niatos had told Devlit, "and learn great secrets. But perhaps you are yet too young. You must be strong indeed to see what I have seen, and do what I have done, yet remain whole and sane."

Devlit began to suspect that Niatos was a Nethermancer as well as a Wizard. There had been times when Devlit considered turning down the same path, so desperate had he been to prove himself worthy of whatever dreadful secrets Niatos was withholding from him. When he had finished his endless lists of tasks for Niatos— gathering ingredients for potions whose purpose was unknown to him, or searching out scrolls written in languages he could not read—he would remain in his rooms, studying. But it sometimes seemed to him that Niatos had closed a fog over his mind, so that, however much he studied, he could never learn anything new, never progress beyond the level to which his original master had trained him. Between all this, and the barely concealed contempt with which Niatos treated him, he had come to a point at which he no longer knew whether he wished to live as he was, or try to kill Niatos and die in the attempt. In the end, by giving Niatos the original letter from the t'skrang, he had almost killed him by accident.

"You had left the room by the time he touched it," said Kendik.

"Yes, but I saw him, after. He was terrible! 'You gave this to me,' he said, 'you—'. But his strength was diminished, and whatever he tried to do to me, it did not work. He had to go away, go to where he could be healed."

"And where is that?"

"I do not know. He would never tell me where he went, or take me there."

"When did he come back?"

"Later the same day. He looked just as he always had. Under it all, though, he was still weak. That I could tell. He is strong again now."

Kendik clenched his fists in frustration. During the long night of interrogation to which he and Sezhina had been subjected, Kendik had thought that Dinazhe was as powerful as he had ever been. If he had known how much the Nethermancer had been weakened, might he have been able to confront Dinazhe and rescue Sezhina?

But such regrets were useless now.

"Did you know he planned to leave and take a hostage with him?" Kendik asked.

"No," said Devlit.

"Did you aid him to return today?"

"No."

"Did you do his bidding after he returned?"

"I helped that man Dinazhe had attacked, but only after you let me."

"You did his bidding when you gave up your chair to him."

"I acted from habit. I still fear him."

"Who do you serve, Devlit?"

"I have no master," said Devlit.

"Will you serve me, so long as I am ruler of Borzim?"

"Yes."

"If Dinazhe returns, will you still serve me, and oppose Dinazhe?"

"He is too strong for me to oppose! But I will serve you as best I can."

"Very well. Hathilt, how long will the potion's effect continue?"

"It has almost worn off," the t'skrang magician said in his soft voice.

They sat Devlit down in a chair. He dozed off briefly, and when he came back, he was as pale and hesitant as before.

"Devlit," said Kendik, "you swore to serve me. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," said Devlit, "yes, I do."

"Good. We will discuss the scope of your duties later. They will include the resumption of your magical training. Your most pressing duty, however, is to watch out for Dinazhe's return, and inform me immediately if it occurs. Is that clear?"

"Yes, milord," said Devlit.

"Very well. Go, with my blessing and my thanks."

"It will take him more years than he has to get to Dinazhe's circles," said T'shifa when he had gone. "That man is powerful indeed."

"Do not let that young one have Dinazhe's room," said Hathilt. "There may be snares there which will trap any magician who probes too deeply."

"Including you?"

"I will not enter that room. But I have one more thing to tell you. As Dinazhe returned to whence he came, I was able to send something through with him."

"What?"

"Call it a thought. A thought I dare not yet think, lest Dinazhe detect it."

"What use is it, then?"

"I will think it for you, when you are ready to challenge Dinazhe. And you will have to challenge him. You cannot truly rule while you are under another's heel. When you are ready, look for me in Axalekso."

And on that tantalizing note, the interrogation ended.

X

Kendik stood at the front door of the palace, surrounded by tiles, and watched the t'skrang delegation march down the hill. They had agreed to return to their encampment by the Opthia, strike camp, and leave. Kendik had every confidence that they would keep to their agreement, and he saw relief in every t'skrang stride, a jaunty swish to every t'skrang tail, at the thought of leaving that muddy field and returning to the lives they loved: lives of music, piracy, and the intimacy of the niall.

They were going, and leaving him behind. Watching them, Kendik realized that he would rather have them encamped on the plains, near enough to buttress his shaky hold on power. Without them, what was left? Four friends to set against a town full of people who, if they thought of him at all, thought of him as a traitor. One magician he couldn't fully trust, and another against whom he was powerless.

And an empty stomach. It was late afternoon, and he had not eaten since breakfast. He wondered what the builders would be having for dinner this evening, and whether he might join them. But no; there was no escape that way, not any more. He sighed and called for his majordomo.

In his latter years, Tesek had dined in his room, alone but for his food tester. The majordomo was surprised and pleased that Kendik preferred to dine somewhere a little more public. The dining room near Kendik's quarters was pressed back into service, and within half an hour, Kendik, Anarya, and Atlan—plus the food tester—were ensconced there.

"Your health," said Kendik, raising a glass. His beloved smiled back at him. Atlan did nothing for a moment, then suddenly, jerkily, raised his glass as well. A little wine slopped over the brim. The food taster rushed forward with a cloth and wiped it up.

The food was delicious: roast meat, roast vegetables—and no fish! A t'skrang would have found it unpardonably bland, but Kendik could stop caring, for a little while, what a t'skrang might think.

Good food, good wine, good company. What could be better? But Kendik's heart was still heavy, and he saw that Anarya was doing no more than put a brave face over her own sadness.

"Sezhina?" he asked her. She nodded.

"I promise that I will go after her, as soon as I may. But I must at least start to put this town back on its feet, first. The people do not even know that they are free to go outside the walls."

"How do you know she is still alive?"

"Dinazhe must have some reason for taking her with him. Perhaps he fears me, though I do not know why. Or perhaps he fears you."

"He is right to do so," said Anarya. "I am prepared to wait a little, but not too long. Then, if you are not ready to come with me, I shall go after her myself."

Kendik nodded. He would not expect any less of her.

"The path to Dinazhe might pass through Axalekso," he said, and told her what had happened earlier in the day.

"We may each have our own path," she replied. "What is the next step on yours?"

"Speak to my people. Give them something to cheer about, I hope."

The rest of the meal passed in silence. If Viknis had been there, Kendik would have asked for music, but he had no desire to hear strange minstrels sing strange songs. Before long, the plates were cleared from the table, Anarya and Kendik were getting ready for bed, and Atlan, with a loyalty he could neither express nor question, was preparing to spend another night curled up in front of their door.

XXX

The streets of Borzim were quiet, and the river mist stole along them almost unhindered. In a quiet street, a cloaked man of under average height, with dark eyes and a snub nose, hurried through the fog on soft feet. He was wary, but he did not see the face of the boy, unable to sleep this night, who watched from a window. The boy saw the man, and blinked, and looked again. The man had been swallowed up in the mist, but Natrass had seen that face before, and he had not forgotten. His overriding thought was that Duke Kendik must be warned. His mother had told Natrass that Duke Kendik was now the ruler of Borzim—imagine that! The boy thought about going to the palace now; but he did not know the way, and besides, the cloaked man might find him somewhere in the mist and darkness. Tomorrow, he would set out. He returned to his bed and lay, face set with determination, until sleep claimed him at last.

Chapter 22

All morning, the word had gone out around the town. Guards, servants, even Kendik's majordomo Kullik; all had been sent out to notify the Name-givers of Borzim that their new ruler would address them in the central square. Those who could read were informed by public notices pasted up on walls. Natrass, who was as proud of his ability to read as his parents were of teaching him, saw one of the notices on his way to the palace and decided that his best chance of talking to Lord Kendik was after his speech. His mother and father were both too busy to attend—they had discovered that there was a great, and smelly, void in Borzim when it came to the mysterious arts of plumbing, and had gone into business together to fill the gap—so Natrass and his brothers were deputized to represent the family. Natrass considered telling his siblings about the man he had seen, but he did not want to share the credit with them. Still, he was glad to have his brothers around him as he waited for Lord Kendik to address his people.

XXX

Kendik stood in the portico of the guardhouse, as much in shadow as he could contrive. He moistened his lips nervously. All other terrors receded to the back of his mind, while the terror of public speaking rushed to the forefront, mocking him with its promise of public humiliation.

He wished Anarya were with him; he wished his mother was here so he could hide behind her. But Anarya had opted to stay at the palace, sharpening her sword with a determined expression on her face and looking for training partners. "I will be your consort in private," she had said, "but I am not yet ready to appear as your consort in public." His mother still had no inkling of the remarkable events that had befallen her son since he set off in search of adventure—a search that could fairly be said to have succeeded. He made a mental note to ask Kullik to contact her at the earliest opportunity. He was sure she would want to see the palace, and compare notes with his majordomo on how her son had been behaving.

But he had neither of them. Instead, the silent Atlan stood by his side. Even that was a comfort, but, if Kendik's nerve failed him, he could not expect Atlan to step in and take over the public speaking duties.

Kullik rejoined him. "Sire, the stage is ready, and the crowd is growing restless. It is time for you to speak."

The walk from the guardhouse to the makeshift stage felt like the walk to the gallows. He mounted the three steps as if expecting to see a noose at the end of them. He was closely followed by Atlan and a bevy of guards, who took up positions around him in a semicircle. At his insistence, none of them were clad in black.

He stared at the crowd, and the crowd stared back at him. The Ishkarat siege had not lasted long enough to cause severe privation, but it had started to bite. The clothes he saw were dull, patched, and scruffy, the faces pinched with worry and the beginnings of hunger.

Most of the faces were human, but there was a scattering of other races too—even a few t'skrang, who did not appear to be attracting any unwelcome attention from their neighbors. There were ripples of conversation. Off to his left, not far from the front, he saw a familiar face: Viknis, who was waving at him encouragingly. Kendik lifted a hand in return, and immediately felt better. Qualia would be out there somewhere too. He was not without friends in Borzim.

"People of Borzim," he said. To his own ears, it sounded like a frightened squeak. He stopped, cleared his throat, and began again, more deliberately, hoping he could remember everything he had planned to say.

"People of Borzim! I am your new ruler, Duke Kendik."

There was a faint ripple of applause.

"The death of Lord Tesek was a tragedy. He built this town up from a few huts by the river, and his role in the history of Borzim can never be diminished. But it cannot be denied that his commitment to the growth of Borzim led him to make some powerful enemies. The proof of that has been visible from the town walls of late."

A few nods.

"People of Borzim, it pleases me greatly to tell you that this threat to your town is at an end. As I speak, the t'skrang army and its ork auxiliaries are withdrawing from their encampment by the River Opthia. The t'skrang are returning to Lake Vors. The orks are seeking out their next engagement, but it will not be with us. The siege of Borzim is lifted!"

And the people of Borzim cheered. Real cheering, from the heart. As the admiration of the masses washed over him, Kendik drank his first, rich draught of the pleasures of power.

"Farmers are now free to return to their fields. Whatever crops are left should be harvested, for Borzim does not have all the food it needs. From tomorrow, those from the plains villages who have come to shelter within our walls will be able to return to their homes, and I will send guards out with them to help in the rebuilding that will be needed.

"Though everyone will be pleased to see the siege lifted, not everyone will be equally pleased with the agreement we have reached with House Ishkarat. Our foresters will have to obey new restrictions, and I will meet with them separately to discuss these. We will have to take more care with what we pour into the river. There are those among us who understand such matters much better than I, and—"

The crossbow bolt missed Kendik by the breadth of a finger. The guard standing directly behind him was not so lucky. He took the bolt in the shoulder, and screamed in agony. As Kendik was pushed to the ground by the nearest guards, who covered him with their bodies, he had time to see the man who had taken the bolt arch backwards, foam frothing from his mouth. A strangled scream escaped his throat. By the time the man's head hit the ground, he was dead.

Kendik waited for another shot, but none came. The crowd was a roiling cauldron of commotion and speculation. From its northern edge came screams. Atlan jumped off the stage and began to wade through the crowd. He was much too late; a figure erupted from the back of the crowd and ran off towards the West Gate, outdistancing his pursuers.

"We must get you back to the palace!" said his majordomo, tugging at Kendik's sleeve.

"No," said Kendik. "I will finish my speech." He rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. Behind him, guards were dragging their unfortunate colleague away. Kendik faced the crowd.

"Clearly I should keep this brief," he said. It was meant to be a joke, but he saw several heads nodding vigorously. "Thank you for remaining. I am young. I am not yet experienced in ruling a town or its people. I will need your help. Together, I hope, we can make this a place of which we can all be proud."

They cheered again, if a little more uncertainly this time, and he walked away steadily towards the guardhouse. His shoulders were tensed, but he made it off the stage and through the door alive.

The scene inside was all too familiar. A line of the insulted and the injured waited, with varying degrees of patience, to address their complaints to the guards on duty, who either ignored them entirely or fobbed them off with vague promises of action at some indefinite future date. "No, you bloody well listen to me!" he heard one of the guards say. Kendik had heard that voice before. "Don't come here wasting my time with rubbish like that. I knew your father, and ...". The dwarf's voice trailed off into some anecdote, occasionally accompanied by muttered protests from the unfortunate petitioner. For a moment, Kendik thought of slipping into the queue incognito and approaching the counter with some spurious complaint against the new ruler of Borzim, just to see what the dwarf's reaction would be. He began to laugh, then clamped down on himself, fearing he might never stop.

In any case, incognito was no longer an option. Eyes were turning towards him, including those of the guards. The dwarf's diatribe faltered and he straightened up in his chair.

"Carry on, carry on," said Kendik vaguely, slipping for a moment back into the first incarnation of his Duke Kendik persona. Then he said to his escort, "Before I return to the palace, there is a prisoner I wish to visit."

"I must protest," said Trekaldis, the stern Commander of the Falcons, who had appeared at Kendik's elbow. "The prison is no place for the ruler of Borzim to be seen."

"Oh, but I've already been seen there," said Kendik. "You imprisoned me there, remember? And I told you that I would be launching a personal investigation into the condition of the prisoners once the negotiations with the t'skrang were over."

"Yes—but, the assassin—"

"Is unlikely to be hiding in the cells," said Kendik. "Take me there."

Accompanied by Trekaldis, Atlan, and the prison commander, who was now dressed in brown and blue rather than black, he was duly taken down the stairs and into the underground world below. Though he returned as lord of all he surveyed, not as anxious visitor or terrified prisoner, he still feared that the Falcons would turn on him and throw him into a cell to await torture.

The prisoners, who had no notion who he was, paid him no attention whatsoever, though the sight of black clothing among his retinue caused many of them to cower away to the furthest corner of their cells.

The cell Kendik had once occupied had new inmates now, and another cell was being hacked out of the rock beyond it. But, in the cell one nearer to the hub of the prison's wheel, the old man was still huddled in his rags.

"When I was your neighbor," Kendik said to him, "I never learned your Name."

The old man staggered to his feet and approached the bars. He was shockingly thin. "I gave orders that the prisoners were to be better fed," said Kendik to the prison commander. "This man is starving."

"He won't take the food," said one of the guards. "'Hunger strike,' he says. Wants the 'restoration of democracy', or some such."

"Neighbor?" said the old man. "Can't say as I remember you. Wait a minute ... yes! You gave me an apple and a couple of carrots. Very nice they were too. Then you escaped, or so I heard. Killed half the guards, was the rumor. The Falcons will get you for that, laddie. They don't forget. Name's Fekor, by the way."

"Silence!" thundered Trekaldis. "How dare you—"

"Let him speak," said Kendik.

"Well now! Ordering the butchers about. I heard one of the guards saying old Tesek got what he deserved, and some kid had taken his place. That would be you, would it?"

"Yes," said Kendik.

"Strategy, or luck?"

"Mainly the latter," Kendik admitted.

"How about that Wizard? He still around?" asked the old man.

"I don't know where he is, but I don't think it's in Borzim."

"Got rid of him, did you?"

Kendik hesitated. "Not exactly," he said. "But he's choosing to keep his distance."

"Far in the distance is the best place for that one. Gave me the shivers, he did."

"He had a hold over Tesek. He does not have a hold over me," said Kendik, and wondered as he said it whether he was telling the truth.

"Suppose you expect me to bow the knee to you now you're the ruler?"

"Not especially."

"Good, because I won't. One lord's no better than another, in my opinion. I'd burn the palace down if I could, with you in it. Well, no—that wouldn't be right. I'd give you a minute to get out. Where's that girlfriend of yours?"

Beside Kendik, Trekaldis opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again.

"Sharpening her sword, I believe."

"Lovely lass, but there's something not quite right about her, if you ask me. Still, bet she keeps you warm at night, eh?"

Rulers weren't supposed to blush, so Kendik pretended that he hadn't. "Why have you stopped eating?"

"I'm demanding the restoration of democracy, like he said."

"It's unlikely to happen before you starve to death."

The old man shrugged. "It's all the same to me. I may as well starve to death anyway. Better than being stuck here."

"If I let you out, what would you do?"

"Start gathering an army of the dispossessed. I'd stop for a bite first, if I were in funds."

"Do you have somewhere to live?"

"Course I do. I've got a house near the East Gate, 'less it's been sold out from under me. Probably full of squatters by now. Still, that would give me a ready-made army of the dispossessed, right there sleeping on the floor."

Kendik turned to the guards. "Here's what you're going to do. First, free this man. Second, take him somewhere that sells decent food and buy him a meal—don't worry, I'll pay." To show his bona fides, he handed over a small pile of coins. "Third, escort him home and ensure he has a bed for the night." He turned back to Fekor. "I don't expect gratitude, but I do expect that minute's warning."

"Seems fair," said Fekor. "Where are the keys?"

All the way back down the corridor, Trekaldis remonstrated with him, warning that such a conspicuous act of mercy endangered justice, that it would lower the morale of the guards, that the other prisoners would expect nothing less for themselves. Kendik ignored him. At last, he had been able to use his power to do something good. Besides, there was one more cell he needed to see. As he reached the hub, his stride faltered, but he made himself go on.

"This way," he said. The nearer they got to the end of this particular corridor, the worse he felt. Sweat broke out on his skin. His stomach roiled and knotted. The barred cells were replaced by win-dowless rooms. Here was the door. Behind it was the room in which they were going to torture him, until Sezhina cut them down.

"Open it," he said. A key was produced. The lock, well oiled, turned silently.

The torture equipment, the racks, the thumbscrews, had been removed, though the traces of their hasty removal were still visible. In their place was a pallet of straw and a pile of bedding. A man sat there; from his clothes and his girth, a man of substance. He turned his pale, heavy-lidded face up to look at Kendik. "Am I to be released?" he asked.

Before Kendik could answer, the prison commander said "This man has been accused of fraud and giving short measures. He is to be tried under our laws. There is no need for your intervention, milord."

"I was merely going to ask him what he thought of his cell," said Kendik.

"What do I think of it? It is a cell, but at least I am hidden from the gaze of the rabble. As cells go, it will do."

Kendik was relieved to head back up the stairs and return to the comparative sanity of the guardhouse, until he reflected that a few more steps would take him outside, where an unknown assassin lurked. As he nerved himself to take those few steps, he was distracted by a commotion to the left. "There he is! There he is!" said a young voice. "I have to talk to him!"

Forestalling Trekaldis, who was summoning breath to decry this further breach of protocol, Kendik said "I know this boy. I will speak with him."

The guards bought Natrass forward, and he began to gabble so quickly that Kendik, who had bent down to the boy's level, could barely follow his words.

"There was a man—I saw him last night—I knew him from before, when the, when that magician made his head appear in the air—"

"Slow down," said Kendik. "Slow down. No one will harm you. Tell me calmly what you know. I want to hear your story."

He took Natrass off to one side and drew the tale out of him. It emerged that the man whom Natrass had seen as he watched from his window was the man who had attacked the widow Mecira in Pust—the man who had fomented the plot which led to the attack on the visiting Duke Kendik, and to the death of Mors.

"And then," said Natrass, "then I saw him again!"

"Where?"

"It was in the square, today. I wanted to go to the palace, but then I found out you were going to talk in the square, so I went there instead, to talk to you. But I couldn't get up to the front where my brothers were, and I couldn't see over all the other people, and I was thinking my father would be cross, and maybe I should go and find him. Then I heard screams, and someone said they'd shot you, and then people were getting out of the way, and I saw the man running past."

"Are you sure it was the same man?"

"Well, I think so—but he had a hood—"

"Come on, boy," said Trekaldis, hovering dangerously. "Are you sure or aren't you?"

Kendik waved him to silence. "That's all right," he told Natrass. "You've done the very best you could. But I think your mother and father must be getting awfully worried by now. And you have to be careful: that man is extremely dangerous, and if he realizes that you've recognized him, it could put you and your family in danger. Do you understand me?"

Natrass nodded.

"What we need is a couple of guards who can be inconspicuous. Are any of your Falcons capable of that, Commander?"

"Do not think we are fools, milord," Trekaldis scowled. "What do you want these men to do?"

"Escort this boy home. Don't walk with him all the way. Let him go on his own the last street or two, but follow behind and make sure that he comes to no harm."

Trekaldis nodded, a faint scowl still etched on his face.

"Natrass," said Kendik, "you and your family have been of great service to me. I will not forget either your help or your friendship. You and your family are always welcome at the Palace, and I will extend whatever protection and help you may need. Go now with my thanks."

Accompanied—but not too closely—by two guards, Natrass left for home. Then it was time for Kendik to do likewise. Atlan, who had pursued the assassin from the square, had not returned. Kendik had guards of his own, but that was no comfort. With each step he took, his skin crawled with the sensation that sudden death was waiting to pounce; but it did not, and he returned safely to the palace. Anarya was there, anxious to talk over the day's events, and by the time they had eaten and bathed together, the sharp edge had been taken off his worries. He was, when all was said and done, alive. Atlan came back late, shaking his head in answer to all enquiries, and prepared to resume his accustomed position in front of Kendik's door. Kendik expected to lie awake long and sleep poorly, but he dropped off almost before he could start worrying.

X

Not everyone in Borzim was sleeping. The assassin—the so-far unsuccessful assassin—was lying in a warm bed, relaxing; he was enjoying a good night's rest as the lodger of a poor family who made ends meet by letting out their spare room. The couple knew the assassin as Dolian, a traveler from Bartertown who was in Borzim for a few weeks on business. Dolian was the perfect guest; he was polite, appreciated the meals put in front of him, and had paid two weeks' rent up front. He had warned them that he might have to leave town abruptly. Dolian had considered an attempt to infiltrate the palace by night, but decided that the risk was too high. He would wait until the edge had gone from their fear, and then he would try again—and succeed. His masters did not welcome failure.

XXX

Outside the guardhouse, a pair of guards stared out across the darkened square, hoping that there wouldn't be any trouble while they were on duty. The night was cold, and the wind rising. The younger guard stamped his feet to keep warm, while his new partner shivered and drew her cloak around her. I am getting too old for this, Qualia thought. Perhaps I should see whether Kendik has a post going that would involve spending more time indoors.

Inside the guardhouse, all seemed quiet, but a surprise inspection would have revealed that many beds that should have been occupied were empty. To find where the missing guards had gone would have required an intimate knowledge of the prison, and of those sealed-off areas that were the especial preserve of the Falcons. There, in a room that could hold thirty in comfort, almost fifty guards were crammed in, listening to a Falcon captain.

"So we've had enough," he was saying. "No outsider is going to come in here on the back of a t'skrang army and tell us how to run things, or what we can and can't do in our own prison. I don't know who fired that shot at him, but all I can say is, it's a pity they missed. But we're not going to try a shot in the dark. We're going to march up to the palace in the morning and kick him and his friends out on their ears. The t'skrang are too far away to save him now."

"Won't they come back, though? The town can't take another siege."

"The t'skrang don't care about him. They only care that their precious water keeps flowing. We can keep the water flowing as good as Kendik, or better. And when we're strong enough, we'll deal with the t'skrang too."

"Who's going to take over from him? You?"

"Not likely. There are more than a few merchants in this town who'd love to sit behind Lord Tesek's desk. One of them can wear the gold chain and eat the fancy food, so long as they do what they're told. Are you with me?"

There was a ragged chorus of cheers.

"First light, then. Grab others you trust, and tell them to get ready."

Chapter 23

A firm hand shook Kendik awake. For a moment, Kendik did not recognize the worried face leaning over him, and he fumbled for the knife he had put beneath his pillow the night before. Anarya stirred and opened an eye.

Words issued from Kullik's worried mouth. "Sire, come quickly! Rebels are marching on the palace!"

That got them both moving, and Atlan moving in their wake. Kullik led them to the balcony from which Tesek had been abducted. Crouching down to peer over the parapet, they could see the stand-off which had developed on the road below. Twenty or so palace guards were attempting to face down at least fifty rebel guards, with the black of the Falcons prominent among them.

"Why don't they advance?" asked Anarya.

"They are reluctant to slaughter their fellow guards. They are seeking to bring the palace guards over to their side."

"And what side is that?"

"They are calling you an usurper, milord."

Probably fair enough, thought Kendik; but he wasn't going to let the Falcons take over this town. "Where is Commander Trekaldis? Is he with them?"

"I am trying to reach him, milord, but he is proving difficult to find."

"I see. Very well. Find Devlit. Bring me some trustworthy Name-givers who can get out of this palace without being noticed. Find a scribe. And get us our armor."

A few minutes later, Kendik strode down the front steps of his palace with Anarya at his side. They were clad in gleaming armor—even if, in Kendik's case, it wasn't quite the right size for him, and squeaked a little as he walked—and had swords sheathed at their sides. Atlan and his bow were with them, and Devlit hovered a few steps behind.

Shouts and catcalls swirled towards them from the mass of rebels waiting down the street. Shouts, but no shots. Kendik went to join the guards at the gate. They were frightened, and poorly armed, but they had stood there for him when they could have run.

"What do you want?" he called out to the rebels.

"Your head on a pike!" shouted someone. "And one of our own in charge."

"Yet I am Lord Tesek's rightful successor."

"Prove it!"

"A scribe is presently making copies of Tesek's testament to this effect. Within a few minutes, I will have them for you."

This led to some dissension in the ranks. Plainly, some of the rebels were for striking immediately, while others did not want to attack men and women with whom they served. Kendik took the opportunity to move around his motley crew of guards, bestowing a smile here, a slap on the back there. He encouraged Anarya to do likewise. Women and men, young and old, human and dwarf, they were all that stood right now between him and defeat.

Devlit tapped him on the shoulder and mouthed a question. Kendik shook his head minutely. They could stretch this out a little longer.

The muttering opposite ended. "We'll give you two minutes!" the leader called.

Kendik wondered whether that would be long enough. He looked at his enemies. They were angry, but perhaps they were not quite angry enough. He looked beyond them, and, without changing his expression, sighed inwardly in relief. Behind his back, he made a signal to Devlit.

"The scribe has arrived!" Devlit said a moment later, and gestured at a scrawny man hurrying out of the palace with copies of Tesek's testament. These were brought to Kendik, who handed them to the captain of the detachment guarding the palace, who in turn—after a small dispute among the rebels about who should receive them—handed them over to two rebel guards.

The rebels clustered around to look at them, and behind them, unnoticed, the people arrived in ones and twos to rescue their town. The messengers Kullik had sent out had done their job well, telling those they could trust of the threat to the palace, and leaving those people to notify their friends in turn. Kendik saw faces he knew—Viknis, Qualia hurrying up in her guard uniform, even, he was touched to note, Fekor, the self-appointed champion of de-mocracy—and many more he did not. Some few were armed, but most brought only themselves and the courage of their convictions. They advanced so slowly, so hesitantly, that it could barely be called an advance; but nevertheless they moved forward, drifting up the road towards the unsuspecting rebels.

Kendik wanted the rebels to be surprised, but not too surprised. So he was not unhappy when one of them, hearing a noise behind him, looked around, then tugged at his companion's tunic. Before long, all the rebels knew that the situation had changed.

"The people of Borzim believe that I am the rightful ruler," said Kendik.

"The people are a rabble!" replied his chief adversary. He turned round and walked through the ranks of his own supporters towards the crowd.

"You lot!" he said. "Go home and keep out of things which don't concern you."

"Oh, but they do concern us," came a voice from the crowd. Its ranks parted, and Uthaia strode to the front. She was wearing a fur coat hastily thrown over what looked like a nightdress, and she was puffing slightly, but her voice was steady and clear. Behind her came other familiar faces. Ormanaria and some of her fellow builders were there; Lethik and Sakara, though not, Kendik was relieved to see, Natrass or his brothers; a large troll, fierce looking even by troll standards, whom he recognized after a moment as Vyaka Longtusk. She had brought other trolls with her as well; or perhaps Viknis had, for one of them was the proprietor of the tavern at which he sang. Wherever the loyalty of the crystal raiders lay, it seemed that these trolls were loyal to him, or at least to the office he embodied.

The sight of the trolls caused further wavering in the ranks of the rebels. "Right now, half of them would rather be somewhere else," Anarya whispered to him.

"It's the Falcons we need to worry about," Kendik replied. He counted twenty-eight black uniforms. They were well armed, with swords, spears, and maces. Their leader was arguing with Uthaia, but the rest of them were fanning out, forming two lines, one facing towards the palace guards, the others towards the crowd. If they attacked the crowd, there could be carnage. It was time to even up the odds.

"Guards!" said Kendik. "I see that not all of you wish to disobey your lawful ruler, nor shed innocent blood. If you step aside now and lay down your weapons, you will not be punished. Show me that your loyalty lies with Borzim, not with these Falcons who would lead you to your deaths and the ruin of your town."

Those of the rebel guards clad in blue and brown looked at Kendik, at each other, at the ground. None was willing to make the first move. Finally, a young woman stepped off the road and dropped the sword she carried. "They told me you would set the prisoners free to pillage the town," she said. Three other guards on her side of the street moved to join her, and then another couple of guards followed suit from the other side of the road.

"Karrik Mestupinis!" came a voice from the crowd. "If you don't put your weapons down now, you'll never see the inside of my bedchamber again!" To cheers and catcalls from the crowd, the young man in question obeyed, moving to join his fellows in the neutral zone at the side of the road.

The mood was perceptibly lightening. The rebel leader sensed it too. With a cry of anger, he ran after Karrik Mestupinis, raised his sword, and hacked the young man down.

There was an anguished wail, and the crowd surged forward in wrath. Kendik knew that it was up to him to save them. "Take the Falcons!" he ordered his guards. "Do not attack the others unless they attack you!"

There was not much chance of that. The attack on Mestupinis had convinced the other guards that the Falcons were not friends they wished to have, and suddenly, Kendik found that many of his former adversaries had become his allies. He surged forward. The blade of his sword grew red-hot, and then Kendik found himself growing to giant size. Devlit must be casting all the battle magic he could on him. Waving his sword menacingly, the giant Kendik strode into battle, dwarfing the others who advanced with him. From either side, the town guards picked up their weapons and attacked the Falcons. From downhill, the boldest of the townspeople, led by the trolls, advanced, turning paving stones and garden ornaments into makeshift weapons.

Kendik swung his sword down and felt the nearest enemy's arm part from his body. He heard his enemy scream and knew the triumph of victory. Beside and below him, Anarya slipped her blade neatly through her adversary's defenses, and Atlan's bow sang a high song of triumph as it found its mark.

If the Falcons had been a squad of well-trained, hardened soldiers, they would still have stood a chance of fighting off this multi-pronged assault, or at least, of taking many of their attackers down with them into death; but Tesek had created a force to intimidate the population and to weed out his enemies, not to fight against determined opposition. The Falcons had neither the stomach nor the technique for the fight.

It was over in minutes. The worst point for Kendik was when Devlit's spell wore off and he shrank back to his normal size. For a moment, he was disoriented, and he almost let an opponent in under his guard. But Anarya was fast, and her blade turned away the thrust of his enemy's blow before her skilful thrust slid through his thick leather armor into his heart. It was only after the man slumped dead to the ground that Kendik realized she had killed the rebel leader. Looking around, he saw that many of the Falcons were down. "Falcons!" he called. "Lay down your arms, and you will be allowed to surrender. Keep fighting, and you will die."

The remaining Falcons could calculate the odds as well as he could. Panting and bloodied, they disengaged from the conflict. Vyaka Longtusk lowered her club regretfully and let her much smaller opponent surrender. The battle fever left Kendik, and he began to shake. With an effort of will, he controlled the reaction, and, seeing healers from the Houses of Garlen in the crowd, called them over to tend to the wounded on both sides. It took Anarya some time to make him realize that he was one of the wounded himself; the point of a sword had penetrated his ill-fitting armor and gashed his side, though the wound was not serious. Anarya herself was unscathed, but her armor was splashed with blood.

Not all the defenders of Borzim had fared so well; five of the loyal palace guards lay dead, and three more of the rebel guards who had laid down their arms before the battle had borne the brunt of the Falcons' rage. That, more than anything else, Kendik felt responsible for. Most of the crowd had, prudently, stayed back from the conflict, but Ormanaria, Qualia, and Viknis were among those who had joined the trolls in combat. Ormanaria had come off worst; she wouldn't be doing any more building work until her broken arm had healed, and she was currently having it splinted. Qualia was berating her son, on the grounds that proficiency with a lute didn't make one a fighter, and Viknis was responding that he had only entered the fray to protect his mother. Neither had suffered a scratch.

The remaining Falcons, and those guards who had continued to side with them, were taken prisoner by the palace guards and other loyal guards who had come up in pursuit of the rebels. Once they were all in captivity, Kendik invited those who had come to his defense up to the palace. In the inner courtyard, still shadowed from the low sun, he stood to address them.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for putting your lives at risk to save your town. Without your help, the rebels might have succeeded, or at least, caused many more deaths. I shall not forget your support, and neither will I forget the loyalty of the palace guards, who stayed at their posts despite being heavily outnumbered, and bought the rest of us the time we needed. I will be asking some of you to stay behind to talk with me. And as for everyone else—"

He paused for a moment, trying to think of a reward he could offer them. Vyaka Longtusk was quicker. "The rest of you can come to my tavern. Free drinks for an hour to toast our victory!"

When they had recovered from their shock at this pronouncement, possibly unequaled in the annals of trollish hospitality, the crowd was eager to take up this offer—so eager that it was a struggle for Kendik to lay hold of the people whom he wanted to keep behind. Within minutes, the crowd had left, laughing and joking among themselves, wearing their wounds, if they had them, as badges of honor.

Near the back of this crowd, the assassin considered his options, then, regretfully, decided to wait for a better opportunity. He could have killed Kendik easily on several occasions, but the chances were high that the enraged crowd would have caught and butchered him. He and his masters were not fanatics; they specialized in the rational calculation of risk and reward, and in the assassin's judgment, the risk on this occasion was too high. Besides, he had other business to do for his masters, business he had been in the process of conducting when he heard about developments at the palace. By the time the doors of Vyaka's tavern were flung open, he had separated himself from the crowd and disappeared down an alley.

In the same room in which they had negotiated with the t'skrang, Kendik and his allies sat, ate, and had their wounds further treated. The group who had made their way out of Borzim by tunnel not so long ago was reunited—with the exception of Sezhina. How Kendik missed her wise counsel and grim humor at the moment! With them sat Devlit, Kullik, Lethik, Ormanaria, and Uthaia. Vyaka returned while they were still eating, saying she had watched quite enough of her money disappearing down a hundred gullets. Fekor had been invited as well, but he had refused on principle. "I've never sat in no palace," he had told Kendik, "and I don't intend to start now."

As the plates were being cleared away, Kendik got to his feet, reflecting that, thus far, leadership appeared to consist of equal parts making speeches and fighting. "I've been meaning to get together with the leading citizens of the town—" he paused while Ormanaria snorted her disbelief"—and what better time than this? Tesek may not have valued what you had to offer—although, of course, he valued what some of you had to offer—"

"I'm relieved to hear it," said Uthaia. Some in the room snickered at this, while others looked puzzled.

"—but," continued Kendik gamely, "I do. We've got the t'skrang out of our hair for the moment. What should I do next?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then five or six voices rose at once, competing to get their ideas across.

"Silence!" roared Kullik. "Only one person will speak at a time! There are to be no cross-conversations! Put your hand up if you wish to speak!"

Kendik was both amused and impressed by the way in which his majordomo adapted his training in protocol to this unfamiliar situation. He occasionally had to remind Kullik that these people were invited guests rather than unruly and importunate petitioners, but Kullik was in his element, and would not be cowed. Since there were some strong personalities in the gathering, this was all to the good.

Everyone—even Qualia—was agreed that the first item on the agenda had to be the punishment of the rebels, and the second the reform of the guards. Most of them had personal experience of the cruelty and arrogance of the Falcons. "There will always be those among us who abuse their power," said Qualia, "but we should make it harder for them to do so."

As for the punishment, suggestions ranged from heads on pikes, to exile. Kendik decided that the worst offenders could experience a goodly period of time locked up in their own jail, while those who had played a lesser part would be offered a choice of exile, or probation with a good behavior bond.

Partway through the meal, a messenger arrived with news that Trekaldis, the Commander of the Falcons, had been seen leaving the town in haste soon after the outcome of the battle at the palace gates was known. This presented Kendik with a further problem, which he decided to turn immediately as an opportunity. "Though the Falcons will be disbanded, I need a commander to replace Trekaldis," he said. "Someone who is loyal, intelligent, and level-headed. Fortunately, I don't have to look far to find her."

No one knew whom he meant at first; then Viknis said "Now I won't be able to get away with anything!"

Chapter 24

Kendik blinked his eyes and rubbed his temples. At least it's over, he told himself. The meeting with the merchants of Borzim had been just as difficult as he had expected.

It was not that they had been rude, overbearing, or disrespectful. On the contrary, they had behaved with almost obsequious politeness and courtesy. But behind every carefully chosen word, Kendik sensed their scorn. His requests for cooperation in carrying out the terms of the treaty with the t'skrang were met with a promise to give the matter full and lengthy consideration. All the same, said the merchants, since they had not entered into the agreement themselves, perhaps it was not entirely reasonable that they should be expected to abide by it?

The merchants were, likewise, regrettably unable to spare any of their hard-earned cash to assist the rebuilding of the plains villages. Kendik pointed out that, the better off the villagers and the plains farmers were, the more they would be able to spend in Borzim's shops. The merchants replied that their funds had been severely depleted during the privations of the t'skrang siege, and thus, they must rebuild their own businesses before they could consider assisting others.

Kendik was not entirely without allies. Neither Uthaia or Vyaka was to be trifled with, and the merchants listened, or at least shut up, when either of them spoke up in support of him.

"Meet them en masse like this, and you won't get anywhere," Uthaia told him afterwards. "But there are a few of them who are prepared to listen to you, even if they won't admit it to their peers. We'll work on them one by one."

Which was all very well, but the t'skrang expected immediate compliance with the terms of the treaty, and Lethik and Sakara told him that the people of the plains villages were crying out for assistance. Kendik had, at least, been able to send a company of guards, about one-third of which were pardoned rebels, out to assist the rebuilding process. Kendik didn't think they could get into too much mischief out there on the plains, but to be on the safe side, he made sure that the remaining two-thirds were loyal to him. In this, Qualia's assistance was invaluable: she knew the Names, family backgrounds, and dispositions of almost all the guards under her command.

Under Zirok's command, he corrected himself, for Qualia was only the second-in-command of the guards. Zirok had been less than impressed to see a lowly guard promoted to be his deputy, but with Zirok concentrating on running the guardhouse and the prison and leaving Qualia to organize foot patrols and the palace guard, they were developing a way of working that suited them both.

He was more worried about Anarya: worried she would do something rash. Although all the reasons he had given for not yet being ready to tackle Dinazhe and free Sezhina had sounded completely valid to him, she had all but accused him of cowardice the last time she had demanded to know when they would set off to rescue her sister.

"As soon as I am sure that the guards or the merchants will not rise up against me while I am gone."

"You can never be sure of that!" she countered. "It is just an excuse to ensure that you will never have to confront he whom you most fear."

"I am not afraid of Dinazhe," he snapped back at her. She gave him a long, measuring look, turned on her heel, and walked off. That was two nights ago, and she had not been back to his bed since. Kullik, asked to make discreet enquiries, had reported back that she had made herself up an apartment on the ground floor, and spent most of her time tuning up her swordplay. Twice, Kendik had passed her in the corridors, and twice, she had averted her eyes.

The worst of it was that she was right. He was afraid of Dina-zhe—mortally afraid. It was one thing to be thrust suddenly into combat. He had courage enough to meet that challenge. It was quite another to go, armed only with his sword, into the lair of a Wizard and Nethermancer of unknown and unknowable power. His imagination populated that lair with both horrors and Horrors—things that would rip his body apart and leave his soul naked on the astral plane. Even if Dinazhe were not in league with dark powers, he could surely swat Kendik away as easily as he would swat a fly.

And he feared for Anarya, should she join that conflict. Kendik knew that, if they did rescue Sezhina, then Anarya would eventually be forced to come to terms with the thing he had tried, but failed, to tell her: that, through some dark magic, she was not Sezhina's niece, but Sezhina's younger self.

Dark thoughts, and Kendik sat alone to think them, alone at the table across which he had faced the merchants. The light faded quickly from the sky. Unnoticed by Kendik, a servant entered to set the table for dinner.

Kendik did not hear Kullik approach. Nearly two weeks had passed since the assassination attempt, and the edge had gone from both Kendik's fear and his reactions. He started when the dwarf said "There is someone here to see you."

Kendik groaned. "Not another delegation of merchants, surely."

"No. Her Name is Praemuria."

Before Kendik could react, a familiar voice echoed round the room. "This is a nice place!" said Kendik's mother.

A chair scraped backwards. Atlan got to his feet and bowed.

Kendik, ruler of Borzim, had faced down magicians, rebels, and t'skrang, but his mother was a challenge of a quite different order. Kendik had inherited his rangy height, his dark hair, and something of his temperament from his mother, but he could not equal the composure with which she dealt with new situations. She admired the tapestries, the sweep of the stairways, and the view from the balcony; commented favorably on Kendik's appearance—"you don't look like a little boy any more; you're a real man now!"—and wanted to know all about his adventures.

"I'll tell you at dinner," he promised her as they walked to the quarters that the ever-efficient Kullik had already selected for her. Why did having his mother here make him feel like a windling who had just challenged an ork to mortal combat?

"I hadn't forgotten about you, Mother," he said. "I was going to send for you, just as soon as—"

"Send for me? You should know by now that I never go anywhere I don't want to go, and I always go where I want. Don't tell me you're starting to take after your father. You look more and more like him as you get older, you know. Pity you didn't look more like him when you were a nipper. He might have stayed home more."

"Don't all boys look like their fathers?"

"As long as their fathers aren't overly suspicious, drunken fools, yes."

This was territory Kendik did not want to cover. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I could scarcely avoid knowing where to find you! There are Troubadours singing the praises of young Kendik, who killed the evil overlord and rode to his destiny on a crystal raider airship, from here to Bartertown. Of course, it's a common enough Name, but when I heard a few of the details, I thought, that's my Kendik, like as not. And I'd got a little put by for an adventure, so I closed up shop, asked the neighbors to mind the house and the byre, and set off to find you."

"Did you travel those roads alone?"

"I can look after myself, as you should know."

Kendik nodded, remembering the stories visitors to their house had told him about his mother in her own adventuring days.

"These Troubadours always threw in a verse about a 'woman in shining armor' who was by your side," Praemuria continued. " 'She with golden hair', and so forth. Who might she be, then?"

Kendik blushed. "Her Name's Anarya," she said.

"Will I be meeting her?"

"I expect so."

His mother stopped and looked at Kendik. "Ah! You've had a falling out with her, I see. That's a pity, darling. You always did like blondes, even when you were little. Little Ilia would run screaming whenever you hove into view—and you weren't even four then."

"Mother, please," hissed Kendik. "Let us not talk about such matters in public."

"I'm sorry!" huffed his mother. "Pardon me for wanting to know what every mother wants to know. Now, what's out this door?"

By the time they had explored the interior garden, their entourage had swelled by several fascinated courtiers who waited eagerly to hear what further pearls of information about their new ruler might drop from his mother's lips. She was particularly interested in the building site and the builders. Kendik had been assured ever since he took power that the builders would be finished within days and the new entrance to the palace would be revealed in all its splendor; yet, mysteriously, the job still wasn't done. He winced, wondering what all this delay was doing to his treasury.

"Who's this you're showing round, then?" came a familiar voice. It was Ormanaria. Though her arm had not yet fully healed, she was back at work, and had now been promoted to supervisor—a canny move by her bosses, who figured that this would give them at least another week's grace to stretch out the project. She was enjoying the opportunity to order her former colleagues about, while somehow managing to flirt with half of them as well. Ormanaria was delighted to make Praemuria's acquaintance, and the two of them discussed Kendik with a proprietorial air while he could only look on, defeated.

Still, he had to be honest and admit to himself that there was something very comforting in his mother's presence.

His feeling of safety dissipated as Anarya came up to join them. But, if she was still angry with him, she gave no sign; she smiled and moved to his side. He introduced her to his mother, allowing himself a moment of pride. How could his mother not be impressed with a catch like this?

Ormanaria, smiling her lopsided smile, said goodbye and turned to berate some luckless apprentice for using the wrong thickness of mortar.

Praemuria advanced on Anarya, extending her hand. They shook, like two merchants concluding a business deal.

"I have some things I'm bursting to ask you," said Praemuria, but Anarya replied that she was tired and sweaty from her training, and would join them for dinner. When she came to the table, she was transformed: the swordswoman primed for battle was gone, replaced by a beautiful young woman clad in a flowing gown which accentuated the gold of her hair. Kendik had never seen her look so stunning, nor so otherworldly. She might almost have been an elven princess from the bright days before the Scourge.

Praemuria, herself clad in the best of the clothes she had brought with her, raised a glass in toast to Anarya. "She passes the first test," she whispered to her son.

Kendik was sure that Anarya passed other tests during dinner, but he was less sure of their precise nature. The two women spent a long time swapping tales of adventuring, each regaling the other with exploits of which Kendik had never heard. He listened uneasily, wondering whether Anarya's adventures had really happened, or whether they were false memories planted in her head by Dinazhe.

The topic of children floated to the surface. Praemuria seemed to be asking, without saying so in as many words, whether Anarya planned to have any. Anarya skirted round the question without giving a definitive answer. It was something Kendik had never asked her, or ever thought about, except in the sense that they had been careful to prevent the arrival of unexpected heirs.

"You don't say much," said Praemuria, turning abruptly to Atlan. Kendik winced, but Atlan was not offended. "They hurt my head," he said, bending forward to show Praemuria the crescent-shaped mass of scars left by a heavy boot applied with relentless accuracy to his temples. "I didn't have many words. But I'm getting better now." Kendik's eyes pricked with tears. It was the longest speech he had heard Atlan give since his beating.

Praemuria bent towards Atlan. "What are those?" she asked, pointing at the blue stones, worn round Atlan's neck and nestled against his chest hairs, which had become visible as the big man leaned forward.

Atlan closed his left hand over them. "A woman gave them to me. She said they would help me."

"I see," said Praemuria, and turned back to ask Anarya what it was like to live among t'skrang.

Perhaps it was that Kendik, impelled by his nerves, had drunk more wine than was usual. Perhaps the arrival of his mother had thrown him completely off guard. Whatever the reason, he agreed with his mother's request that they take one more turn around the interior garden before going to bed, to see how it looked in the moonlight. After all, thought Kendik, there had been no sign of that assassin for weeks now. He must have given up.

But he hadn't. The assassin had concluded—just like Kendik and Sezhina a few weeks earlier—that infiltrating the cleaners was the best way to get into the palace at night. He had had to be a lot more patient and careful about it than Sezhina and Kendik, because security at the palace had been tightened greatly; but, though he had no magic to change his appearance, he had many skills. No one in Borzim could have recognized the quiet, hard-working new member of the cleaning crew as the assassin who had fled the central square. And now, when he was doing no more than reconnoiter the wood on the west side of the interior garden, his quarry had obligingly brought himself within reach.

As always, patience was the key to success. There were four of them, and his target was on the far side from him. Keeping within the trees of the little wood, which took up the west side of the garden, he moved parallel to the chattering group, hoping that Kendik would turn to face him. It would only take one good shot. He was never without a weapon, and at the moment he was carrying those that could most easily be concealed—knives, and a blowpipe. His favorite poison coated both the knives and the darts.

Halfway down the main path, a side track turned off to a small gazebo which stood just outside the wood. As he was raising the blowpipe to his mouth, the assassin heard the older woman say "That must be lovely when the flowers are in bloom," and the four of them turned towards him. For a moment—but the moment was gone. The path to the gazebo was narrow, and they walked down it in single file, Kendik again at the rear. Once they were in the gazebo, though, they would be almost in touching distance. He waited calmly.

The gazebo had wooden pillars supporting a peaked roof. The footsteps of his adversaries echoed as they walked onto the raised floor. They were so close now. Even better, Kendik had walked off from the others, a little to the left. The throat was the best place. He raised the blowpipe to his lips and blew.

Later, when he had ample time to reflect, the assassin concluded that Kendik must have had protection on the astral plane, for his dart hit a bat that chose that moment to flit in front of Kendik's face. Many of its brethren were already clustered together in their caves, but this solitary predator of the night's insects was still out hunting. It fell, convulsing, to the ground, its dim consciousness obliterated by pain. The assassin was so floored by amazement that he committed the unforgivable professional sin of cursing aloud.

"Run!" called Kendik, then "Guards!" Though only Kendik and Anarya realized what had happened, neither Praemuria nor Atlan stopped to argue. They ran, out of the gazebo, back to the main path, and across the grass on the far side. Another dart flew harmlessly by.

Balancing the wood to the west, the east side of the garden was occupied by a pond. Surrounded by a thick hedge, it was a place where lovers and fishers could pursue their respective passions in comparative seclusion. There were two entrances, one closer to the south end of the garden, the other in a narrow gap between the hedge and the northern wall. With no better plan in mind than concealment, Kendik made for the northern gap. He could hear running feet behind him, and further off, shouts of alarm and command. The guards would be here soon. They just had to survive until then.

The gap in the hedge was two steps away when, from behind him, came a cry of pain. He half-turned, and saw his mother falling to the ground. Anarya, nearest, turned back to help her. Kendik seized Anarya's arm and dragged her towards safety. Another dart fizzed by his head—the assassin cursed, to himself this time, wishing the savages' weapon wasn't so hard to aim while running.

Kendik and Anarya ducked behind the hedge, then Kendik, greatly daring, turned his head to peer through the gap. Atlan was grappling with a shorter, cloaked man. The assassin was trying to force his dagger downwards against the pressure of Atlan's left hand. Despite Atlan's strength, he was succeeding. Atlan's right hand clutched at his chest. He called out. Blue light welled through his fingers, and, almost in the face of the oncoming guards, a void, dark against the night, opened up. Something reached out: a nightmare vision of tentacles born on some darker and more desolate plane. The tentacles grasped both men and pulled them through. The void closed with a slap of returning air.

Kendik, Anarya, and the guards reached the prone figure on the ground at almost the same time.

"Is she—?" asked Kendik.

Chapter 25

"No," replied Devlit, who had arrived with the guards. "Not quite."

In the hours that followed, Kendik did not leave his mother's side. Her neck had been grazed by a thrown dagger—at least, they found a scratch on her neck, and a dagger was lying nearby. It looked as though she had deliberately placed herself between the assassin and Kendik.

She must have received a tiny fraction of the poison that had killed the unfortunate guard in the central square during the first assassination attempt. It was enough to fell her, but not to kill her. She had always had a strong constitution, and it saved her now. Slowly, slowly, Devlit and the healers of the Houses of Garlen drew her back. It took three days before she opened her eyes, and another two before she could speak again.

Once he felt he could leave her side, Kendik began to set other matters in order. Before the t'skrang delegation had left Borzim, T'shifa had given him an address. "The Name-giver at that address represents the interests of the House of the Wheel. He will carry your messages to us, should you wish it," T'shifa had said.

"So this is Akil's replacement, the new chief of your spies in Borzim?"

T'shifa's snout lifted. "Even if we were to concede that we had spies in Borzim, we would not tell the ruler of the town their Names. No, this person is our public representative."

It was no one Kendik knew: a dwarf merchant in a modest side-street whose house was, perhaps, a little more grand than might be expected from the profits of his advertised trade in beets and turnips. But Kitzil the merchant showed no surprise at being summoned to the palace, and displayed a calm assurance that Kendik's message would reach Vulumensthetika. "I will send my best rider," he said.

It took time. Twice Kendik demanded answers from Kitzil, and twice he was told that these things could not be rushed. It was ten days before Kitzil brought Kendik the letters and seals which would give him and Anarya safe passage to a small village on the southern shore of Lake Vors. From there, they would sail to Axalekso.

Although the delay weighed on Kendik's nerves, it did let him set his house in order before departure. The first priority was to repair his relationship with Anarya. That took a lot less effort than he expected. As soon as she heard that he had resolved to take up Hathilt's offer and tackle Dinazhe once and for all, she was back in his arms and in his bed. "You have done as I desired," she said, "and now other desires can be fulfilled."

The ruler who intends to vacate his throne for an indefinite period is wise to give careful thought to whom he appoints as his regent. Kendik trusted his informal council of advisers, but could he take the risk of elevating any of them to rule in his stead? Uthaia was the most obvious candidate, but he hesitated to put someone who had such a long history with Tesek in charge of the town. Qualia and Ormanaria were both highly competent women, but each was still getting used to her new status. Lethik and Sakara were outsiders. That left Vyaka as the best candidate, but the idea appeared to offend her, and she muttered darkly about her honor until he took the hint and apologized for whatever insult he had caused her.

So he abandoned the idea of appointing one regent, and appointed a collective leadership instead, consisting of Uthaia, Or-manaria, Qualia and her boss Zirok, Lethik, Vyaka, and Kullik. He called them together to tell them that they must consult on all matters of significance, and that each of them would have an equal vote in matters on which they could not all agree. "If Fekor was here, he would be delighted," Kendik told them.

Their reactions ranged from ambivalent to highly skeptical, but none of them refused the challenge.

And, even if they had not agreed, he would have gone anyway. His mother had almost been taken from him. Two others with a claim on his loyalty had been snatched to an unknown fate. He could not, would not, allow Dinazhe to torment him and those he loved any longer. The morning after Kitzil brought their safe-conduct passes, Anarya and Kendik set off for Lake Vors.

In other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the journey to Axalekso. Now, his only wish was that it be over quickly, so that his assault on Dinazhe could begin. They rode out of the North Gate with as little fuss as possible, and thereafter avoided the human villages and camped on the plain. They reported to the first t'skrang village they came to, and from there, were escorted across the monotonous but fertile floodplain south of Lake Vors to a village on its marshy southern shores. There was little to do but walk by the waterfront, stare across the lapping waters of the lake, and wonder when their riverboat would arrive.

After a day's frustrating delay, their riverboat, carved and curli-cued, sailed out of the morning mist. Its t'skrang crew gave them many a curious look, but none ventured to ask what their business was in Axalekso.

They sailed for most of the day in fog, then emerged into sunlight to see the high northern bluffs towering overhead, their mass of varicolored rock, red and brown and gray and white, catching the afternoon light. Soon after, they pulled up at a stone pier, and then climbed a pathway that switchbacked its way up the cliff.

They toiled their way skyward among porters and pilgrims until they reached the summit and saw the t'skrang town directly in front of them.

Before they could catch their breath, a t'skrang bearing the obsidian dagger of the Ishkarat led them to a guesthouse hard by the cliff top, where T'shifa was waiting. She welcomed them, showed them to their room—circular, richly tapestried and carpeted, and supplied with far too many windows for Kendik's liking—gave them food and showed them where to get more, and promised that she would be back the following day. Though they slept well and woke late, the day passed slowly, and T'shifa did not come. Another night slid by. They ate a cheerless breakfast. Where was T'shifa? What had happened to her?

Anarya, never more impatient than when confined, announced after breakfast that she couldn't take being cooped up like this any more, and was going out to stretch her legs. Kendik tried but failed to dissuade her, and had to settle for pleading with her to be careful, and to make sure that she had her safe-conduct pass with her. He had no choice but to stay behind in case T'shifa returned.

There was nothing to do but worry. Though he told himself that he had coped perfectly well in Borzim when Anarya was gone for hours or days at a time, he could not escape the feeling of imminent calamity. He prowled around the room, examining the tapestries, peering at the richly woven rugs on the floor, admiring the stonework, and keeping well away from the windows.

Anarya returned what felt an eternity later, though it must have been little more than an hour.

"Waste of time," she said. "There's nothing to see but a bunch of houses and streets, no one is prepared to talk, and I was stopped twice by t'skrang guards. Everyone here seems so isolated. I've never seen a less animated bunch of t'skrang in my life, and as for the humans, they all go around casting nervous glances at each other from the corners of their eyes. What do you think they're afraid of?"

Kendik jerked his hand towards the window. "Maybe the shiva-lahala lives a bit too close for comfort," he said.

Anarya crossed to the window and looked out. "Is that where she lives?"

"On the island."

"Come and show me."

Kendik did not move.

Anarya smiled. "You're scared of heights, aren't you? Come on, it's only five steps. Can the man who brought the fierce warrior-woman Anarya to his bed be scared of five steps?"

"Oh, all right!" said Kendik. The tower they were staying in stood right atop the bluffs that loomed over the northern shore of Lake Vors, and from the window, every direction was down. They were five hard steps to take.

"One more step ..."

Kendik forced himself those final few inches, so that he was actually leaning out of the round window. For a moment, he thought he would fall. He swayed dangerously, and Anarya, giggling, held him by the waist. Far, far below, the waters of Lake Vors sparkled in the noon sunlight. He could see t'skrang vessels plying the waters; even the dreadnoughts of the t'skrang fleet looked like floating chips of wood from this height. All of them, he noticed, kept well away from the fortified island that dominated this western end of the lake: the fortress of Maratha, where, rumor had it, the shivalahala of the Ishkarat held sway over her domain. Beyond the fortress, the lake disappeared into haze. It was a wonderful and terrifying view.

He turned round to face Anarya, kissed her, and stepped back into the room. "I think you can let go now," he told Anarya.

"But what if I don't want to?" she replied, moving her left hand a little lower.

It was one way of passing the time. They had just made themselves respectable again when T'shifa returned. Her tail was swishing busily, and she was in no mood to linger. "Come!" she said. "Bring your weapons, but keep them hidden!"

T'shifa hurried them down the circular stairway and out onto the street. They went north, deeper into the town. Kendik could not help contrasting what he saw with Borzim and wishing that his town shared some of Axalekso's virtues. Everything here was new, clean, and—to a t'skrang mind at least—well-ordered, though the t'skrang idea of order involved more circles, clumps, and clusters than Kendik was used to.

On the other hand, the place was lifeless. A few citizens hurried home through the nearly deserted streets. There were taverns, but the patrons drank alone and in silence, or clustered together in small groups, whispering. The wind from the northern plateau eddied around corners and cut into his bones. He drew his short cloak closer around him. Anarya was cloaked from head to foot, which was just as well, for underneath her cloak she was wearing armor.

A town as new as Axalekso—New Elekso—had not accumulated alleys, but Kendik noticed that T'shifa was taking care to lead them down smaller and less conspicuous streets wherever possible. At last she stopped at an anonymous door in a stone wall, opened it, and motioned them aside. They went down a flight of steps and found themselves in a cellar full of barrels. Light quartzes lit a table at one end. Vulumensthetika was sitting there, writing. Behind her, almost out of the light, stood Hathilt.

Vulumensthetika looked up. "You're here," she said. "Good. Tell us all about this assassin."

So they sat on barrels and told her. "The same man as in Pust?" she said. "Are you sure?"

Kendik nodded. "Natrass was sure," he said, "and I trust him."

"A Gold, no doubt," said T'shifa. "But not actually a member of the Denairastas clan, or I doubt Kendik would be breathing now."

"A Gold?"

"An agent from Iopos," explained Anarya. "The Golds are that city's guild of spies and assassins. One of the higher levels of their intelligence apparatus, whom they call the Holders of Trust."

"Why would an assassin from Iopos have attacked me in Pust, when I was nothing and nobody?"

"You were somebody to him. You were a Duke of Borzim, and getting you killed, then having the villagers of Pust blamed for it, would be a typical Denairastas maneuver," said T'shifa.

"Whereas killing me in my sleep is a typical t'skrang maneuver?"

"S'thanakara was still working for the shivalahala then," said Vulumensthetika.

"Think what you are saying!" said T'shifa. Kendik had forgotten that this was not her real Name.

Vulumensthetika swished her tail. "We have gone too far now to hide the truth—of our Names, or of our allegiances—from those who have shown themselves our friends. Come with us, you two, and I will enlighten you as we walk." She rose, pushed aside two barrels, and opened another door that led to a dank descending staircase. Light quartzes in hand, they went down, deep into the earth. Kendik divided his attention between the uneven surface of the rough stone stairs and the priceless information Vulumen-sthetika was imparting.

Vulumensthetika explained that House Ishkarat had long been allied with the Denairastas clan that ruled the city of Iopos, many miles upriver. The Denairastas sought to extend their influence and their power throughout Barsaive. "This is meant to be an alliance between two equal parties, yet now, the shivalahala sits in Maratha and listens to the whisperings of the Iopos clan rather than the voices of her own people. We call ourselves a free house, beholden to no one, but we have become the servants of Iopos, flattered when we please them, chastised when we do not. I am not the only one who thinks that the House of the Wheel would be better off if we purged ourselves of the Iopos taint, but to speak such things—as I am speaking now—is treason. Still, we are not without allies. Earthroot has no love for Iopos, and so he is prepared to send his servants, such as Hathilt here, to aid those who work against them. They know strange magic there, deep beneath the mountains the dwarfs call home."

It was true, then, thought Kendik. He had heard rumors that the Great Dragon Earthroot was the King of the Pale Ones.

"Is Dinazhe also working for the Denairastas?" he asked. "Was it the Denairastas who had Tesek killed? And why?"

"As for your Dinazhe," replied Vulumensthetika, "I do not know. We paid him less attention than was wise, and it is clear that we realized neither his power nor his cunning. Nor do I know who hired the crystal raiders to kill Tesek. I do not believe even the shivala-hala would stoop so low as to deal with them, but the Denairastas do not tell her everything they have in mind. Yet they would have good reason to kill Tesek, for they brook no opposition in the lands which they consider theirs—and neither, in truth, do we."

"Borzim is a long way from Iopos," said Kendik.

"But not so far from Lake Vors. Should you defeat Dinazhe and return to your town, you must tread a careful path between subservience and independence. The defeat of Tesek bought your town some time, but, even if we succeed in freeing the Ishkarat from the clutches of the Denairastas, there will still be many on Maratha who believe that it would be negligent not to eliminate whatever threat Borzim poses."

"There may be a little more to Dinazhe than you think," added T'shifa. "Hathilt suspects that he is in thrall to a Horror, and does its bidding in the visible world."

"A Horror!"

Kendik turned to the pale, silent Illusionist. "What do you know of its nature?"

"Nothing," said Hathilt. "And I fear to know more."

"If nothing else, that thing which reached out to seize the assassin and your friend Atlan was surely a Horror," said Vulumen-sthetika. "There are few indeed who can make a Horror do their bidding without becoming tainted. Vestrivan cannot free himself from that Horror known as the Despoiler of the Land. Do you think Dinazhe is stronger than a Great Dragon?"

"I have faced Horrors before," said Anarya. "I do not fear to face them again."

"Brave words," said Vulumensthetika, "but now you should look to the visible world, and mind your step. We are descending into the mines which run back for many miles towards the mountains, and the way is not always easy."

Indeed, the dark staircase down which they descended had grown steeper, and the steps were rougher and more irregular. Kendik's knees were beginning to ache from the interminable descent, but they were the least of his worries. Compared with the prospect of facing a Horror, even a conversation about the various attempts to assassinate him was preferable.

"Vulumensthetika said you were still working for the shivala-hala when you tried to kill me," he said to T'shifa. "Why have you stopped working for her?"

"I do not consider that I have stopped working for her. I am still working in the shivalahala's best interests, and the best interests of my House, though I doubt she would see it that way. Recovering from your blow—it was a good one, by the way—gave me a chance to reflect on what Vulumensthetika had been trying to tell me for some time."

"If I had known it would have taken such a drastic form of persuasion, I could have got through to you much earlier," said Vu-lumensthetika. T'shifa shot her a glance that no one but a t'skrang could have deciphered.

"Also," T'shifa continued, "Vulumensthetika presented certain facts concerning the death of a riverboat captain of whom I had grown fond. She was able to convince me that what seemed a sad and pointless fight over dice in a riverside tavern was actually a carefully staged assassination by the Holders of Trust. I decided, despite the risk, to throw in my lot with my old friend."

"How do you know T'shifa is telling the truth about her change of heart?" Anarya asked Vulumensthetika.

"Hathilt can tell such things. I had him check you two again when you arrived in that cellar, and we did not leave until he signaled to me that you were honest in your intentions. Unfortunately, Hathilt cannot be everywhere at once, and though we have need of more such as he, Earthroot has not seen fit to send them."

"My king plays a long game, and fights on many fronts," said Ha-thilt. "He cannot move all his pieces to one square on the board."

"A comforting thought for the king," replied Vulumensthetika, "but of less comfort to his pawns. This way."

They had reached the bottom of the staircase. It opened into a tunnel that ran out of sight in either direction. It had been growing warmer as they descended, and now it was uncomfortably hot. Moisture dripped down the dark rock of the walls. Vulumensthe-tika led them left and round a corner. The tunnel opened without warning into a vast, dark cavern. From far below came the sound of running water. Kendik flung himself back against the safety of the wall, breathing deeply.

"Mines," said Vulumensthetika. "They extend deep into the mountains. This near the town, they are all worked out. There is a lot of room down here, and all this rock shields the magic that Hathilt and his apprentices work from the shivalahala's magicians. Follow me."

Their pathway was a thin line indented into the near-vertical wall of the cavern. Twice they had to step across miniature waterfalls, hoping that some footing remained on the other side. The light quartzes only deepened the darkness beyond their feeble reach. Kendik had rarely been more glad than when they turned abruptly, entered another tunnel, and started down again, safely protected by dripping rock walls.

At last, after twice stopping so Hathilt could recite formulas in a tongue unknown to Kendik, and then pausing before a door which it took another lengthy incantation to open, they reached their destination: a well-equipped laboratory in a long, narrow cave. Two other Pale Ones labored there, barely looking up from their separate workbenches to acknowledge the new arrivals.

"What happens here?" asked Kendik.

"Here is where I can open that door behind which you will find Dinazhe. But I will need to concentrate. Stand there."

Kendik and Anarya walked to the indicated spot, about five feet from where Hathilt was working. Kendik gripped his sword more tightly and smiled, as bravely as he could, at Anarya.

"Ready?" he asked her.

"As I'll ever be," she replied.

Hathilt stood erect, muttering, or perhaps chanting, beneath his breath. It seemed to Kendik that the light in the room was slowly being sucked out of the corners and towards Hathilt. Torches guttered in their sconces. Abruptly, the air grew cold. Kendik wished he had a thicker cloak.

A ragged oval of darkness opened in the air just in front of them. "Go!" said Hathilt. They took a deep breath, linked hands, and went.

Chapter 26

They stepped out of the portal and fell, both pitching forwards. Kendik banged his head painfully on something hard, then his knee smashed into a rock. Anarya's armor clanged against stone. They slid down a sloping rock wall and came to a halt, bruised and shaken, on an uneven floor.

The noise of their arrival echoed, diminished, and died. They sat in the near darkness without moving, waiting to see whether someone or something would come to investigate the noise. Nothing did.

"Are you all right?" asked Anarya.

Kendik levered himself to his feet. His knee ached and his scalp throbbed. He felt his head carefully, finding a painful contusion but no blood.

"I think so. You?"

"I'm glad I put my helmet on. My ears are still ringing. Wishing you'd brought your armor?"

"I can see your armor even in this light," replied Kendik. "Right now, I'm happy to be invisible."

Anarya's cloak had come undone in her fall, and her armor gleamed faintly in the diffuse light that filtered down from somewhere high above them. It wasn't bright enough to get a clear view of their surroundings, but they were in a large, echoing space.

Anarya pulled out a light quartz, but it made little difference to the darkness.

"Torches are what we really need," Kendik said.

But they didn't have torches, so they were forced to investigate their surroundings as much by touch as by sight. The wall and floor near where they had landed were oddly smooth, as if the rock had been melted and then refrozen. Otherwise, Kendik found nothing of interest.

Anarya had more luck investigating the other side of the cavern. "There's something bolted into the rock here," she said. "Shackles."

Kendik crossed the room and peered at the iron shackles on their iron chains. He counted five pairs. "Look," he said, "there's dried blood on this one."

It looked as though someone had tried to work his or her hands out of their confinement, and paid a price in pain. There was no other sign of life, or death.

A little further round the circumference, they stumbled across a ladder bolted into the rock. They climbed it and found an open trapdoor. It led into a basement full of barrels that, upon investigation, contained nothing more sinister than wine, water, and salted meat. The stairs in this basement led into a circular room with a spiral ladder on one wall, and a door opposite it.

"As I thought," said Anarya, "we are in Dinazhe's tower. It seems he has reoccupied it since I was last here." She went to the front door and opened it. They found themselves staring at a snow-covered hillside beneath sullen gray skies.

Wedging the door open, they stepped outside. They were standing at the foot of a tall gray stone tower, from which the land sloped away on all sides. It was perched on a minor peak, behind which taller mountains lifted their summits to the unforgiving sky. On each side, far below them, they saw streams that carried the snow-melt to lower lands. The door of the tower looked down the ridge-line. There was nothing else to see but snow.

"Not exactly needle-tipped peaks," said Kendik.

"What?"

"We were on our way to find this tower when we came to Kaer Volost. According to Mors, it was surrounded by needle-tipped peaks."

"Do you think there are two such towers up here?"

"No. I think Mors was prone to exaggeration."

They looked around at the gray sky. It was growing dark. A few flakes of snow filtered down from the clouds. A bird called, high and cold, against the silence. There was no hope out here.

"I don't think Dinazhe has been here for a while," said Anarya, when they were back in the comparative warmth of the entrance hall.

"Yes," said Kendik, "but he might have left some little surprises in store for us. We'd better be careful."

And careful they were. They worked their way up the spiral staircase, pausing to look in each room as they went, Anarya making small exclamations at things she remembered. "Once this was my room," Anarya said as they entered the room above the entrance hall. Now it was a self-contained apartment, with a bed, a wardrobe of warm but unprepossessing clothes, in two different sizes, and its own hotpot, bowl for washing, and modest pantry.

"I can't imagine Dinazhe living here," said Kendik.

"Servants' quarters," Anarya replied.

The next floor was divided between a better-equipped kitchen and a dining table with three chairs. So far, there had been no sign of magical paraphernalia, but that changed as they climbed up to the next level. In this room, there was a bed and a scatter of personal possessions, but every spare space was taken up with scrolls. There were shelves cut to fit along part of the curving wall, but it looked as though these had long since proved inadequate to contain Dinazhe's magical research. Kendik picked up a scroll at random and opened it. He looked at the first few lines, then put it down hastily. Though the scroll was in a language he could not read, the words seemed to leave after-images in his brain, so that he saw a dark door swinging slowly open. He shook the image from his head, then followed Anarya up the stairs.

This was the topmost room, its ceiling the peak of the tower. Above, spiders had built their airy kingdoms. The upper darkness pressed down against the air of the room, which was as full of retorts, tubing, colored liquids, and bottles with wax-sealed caps as the room below was full of scrolls. Mechanisms of bizarre design and incomprehensible purpose writhed up towards the spider webs. There was barely space for Anarya and Kendik to stand.

Anarya made a small sound of disgust. She had picked up a large jar. In its depths, lifelike but lifeless, floated a human embryo. Other jars contained the organs of creature both large and small.

"Once I looked up to this man as to a father," said Anarya. "He was all I knew."

There was nothing Kendik could do to ease this pain, except to be with her. Wordlessly, they stood together in this high room, as the wind sighed through the embrasures of the narrow windows. Leaving Anarya for a moment, Kendik went with barely a qualm to the window that looked down the ridge from the tower. It was dark outside.

"If he is not here," said Kendik, "then ..."

"He will be in Kaer Volost."

They found torches and descended the ladder into the cavern at the bottom, looking for another exit, or any clue they might have missed. They found a few crumbs of food beneath the shackles, and a scattering of iron needles, but they found no other exit. Kendik took a long look at the discolored rock he had noticed when they arrived. Higher up the wall, the melted effect was even more prominent, and the rock was dotted with dark holes, about the thickness of his wrist. Looking at this area for any length of time gave him the same feelings of dread and disorientation that he had suffered after looking at Dinazhe's scroll. He thought of the arms that had reached out for Atlan and the assassin.

"Hathilt did not play us false," he said. "Dinazhe's portal was here, and that nightmare creature with the tentacles, too. But they have both gone now, and his prisoners with them."

"Unless he killed the prisoners first," said Anarya.

Kendik nodded. That possibility was preying on his mind.

"There's something else," Anarya said. "I think we will have to stay in this tower tonight."

"I would rather stay anywhere else but here!" replied Kendik.

"Me also. But where? We have no tent, and there is no other shelter this high in the mountains."

"We have quartzes, and you know the route to Kaer Volost. Can we not make our way there by night?"

In answer, Anarya led the way to the entrance hall. "Hold your quartz high and take a few steps outside," she said.

Kendik did as he was bidden. He could see a few steps in front of him, but within twenty paces, he had tripped twice on obstacles hidden under the thin blanket of snow. He turned and made his way back to Anarya.

They slept that night in the servants' quarters. "How strange to be back here," said Anarya. "Yet I am comforted."

Kendik was not at all comforted. Though the tower felt empty by day, with nightfall came the sense that there was still a presence here, watching, waiting to strike.

"I will take the first watch," Kendik said. Anarya smiled, removed her armor, stood for a moment shivering and naked, and put on a nightgown that she had found. It was too small for her, and she pulled up as many covers as she could find onto the bed before disappearing to use the bathroom. Watching her descend the staircase, Kendik was pierced by a lance of desire such as he had not felt since he first saw her emerge from the darkness of Kaer Volost. He averted his eyes as she returned to the room, lest he be overmastered; and though she threw her arms around him and kissed him before she crawled into bed, he held fast to his purpose. This was no place for love.

She was asleep in minutes. He looked down at her blonde hair, the only part of her that had escaped the covers, and wondered again how well he knew her. This tower, for example: she had said, when first recounting her adventures, that it had been long abandoned. Earlier today, she had airily stated that Dinazhe must have reoccupied it. But the clutter in this room, and in the other rooms, was the accumulation of years, not weeks or months. Had she been lying, then—or was it that years were like months to her? "She is not my mother's sister, nor my own daughter," Sezhina had said before she was snatched away. "She is myself." But Sezhina had not known, or would not say, how this had come to be.

He began his vigil filled with brave notions of staying awake all night and letting Anarya sleep, but after two hours of forced inactivity, he gave in, woke Anarya, and let her take over. Turn and turn about they passed the long, cold night, until, at dawn, they gave up their vigil and both lay down together to sleep. It was mid-morning when they awoke, rested at last.

"It would be well to arrive at Kaer Volost before nightfall," said Anarya. Kendik had no argument with that. They gathered up all the portable food they could, equipped themselves with light quartzes and torches, borrowed another cloak apiece, and set off. As they trudged down the ridge, Kendik risked one look backwards at the tower. It stood, tall and gray, watching them with empty eyes.

Conditions had got worse in the night. It was no longer snowing, but cloud had settled on the mountaintops, and they were engulfed in it as they walked. Freezing, clammy, it wormed its way between their garments and their skin.

Still, they set off jauntily enough. Anarya had been this way many times, she assured Kendik. The ridge they followed would lead them almost directly onto the same track to Kaer Volost that Kendik had stumbled across with Atlan and Mors.

"Almost directly?"

"There's just one section that's a bit hard to find ..."

According to Anarya, the ridge they were on ended in a bluff high above a stream—some un-Named tributary of the Opthia. Shortly before the end of the ridge, they should turn off to the left, where a short descent would lead them over the stream, up to a saddle, and onto the track.

In fine weather, it would have been no more than a stroll. In the fog, it was like negotiating a labyrinth. While they were still debating the right place to turn, the ground fell away in front of their feet. They had reached the end of the ridge. Anarya found herself teetering above a hundred-foot drop, and Kendik had to pull her back onto safer ground. There was no going on that way.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"Retrace our steps and see where we went wrong," she replied.

Half an hour later, they were colder, wetter, and grumpier, but no wiser. "We'll just have to find our own way down to the stream," said Anarya, and plunged off down the hillside. Kendik followed. He put his front foot on the wet tussock blades and promptly slipped, landing damply and painfully on his behind. From then on, he placed his feet squarely on the base of each clump of grass, and made his way slowly but safely down the hill.

The stream was well disguised, flowing in a narrow channel beneath the roots of the grass—so well disguised that Kendik took a step and found his leg disappearing down a three-foot drop into cold water. He sprawled flat on his face with one leg in the stream, and his ankle protested ominously as he levered himself upright.

It wasn't sprained, but it hurt every time he put weight on it. Muttering curses at Anarya's retreating behind, he followed her up the far slope.

But the hillside kept on rising, and there was no sign of the saddle. Anarya decided that they had gone too far left, and led the way across the hillside to the right. Kendik concentrated on putting one front in front of the other. Here, any stumble would mean a fall down into the unguessable, mist-disguised depths below them. They walked. Kendik's stomach rumbled. Time wore on.

"This is no good," said Anarya. "I need food."

"Where are we going to eat it?"

"The next flat place we find."

Kendik doubted that they would ever find a flat place. But he was wrong. Not ten minutes later, they stumbled across a rock outcrop that stuck out from the hillside like the prow of a ship, and provided a few spare feet of forecastle for them to sit on. It was a cheerless meal, there in the mist, eating the food Dinazhe had left behind; but it was better than nothing. When they resumed walking, Kendik's ankle had stiffened up again, and it was a good while before he could catch up with Anarya.

In mid-afternoon, the wind rose, tearing the clouds into tatters that flowed around them as they walked. The thin sunlight illuminated the scene with a watery glow.

"Oh," said Anarya suddenly. "We've come the long way round. That's the upper Opthia—the old Volost—down there." She pointed at the silver thread that flowed far below and to their right. "We'll have to climb up and over."

Kendik nodded sourly, flexed his weary shoulders, and prepared to trudge upwards again.

Now Anarya had found her bearings, she was happy. When he finally gained the ridgeline, she was looking at the view with a smile on her face. "See, there's Dinazhe's tower"—a fleck of rock far behind them—"and there's the saddle"—a slight dip which, in all honesty, Kendik couldn't make out from the hummocks and hollows around it—"and"—she turned on her heel to look a little west of north—"there's the peak. Recognize it?"

With a thump of fear, the landscape came into focus before Kendik's eyes. Barely three hundred yards away, the horn of rock Kendik had first seen with Atlan and Mors flung its dark point into the sky. He had been below its base on that day; now he was above it. The petty annoyances of the journey vanished into insignificance. They were almost at their destination.

They walked slowly, quietly, through the grass. They gained the shoulder of the mountain and dropped down to the trail. Once, twice it turned, then fetched up in front of the two pillars of rock and the path leading down into the blackness. There was no fresh sign of either death or life. They paused at the threshold, screwing up their courage. Then they heard footfalls, echoing, quiet at first, slowly getting louder. In unspoken accord, they walked away from the mouth of the kaer and hid behind the nearest rocks they could find.

They saw her armor first. Even in the entrance to the tunnel, in the dim light of late afternoon, it gleamed. She walked slowly, hesitantly, out into the light. Her hair hung long and golden about her shoulders. She carried a helmet in one hand and a sword in the other.

'She could be a Horror, boy! Keep away!' Atlan's remembered words resounded in Kendik's head. He looked at the Anarya who had just emerged from the kaer, and turned to look at the Anarya beside him. But he was already too late. She had leapt to her feet, drawn her sword, and charged.

Chapter 27

Kendik called something—"No!" or "Wait!"—but to no effect. The new Anarya, as fragile and beautiful as a butterfly newly emerged from the chrysalis, had barely reacted, barely raised her sword, when Kendik's Anarya was upon her.

Kendik climbed to his feet and drew his sword, then stood there, unable to decide what to do. But his lover, the woman who had gasped and moaned with him through long hours of passion, had no such hesitation. She raised her sword high and brought it down on her doppelganger's neck. The new Anarya screamed once, a horrible noise that ended in a thick gurgle, and fell to the ground. Blood spurted from her partly severed neck, pooling on the dark rock. Her sword fell to the ground at the mouth of the kaer, clattered, and was still.

Anarya fell to her knees above the body of her rival. She retched. Kendik approached warily, his sword still drawn. "Anarya ..." he said.

"It was some evil of Dinazhe's!" Anarya said. "Some Horror-spawned thing, sent into the world in my semblance! I had no choice!"

The words "Yes, but" formed themselves in Kendik's mouth. He did not utter them. It was the worst possible time to raise the mystery of Anarya's own origins. Kendik wondered if, every time treasure seekers and adventurers had come to this portal, a blond simulacrum of a woman had walked out of it to lead them astray.

But if that was the case, why was the world not populated by copies of Anarya?

Kendik looked at the body on the ground—a body he knew intimately, now disfigured in death.

The living Anarya rose to her feet beside him, disheveled, breathing hard.

"We should bury her," Kendik said. "She may draw unwelcome attention."

"I will not touch that thing," said Anarya, and turned away.

So Kendik dragged the body off into the bushes and covered it with branches, averting his gaze as much as he could from the gashed and broken neck, the expression of surprise and terror. His mind went back and forth between the horror of the dead Anarya and the passion of the living Anarya, till he turned away, bent double, and retched up the meagre contents of his stomach. What had he been traveling with, what had he been sleeping with, all this time?

He looked back at the living Anarya and knew, despite everything, that he still loved her.

And that they had a job to do. She had more chance of finding her way deep within the kaer than he did, so he must travel with her still. He walked across to her, looking down into the darkness of the kaer, and reflected that she had had a multitude of chances to kill him, and had not taken any of them. Whatever her origins, she had so far proven herself worthy of his trust.

"We should start," he said. She looked at him gravely, then nodded. With swords in one hand and light quartzes in the other, they started downwards.

It was easy going at first. They passed the great gates of the kaer, wrenched open so many years ago, and walked down a steady incline. Kendik wondered what mighty hands had finished these walls so well that no crack or flaw could be seen in them. The floor was not quite level, however; water had flowed down here, and in its patient way, begun to erode a path for itself.

Their easy progress did not last long. The entrance was still visible behind them, a rectangle of brilliance in the distance, when they came to a great fall of rock that completely blocked the way ahead.

"This must be where Dinazhe found me," said Anarya, pointing at a pit half filled by the rock fall.

Kendik looked carefully at the rock. "I don't think so," he said. "I think this was very recent. Look at all this dust and grit. Surely enough water would have flowed down here to wash that away since you were a young girl. And besides—does this remind you of anything?" He gestured at the rock walls. It looked as if the rock had melted and flowed, and it was pitted with little holes.

"The thing that took Atlan and the assassin."

"And Sezhina. I think Dinazhe came this way, and pulled the passage down behind him."

"How does he intend to get out, then?"

"Perhaps he will get his pet Horror to open the door again. Does he have another way out?"

The memory came to them both at once: the door in the mountain's side!

"There were gaps in his knowledge of Kaer Volost," said Anarya. "He may not know it exists."

They returned to the mouth of the kaer and began their hunt for the sally port. The last blue was leaching from the sky when they found it. The concealing boulders, patterned with lichen and moss, shaded into darkness, and they found the entranceway more by touch than by sight.

There was barely room for them both to crowd into the small space. Kendik was distracted by Anarya's closeness, and more so by the dried blood still visible on her sword. The door that blocked the sally port was flush with the entrance. Kendik put his hand against it and pushed. Nothing happened. Anarya added her weight and, with a groan, the door swung open. They stumbled over the threshold.

The passage inside was barely wider than the doorway. They had to sheathe their swords and crawl, Anarya in the lead. They had not gone far when the tunnel narrowed. Anarya stopped.

"I'm not going to make it through," she said. "The armor will have to go."

By the time they had returned to the entrance so Anarya could divest herself of her armor, Kendik's stomach was grumbling. They lightened their load a little more by eating. Anarya's appetite had returned. She looked fine, so fine, in her thin undergarments and her cloak. She caught him staring, and smiled. "Later," she said. "We have work to do first."

Then they started in earnest. The tunnel wound down, down, down into the darkness. Though they faced tight squeezes at times, there was none so tight that they could not negotiate it, and there were long stretches during which they could walk upright. Once or twice, they climbed down rough stairs, though nothing like the endless procession of steps that had taken them into the mines far beneath Axalekso.

Kendik wondered how the first scouting parties to leave Kaer Volost had felt as they climbed these stairs and squeezed through these passages, knowing they were probably going to their deaths, preparing themselves to face all manner of Horrors—but also, he thought, stirred by the same blind, primitive hope of the Sun that drew plants from the ground. To die with the sun on their backs, not in a lightless hole—that would have been something to hope for. Whereas he, Kendik, was going down once again, down to danger, darkness, and death.

Sunk in gloom, he did not realize that Anarya had stopped until he bumped into her.

"Why ...?"

She held her light quartz in front of her, and he saw the answer. They had entered a section of tunnel spacious enough that it could fairly be called a cave. The track dropped down a few steps below their feet, and disappeared under water that filled all of the cave they could see.

"Now what?" said Kendik, but he knew the answer. Now we swim.

Weighed down as they were with food and weapons, keeping afloat was not easy. They tried to swim in a straight line, on the assumption that the path they had been following continued on the far side of the cave, but Kendik began to feel a current pulling him off to the left. The water was not deep; once or twice, Kendik's feet brushed rocks, and he was able to stand for a moment and rest his legs. But they were both getting very cold. They had to keep moving.

Then the current got stronger, and before they could react, they were swept off their feet. Kendik cried out as a ragged circle of blackness opened in front of him, and then he was falling in the darkness. He threw up his unencumbered arm to protect his face. At the price of a numbing blow on the elbow, his raised arm saved his head from being cracked open. He fell in water, then fell through air, then landed in shallow water, crashing into Anarya, who had landed just before him. They struggled, managed to disentangle themselves, then rose to the surface.

"My sword!" said Anarya. "I've lost my sword!"

But that was the least of their worries. They were now so cold that they could barely move. To Kendik's great relief, however, this cave was not completely filled with water. At one side, the ground was just high enough for them to haul themselves out. They lay on the bank, bedraggled and exhausted, their ears filled with the crash of water.

Against shivering so violent it threatened to break his teeth, Kendik forced himself to open his pack, and made Anarya do likewise. They had each shoved one set of dry clothes into tied-off bags of cured hide placed within their packs. Kendik found that his spare clothes were damp, but not soaked. He stripped down and changed. So did Anarya. Despite the cold, he felt the renewed stirrings of desire, and chided himself for a fool. Wasn't there anything else he could think about?

They clutched each other for warmth rather than pleasure, then fumbled damp food out of their packs. It was like eating wet clay, but it still helped. Hypothermia, that eager specter at the feast, drew back, disappointed.

"My sword ..." said Anarya, her teeth now scarcely chattering.

"Is gone, I'm afraid. Unless it's lying in the shallows."

Anarya lifted her light quartz over the water to see, then recoiled in horror. The shallows were full of broken, tumbled bones, and there was another drift of bones just ahead of them on the path. Blind cave spiders had made their nests among them. This place was a charnel house, a graveyard of hopes.

Anarya cried quietly, tears trickling down her face.

"I know where we are now," she said. "I played in this room as a girl. It is close to the heart of the kaer. It was dry then, and these people were . were ."

"The Gnashers got them," said Kendik, and his mind painted the scene on the back of his eyes. These people had been further back from the gate when it was opened. That gave them more time to run. The Gnashers must have stopped to feast on their first victims before continuing the pursuit. He imagined the people of the kaer fleeing down the long halls, children and the old falling behind, the strongest perhaps leading the search for some redoubt to make a last stand ... but it had all been in vain.

"Are you ready to go on?" he asked Anarya.

Anarya nodded. She was dressed in damp rags. Blood oozed from a scalp wound, and she was walking with a slight limp. She had lost her sword and now held a small dagger, barely six inches long, in one hand. "I have never been more ready," she said.

Together, they stepped through the high, arched exit to the cave.

The water from the pool spilled through the doorway and fell noisily into the darkness below, but their path led them off to the left, then down again. It was surprisingly warm. Occasionally Anarya interrupted the silence with whispered recollection from childhood. "We are entering one of the farms," she said as they passed out of a low passageway into a new cave lit by a dim, diffuse light. To Kendik, it was an underground jungle, a profusion of untamed gray and green growth that clutched at him from the floor and walls. Water dripped, pooled, ran across the path. In the darkness, small things chittered.

They were halfway across the cave when they heard voices. Anarya pulled him behind the shelter of a rock encrusted with strange, ramifying growths and shielded their quartzes with her cloak. Something small and scaly skittered across Kendik's foot, and he resisted the urge to cry out. The voices came closer. He strained to hear what they were saying.

"... was it this one?" A man.

"No, the leaves are larger, and there are three on each branch." A woman. Both voices were elderly.

"What does he want it for, then?"

"Better not to ask."

They were close now. Anarya and Kendik shrank back against the wall, although Kendik had the uneasy feeling that insects were swarming out of the vegetation on to his back.

"This might be"—the man's voice dropped to a whisper—"our best chance to get out. Maybe we could just keep going, and he wouldn't come to look for us. He has all those others now."

Others? Kendik turned to glance at Anarya, and in that moment, the two voices assumed faces and bodies, and passed in front of them: an old woman and an old man, holding hands. Whatever they were looking for, they did not expect to find it in this dark alcove, and Kendik and Anarya remained undetected. But Anarya's eyes were wide.

The conversation continued. "... disloyalty," the woman was saying. "He will find us and kill us. That thing of his —"

"That Horror!" said the man, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. "You know what it is!"

The voices were fading, but Kendik needed to hear them. He motioned to Anarya. She shook her head, pointed to the rock beneath her feet. Kendik shook his head in return, and crept out of concealment to follow the old couple. The man was still arguing his point.

"... to get away from enemies. He doesn't care about us!"

The woman stopped. Kendik stopped too, about fifteen paces behind them. "There," she said, pointing to a plant he could not see clearly.

"I am not going back," said the man. "Many years ago, I swore to serve a master who was a Wizard. I did not swear to serve the evil thing he has become."

"But we cannot go beyond this cave. The stones we wear will not permit us."

"Then let us cut out the stones! We have known pain before. It means we still live. I will suffer any pain short of death to be free."

"Free to die in his traps," said the woman. "They are ahead of us as well as behind us."

The man shrugged. "A clean death, then. Will you come with me?"

She turned to face him. "I would see the open air again before I die. I will come with you."

Then Kendik realized that his previous uneasy feeling that insects were crawling on his back was, in fact, caused by insects crawling on his back. He shook his shirt, trying to dislodge them silently. He failed on both counts: the insects only skittered faster, and, in swinging round, his sword hit a projecting rock. Even the spongy vegetation did not muffle the slight but distinct ting of metal hitting stone.

The couple turned as one, their lined faces horrified. "He has sent one of them after us!"

"Run now, while it's still confused!"

"Stop!" called Kendik. "I don't know what you think I am, but I want to help you. Besides," he added, "I could catch you in a few strides. Will you not listen to me?"

"If you stay where you are."

"I will," said Kendik fervently. "I will! But first ..."

With a sigh of relief, he undid his rough linen shirt and took it off. Three spiders and two insects of unknown type had been using it as a racetrack. He shook them off. There was only one problem -

"There's still one on my back!"

"Don't worry," said Anarya, stepping out of concealment, "I'll take care of it."

The effect on the old couple was instantaneous. As one, they turned and ran.

"Duck!" said Anarya. Kendik ducked. A rock flew just over his head and hit the old man in the back. He cried out in pain and fell to the floor. The woman bent down to him.

"Why? ..." asked Kendik, but Anarya was already moving past him, talking urgently to the woman. "You said yourself, you can't go beyond this room. It was my only chance of saving you both."

"By killing us?"

"I am sorry that I hurt your husband, but he is bruised, not dead."

"She's right," said the old man. "I've had worse backaches after a day cleaning Dinazhe's tower."

"But she -"

"I know. This is the one who came out to greet us when we arrived at the entrance to the kaer. Kept trying to lead us away, till Dinazhe waved his hand at her. She looked quite disappointed." For the first time, his face, seamed with years and labor, broke into a smile.

"I am not the same woman!" said Anarya. "Dinazhe stole my appearance for some purpose of his own! I killed that thing with my sword. Do you not remember me? My Name is Anarya Chezarin. Sometimes you used to look after me, when I was young. But how old you have grown!"

"You used to look after her?" asked Kendik, incredulous.

"We used to look after a girl of that Name," said the woman. "The Wizard rescued all three of us from the destruction of the kaer. That was over thirty years ago. We never thought to see her again. Then, one cold morning back in the tower, the master ordered us to take some food down to the dungeon. There was a woman there, in shackles. When she lifted her head, we recognized her. It was our little Anarya, grown to a woman, come back to us."

"Is that woman here?" asked Kendik.

"Yes, and two others with her. Dinazhe is determined to keep them with him."

"And is there another with him, a —"

"Don't say it, don't even think it!" said the woman. "It is here. It will hear you. It will lead him to you."

"Well," said Anarya, "that's good, because we mean to kill both it and him."

"This pretty girl is his creation, just like the others," the man told Kendik.

"Perhaps you are right," said Anarya. "Perhaps my memories are false. Perhaps I was his creature once, but I am my own woman now. And I will kill my creator if I can. Do you seek to stand in my path?" She took a step towards them, dagger raised. They cowered back.

"I think we can aid each other," said Kendik. "I heard you say that you would have to cut out some stones to go further. Will those same stones give us safe passage to Dinazhe?"

"If he is concentrating on other things, they might."

"But there are traps between here and the exit," added the woman. "Tell us how you got past them."

So Kendik explained. As the explanation did not outline a use-able escape route, the old couple decided to take shelter in this overgrown farm cave and await the outcome. "If you are victorious, then a way out may be open to us," said the woman. "If you are not, we will meet our doom here. Do you have a knife?"

Anarya's knife was sharp. Dinazhe had inserted the stones in the flesh of his servants' upper arms. It was necessary to dig into the scar tissue there to remove them. The woman cried out, and the man fainted. There was a lot of blood, and though they tried to staunch the flow, some dripped onto the floor. Eager insects burst from the skirts of the vegetation to lap up the nutrients.

Kendik held the bloody stones gingerly in his hands.

"Just like Atlan's. Where does Dinazhe get these things?"

"From his creature," the old woman said. "It excretes them. They contain magic."

After making sure that the servants were as comfortable as possible, Anarya and Kendik bade them farewell. Placing the stones, which they had wiped as clean as they could, in their pockets, they started along the path that led out of the overgrown farm and deeper into the kaer.

"I have accepted my destiny," said Anarya.

"What?"

"If I am Dinazhe's creature, then I expect that his death will also mean mine. But Sezhina should not share that fate. She is my sister, and I will free her if it is the last thing I do. One of us at least will have the pleasure of smiling down on our tormentor's broken corpse."

She looked at him with a face etched in stone. There was nothing more to say. At the far end of the farm cave, a flight of steps had been cut into the rock. They climbed them, looked back for a moment to check that the old couple had stayed put, and stepped into the next tunnel. The dim light vanished. They were in darkness, and there was darkness ahead.

Chapter 28

"How big is this kaer?" whispered Kendik. He had lost track of how many airy caves and narrow tunnels they had walked and clambered through since they left the farm cave.

"Big," replied Anarya. "Several thousand Name-givers took refuge in this kaer, and it took a lot of time to connect existing caves and excavate new ones. We are still in the upper levels. There are many farm caves, though we have seen only one. We will reach the plaza soon."

"And what are we likely to find there?"

"Death."

"I have seen enough bones already," said Kendik.

The cave they were in opened at its far end into the largest cavern they had yet entered. A soft, buttery light welled from light quartzes embedded in the walls. Many other caves and tunnels opened into this place. Kendik did not need Anarya to tell him that they had reached the plaza.

And it was full of bones. They lay everywhere, some still recognizable as skeletons, some broken and tumbled beyond recognition.

"Those who did not come to see the Gates being opened would have gathered here to wait for news," said Anarya.

The drifts of bones grew thicker as they approached the center of the room. To Kendik, they were like the ruins of some ancient alphabet, spelling messages of pain and fear.

And there, in the center of the room, was the cause and the symbol of many troubles. Disregarded by the Gnashers, the ball of True earth still hung there above the dish of True water. Kendik walked towards the plinth on which the bowl rested, avoiding the bones when he could, crunching them when he could not. The gap between earth and water still stood at the width of two fingers.

"What would happen if I tried to grab the ball?" asked Kendik.

"Don't!" said Anarya. She moved to slap his hand away. The sudden movement dislodged her blue stone from the pocket of her vest. It fell with a clatter and rolled out of sight.

The effect was immediate. Around them, the air grew colder. A mist gathered on the floor, and transformed itself into bodies. The forms of people long dead took shape where they had fallen. Anarya was flawless, but these revenants bled from terrible wounds or tried to walk on broken legs as they shambled towards Anarya.

"I know her!" said Anarya. "This is Krina!"

Kendik was grimly focused on one task: to find the fallen stone. He could not see it on the plinth that held the bowl of True water, nor on the floor at their feet. For one wild moment, he thought it had fallen in the bowl itself, and contemplated disturbing the sacred object to find it.

"Don't," said Anarya to someone Kendik could not see, "don't make me ."

The reanimated dead of Kaer Volost paid Kendik no attention, but they were solid enough. One crunched a bone as it advanced towards Anarya, and he saw the blue stone, undamaged, a tread ahead of it. He reached down and clutched the stone just as a heavy foot descended towards it. From behind him, he heard the swish of a sword, then a wet thump.

He straightened, turned, and saw Anarya being pressed backwards against the plinth by a mass of clutching bodies. Her sword swept down again, and another body fell to the floor. The one calm corner still left in Kendik's brain noted that there was no blood. The rest of him willed his arm to stretch out to Anarya and place the blue stone in the clutching fingers of her left hand.

As soon as she grasped it, the bodies faded to nothingness. Whatever power had called them up was placated, and the room lay lifeless again.

Anarya was shaking. "I had to kill—I had to kill—"

"It doesn't matter," said Kendik. "She was long dead, and now she is at rest again."

An expression of fury drew down the corners of Anarya's mouth. "This is a foul place!" she said. "I will not rest until I have cleansed the evil from it."

"I can see now why Dinazhe isn't too worried about anybody penetrating the kaer," said Kendik. "He has guards aplenty."

"I hope that he has not become aware of our presence," said Anarya, her narrowed eyes turned on Kendik. "Only the priests are entitled to touch the elemental clock!"

Kendik had nothing to say but "Sorry." He had no idea what perversity had placed the thought of grabbing the ball into his head.

There were so many exits from the plaza that it took a couple of false starts before Anarya found the right path. "How do you know this is the right way?" asked Kendik.

"Because I sense him," she replied. "I sense his evil."

Kendik couldn't sense anything other than the rumble in his stomach. He persuaded Anarya to turn aside from the hunt so they could force down a few more mouthfuls of what had once been recognizable as their food. Only now, when he was no longer moving, did he, too, sense that something evil lay below them, something implacable and alien.

"I do not think you sense Dinazhe," he said to Anarya. "I think you sense the Horror."

"Perhaps they are one and the same," replied Anarya.

There were fewer skeletons now. They passed through one more farm cave. It was vast and silent. The plants on its walls and in its racks were barely clinging to life, and no insects chittered to disturb the silence.

"We are reaching the limits of the kaer as I knew it in my childhood," said Anarya. "Below are the dark lands where, according to Sezhina, strange cults roamed."

"That sounds like the right place for Dinazhe."

With the threat of evil before them, and the memory of evil behind, they entered a long, winding tunnel that sloped gradually downwards. They had been walking down it for almost five minutes when they heard a noise to their right: a long, low moan. A narrow passageway led in that direction. They squeezed into it, Anarya in the lead. She stopped abruptly. "What is it?" hissed Kendik.

Silently, she stepped forward and to the left so Kendik could see what she had seen.

They had entered a roughly circular cave, which must once have been hollowed out, or at least enlarged, by the labor of Name-givers. In the days of the kaer, it had probably been the residence of a family. Now, in the steady glow of their light quartzes, they could see that it held three people. Two of them were chained to the wall, almost within touching distance of each other, and the third was off to Kendik's left, on the other side of the room. Two hung loosely in their shackles. The third saw them, recognized them, and raised a manacled finger to his lips. It was Atlan.

The other two prisoners had been so changed by their captivity that it took Kendik a moment to recognize them. It was not until he moved to the prisoner on the left that he realized she was Sezhina. Anarya lifted Sezhina's head, and they both stared in horror at her appearance. Her face was bruised and bloodied, the little hair she had left clung to her scalp in loose clumps, and her eyes were vacant. The woman they had known was gone, or lost deep inside herself.

Sezhina's left shoulder was bare but for a clumsily applied bandage around which blood and lymph leaked. Her clothes were blood-streaked and filthy.

I left her here, thought Kendik. While I was thinking of my own skin, she was suffering through this torment. He looked at Anarya, contrition written large on his face. She stared back at him and said nothing.

They crossed to the other two prisoners. Kendik went to Atlan first. "How are you?" he whispered.

The ghost of a smile. "Better. It has not tapped me yet. Free us now. Kill that one." Atlan jerked his head to the right and indicated the remaining prisoner.

It was the assassin, and he was in no better state than Sezhina. Kendik was cautious about getting within arm's reach of the man, lest the assassin merely be faking his injuries and his exhaustion— but the man from Iopos showed no sign of animation even when his enemy was, at last, within his reach.

"I can't bring myself to kill a man in this state," said Kendik.

"Then free us and get out," said Atlan.

But that was much easier said than done, for the shackles were made of well-forged iron, as were the chains. Kendik could have chopped at them with his sword, but that would have blunted his sword and left the shackles unaffected. Anarya tried and failed to separate the links with her dagger.

Kendik looked at Sezhina's hands. They were covered in dried blood, and the skin was almost gone from two of the fingers on her left hand. It was plain that she had tried to free herself—but that had been when she weighed more. She was skin and bone now. Somewhere in his soggy bag of food was some butter ...

At first he thought it wasn't going to work. He smeared her hands with butter and tried to tug them through the shackles. They would not budge. Anarya was using the same method on Atlan. Although the big man was able to help, they weren't making much progress.

From somewhere behind him, Kendik felt a renewed gust of dread and disorientation. Redoubling his efforts, he rotated Sezhi-na's left wrist to an angle that would have made anyone conscious cry out in pain—and it worked. He freed her left hand, then her right. She slumped to the floor.

Then it came. Through the narrow entranceway slithered a wet, glutinous mass of tentacles, some as thin as a pencil, others thicker than Kendik's arm. On its own, each tentacle was no more terrible than that of some sea creature cast up to an untimely death on the shore; but together, they emanated such a miasma of hatred and despair that Kendik found he could barely look at them, even as they sought him out. He heard Anarya gasp. She turned from Atlan to face the creature, dagger held low in front of her.

The thing kept on oozing through the doorway, more and more tentacles rippling into view. If Anarya can face it, Kendik told himself, so can I. He grasped at the medallion on his chest for comfort, then drew his sword, stepped forward, and hewed at the nearest tentacle. It split in two with a faint sucking noise. The severed part evaporated. The rest of the tentacle whipped round, spewing some noxious liquid. A few drops of the liquid spattered on his lower leg, burning through the thin fabric and pinpricking his leg with pain. Yet, for a moment, as he struck, the thing's hold on his mind had been loosened. He advanced and struck again, jumping back to avoid the thing's deadly blood.

A cry from his left. Anarya was hacking left-handed with her dagger at tentacles that had seized her right arm. Kendik cut the tentacles with a few frantic blows, then returned to the attack. The thing was wavering. He yelled at it, words of defiance he could not himself understand.

Then the ground shook. The rock pillars of the doorway crumbled. The thing—the Horror—dragged its full bulk into the room, and Kendik almost swooned. Such hatred, such depths of negation, he had never known. It had no eyes that he could see, but it possessed a central core—a mouth surrounded by black, bulbous protrusions of flesh—that sensed his presence, that turned towards him, that opened its mighty jaws and advanced. Kendik raised his sword high and chopped downwards, but the writhing mass of long, thin tentacles around the mouth fastened on his skin faster than he could chop them off. A blow numbed his arm, and his sword clattered out of his grasp onto the rock behind him. Anarya darted forward to sever a few tentacles, but she soon became entangled as well. The thing's mouth opened wide.

Then a woman leapt between Kendik and Anarya, raised Kend-ik's sword high, and cut directly at the thing's central core of flesh. It roared—the first sound Kendik had heard it make—and reared backwards. Moving, despite her injuries, with the speed and agility that marked her as the adept she was, Sezhina cut again and again at the monster, while staying just out of reach of its mouth. Twice, she was hit by jets of its blood, but her skin was so gashed and bloodied that it made little visible difference.

Focusing on this new enemy, the thing loosened its grip on Kendik and Anarya, and they scrambled out of its reach. The pit that had opened in Kendik's mind was closing now. He stood up and prepared to rejoin the fray.

A heavy object crashed into his head and knocked him to the floor. Kendik looked up to see the assassin from Iopos, one hand slipped free from its shackle, swing the shackle's iron chain up for a crushing blow to his head. Then the assassin cried out and dropped his chain, which thudded harmlessly to the ground near Kendik's feet. Atlan had cast the loop of chain between his own still-shackled hands over the assassin's head and around his neck even as the assassin readied the killing blow. Atlan crossed his hands behind the assassin's neck and squeezed. The assassin's face turned red, then purple, then blue. With a final, choked gurgle, the life of the Holder of Trust, the agent of Denairastas, ran out, and the assassin slumped forward in death.

"He killed my brother," said Atlan. "He kept telling me. Every day, while he had strength. Now Mors is avenged."

Kendik turned his attention back to the fight with the Horror just in time to see Anarya, newly returned to the fray, dart in and strike at the thing with her dagger, then leap back to avoid a tentacle. Sezhina was chopping away at it methodically, though Kendik could see that her shoulders were beginning to droop. With a two-handed blow, she plunged the sword almost up to the hilt in its heaving flesh. A jet of ichor spurted out and struck her in the face. Screaming, she fell backwards. Kendik jumped to his feet, grabbed the hilt of the sword, and pressed it further into the Horror. He could feel the thing's confusion and fear. Abruptly, it pulled away from the confrontation and wrenched its body backwards, blundering out of the room and back into the depths of the kaer with Kendik's sword still stuck in its flesh. More of the doorway fell in as it withdrew, then Kendik felt his mind clear. It had gone.

He looked around. The assassin lay dead on the floor. Atlan stood in his chains, crying. Anarya was cut, bruised, and singed, just like Kendik.

And Sezhina lay on the rock floor, breathing shallowly. It was impossible to tell how much of the punishment she had taken had been inflicted by the Horror in the latest encounter, and how much during the weeks of slow torment that had preceded it. She lay on the floor and looked at them. One eye was bloodied and almost closed, but the other was clear.

Anarya sat down and cradled Sezhina's head in hers. "Sister," she said.

"Sister. Here is what you must do. Undo that bandage on my shoulder."

"But —"

"There is no time! Undo the bandage!"

Anarya did as she was bidden. The wound was deep, extending almost to the bone. New tissue grew around a protuberance that issued upwards, looking ominously like a stubby tentacle itself.

"Now cut your hand with that dagger and place it over the wound."

"But what is that —"

"Dinazhe used it to draw off my life force for his own. He did the same to that dog from Iopos. He used the power of the Horror to keep us enslaved. He said Atlan was too damaged, and he would keep him for later. Now I want you to have all that I have left. Quickly!" Pain drew a dark hand across Sezhina's face. "There is very little time."

Kendik almost intervened, almost said no—but this was Se-zhina's last request, and he would not thwart it. So he knelt and sat beside Anarya as she made a shallow cut on her hand, then pressed the wound against the growth on Sezhina's shoulder. With a sigh, Sezhina closed her eyes. Anarya remained bent over Sezhina, her eyes wide and staring. All of a sudden, she fell forward, sobbing. Sezhina's eyes slowly opened. She blinked once. A sigh escaped from her throat, and she died.

Kendik moved Anarya so she was lying on her back next to Sezhi-na's corpse. Anarya was breathing slowly but deeply, and appeared to be asleep. Kendik examined the exit to the room. It was blocked by rocks, and looked dangerously unstable. He turned back to Atlan and, working with as much patience as he could muster given his extreme fatigue, freed the big man's hands, inch by patient inch.

Then he sat down against the wall and rested—in fact, among all the evidence of chaos and carnage, he dozed off.

A noise woke him. Anarya was getting to her feet. She appeared dazed, disoriented. Kendik wondered whether the Horror was coming back.

Anarya blinked, focused on him, and opened her mouth. "I remember everything," she said.

Chapter 29

"Everything?"

"Almost everything. There is a gap in her—in my—memory, just before I left the kaer. He must have captured me then, drained off enough of me that he could create that copy, that echo ... this." She ran her hands down her body, then turned to stare at the disfigured corpse on the floor. "I used to look like this, once. Pale, so pale, because I had lived underground for so long. Men found me beautiful. They would see me, emerging from the kaer, and have their heads turned by a pretty face and a sad tale. And if they were not sufficiently distracted, he made sure I would have the skills to kill them."

"And women?"

"Would be stirred by pity, perhaps, or also by lust. As you were, when I emerged to greet you."

It was true enough.

"But someone else saw me emerge—Sezhina. She was nearby when you arrived at the kaer. She had picked up your trail in the mountains and followed you to see what you might be planning. She had contemplated re-entering the kaer herself, and was thinking about revealing herself to you when I emerged. She saw me, and knew me. She resolved to follow us and see where I would lead you."

"Sometimes you sound like Anarya, sometimes like Sezhina. Which are you?"

"You can see the answer to that. You are talking to Anarya Chezarin. Your lover."

"But she was not real. She was the creation of a Wizard."

Anarya nodded sadly. "Yes, and so were her memories. The mother and father she remembered—they were real people, I suspect, whose images and histories Dinazhe placed in her mind, but they were not her parents. My real mother was Isuassa, who took me down into darkness." She paused. "I believe—I believe Anarya was a work of art to him, as well as a tool. He wanted to create her as well as he could."

Anarya surfaced from the well of memory and looked at Ken-dik. "Even when you know Anarya could not be real, you loved her," she said.

"Yes. When she offered herself to me, I could not turn her down. I suppose that is love. Do you ... do you remember that?"

Anarya smiled, and Kendik fancied that he could see the thoughts and habits of the older woman moving beneath the young woman's skin. "I do. When I think of first love, I remember offering myself to you, and I also remember Gikkil, that young man whom I found at a turn of the path, those many years ago. How amazed we were to see each other, in the dawn of a new world! How each of us feared lest the other was a Horror, or Horror-tainted!" She paused and shrugged. "The world was new then, and now it is old."

"But your memories contradict each other. They cannot all be true."

"No. That story Sezhina told us back in the Houses of Garlen contained much truth, and many lies. She did live in the dark far under the kaer, but that was after she—after I—had been rescued by Dinazhe from the Gnashers. It was he who led the cult. They managed to blockade themselves against the nightmares outside, and survived long enough that the Gnashers gave up on them and went after easier prey. After he had drawn her life essence off, Dinazhe did let Sezhina escape into the outside world. I believe he was not so wholly evil then, or maybe he was merely careless. What she told us of her life after the kaer was true. I stayed behind, bound to the entrance to the kaer, to emerge whenever outsiders sought entry."

"But why are you still here? Why did you not fade out of existence when you had led us away from the kaer? The hills are not full of Anarya Chezarins."

"I believe it is because Sezhina was so close to me when I came forth. As I said, we are—we were—closer than sisters. Her vitality sustained me as it diminished her."

She shook her head sadly, but Kendik pressed on with his interrogation. After so many lies, so many partial truths, he had to know.

"Was anything the young Anarya believed about her life true?"

"The happy childhood? The Horror slaying? The armor that was a gift from King Varulus? No, none of that is true. Though perhaps the armor did come from Varulus, long ago. It was certainly fine enough. Dinazhe may have gifted it to his new creation. I believe he did love her, in his way, if only because he played so large a part in creating her."

Kendik nodded. What he really wanted to ask bubbled up in his chest, robbing him of breath: do you still love me? But this was neither the time nor the place.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

"Many rocks," observed Atlan. His assessment could not be faulted. The departing Horror had pulled down the pillars of rock on either side of the exit to the room, and now there was a pile of rubble in the doorway.

"Many rocks," Atlan repeated, "but I am strong." He proved it by scrambling to the top of the heap and shoving rocks out of the way.

"Come and help!" he called. So they did, and after half an hour of hard and painful labor, there was a gap big enough to crawl through.

Now that they could leave the room, Kendik didn't want to. Inside, they had the company of two corpses. Outside, who knew what awaited them? To buy time, he asked Anarya what Dinazhe had been doing to Sezhina and the assassin.

"He was using those wounds on our shoulders to draw out our life force. It was horrible. Each time he did it, I felt violated. And his eyes would close, and his lips part ... When we find him, I want to be the one to kill him."

"Why didn't he touch Atlan?"

"I don't know. He was fed more than either of us, though he was treated with no more kindness."

"Told me I was the strongest," said Atlan. "Saving me for last." He stopped abruptly, worn out by the effort of so many words.

"And what did he use this life force for? Was he making more copies of you?"

"He was too far gone for that. He was using it to keep himself alive. That letter from the t'skrang—the one that revealed his true nature—weakened him almost to death. He was barely strong enough to capture us. When he returned me to this place, he had to get his servants to chain me here. They did not want to do it, but he threatened them with the Horror."

"Leave here now," said Atlan.

Kendik stopped rationalizing the delay to himself. He was afraid. He had been afraid ever since they left Borzim for Lake Vors—afraid, in fact, ever since the first time Death had taken a personal interest in him, when, still dreaming, he had turned aide from the thrust of T'shifa's dagger. He would still be afraid when they left this cave, and he would continue to be afraid as they hunted Dinazhe, found him, and killed him and his Horror. But it was time to set aside his fear. Following Atlan, he began to climb the rock fall. He was almost at the top when he realized that Anarya was not following. He turned back and saw her kneeling beside the body of Sezhina. She bent down, gently kissed the ravaged, familiar face, and closed the corpse's eyes. Then she straightened. "Now I am ready," she said.

Atlan was waiting for them in the darkness on the far side. "Found something," he said. They bent down to examine it, their light quartzes picking out the pitting and scarring of the floor. Here and there, blue stones glittered in the light.

"Looks like it was scared, too," said Anarya.

Kendik gave Atlan two blue stones to replace those that had been taken from him, and picked up a handful more for himself. Each rounded end nestled smoothly in his palm; the sharp end protruded outwards.

"All we need now is a sword for me, and armor for both of us," said Anarya. "Sezhina knows where to look for it."

Having nerved himself to go after Dinazhe, Kendik objected when Anarya led them back towards the upper levels of the kaer. Though they were moving further away from known danger, the vast silence and scale of this place oppressed Kendik, and he had no desire to wend his way through any more of it.

Anarya stopped once or twice, hesitating for a moment over the right route. But her newly augmented memories did not play her false. They emerged into a long, level tunnel that led to a great iron door, now hanging loose from its hinges. Beyond the door was an armory. Many had died to defend it, and gaps showed where weapons had been lost or scattered, but against the black rock walls hung swords and maces, bows and spears, dull with disuse.

"No armor, though," said Anarya. "There used to be suits of it over there. Perhaps the people took it, thinking it would protect them against the Gnashers."

"Would it?"

"It takes more than armor to stop those teeth." She was reaching for a long, slender sword as she spoke. "No time to clean it," she said, regretfully. "I will do that later, when it has spilled blood." She waved it, feinted, thrust, and parried. "It will do. Sezhina was many Circles higher than I in our Discipline. My head is filled with more swordcraft than before, but my muscles still have to learn it."

Atlan selected a massive sword, which he slung across his back, and an equally massive bow. Then they retraced their steps. With a couple more false turnings, Anarya led them back the way they had come, and beyond.

The lower they went, the less evidence of human occupation they saw. The tunnels were less like tunnels and more like caves. The passages between them had not always been widened and smoothed; there were some tight squeezes, but none so tight that Dinazhe's Horror had not passed through them. By following that burnt and pitted rock, and the occasional blue stones, they went deeper and deeper.

They rounded a corner and stopped abruptly. Expecting another narrow passageway, they had come instead to a cavern that extended well beyond and below the reach of their lamps. The mental imprint of the Horror, which had been weak before, was much stronger here. They listened, but could hear nothing save a slow dripping of water in the far distance.

"Does ... did Sezhina remember this place?" whispered Kendik.

"She never came this deep."

The pathway contracted to a narrow, irregular gash that reached the floor of the cavern via abrupt zigs and irregular zags. The dripping grew louder. In the quartz light, Kendik saw oval droplets falling from some fissure unguessably high above, and followed their trajectory to see his own face, pale and serious, reflected in a pool of water that quivered and stilled to the rhythm of the drops.

Kendik had walked on some distance, closely followed by Atlan, when he realized that Anarya was not with them. He had to walk back most of the distance to the pool before he saw her. She was standing there, staring at her reflection in the water.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Whom do you see?" she replied.

He peered at the water. "I see you," he replied. "We need to -"

"I see two women. One young, one older. They change places, moment by moment." She straightened and looked at him. "These two women need to walk the paths of the world together, so they can become one. Should we defeat Dinazhe, I may not stay long with you in your palace."

Kendik did not know what to say to that. He turned on his heel, and together, they walked onward.

"Light," said Atlan, and stopped. They shielded their quartzes and peered into the darkness ahead. There was a light there, faint but steady, though it was not bright enough to illuminate its surroundings. There was still no sound.

"No talking," said Kendik. Swords drawn, they crept forward.

They passed through the narrow exit to the great cavern. The light waxed stronger, glowing on the end wall of the tunnel ahead of them. Still there was no sound. Still they felt the Horror's presence. Still they crept forward.

The blue-white glow that painted the end wall spilled out from an opening to the left. They stopped before they reached it, none of them quite daring to peer round the corner until Kendik stepped forward. He narrowed his eyes against the light and tried to resolve what he was seeing. There were light quartzes, a work bench, glass retorts ... heaps of scrolls, as clear a sign of Dinazhe's presence as fear and dread were of his Horror's ...

"We have found his lair," he whispered. He took a step forward, and another. The room was a mess. It was cluttered with glass and iron and wood. Three skeletons were propped up against the wall, looking as if they needed only a Nethermancer's instructions to shudder into life. In fact, as he peered at them, he fancied that the bones were surrounded by ghostly scraps of flesh.

Anarya and Atlan appeared in the doorway. "This seems to be his workroom," Kendik said. "I think —"

But he did not get the chance to say what he thought. A door—a solid slab of rock—slammed shut across the entrance to the room, trapping him within, shutting Anarya and Atlan out. At the same time, a portion of the seemingly solid rock wall of the cave to his left rippled out of existence, revealing Dinazhe standing in near darkness, with the Horror beside him.

"You were always too eager," Dinazhe said. "Now you will pay."

Kendik did not allow himself time to think. Before Dinazhe could form his hands into the shape of a spell, or his mouth into its words, Kendik lunged at him with his sword. Dinazhe stepped back, stumbled, and fell, his robes floating open around him. Kendik saw a flash of blue on the old man's chest.

Kendik, overbalancing in his lunge, stumbled too, but recovered and swept his sword round towards the Nethermancer. His sword tip caught one of Dinazhe's legs, and the Nethermancer cried out as it slashed his calf.

Then Kendik himself cried out. In his eagerness to get after Dinazhe, he had for a moment neglected the other danger in the room. Now he felt the clasp of tentacles on his waist, and had to turn his next blow, aimed at the Nethermancer, into a backhanded slash at the tentacles holding him. He felt them part, and felt also the Horror's pain in his own mind; but other tentacles, swift and deadly, clasped his sword arm and forced it back. He saw triumph on Dinazhe's face as the Nethermancer rose.

He had one hand free, one hand with which to save himself. And in it ... the blue stones, crystalline and sharp. He formed his left hand into the shape of a fist, with the crystals poking out, spun round, and slammed them into the Horror's flesh.

The effect was immediate. The Horror screamed and jerked backwards. The noise from its maw, which had been about to close on Kendik, was deafening. Its growing hold on Kendik's mind abated, and the tentacles on his sword arm slithered off.

He felt a sudden flare of heat against his back, and whirled his sword in a forehand arc, pivoting to face Dinazhe as he did so. The heat died as the Nethermancer, his concentration broken, scrambled to safety. Kendik saw the flash of blue once again and realized that Dinazhe also carried blue stones around his neck, presumably charged with his own magic.

Then Kendik knew, knew why the Horror needed to excrete the stones, knew what he must do. A glance over his shoulder showed him that the Horror was recovering, its maw opening wide again. He ignored it and turned towards Dinazhe. Again he sensed the old man's fright.

"Not so confident when it's just you and me in a tight corner, are you?" he said.

Dinazhe's mouth moved again. Lunging forward, Kendik attempted to disrupt the spell, but his sword bounced off the Neth-ermancer's chest. Dinazhe smiled, but his smile vanished as Kend-ik's sword whipped upwards and sliced the necklace that held the stones. Flicked up by the sword's motion, the stones arced through the air, their glare so bright they were hard to look at. Kendik leaned forward and caught stones and necklace together in his left hand.

Dinazhe screamed and lunged for him. Kendik jumped out of his reach and turned to face the Horror. To its left, he saw the ghostly forms of the three skeletons solidify, pull themselves free from the flimsy restraints that held them, and surge forward. They ignored the Horror, ignored Kendik, and went straight for Dinazhe.

Kendik did not know whether the defensive spell Dinazhe had cast on himself would protect him against the vengeful revenants of Kaer Volost, and he did not wait to find out. As long as the dead kept Dinazhe occupied, that was good enough for Kendik.

As the Horror approached, another gust of fear and dread assailed him, but it was like adding more effluent to the River Opthia: the saturation point had long ago been passed. Tentacles reached out for him; no matter how many were hacked off, there always seemed to be more. The great maw, dripping with ichor, lined with plates of bone and hide, yawned open. He ignored it. He hacked at the advancing tentacles with his sword, distracting the Horror for a moment. Then he lunged forward with his left arm and plunged Dinazhe's brightly glowing stones as deeply as he could into its blubbery flesh.

Ichor spurted over his hand, and he screamed as it burned him. He shook his hand frantically, stepped backwards, then staggered as something hard crashed onto his left shoulder, narrowly missing his head. Dinazhe had dispelled the revenants and was now using one skeleton's thighbone as a club: a primitive weapon, but it still hurt.

Distracted by Dinazhe, Kendik did not see the portal open. But he felt its effect: the air in the room howled as it was sucked into the black, swirling vortex that had opened behind the Horror. Kendik had realized that the thing excreted the blue stones to get rid of the surplus magic which would otherwise have made it too highly charged to remain in the physical world, now that but two fingers' width separated True earth and True water. Now, swollen up with all the extra magic that Kendik had thrust into it, the Horror was being expelled from Barsaive and returned to its original plane, where magic crackled like lightning among dead worlds and doomed nebulae.

Dinazhe screamed, his mouth open in a perfect 'O'. Kendik could see magic flowing out of him, streaming in blue light towards the portal. Suppressing a twinge—a faint, fleeting twinge—of pity, Kendik took two steps, seized Dinazhe's arms, braced himself, and swung the Nethermancer off his feet, flinging him towards the Horror and the portal beyond.

But as he flung Dinazhe towards the retreating Horror, so he felt himself seized in the dying man's grasp. Kendik brought up his right leg and kicked the Nethermancer hard in the gut. Dinazhe lost his grip and fell away from Kendik, towards the Horror. The beast was almost through the portal now, but its eager tentacles still reached out for the Nethermancer, dragging him out of Barsaive towards the Horror's home dimension. Dinazhe screamed again, but there was barely enough air left in the room for the sound to carry. He reached out his hands imploringly towards Kendik. Kendik fell to his knees, dizzy from lack of oxygen. He saw a tentacle, intimate and confidential, encircle Dinazhe's neck. The Nethermancer looked at Kendik, and their eyes locked, Dinazhe's black eyes boring into Kendik's brown ones. The Horror dragged the Nethermancer closer to the portal, and Dinazhe opened his mouth in soundless agony. Then, with a flash of light from some color outside the spectrum, the portal closed. Horror and Nethermancer were both gone. Kendik remained, passed out on the cold rock floor.

Someone was slapping his face and shouting his Name. The door to the room was open, and air—stale, humid, smelling of eons under the earth, and indescribably sweet—washed over him.

"He's awake!" said Anarya, and kissed him. He half responded, then slumped back to the floor again, enjoying the sensation of being, however marginally, alive.

"The door shut right in front of our faces," she continued, "and then we could hear shouting, and we didn't know —"

"The dead came then. Trying to get in," said Atlan.

The reanimated dead of Kaer Volost—not many, this far down in the kaer, but enough—had shambled into view, and stood scrabbling at the door, trying to get at whatever was within. Then Anarya and Atlan had heard the portal opening, more screaming, and a sudden silence, broken only by the patter of untenanted bones falling to the floor beside them. Whatever had been holding the door in place failed, and they had burst into the room, to see Kendik lying, pale and motionless, on the floor.

Kendik lay still and listened. He was grateful to his friends for saving him, but they seemed dim and insubstantial, almost ghosts themselves. Next to the universe he had glimpsed beyond the portal, nothing in this world seemed entirely real. A part of him wished that he had gone through the portal himself.

He sat up and shook his head, then took stock. He was bruised, bloodied, burned, mortally tired, cold, and ravenous. He was miles underground, relying on others to help him return to the surface. He was the uneasy ruler of a rebellious town in a turbulent region, and who knew what might have happened in Borzim since he left?

But he had won. He had defeated Dinazhe.

Wincing, he got to his feet. "Do you reckon we could find some food around here?" he asked.

In due course, they found Dinazhe's personal quarters, and in them, food and a hotpot to warm it, and wine and goblets to drink it. There, in the depths of the kaer, they sat, enjoying each other's company and the pleasures of stomachs filled and wounds tended. Though Kendik knew that his path and Anarya's might soon part, it was enough for the moment to enjoy her presence next to him, her warmth against his side.

"Servants up there," said Atlan.

Kendik had almost forgotten about the old couple. He imagined them, cold and frightened in the farm cave.

"Guess we'd better let them know what happened," he said.

Stiff and sore, cut and bruised, Kendik, Anarya, and Atlan rose to their feet and began the long journey out of Kaer Volost.

Epilogue

Lord Kendik stands on his balcony and looks out over his city. Though it is a fine, still morning, the air is thick with the smoke from his subjects' fires, and clamorous with the noise of their building and their making, their fighting and their dying. The city is crammed up against its walls, and in one part—the northern part—he has just ordered that a new wall be built, extending outwards from the present one, and ultimately replacing it. That will mean clearing the slums that have grown up north of the existing wall. Many inhabitants of those slums will protest their eviction. Some will be hurt. A few will die. It is a project he does not relish, but is prepared to embark upon.

He remembers a day, several years ago now, when he slept in a tent outside those walls and evaded death by inches. In sweeping away the hovels and the shacks that have grown up there, more numerous by the year, he will also be sweeping away another old memory, a memory it is no longer pleasant to recall.

And as for the gibbets outside the wall: well, there will always be places to build gibbets.

The t'skrang. He muses for a moment about the t'skrang, out there across the plains. It has cost money and lives, but he has ensured that Borzim has kept to the letter of its treaty with the House of the Wheel, and avoided warfare with the Ishkarat— though he knows there are forces on both sides that itch for battle. The time is not yet right. Let Vulumensthetika launch her long-delayed rebellion, let Ishkarat swords sever their link with Iopos; then will be the time to strike, to drive the t'skrang from the plains and send them scuttling back across the lake to Axalekso. After that, let the shivalahala on her island dream uneasy dreams of the might of Lord Kendik.

For a moment. a shadow passes over him, a shadow of memory and fear. He cranes upwards, looking for danger. But it is only a cloud.

He looks out over his city and believes that nothing escapes his gaze. But as his mother would tell you if you sought her out (for she has returned to her home village, and no longer travels much), he remains, in many ways, an unobservant boy. This heavy medallion that hangs around his neck, for example, this medallion which he clutches for solace in times of doubt and danger. Once he wore two medallions around his neck—the medallion he bought on a whim from a dusty shop on the Street of Apothecaries, and Lord Tesek's medallion of office. Long ago, they fused into one, but Kendik has never noticed.

That medallion never—or almost never—leaves his neck. He does not remove it when he washes, nor when he sleeps, nor when he rides to battle, or visits, incognito, the prison. He does not take it off when he makes love to his wife, the mother of his two children. There is only one person for whom he removes it, and that is Anarya Chezarin—a Swordmaster, an adventurer, the scourge of evil and of Horrors—on those few occasions, once a year at most, when she returns to Borzim. She has taken a dislike to the medallion for some reason, and insists that he removes it before she will come to his arms.

His wife knows better than to ask questions. A modest young woman, she has made a most advantageous match for herself and her family, and if her husband is from time to time absent from their bedchamber, who is she to complain? If he does not love her, he is, at least, solicitous of her welfare, for she has borne him heirs.

But Anarya knows him, and loves the boy he was, and the man he has become. She marks how he has changed, but ascribes those changes to the stresses of running a city and a kingdom. It is a life she cannot imagine and does not wish to share, for her desire is to ride free, alone or with chance companions of the road, and go where adventure takes her, till death or crippling age should cut her down. She is one woman now, and whole; and though she loves her Kendik still, she is not blind to his slight paunch, the first thinning of his hair, the load on his shoulders that comes, as she thinks, from bearing the crown.

Besides, not all of Kendik's absences from the bedchamber result from the news—brought to him by the faithful, though faintly disapproving, Kullik—that Anarya Chezarin has returned to Borzim and wishes to entertain Kendik in her quarters near the East Gate. Sometimes, he is abroad in the night because he does not sleep well. He has dreams, vivid dreams, dreams in which dark magics blast the flesh from his bones while his True pattern changes to something cold, and curdled, and strange. Dreams in which he is consumed by ravening Horrors, or brought to justice before creatures who sit immobile, vast, and cowled.

He has never seen those worlds, or met those creatures. But I have, I who bound myself to Kendik the moment he put on the medallion bearing my mark that he bought in the Street of Apothecaries, and I am always eager to share.

They think they know magic, these Name-givers. Wizards, Elementalists, Illusionists, most of all Nethermancers: they think they know what they are dealing with, know how to tame it and use it for their ends. They know nothing! Had they been in this world when the magic was at its height, when I and all my brethren gathered to reap its bountiful harvest, they would have known magic indeed; and they would have died shrieking that knowledge, a moment thereafter.

But they would not have noticed me. In the company of my mighty peers—crazed Artificer, potent Verjigorm, subtle Ysrthgrathe—I was a small thing, who scuttled about unnoticed, feeding off the scraps they left. Feeding, and learning. I knew that I could never match them for power or for appetite, but perhaps I could exceed them for cunning.

For the world was changing, and they were slow to notice. The magic was declining. Before long, the Horrors who needed the most magic to maintain themselves were winking out of existence like dying stars, returning to the astral plane. More and more of us were forced to leave this plane, and as the fate of Dinazhe's slimy pet R'zathcethel shows, too much magic is now as great a threat to us as too little. I have limited my needs, and remained in the background, and thus have I stayed in this world, feeding little, planning long. My brethren require the stronger emotions—anguish, torment, rage—but my staple diet is sadness, resignation, depression, despair: emotions which are only ever a Name-giver away.

Now Kullik comes out onto the balcony: the aged, faithful retainer. There is some matter of state for Kendik to turn his attention to. Go, Lord Kendik. Attend to the cares of your realm. They are real enough; it is not only my burden around your neck that drains you. In my way, I have grown fond of you. I look forward to our nightly meeting in your dreams.

My true skill is to remain unnoticed. Kendik has no idea that I have bound him to me. Though he wakes at times sweating and confused, he does not remember the dreams that have woken him. As for Kendik's steadfast refusal to play the lute, or sing, or draw, or paint: who would dare to demand such things of a King?

It would take a powerful magician indeed to detect me. Hathilt could do it, perhaps, were he looking hard enough; but he is many leagues away in the service of his King. Certainly, I have nothing to fear from the palace Wizard, Devlit. Healing bones and mending pots are about his level, though he still spends hours poring over Dinazhe's old scrolls, his mind too clouded by fear and longing to understand the implications of what he is reading.

His studies will be in vain. Though there is two fingers' width of magic left in the world, it is not destined to remain. Someone or something—I do not know who or what—is keeping it there beyond its time. Soon enough, it will all be gone, and the world will be a barren place indeed. No Horrors then, none except those the Name-givers construct for themselves out of fear and greed.

Perhaps I simplify. In places where the magic was especially strong, the echo of it will linger. Though they will no longer bear the title, or know what it means, Name-givers who walk through these places will feel the hairs rise on the backs of their necks: a deserted palace, an abandoned tower, a cave where, long ago, people might once have sought shelter. I will seek out such places, and I will wait there, wait out the long years of emptiness until the magic comes again. It will be a dull existence, feeding on a morsel of pain here, a thimbleful of anger there, but I have taught myself to be patient.

And the magic will come again. These things go in cycles, though the cycles are achingly slow. The descendants of these swarming humans will have long forgotten magic by then, and will raise up temples to themselves, spurning old ways and old gods. But when they least expect it, the magic will return in all its glory, and transform this world. Then it will be my world, and the returning Horrors—crazed Artificer, potent Verjigorm, subtle Ysrthgrathe—will not enter it without my permission. I am sure they will be eager to do my bidding.

After all, they will be very hungry, and we all have to eat.