Storm Season

STEEL by Lynn Abbey

1

Walegrin listened carefully to the small noises carried on the night breeze. His survival depended on his ability to untangle the sounds of the night-and on the steel sword he clutched, unsheathed, at his side. Ambushers crept toward his small camp in the darkness.

Two bright Enlibar wagons sat, unguarded and garish, in the ruddy light of a neglected fire. Their cargo had been scattered in tempting disarray; chunks of aquamarine ore shimmered in the moonlight. Walegrin's cloak lay close by the fire, covering an armload of thorny sticks-a ruse to convince the brigands that he and his men were more weary than careful and valued sleep above their lives.

They'd had little enough rest since leaving the ruined mine with the precious ore; and of the twenty-five men who had left Sanctuary only seven remained. But Walegrin trusted his six stalwarts against four times that many hillmen.

Walegrin's thoughts were stopped by the warning cry of a mountain hawk; Malm, who had a shepherd's eye for ominous movements, had spotted the enemy. Walegrin held his ground until the camp swarmed with dark, scuttling shapes, until someone stabbed a cloak and heard wood splintering, not bone. Then, sword raised, he led his men out of the shadows.

These outlaws were better armed and bolder than any the soldiers had encountered before, but Walegrin had no time to consider this discovery. His men were hard pressed, without their usual advantage over the hill-bred fighters. His sword stole the lifeblood of two men, but then he was cut himself and fought defensively, unaware of the fate of his men or the tide of battle. He was forced to retreat another step; the open back of a wagon pressed against his hips. The one who bore down on him was as yet un-wounded. It was time for a soldier's last prayers.

Snarling, the attacker took his sword in both hands for a decapitating cut. Walegrin braced to take the force of the stroke on his sword which he held in a bent, injured arm. His weapon fell from his suddenly numb hand, but his neck was intact. The brigand was undaunted, his smile never wavered; Walegrin was unarmed now.

Steadying himself to face death with courage, Walegrin's leaden fingers found an object left forgotten in the wagon: the old Enlibar sword they had found in the dust of the mine. The silver-green steel showed no rust, but no-one had exchanged his serviceable Rankan blade for one forged five hundred years before his birth-until now. Walegrin brought the ancient sword around with a bellow.

Blue-green sparks surged when the swords met. The Enlibar metal clanged above the other sounds of battle. The brigand's swordblade shattered and, with a reflex born of experience not thought, Walegrin took his assailant's head in a single, soft stroke.

The fabled steel of Enlibar!

His mind glazed with the knowledge. He did not hear the hillmen take flight, nor see his men gather around him.

The Steel of Enlibar!

Three years of desperate, often dangerous searching had brought him to the mine. They'd filled two wagons with the rich ore and defended it with their lives-but in the depths of his heart Walegrin had not believed he'd found the actual steel: a steel that could shatter other blades; a steel that would bring him honor and glory.

He found his military sword in the dust at his feet and offered it to his lieutenant.

"Take this," he ordered. "Strike at me!"

Thrusher hesitated, then took a half-hearted swipe.

"No! Strike, fool!" Walegrin shouted, raising the Enlibrite blade.

Metal met metal with the same resounding clang as before. The shortsword did not shatter, but it took a mortal nick to its edge. Walegrin ran his fingers along the unmarred Enlibrite steel and whooped for joy.

"The destiny of all Ranke is in our hands!"

His men looked at one another, then smiled with little enthusiasm. They believed in their commander but not necessarily in his quest. They were not cheered to see their morose, intense officer so transformed by an off-color sword-however good the metal and even if it had saved his life. Walegrin's exaltation, however, did not last long.

They found Malm's body some twenty paces from the fire, a deep wound in his neck. Wale-grin closed his friend's eyes and commended him to his gods-not Walegrin's gods; Walegrin honored no gods. Malm was their only casualty, though they could ill afford the loss.

In grim silence Walegrin left Malm and returned to ransack the headless corpse by the wagon. Its belt produced a sack of gold coins, freshly minted in the Rankan capital. Walegrin thought of the letters he had sent to his rich patron in the Imperial hierarchy, and of the replies he had not received. In anger and suspicion he tore at the dead man's clothes until he found what he knew must be there: a greasy scrap of parchment with his mentor's familiar seal embossed upon it. While his men slept he read the treachery into his memory.

Kilite's treasury had financed his quest almost from the start. The ambitious aristocrat had said that the Enlibrite steel, if it could be found, would assure the Empire swift, unending victories-and swift, unending fortune for whomever made the legend reality. Walegrin had dutifully informed the Imperial Advisor of all his movements and of his success. He cursed and threw the scrap of parchment into the fire. He'd told Kilite his exact route from Enlibar to Ranke.

He should have known the moment his first man died-or at least when he lost the second. The hill tribes had been peaceful enough when they'd come up through the mountains and they, themselves, could make no use of the raw ore. He counted the dead man's gold into his own pouch, calculating how far he and his men could travel on it.

Things could have been worse. Kilite might have been able to bribe the tribesmen, but it was still unlikely he could find the abandoned mine. Walegrin had never entrusted that secret to paper. And Kilite had never known that Walegrin's final destination had not been the capital, but back in Sanctuary itself. He'd never told Kilite the name of the ugly, little metal-master in the back alleys there who could turn the ore to finest steel.

"We'll make it yet," he said to the darkness, not noticing that Thrusher had come to sit beside him.

"Make it to where?" the little man asked. "We don't dare go to the capital now, do we?"

"We're headed toward Sanctuary from this moment on."

Thrusher could scarcely contain his surprise. Walegrin's intense dislike of the city of his birth was well-known. Not even his own men had suspected they would ever return there. "Well, I suppose a man can hide from anything in Sanctuary's gutters," Thrusher temporized.

"Not only hide, but get our steel too. We'll head south in the morning. Prepare the men."

"Across the desert?"

"No-one will be looking for us there."

His orders given and certain to be obeyed, Walegrin strode into the darkness. He was used to sleepless nights. Indeed, he almost preferred them to his nightmare ridden slumber. And now, with thoughts of Sanctuary high in his mind, sleep would be anything but welcome.

Thrusher was right-a man could hide in Sanctuary. Walegrin's father had done it, but hiding hadn't improved him any. He'd ended his life reviled in a city that tolerated almost anything, hacked to pieces and cursed by the S'danzo of the bazaar. It was his father's death, and the memory of the curse that haunted Walegrin's nights.

By rights it wasn't his curse at all, but his father's. The old man was never without a doxy; Rezzel was only the last of a long, anonymous procession of women through Walegrin's childhood. She was a S'danzo beauty, wild even by their gypsy standards. Her own people foresaw her violent death when she abandoned them to live four years in the Sanctuary garrison, matching Walegrin's temper with her own.

Then one night his father got drunk, and more violently jealous than usual. They found Rezzel, what remained of her, with the animal carcasses outside the charnel house. The S'danzo took back what they had cast out and, by dead of night, returned to the garrison. Seven masked, knife-wielding S'danzo carved the living flesh of his father, and sealed their curses with his blood. They'd found two children, Walegrin and Rez-zei's daughter, Illyra, hiding in the corner. They'd marked them with blood and curses as well.

He'd run away before the sun rose on that night-and was still running. Now he was running back to Sanctuary.

2

Walegrin patted his horse, ignoring the cloud of dust around them both. Everything, everyone was covered with a fine layer of desert grit; only his hair seemed unaffected, but then it had always been the color of parched straw. He'd led his men safely across the desert to Sanctuary but weariness had settled upon them like dust and though the end of their travels was in sight, they waited in silence for Thrusher's return.

Walegrin had not dared to enter the city himself. Tall, pale despite the desert sun, his braided hair roughly confined by a bronze band, he was too memorable to be an advance scout. He was an outlaw as well, wanted by the prince for abandoning the garrison without warning. He had Kilite's pardon, the scrolls still carefully sealed in his saddlebag, but using it would eventually let Kilite know he was still alive. It was better to remain an outlaw.

Hook-nosed, diminutive Thrusher was a man no-one would remember. Able and single-minded, he'd never run afoul of the town's dangers nor succumb to its limited temptations. Walegrin would have a roof over his men's heads by nightfall and more water than they could drink to set before them. Wine too, but Walegrin had almost forgotten the taste of wine.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened, Thrusher appeared on the dunes. Walegrin waved him safe conduct. He put his heels to his horse and galloped the last stretch of sand. Both man and beast had been cleansed of yellow grit. Walegrin suppressed a pang of jealousy.

"Ho, Thrush! Do we sleep in town tonight?" one of the other men called.

"With full trenchers and a wench on each knee," Thrusher laughed.

"By the gods, I thought we're bound for Sanctuary, not paradise."

"Paradise enough-if a man's not choosy," Thrusher told them all as he dismounted and made his way to Walegrin.

"You seem satisfied. Is the town that much changed since we left it?" Walegrin asked.

"Yes, that much. You'd think the Nisibisi rode this way. There are more mercenaries in Sanctuary than in Ranke. We'll never be noticed. The usual scum fears to leave the shadows-and if a man knows how to use his sword there's any number who'll hire him. Kittycat's gold hasn't been the best for many a month now. He's got to rely on a citizen's militia to take up the slack from the Hell Hounds. Wrigglies-every last one of them: pompous and-"

"What manner of mercenaries?" Walegrin interrupted.

"Sacred Banders," Thrusher admitted with noticible reluctance.

"Vashanka's bastards. How many? And who leads them-if they're led by a man?"

"Couldn't say how many; they camp Downwind. Banders're worse than Hounds; a handful of 'em's worse than a plague. Some say they belong to the Prince now that their priest's dead. Most say it's Tempus at the root of it. They train for the Nisibisi, but Tempus is building a new fortress Downwind."

Walegrin looked away. He had no quarrel with Tempus Thales. True, he was inclined to arrogance, sadism and he was treachery incarnate, but he moved in the elite circles of power and, as such, Walegrin could only admire him. Like everyone else he had heard the Tempus-tales of self-healing and psuedo-divinity; he professed to doubt them-but had Tempus gone in search of Enlibar steel, no one would have dared stand in his way.

"They call themselves Stepson-or something like that," Thrusher continued. "They're all in Jubal's turf; and neither hide nor hair of Jubal seen these last months. No hawkmasks on the streets either, 'cept the ones found nailed to posts here and there."

"Sacred Banders; Stepsons; Whoresons." Walegrin shared the prejudices of most in the Imperial army towards any elite, separate group. Sanctuary had been the dead-end of the world as long as anyone could remember. No right-thinking Rankan citizen passed time there. It boded ill if Sanctuary had become home to not only Tempus but a contingent of Sacred Banders as well. The Empire was in worse shape than anyone thought.

What was bad for Sanctuary and all of Ranke, though, was not necessarily bad for the re-discoverer of Enlibar steel. With luck Walegrin would find good men in town, or good gold, or simply enough activity to hide behind. But whenever Walegrin thought of luck he thought of the S'danzo. They had marked him for ill fortune: if he had good luck it could have been better and when his luck turned sour, the less said about it the better.

"What about that house I asked you about?" Walegrin asked after the conversation had lulled a moment.

The scout was relieved to speak of something else. "No trouble-it wasn't hidden, though no-one knew much about it. Right off the Street of Armorers, like you said it'd be. This metal-master, Balustrus, he must be a pretty strange fellow. Everyone thought he'd died until the Torch-" Thrusher stopped abruptly, slapping himself on the forehead.

"-Gods takes take me for an idiot! Nothing is the same in Sanctuary; the gods have discovered it! Vashanka's name was blasted from the pantheon over the palace gate. Vashanka! Sacred Band's Storm God burned clean. The stone steamed for a day and a night. The god himself appeared in the sky-and Azyuna, too."

"Wrigglies? Magicians? Were the Whoresons involved?" Walegrin asked, but without interrupting the flow of Thrusher's theological gossip.

"The Torch himself was nearly killed. Some say a new god's been born to the First Consort and the War of Cataclysm's begun. Officially the priests are blaming everything on the Nisibisi- and not saying why the Nisibisi would wage magical war in Sanctuary. The Wrigglies say it's the awakening of Ils Thousand Eyes. And the mages don't say much of anything because half of them're dead and the rest hiding. The local doomsayers're making fortunes.

"But our Prince Kittycat, bless his empty, little head, had an idea. He marches out on his balcony and proclaims that Vashanka is angry because Sanctuary does not show proper respect to his consort and her child and that he has blasted his own name off the pantheon rather than be associated with the town. Then Kittycat proclaims a tax on every tavern-a copper a tot-and says he's going to make an offering to Vashanka. Sanctuary will apologize by ringing a new bell!"

Walegrin empathized with Sanctuary's naive, blundering young governor. Actually his idea wasn't bad; much better than involving the mageguild or setting the Wrigglies against the outnumbered Rankans. That was Kittycat's problem; his ideas weren't half bad, but he wasn't even half the man it would take to have people listen to them without laughing.

A new idea grew in Walegrin's thoughts. The Prince had turned to Balustrus, metal-master, to cast the bell for Vashanka. Now he, Walegrin, would approach Balustrus to make Enlibar steel-for the Prince, perhaps, but not Vashanka. A pattern of fortune might emerge-might be stronger than the S'danzo curse. He imagined himself with the Prince; the two of them together might make one irresistable force.

"Did you see this bell of the metal-master's? Is it worthy?" he asked Thrusher.

"Worthy of what?" Thrusher replied, not following Walegrin's thoughts at all.

3

Dawn's first light pierced the shadows and sent the denizens of the night scurrying. The streets of Sanctuary were almost quiet. Flocks of seabirds wheeled silently over the town, swooping suddenly as, one after another, the houses opened their doors to jettison nightslops into the street. A cowled, burdened monk slipped out the upper window of a tavern and disappeared down a still-dark alley. The brief moment of calm magic faded; the day had begun.

The establishment ofBalustrus, metal-master, was among the first in the armorer's quarter to come to life. A young woman opened the upper half of the front door and struggled to raise the huge, dingy slops-ewer to her shoulder. She froze, nearly dropping the noisome thing, when a man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a monk's garb, but the cowl had fallen back to his shoulders. A warrior's tore held his straw-blond hair over his brow.

Walegrin had had three days' rest and washed the desert from his face, but he was still an ominous figure. The woman gave a small yelp when he took the ewer from her and carried it some distance before upending it. When he returned to the doorway, the metal-master himself stood there.

"Walegrin, isn't it?"

If the young soldier was ominous, then Balus-trus was positively demonic. His skin was the color of mottled bronze-not brown, nor gold, nor green-nor human at all. It was wrinkled like dried fruit, but shone like metal itself. He was hairless, with features that blended into the convolutions of his skin. When he smiled, as he smiled at Walegrin, the dark eyes all but vanished.

Walegrin swallowed hard. "I've come with business for you."

"So early?" the bronze man chided. "Well, come right in. A soldier in monk's cloth is always welcome for breakfast." He hobbled back from the door.

Walegrin retrieved his sack and followed him into the shop. A single oil lamp set over a counting-table cast flickering shadows on the metal-master's face. He rested a pair of iron crutches against the wall behind the table and seemed to hover there, unsupported. Walegrin's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He saw the price sheets nailed to the wall and the samples of bronze, iron, tin and steel; he saw the saddle-like perch in which the metal-master sat. But his first impression of the eerie place did not change and he would have left if he could.

"Tell me what you've got in your sack, and why I should care?" the metal-master demanded.

Forcing himself not to stare, Walegrin hoisted the sack to the table-top. "I've found the secret of the steel of Enlibar-"

The bronze man shook with laughter. "What secret? There's no secret to Enlibar steel, my boy. Any fool can make Enlibar steel-if he's got Enlibar ore and Ilsig alchemy."

Walegrin untied the sack, dumping the blue-green ore onto the table. Balustrus stopped laughing. He snatched up a chunk of ore and subjected it to an analysis that included not merely striking it with a mallet, but tasting it as well.

"Yes," the wizened metal-master crooned. "This is it. Heated and ground and tempered this will be steel! Not since the last alchemist of Ilsig sank into his grave has there been steel like the steel I will make."

Whatever else Balustrus was, he was at least mad. Walegrin had first heard the name in the library at Coombs, where he'd gotten the shard of Enlibrite pottery Illyra had read. Kemren, the Purple Mage, had been supposed to read the inscription and Balustrus would make the steel and both men swell in Sanctuary. Kemren had been dead when Walegrin arrived in the city, but not Balustrus.

It was said the metal-master had been mad when he first came to the city, and Sanctuary had never improved anyone. He claimed he knew everything about any metal but he made his living mending plates and recasting stolen gold.

"I have another ten sacks like this one," Walegrin explained, taking back the ore. "I want swords for my men and myself. I don't have much gold; and fewer friends, but I'll give you a quarter of my ore if you'll make the swords." He continued refilling his sack.

"It will be my priviledge," the cripple agreed, touching the stones one last time before they disappeared. "Perhaps when you have the swords you'll tell me where you found this. At least you'll tell what friends you have that it was the Grey Wolf who forged their weapons."

"You've no need to know where the mine is," Walegrin said firmly, looking directly at Balustrus' legs. "You couldn't go there yourself. You'd have to send others; you'd spread my secret around. Already too many people know." The sack thumped to the floor. "When can I have my swords?"

The metal-master shrugged. "It is not like telling a cloth-cutter to make a tunic, boy. The formula is old; the ore is new. It will take time. I must melt and grind carefully; tempering is an art to itself. It could take years."

Walegrin's blue eyes came alive with anger. "It will not take years! There's war in the north. Already the Emperor has called for men to fill the legions. I will have my swords by summer's end or I'll have your life."

"I have," the metal-master said with bitter irony, "been threatened by experts. You'll have your swords, my boy, as soon as I'm ready to give them to you."

The blond soldier had a ready reply, but withheld it as commotion rose in the street and someone hammered loudly on the bolted doors.

"Open up! Open up in the Prince's name! Open your doors, merchant!"

Walegrin snatched up the sack. He glanced around the room, aware for the first time that it offered no hiding places.

"You look as if you'd seen a ghost, boy. If you don't want to see the Prince's man, just step behind the curtain. Take your ore with you. I'll be but a moment with these fools."

Unable to force coherent words through his tight throat, Walegrin simply nodded and, still clutching the sack, eased behind a curtain and into a dark passageway. He could see narrowly into the room he had left without, he prayed, being seen in return.

Balustrus struggled with the heavy bolts. He got the door open just before the Prince's man threatened to break it down. Three men immediately surged past: two huge brutes in dirty rags and a third man in common dress.

"Balustrus? Metal-master?" the third man demanded.

The man might be dressed commonly, but he wasn't common. Once Walegrin's suspicions were aroused, other incongruities became obvious: clean, fresh-curled hair; sturdy boots with gold buckles; hands that had never been truly dirty.

Unreasoning fear gripped him. He did not pause to wonder why a Rankan lord, for such the visitor must be, would enter the metal-master's shop in such a disguise; he knew. The S'danzo curse and his false friends in Ranke had merged. By sundown he'd be just so much meat on the torturer's rack. They'd have his secrets, his steel and, if he got lucky, his life.

"...It has cooled without a crack," Balustrus said when Walegrin had regained enough control over his fear to listen again.

"My men will come for it this afternoon," the lord said, resting his forearms on the table where Walegrin had spilled his sack of ore.

"As you wish, Hierarch Torchholder. I'll tell my lads to hoist it up. You'll need a strong cart, my Lord. She's as heavy as the god."

Both men laughed heartily. Then, looking mildly annoyed, the High Priest of Vashanka in Sanctuary stood up and rubbed his arm. A tiny object dropped to the floor. Walegrin felt bitter bile surge up his throat as the Rankan retrieved the bit and examined both it and his arm.

"It broke my skin," he said.

"Scraps," the metal-master replied, taking the small flake from the priest's hand.

"Sharp scraps. We should put them on the edges of our swords," Torchholder laughed, and took back the offending object. "Not glass either . . . Some new project of yours?"

"No-"

Walegrin could not hear the rest of Balustrus' reply. His fear-clouded mind had finally placed the Lord and his name: the Torch himself, War-god Priest. As if it were not bad enough to have the regular Imperial hierarchy sniffing along his trail, now here was the Wargod too-and the Sacred Bands? Walegrin was numb from the waist down, unable to move closer or run away. Damn the S'danzo and their curses. Damn his father, if he weren't already damned, for killing Rezzel and incurring supernatural wrath.

But Molin Torchholder was laughing now, giving the metal-master a small coin purse and a brief, casual blessing on his work. Walegrin, whose panicked thoughts always moved too quickly, knew he'd been sold. When the priest and his bodyguards had disappeared out the door, Walegrin confronted the withered, smiling, metal-master.

"Was it worthwhile?" he demanded.

"The palace has the best money in the city. Some of it was truly minted in Ranke and not cut three times since with lead or tin." Balustrus looked up from his counting and studied Wale-grin's face. "Now, son, whatever you've done to get Ranke on your tail-don't go thinking I'd be on their side. Your secrets are safe from Ranke with me."

Walegrin tried to laugh, but the attempt failed. "I'm to believe that the Torch himself just happened to wander down here-and that he just happened to find a piece of ore stuck to his arm and then he just happened to give you a double handful of gold?"

"Walegrin, Walegrin," Balustrus swung down from the stool and tried to approach the angry soldier, but Walegrin easily eluded him. "Molin Torchholder has only paid me what is due me-for the work on Vashanka's bell. Now it might seem strange to you that such a man would come here himself-but the Hierarch has taken a personal interest in this project from the beginning. Anyone in town can tell you that. Besides, did I know you were going to be here this morning? Did I suspect that today I'd hold Enlibrite ore in my hands? No.

"Now, I expect you'll believe exactly what you want, but it was happenstance, all of it. And Torchholder's suspicions are not aroused; if they were he would still be here, believe that. Mark me well: I know him and the rest better than you imagine."

It was not the first time Balustrus hinted that he knew more than he was saying, and the notion did nothing to reassure Walegrin. Kilite had often done the same thing-and Kilite had finally betrayed him. "Truly, metal-master, when can I have my swords?" he asked in a slightly calmer voice.

"Truly lad, I do not know. The bell is finished, as you heard. I have no other commissions waiting at my foundry. I'll start testing your ore as soon as the priest claims his bell. But, Walegrin, even if I stumble upon the right temperatures and the right proportions at once-it will still take time. I've only two lads to help me. I've agreed to payment in kind-but I cannot hire men with unforged swords. Besides, would you want me to contract day-labor from the taverns?"

Walegrin shook his head. He'd relaxed. His body could not stand the tension he brought to it. He was exhausted and knew his hands would shake if he moved them. What Balustrus said was true enough, except-He paused and a measure of his confidence returned. "I've five men with me: good men; more than equal to day labor. They sit idle until the swords are ready. They'll work for you."

It was the metal-master's turn to hesitate. "I'll not pay them," he announced. "But they can stay in the outbuildings of the foundry. And Dunsha will make food for them as she does for the rest of us." He seated himself in his stool and smiled. "How about that, son?"

Walegrin winced, not from the offer which was all he had desired, but from Balustrus' attempts at friendship and familiarity. Of course the smith hadn't been in Sanctuary when Walegrin was a youth. He hadn't known Walegrin's father and could not know that Walegrin allowed no-one to call him 'son.' So, Walegrin controlled his rage and grunted affirmatively.

"I'll give you another piece of advice-since you're already in my debt. You've got a hate and fear about you that draws trouble like a magnet. You think the worst, and you think it too soon. You'll be doing neither yourself nor your men any good by going north. But, now listen to me, the Sacred Band of Stepsons and probably the Hounds as well will have to go-and then there'll be no-one of any power and ability here. Jubal's gone-you know that-don't you?"

Walegrin nodded. Tales of the night assault on the Downwind estate of the slaveholder circulated in numerous variations, but everyone agreed that Jubal hadn't been seen since. "But I don't want to spend my life in Sanctuary looking after gutter-scum!" he snarled back at his would-be benefactor.

"Mark me-and let me finish. You're fresh back. Things have changed. There're no more blue hawks to roam the streets. That's not to say that them as wore the masks are gone-not all of them, not yet. Only Jubal's gone. Jubal's men and Jubal's power are there for the taking. Even if he should return to this town, he'll be in no condition to raise his army of the night again. Let Temp us, Zaibar-" Balustrus spat for emphasis, "and all their ilk fight for Ranke. With them gone and your steel you could be master of this place for life-and give it on to your children as well. Kittycat would surrender in a day."

Walegrin didn't answer. He didn't remember sliding the bolts back before opening the door, and perhaps he hadn't. He was ambitious to gain glory, but he had no real thoughts for the future. Balustrus had tempted him, but he'd frightened him more.

The morning sun brought no warmth to the young man. He shivered beneath his borrowed, monk's cloak. There weren't many people on the narrow streets and those took pains to stay out of his path. His cloak billowed out to reveal the leather harness of a soldier beneath it, but no-one stopped him to ask questions.

The taverns were boarded up as the barkeeps and wenches alike caught a few hours rest. Walegrin pounded past them, head erect, eyes hard. He reached the Wideway without seeing a welcoming door. He headed for the wharves and the fishermen whose day began well before dawn. They would be ready for refreshment by now.

He wandered into a slant-walled den called the Wine Barrel; Fish Barrel would have been a more appropriate name. The place stank of fish oil. Ignoring the pervasive stench, Walegrin approached the rough-hewn bar. The room had fallen silent and, though a swordsman like himself had nothing to fear from a handful of fishermen, Walegrin was uncomfortable.

Even the ale was rank with fish-oil, but he gagged it down. The thick brew brought the clouds of dullness his mind craved. He ordered another three mugs of the vile, potent stuff and belched prodigiously while the fisherfolk endured him.

Their meek, offended stares drove him back onto the wharf before he was half as drunk as he wanted to be. The tangy air of the harbor undid him; he vomited into the water and found himself almost completely sober. In an abysmal mood, he tugged the priest's cowl over his head and held the cloak shut with a death grip. His path wound toward the bazaar where Illyra lived and saw the future in the S'danzo cards.

It was a market day at the bazaar, with every extra stall crammed with winter's produce: jellies, sweet breads and preserved fruits. He shoved past them, untempted, until he reached the more permanent part of the bazaar and could hear the ringing of Dubro's hammer above the din. She had found herself an able protector, at least. He stopped before the man who was his own age and height but whose slow strength was unequalled.

"Is niyra inside?" he asked politely, knowing he would be recognized. "Is she scrying for someone or can I talk to her?"

"You're not welcome here," Dubro replied evenly.

"I would like to see my sister. I've never done anything to hurt her in the past and I don't intend to start now. Stand guard beside me, if you must. I will see her."

Dubro sighed and set his tools carefully back in their proper places. He banked the fire and moved buckets of water close by the cloth door of the simple structure he and Illyra called home. Walegrin was about to burst with impatience when the plodding giant lifted the cloth and motioned him inside.

"We have a visitor," Dubro announced.

"Who?"

"See for yourself."

Walegrin recognized the voice but not the woman who moved in the twilight darkness. It was Illyra's custom to disguise her youth with cosmetics and shapeless clothing-still it seemed that the creature who walked toward him was far too gross to be his half-sister. Then he saw her face-his father's face for she took after him that way-and there could be no doubt.

She slouched ungracefully in the depths of Dubro's chair, and Walegrin, though he had little knowledge of these things, guessed she was late in pregnancy.

"You're having a child," he blurted out.

"Not quite yet," she replied with a laugh. "Moonflower assures me I have some weeks to wait yet. I'm sure it will be a boy, like Dubro. No girl-child would be so large."

"And you're well enough?" Walegrin had always assumed she was barren: doubly cursed. It did not seem possible that she should be so robustly breeding.

"Well enough. I've lost my figure but I've got all my teeth, yet," she laughed again. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes-and more," Walegrin didn't trust the smith who stood close behind him, but Illyra would tell him everything he said anyway. "I've brought back the ore. We were betrayed by treachery-I lost all but five of my men. I have made powerful enemies with my discovery. I need your help, Illyra, if I'm to protect myself and my men."

"You found the steel ofEnlibar?" Dubro whispered while Illyra sought a more dignified position in the chair.

"I found the ore," Walegrin corrected, suddenly realizing that the great ox of a monger probably expected to make the swords himself.

"What do you need from me?" Illyra asked. "I'd think you'd need Dubro's help, not mine."

"No," Walegrin spat out quickly. "I've found one to make my steel for me Balustrus, metal-master. He knows forging, grinding and tempering-"

"And Ilsig alchemy," Dubro added. "Since he cast the Prince's god-bell it would seem good fortune falls to him."

Walegrin did not like to think that Dubro knew of Balustrus and the making of steel. He attempted to ignore the knowledge and the smith. " 'Lyra, it's your help I need: your sight. With the cards you can tell me who I can trust and what I can do in safety."

She frowned and smoothed her skirts over her great belly. "Not now, Walegrin. Not even if I could use the cards for such things. The baby-to-be takes so much from me; I don't have the sight. Moonflower warns me that I must not use the gifts so close to my time. It could be dangerous."

"Moonflower? What is moonflower?" Walegrin complained, and heard a giggle from Dubro.

"She is S'danzo. And she takes care of me, now-"

"S'danzo?" Walegrin said in disbelief. "Since when do the S'danzo help you?"

Illyra shrugged. "Even the S'danzo cannot remember forever, you know. The women have the sight, so the men feel free to wander with the wind. The women stay in one place all their lives; the men-It is forgotten."

"Forgotten?" Walegrin leaned forward to whisper to her. "Illyra, this Moonflower who tells you not to use your sight-does she see those who used to come to you?"

"She-or her daughter," Illyra admitted.

"Illyra, breeding has clouded your mind. They will squeeze you out. They never forget."

"If that were true, so much the worse for them. Since the mercenaries came to town scrying is not pleasant, Walegrin. I do not enjoy looking into the future of soldiers. I do not enjoy their reactions when I tell them the truth." She shifted again in the chair. "But, it is not true. When my son is bom the danger will be past and I will see again. Moonflower and Migurneal will not keep what is rightfully mine," she said with the calm confidence of one who has the upper hand. "You need not worry for me. I will not send you to Moonflower, either. I'll answer your questions myself, if I can, after my son is born-if you can wait that long."

It seemed likely that she would be delivered of her child well before Balustrus finished making the swords, so Walegrin agreed to wait.

4

Balustrus' villa-foundry had fallen from fashionability long before the first Rankans reached Sanctuary. Weeds grew boldly in the mosaic face of Shipri in the attrium. There wasn't a room where the roof was intact and several where it was non-existant. Walegrin and Thrusher threw their belongings into a room once connected to the main attrium but now accessible only through a gaping hole in the wall. Still, it was a better billet than most they'd seen.

The work was hard and dirty, with little time for recreation, though Sanctuary was in sight down the gentle slopes. Balustrus treated Walegrin and his men like ordinary apprentices, which meant they got enough food and more than enough abuse. If Walegrin had not borne his share so stoically there might have been problems, but he was willing to sacrifice anything to the cause of his swords.

For three weeks they lived in almost total isolation. A farmer delivered their food and gossip; an occassional mercenary came seeking Balustrus' services and was turned away. Only once did someone come looking for Walegrin himself, and that was after Illyra bore twins: a boy and a girl. The soldier sent them a gold piece to insure their registry in the rolls of citizenship at the palace.

"Is it worth it, commander?" Thrusher asked as he kneaded a soothing balm into Walegrin's burnt shoulder. "We're here three weeks and all we have to show for ourselves is fresh scars."

"What about full bellies and no problems from Kittycat? Yes, it's worth it. We should know how steel is made; I had always thought the smiths just took the ore and made it into swords. I had no idea there were so many steps in between."

"Aye, so many steps. We've gone through two sacks already and what have we got? Three half-decent knives, a mountain of bad steel and a demon grinding away in the shed there. Maybe we would be better running. Sometimes I don't think we'll ever leave Sanctuary again."

"He's mad, but no demon. And I think he's getting close to the steel we need. He's as eager to have the steel as we are-it's his life."

The little man shook his head and eased Walegrin's tunic over the sore. "I don't like magic," he complained.

"He only added a little bit of Ilsig silver- hardly enough to make a difference. We've got to expect a little magic. We found the mine with magic, didn't we? Balustrus isn't a magician. He said he couldn't put a spell on the metal like the Wrigglies put on steel, so he thought he'd try to add something to the steel that already had a spell on it."

"Yeah-the Necklace of Harmony!"

"You went to the temple and looked at the statue of Ils. You yourself said there was a silver necklace on the statue. You yourself said there wasn't a rumor in town to the effect that the necklace had been touched, much less stolen. It's not the Necklace of Harmony."

Thrusher bit his lip and looked away in thought. It was just as well that he didn't look at his commander's face. Walegrin had been present at the moment the smith added the bits of silver to the molten metal. He could truthfully say he didn't believe the metal was the Necklace of Harmony, but after seeing the burst of white-hot flame he knew it was no ordinary piece of jewelry.

The whine of Balustrus' grinding wheel dominated the courtyard. The furnaces had been sealed; the piles of crushed ore glittered in the sunlight. Everyone awaited the results of the latest grinding. It seemed to Walegrin, as he turned away from the sound, that it was different this time. The metal shrieked like an agonized, living thing.

Thrusher gave him a sharp nudge. The courtyard had become silent and an apprentice was running toward them. It was time, the youth shouted, for Walegrin to witness the tempering of the blade.

"Luck," Thrusher added as Walegrin rose.

"Aye, luck. If it's good we can start thinking of leaving."

Balustrus was polishing the freshly ground blade when Walegrin entered the hot, dusty shed. The bronze man's tunic was filthy with sweat and dust from the grinding wheel. His mottled skin glistened more brightly than the metal.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he said, giving the blade to Walegrin while he sought his crutches.

Fine, wavy lines of black alternated with thicker bands of a more silvery metal. The old Enlibrite sword he kept rolled in his mattress had no such striations but Balustrus said an iron core would ultimately yield a better steel; so much could be learned from the Rankan armorers. Walegrin thumped the flat of the new blade against his palm, wishing he knew if the metal-master were correct.

"We've done it, son!" Balustrus exaulted, grabbing the blade back. "I knew the secret would be in that silver."

Walegrin followed him out of the shed to one of the smaller furnaces which the apprentices had already fired. The youths ran when the men approached.

"But there was no silver mentioned on the pottery fragment; and there's no silver in ordinary steel, is there?"

The metal-master spat on a weed. "Wrigglies never did anything without a spell, lad. Spells for cooking food, spells for bedding a whore. Big spells, little spells and special spells for steel. And this time we've got the steel spell."

"With respect-you said that last time and it shattered in the brine."

Balustrus scratched his rutted chin. "I did, didn't I? But this .feels right, boy. There's no other way to explain it. It feels different and it feels right. And it has to be the silver-that's the only different thing this time."

"Did the silver have a 'steel' spell on it?" Walegrin asked.

The metal-master thrust the blade into the glowing coals. "You're smart, Walegrin. Too bad it's too late; you could have learned-you could make your own steel." He spat again and the weed fell over. "No, it wasn't a steel spell nothing like that. I don't know what the Wrigglies put on that silver. The Torch brought the necklace here right after the Prince announced the bell. I could see it was old, but it was plain silver and not valuable. I thought he'd want it for the inscription; silver pressed on bronze is quite elegant. But no-the Hierarch gives out that this is the Necklace of Harmony warm off Ils-no saying how he comes to have it. He wants me to melt the silver into the bell: 'Let Ils tremble when Vashanka's name is called!' he says in that priest's voice of his-"

"But you didn't," Walegrin interrupted.

"Not sayin' I didn't try, boy. Put it in with the copper; put it in with the tin-the damn thing floated to the top everytime. I had a choice: I could cast the bell with the silver buried in the metal and know that the bell would crack as soon as the Torch struck it. You can imagine the omens that would bring-and what it'd bring to me as well. Or, I could set the silver aside and tell the Torch that everything was exactly according to his instructions."

"And you set the silver aside?" Walegrin covered his face with his hand and turned away from the both the metal-master and the furnace.

"Of course, lad. Do you think the heavens're going to open up and Vashanka stick his head out to tell Molin Torchholder that Ils' silver isn't in the bell?"

"Stranger things have happened of late." Walegrin faced the metal-master's silence. "The silver should have melted in the bronze, shouldn't it?" he asked softly.

"Aye-and I set it aside very carefully when it didn't. I'll be glad to see the last of it. I don't know what it is that the Torch gave me-and I'll wager he doesn't either. But it is Wrigglie-work and it'd have to be spelled or it would have melted-see? So you come asking for Enlibrite steel. You've got the ore and, all things being equal, steel is steel. But it isn't, so I know we need a spell, a spell for hardness and temper. No-one alive would know that spell, but here I've got silver that doesn't melt with a mighty spell on it-

"And, oh, it feels right, Walegrin, it feels right. She'll take an edge like you've never seen."

Walegrin shrugged and looked at the metal-master again. "If you're right, how many swords can you make?"

"With what's left of your ore and my necklace: about fifty. And as it's my silver, lad, I'll be taking more for myself. There'll be about twenty-five for you and the same for me."

The blond officer shrugged again. It was no worse than he had expected. He watched as Balustrus wrestled the dull, red metal from the fire.

There were conflicting theories on the tempering of fighting steel. Some said a snowdrift was best for cooling the metal, others said plain water would suffice. Most agreed the ideal was the living body of a man, though in practice only Imperial swords were made that way. Balustrus believed in water straight from the harbor, left in the sun until it had evaporated by half. He plunged the blade into a barrel of such brine and disappeared in the acrid steam.

The blade survived.

"Get the old sword," Balustrus urged and with a nod Walegrin sent Thrusher after it.

They compared the blades for weight and balance, then, slowly, they tested them against each other. Walegrin held the old sword and Balustrus swung the new. The first strokes were tentative; Walegrin scarcely felt them as he parried them. Then the metal-master grew confident; he swung the new metal with increasing force and uncanny accuracy. Deep green sparks fell in the late afternoon light, but Walegrin found himself more concerned with the old man who suddenly no longer seemed to need crutches. After a few frantic moments Walegrin backed out of range. Balustrus stopped, sighed and let the blade drag in the dust.

"We found it, lad," he whispered.

He sent the apprentices into Sanctuary for a keg of ale. The soldiers and the apprentices partook lavishly of it, but Balustrus did not. He continued to sit in the courtyard with the fresh-ground blade across his hidden, crippled legs. It was dark when Walegrin came out to join him.

"You are truly a master of metal," the younger man said with a smile, setting an extra mug of ale beside Balustrus.

The metal-master shook his head, declining both the ale and the compliment. "I'm a shadow of what I was," he said to himself. "So, now you have your Enlibrite swords, son. And what will you do with them?"

Walegrin squatted in the moonlight. The ale had warmed him against the night breezes and made him both more expansive and optimistic than usual. "With the promise of swords I can recruit men-only a few at first. But we'll travel north, taking commissions-taking what's necessary. I'll hire more as I go. We'll arrive at the Wizardwall fully mounted and armored. We'll prove ourselves with honor and glory against the Nisibisi, then become the vanguard of a legion."

Chuckling loudly, the metal-master finally took a sip of ale. "Glory and honor, Walegrin, lad-what will you do with glory? What do you gain with honor? What becomes of your men when Wizardwall and the Nisibisi are forgotten?"

Honor and glory were their own rewards for a Rankan soldier and as for war-a soldier could always find a conflict or commission. Of course, Walegrin had neither glory nor honor and his commissions thus far had been pedestrian-like duty at the Sanctuary garrison: the antithesis of honor and glory. "I will be known," he resolved after a moment's thought. "While I'm alive I'll be respected. When I'm dead I'll be memorialized-"

"You're already known, lad, or have you forgotten that? You have rediscovered Enlibar steel. You don't dare show your face because of it. How much honor and glory do you think you'll need before you can walk the streets of Ranke? Twenty five swords? Fifty swords? Do you think they'll believe you when you tell them we made the steel with bits of an old Wrigglie necklace? Eh?"

Walegrin stood up. He paced a circle around the seated cripple. "I will succeed. I'll succeed now or die."

With a quick, invisible movement of his crutch, Balustrus brought Walegrin sprawling into the dust. "It is impolite to speak to the back of my head. Your fortunes have changed, and could change again. The Empire has never given you anything-and will not ever give you anything. But the Empire means nothing to Sanctuary.

"There is power here, lad, not glory or honor but pure power. Power you can use to buy all the honor and glory you want. I tell you, Walegrin- Jubal's not coming back. His world's ripe for taking."

"You've said that before. So Jubal rots under his mansion. How many bloodied hawkmasks have been nailed to the Downwind bridge? Even if I were tempted, there's nothing left."

"Tempus is culling the ranks for you. The wiserones are safe, I'm sure. They've heard Jubal isn't dead and they're waiting for his return-but they don't know everything."

There was an evil confidence to Balustrus' tone that made Walegrin wary. He never fully trusted the metal-master and trusted him less when he spoke in riddles.

"I was not always Balustrus. Once I was the Grey Wolf. Only twenty-five years ago I led all the Imperial legions into the mountains and broke the last Ilsig resistance. I broke it because I knew it. I was born in those mountains. The blood of kings and sorcerers runs in my veins, or it did. But I knew the days of kings were over and the days of Empire had come. I destroyed my own people hoping for honor and glory among the conquerors-"

Walegrin cleared his throat loudly. There wasn't a citizen alive who hadn't heard of the Grey Wolf: a young man clothed in animal hides, given a hero's welcome in Ranke despite his Wrigglie past-and tragically killed in a fall from his horse. The whole capital had turned out for his funeral.

"Perhaps my friends in Ranke were the fathers of your friends," Balustrus said to Walegrin's skepticism. "I watched my own funeral from the gladiators' galleries where drugged, stripped and branded I'd been left to die or improve my one-time friends' fortunes." He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't your ordinary Rankan general-they'd forgotten that. I could fight and I could forge weapons such as they'd never seen. I'd learned metal-mastery from my betrayed people."

"And Jubal-what's he got to do with this?" Walegrin finally asked.

"He came later. I'd fought and killed so often I'd been retired by my owners, but then the Emperor himself bought me, Kittycat's father. I trained the new slaves and Jubal was one of them. A paragon-he was born for the death-duel. I taught him every trick I knew; he was a son to me. I watched fortunes change everytime he fought. We soon both belonged to the Emperor. We drank together, whored together-the life of a successful gladiator isn't bad if you don't mind the brand and collar. I trusted him. I told him the truth about me.

"Two days later I was on the sand fighting against him. I hadn't fought for five years; but even at my best I was no match for him. We fought with mace and chain-his choice. He took my legs with his second swing. I had expected that, but I expected a quick, merciful death as well. I thought we were both slaves: equals and friends. He said: 'It's been arranged,' pointed to the Imperial balcony and struck my legs again.

"That was summer. It was winter when I opened my eyes again. A Lizerene healer was at my side congratulating himself on my recovery-but I had become this!"

The metal-master jerked his tunic upward, revealing the remains of his legs. The moonlight softened the horror, but Walegrin could see the twisted remnants of muscle, the exposed lengths of bone, the scaly knobs that had once been knees. He looked away before Balustrus lowered the cloth.

"The Lizerene said he'd been paid in gold. I returned slowly to the capital, as you can imagine, and painfully, as you cannot. Jubal had been freed the day after our battle. I searched for years and found him Downwind, already well protected by his 'masks. I couldn't adequately thank him for my life so I became Balustrus, his friend. I forged his swords and masks.

"Jubal had enemies, most more able than I; I feared my revenge would be vicarious and his death swift. When Tempus came I thought we were both doomed. But Tempus is cruel; crueler than Jubal, crueler than I. Saliman came here one night to say his master lay alive among the corpses at the charnel house, an arrowhead in each knee. Saliman asked if I would shelter the master until he died-as he was certain to do. 'Of course,' I said, 'but he need not die. We'll send him to the Lizerene.' "

The ale no longer warmed Walegrin. He was no stranger to hate or revenge; he had no sympathy for the slaver. But Balustrus' voice was pure sated, insane malice. This man had betrayed his own people for Ranke-and been betrayed by Ranke in turn. He had called Jubal his son, told him the truth about himself and believed that his son had immediately betrayed him. Walegrin knew he was now Balustrus' 'son.' Did the metal-master expect to be betrayed-or would he betray first?

Balustrus submerged himself in his satisfaction; he said nothing when Walegrin took his mug of ale far across the courtyard to the shadows where Thrusher sat.

"Thrush-can you go into the city tonight?"

"I'm not so far gone that I can't thread the maze."

"Then go. Start looking about for men."

Thrusher shook off the effects of the ale. "What's happened? What's gone wrong?"

"Nothing yet. Balustrus is acting strangely. I don't know how much longer we can trust him."

"What's made you agree with me at last?"

"He told me the story of his life. I can see Illyra in ten days-after the new moon and after she's cleansed. We'll leave for the north the next morning, with the silver and the ore if we don't have swords."

Thrusher was not one to say 'I told you so' more than once. He got his cloak and went over the outer wall without anyone but Walegrin knowing he was gone.

5

The metal-master organized his courtyard foundry with military precision. Within six days of the successful tempering, another ten blades had been forged. Walegrin marked the progress in his mind: so many days until he could visit Illyra, plus one more before the swords were finished; yet another to meet with the men Thrusher was culling out of the city and then they could be gone.

He watched Balustrus carefully; and though the metal-master gave no overt sign of betrayal, Walegrin became anxious. Strangers came more frequently and the cripple made journeys to places not even Thrusher could find. When questioned, Balustrus spoke of the Lizerene who tended Jubal and the bribes he needed to pay.

On the morning of the eighth day, a rainy morning when the men had been glad to sleep past dawn, Walegrin finished his planning. He was at the point of rousing Thrusher when he heard sound where there should have been silence beyond the wall.

He roused Thrusher anyway and the two men crept silently toward the sound. Walegrin drew his sword, the first Enlibar sword to be forged in five hundred years.

"You've got the money and the message?" they heard Balustrus say.

"Yessir."

Balustrus' crutches scraped along the broken stone. Walegrin and Thrusher flattened against the walls and let him pass. They'd never get the truth from the metal-master, but the messenger was another matter. They crept around the wall.

The stranger was dressed in dark clothes of unfamiliar style. He was adjusting the stirrup when Walegrin fell upon him, wrestling him to the ground. Keeping a firm hand over the stranger's mouth and a tight hold on his arm, Walegrin dragged him a short distance from his horse.

"What've we got?" Thrusher asked after a cursory check of the horse.

"Too soon to tell," Walegrin replied. He twisted the arm again until he felt his prisoner gasp, then he rolled him over. "Not local, and not Nisibisi by the looks of him."

The young man's features were soft, almost feminine and his efforts to free himself were laughably futile. Walegrin cuffed him sharply then yanked him into a sitting position.

"Explain yourself."

Terrified eyes darted from one man to the other and came to rest on Walegrin, but the lad said nothing.

"You'll have to give him a search, eh?" Thrusher threatened.

"Aye-here's his purse."

Walegrin ripped the pouch from the youngster's belt, noticing as he did that the youth carried no evident weapon, not even a knife. He did, however, have some large heavy object under his jerkin. Walegrin tossed the purse to Thrusher and sought the hidden object. It proved to be a medallion, covered with a foreign seeming script. He had made nothing of the inscription before Thrusher yelped with surprise and a dazzle of light flashed between them.

As Walegrin looked up a second flash erupted. Their prisoner needed no more time to effect his escape. They heard the youth mount and gallop off, but by the time either man could see clearly again the trail was already becoming mud.

"Magic," Thrusher muttered as he got to his feet.

Walegrin said nothing as he got his legs under him. "Well, Thrush-what else was in that purse?" he asked after several moments.

Thrusher checked it cautiously again. "A small ransom in gold and this." He handed Walegrin a small silver object.

"One of the Ilsig links, by the look of it," Walegrin whispered. He looked back toward the villa. "He's up to something."

"The magician wasn't Rankene," Thrusher offered in consolation.

"That only means we have new enemies. C'mon. It's time to find my sister. She'll make at least as much sense as the metal-master."

The rain had kept the bazaar crowds to a minimum, but so close to the harbor there was fog, too, and Walegrin got them lost twice before he heard the sound of Dubro's hammer. Two mercenaries, a Whoreson pair by the look of them, waited beneath the awning. Dubro was mending their shield.

"You're putting in more dents than you're taking out, oaf," the younger, taller of the pair complained, but Dubro went on hammering.

Walegrin and Thrusher moved closer without being noticed. A rope was tied across the doorway, usually a sign that Illyra was scrying. Walegrin tried to find the scent of her incense in the air but found only the smell of Dubro's fire.

There was a scream and a crash from the inside. Dubro dropped his hammer and bumped into Walegrin at the doorway. A third Stepson yanked the rope loose and attempted, unsuccessfully, to bully his way past both Dubro and Walegrin. The smith's hands closed on the Stepson's shoulder. The other pair reached for their weapons, but Thrusher already had his drawn. Everyone froze in place.

Illyra appeared in the doorway. "Just let them go, Dubro," she asked wearily. "The truth hurts him more than you can." She noticed Walegrin, sighed and retreated back into the darkness.

"Lying S'danzo bitch!" the third Stepson shouted after her.

Dubro changed his grip and shook the small man. "Get out of here before I change my mind," he said in a low voice.

"You haven't finished with the shield yet," the young one complained, but his companions hushed him, grabbed the shield and hurried into the rain.

Dubro turned his attention to Walegrin. "One might expect you to be here when something like this happens."

"You shouldn't let her see men like that."

"He wouldn't," Illyra explained from the doorway. "But that's the only kind that comes anymore-for mongering and scrying. The Stepsons scare anything else away."

"What about the women you used to see? The lovers and the merchants?" Walegrin's tone was harsh. "Or did the S'danzo not give them back?"

"No, Migurneal was not untrue. It's the same everywhere. No woman would venture this close Downwind anymore-and not many merchants either. They don't need me to tell them their luck if they run afoul of the Sacred Band."

"And you need the money because of the babes?" Walegrin concluded, then realized

he didn't hear the normal infantile sounds.

Illyra looked away. "Well, yes-and no," she said angrily. "We needed a wet nurse-and we found one. But it's not safe for her or the babies here. They're bullies. Worse than the hawk-masks were-those at least stayed in the gutters where they belonged. Arton and Lillis are at the Aphrodesia House."

It was not uncommon to foster a child at a well-run brothel where young women sold their milk. Myrtis, proprietor of the Aphrodesia, had an unquestionable reputation. Even the palace women kept their children in the Aphrodesia nursery. But fostering wasn't the S'danzo way and Walegrin could see Illyra had agreed to it only because she was scared.

"Have you been threatened?" he asked, sounding like the garrison office he had been.

Illyra didn't answer, but Dubro did. "They make threats everytime she tells them the truth. She tells them they're cowards-and their threats prove it. 'Lyra's too honest; she shouldn't answer the questions men shouldn't ask."

"But I'll answer your questions now, Walegrin," she offered, not facing her husband.

The incense holders were still scattered across the carpets. Her cards had been thrown against the wall. Walegrin watched while she set her things in order and seated herself behind the table. She had recovered from the birth of the twins, Walegrin judged. There was a pleasant maturity in her face but otherwise she was the same-until she took up the cards again.

"What do you seek," she asked.

"I have been betrayed, but I am still in danger. I wish to know whom I should fear most and where I might be safe."

Illyra's face relaxed into unemotional blank-ness. Her expressionless eyes stared into him. "The steel brings enemies, doesn't it?"

Though he had seen her in scrying trances before, the change chilled Walegrin. Yet he believed totally in her gifts since she had read the pottery fragment which had led him to the ore. "Yes, the steel brings enemies. Will it be the death of me? Is it the final link in a S'danzo forged chain?"

"Give me your sword," she demanded.

He handed her the Enlibar blade. Illyra stared at it a while then ran her palms along the flat and touched the edge tenderly with her fingertips. She set the metal on her table and sat motionless for so long that Walegrin began to fear for her. He had started for the door when her eyes widened and she called his name.

"The future has been clouded since I gave birth, Walegrin, but your future is as the fog to the sun.

"Steel belongs to no man but to itself alone- this steel even more so. It reeks of gods and magic, places the S'danzo do not see. But unless your betrayers work through the gods they will have no power over you. There is intrigue, treachery but none of it will harm you or the steel."

"What of the men of Ranke? Have they forgotten me? When I go north-"

"You will not go north," she said, taking hold of the sword again.

"'Lyra, I'm going north with my men and the swords."

"You will not go north."

"That's nonsense."

Illyra put the sword on the table again. "It is the clearest thing I've seen in a week, Walegrin. You will not go north; you will not leave Sanctuary."

"Then you cannot say no harm will come to me. What of the spy we trapped this morning. The stranger who got away. Do you see him?"

"No-he can mean nothing to you, but I'll try my cards." She picked up the deck, took his hand and pressed it against the cards."Perhaps your future is distinct from the steel. Make three piles then turn over the top card of each."

He placed the three piles where she pointed and flipped over the cards. The first showed two men dueling. Though blood dripped from their blades neither seemed injured. It was a card Walegrin had seen before. The second was unfamiliar and damaged by water running through the colors. It seemed to show a great mass of ships on the open sea. The third card showed an armored hand

clutching a sword-hill that changed to flame halfway up the blade. Without thinking Walegrin moved to touch the flame. Illyra's fingers closed over his and restrained him.

"Your first: the Two of Ores: steel. It means many things, but for you it is simply this steel itself. But you already know this.

'"Your second: this is the Seven of Ships, or it was the Seven of Ships. It was the fishing fleet, but ithas become something else." She squeezed his hand. "Here is all danger and opportunity. Not even the gods see this card as we see it now. The Seven of Ships sails out of the future; it sails for Sanctuary and nothing will be the same. Remember it!" she commanded and overturned the card again. "We were not meant to see what the gods have not yet seen.

"Your third is not a sword, though you thought it was. It is the Lance of Flames-the Oriflamme: leader's card. Coming with steel and the revealed future it places you in the vanguard. It is not a card for a man who believes in S'danzo curses."

"Don't speak in riddles, Illyra."

"It is simple. You are not cursed by the S'danzo-if you ever were. You have been marked by the gods; but remember what we say about the gods: it is all the same whether they curse or favor you. Since the birth of my children this is the first future which is not clouded. I see a huge fleet sailing for Sanctuary-and I see the Oriflamme. I will not interpret what I see."

"The men in Ranke will not reach me and Balustrus will not sell me?"

The S'danzo woman laughed as she gathered her cards. "Raise your eyes, Walegrin. It doesn't matter. Ranke is to the north and you're not going north. The steel, the fleet and the ori-flamme are right here."

"I do not understand."

The incense had burned down. Sunlight came in through the roped-off door. Illyra emerged from the aura of mystery to be herself again. "You are the only one who can understand, Walegrin," she told him. "I'm too tired, now. It doesn't really matter; I don't feel your doom- and I've felt doom often enough since the mercenaries started coming. Who knows. Maybe you aren't the one who understands. Things happen to you, around you, and you just muddle through. Tell Dubro I'll see no-one else today when you leave."

She stood up and went behind a curtain. He heard her lie down; he left quietly. Thrusherwas helping Dubro with a wheelrim, but both men stopped when they saw him.

"She wishes to be left alone the rest of the day," he said.

"Then you best begone from here."

Walegrin headed out from the awning without argument. Thrusher joined him.

"Well, what did you leam?"

"She told me that we will not go north and that a great fleet is headed for Sanctuary."

Thrusher stopped short. "She's mad," he exclaimed.

"I don't think so, but I don't understand either. In the meantime we'll follow our original plans. We'll come back to the city tonight and speak to the men you've found. There should be twenty-five swords finished by now-if there aren't, we'll cut our losses and leave with what we've got. I want to be out of here by sunrise."

6

The light in the tiny, upper room was provided by two foul-smelling candles. A man stood uncomfortably in the center of the room, the only place where he could stand without striking his head on the rough-hewn beams. Walegrin, deep within the comer shadows, fired questions at him.

"You say you can use a sword-do you fight in skirmish or battle?"

"Both. Before I came to Sanctuary, two years back, I lived a time at Valtostin. We fought the citizens by night and the Tostin tribes by day. I've killed twenty men in a single day, and I've got the scars to prove it."

Walegrin didn't doubt him. The man had the look of a seasoned fighter, not a brawler. Thrusher had seen him single-handedly subdue a pair of rowdies without undue injury or commotion. "But you left Valtostin?"

The man shifted his weight nervously. "Women-a woman." "And you came to Sanctuary to forget?" Walegrin suggested.

"There's always work for such as me; especially in a city like this."

"So you found work here, but not with the garrison. What did you do?"

"I guarded the property of a merchant..."

Walegrin did not need to hear the rest of the explanation; he'd heard it often enough. It was as if the surviving hawkmasks had settled on a single excuse for their past involvement with Jubal. In a way there was truth in it; Jubal's trade wasn't fundamentally different from the activities of a legitimate merchant especially here in Sanctuary.

"You know what I'm offering?" Walegrin asked flatly when the man had fallen silent. "Why come to me when Tempus needs Stepsons?" __

"I'd die before I served hint."

That too was the expected response. Walegrin emerged from the shadows to embrace his new man. "Well, die you might, Cubert. We quarter in a villa to the north of town. A sign says 'Sighing Trees,' if you read Wriggle. Otherwise you'll know it by the smell. We're with Balustrus, metal-master, for one more night."

Cubert knew the name and did not flinch at the sound of it. Perhaps he did not have the abhor-ence of magic and near-magic that most mercenaries had. Or he was simply a good soldier and accepted his lot with resignation. Thrusher emerged to open the door.

"Was that the last?" Walegrin asked when they were alone again.

"The best, anyway. There's one more, another hawkmask, and-" Thrusher paused, " a woman."

Walegrin's sigh made the candles flicker. "Very well-send her in."

It was not the custom of the army, even here in the hinterlands, to consider a woman fit for anything but cooking and fornicating. Jubal's rejection of this time-honored attitude was, to Walegrin, far more outrageous than any of his other activities. Unfortunately, with the Stepsons changing the face of the Downwind side of town, Walegrin was forced to consider these distaff aberations if he was to leave town with a dozen men-soldiers-swords, whatever, in his command.

The last candidate entered the room. Thrusher slid back under the eaves as soon as he had shut the door.

There were two types to these women Jubal had hired. The first was small-built, all teeth and eyes and utterly devoid of the traditional virtues almost every soldier brought into battle. The second type was a man save for accident of birth-big and broad, strong as any man of equal size, but as lacking in military honor as her scrawny sister.

This one was of the first type; her head barely reached Walegrin's chest. In a way she reminded him of Illyra and the resemblence was almost enough for him to order her out on the spot.

She was shaking out her short kilt; repairing a knot at the shoulder of her tunic which tried to conceal a small breast as grimy as the rest of her. Walegrin judged she hadn't eaten for two or three days. A half-healed slash stiffened her face; another wound ran down her hard, bare arm. Someone had tried to kill this woman and failed. She tugged wide-spread fingers through her matted, dark hair, doing nothing to improve it.

"Name," he demanded when she stood still again.

"Cythen." Her voice was remarkably pleasant for one so callused.

"You use a sword?"

"Well enough."

"A lad's sword, not a man's, I suppose."

Cythen's eyes flashed from the insult. "I learned the sword from my father and my brothers, my uncles and cousins. They gave me theirs when the time came."

"And Jubal?"

"And you," she stated defiantly.

Walegrin was impressed by her spirit-and wished he could hire her relatives instead. "How have you survived since Jubal's death-or don't you think he's dead?"

"There's not enough of us left for it to make a difference. We always had more enemies than friends. The hawkmask days are over. Jubal was our leader and no one could take his place, even for a few weeks. Myself, I went to the Street of Red Lanterns-but it's not to my taste. I was not always like this.

"I saw your man face down a Stepson-so I've come to see you and what you're worth."

A man shouldn't look at his prospective officer that way-not that she was flirting. Walegrin felt she was trying to reverse their roles.

"Jubal was smart and strong-maybe not as smart and strong as he thought he was; Temp us got him in the end. I put a high price on my loyalty and who I give it to. What are your plans? It's rumored you have hard steel. Who do you use it for?"

Walegrin did not reveal his surprise; he just stared back at her. He had far less experience than the slaver, fewer men and far less gold. Ranke, in the form of Tempus, had brought Jubal down-what chance, truly, did he have? "I have the steel of Enlibar forged into swords. The Nisibisi do not fight in neat ranks and files; they ambush and we will ambush them in turn until we've made our names. Then with more swords-"

She sighed loudly. For one raging moment Walegrin thought she would turn on her heels and leave. Had she honestly expected him to scrabble for Jubal's lost domain? Or did she sense the hollowness of his confidence?

"I doubt it-but at least I'll be out of Sanctuary," she offered him her hand as she spoke.

A mercenary captain welcomed his men with a hand-shake and a comrade's embrace. Wale-grin did not embrace women as comrades. When he needed to he found some ordinary slut, laid her on her back and, with her skirts up to hide her face, took what he needed. He had seen women, ladies, that he would not treat in such a manner-but they had never seen him.

Cythen was no slut, and she'd hurt him if he treated her that way. She was no lady, either- not with her clothes half-gone and covered with dirt. Still, he wasn't about to set her back on the streets-at least not until she had a good meal. After quickly wiping his hand on his hip, Wale-grin took hers.

She had a firm grip, not man-strong but strong enough to wield a sword. Trying to make it seem natural, Walegrin raised his other arm for the embrace and was saved from the deed itself by a thumping, shouting commotion on the stairs outside.

Thrusher was flat against the wall. Walegrin had a knife out of its forearm sheath and just enough time to see Cythen remove a nasty assassin's blade from somewhere in her skirt before the door burst open.

"They've taken her!"

The light from the torch on the landing blinded Walegrin to the details of the scene before him. There was a central figure, huge and yelling; writhing attachments to it, also yelling and presumably his guards, and finally Thrusher, leaping out of the darkness to wrap lethal arms around the neck of the unsubdued invader. The dark hulk groaned. It fell back, squeezing Thrusher against the wall. It twisted, freeing its right arm, then calmly peeled someone off its left side and threw him into the eaves.

"Walegrin!" it bellowed. "They've taken her!"

Cythen was crouched on the balls of her feet, beneath the giant's notice but not Walegrin's. She was ready to strike when he laid a hand on her shoulder. She relaxed.

"Dubro?" Walegrin asked cautiously.

"They've taken her!" The smith's pain was not physical, but it was real nonetheless. Walegrin did not need to ask who had been taken, though he could not imagine how they had gotten past the smith in the first place.

"Tell me slowly: Who took her? How long ago? Why?"

The smith drew a shuddering breath and mastered himself. "It was just past sundown, a beggar-lad came up. He said there'd been an accident on the wharf. 'Lyra bid me help if I could, so I followed the lad. I lost him almost at once^ there was nothing on the wharf-" he paused, taking Walegrin's wrist in a bone crushing grip.

"It was a trap?" Walegrin suggested, grateful for the gauntlet that protected his wrists from the full power of Dubro's despair.

The smith nodded slowly. "She was gone!"

"She hadn't simply followed you and gotten lost-or gone to visit the other S'danzo?"

A deep-pitched groan forced its way out of Dubro's throat. "No-no. T'was all torn about. She fought, but she was gone-without her shawl. Walegrin, she goes nowhere without her shawl."

"She might have escaped to hide somewhere?"

"I've searched-else I'd have been here sooner," the smith explained, shifting his grip from Walegrin's wrist to his less-protected shoulder. "I roused all the S'danzo-and they searched with me. We found her shoe behind the farmer's stall by the river, but nothing else. I went home to look for signs." Dubro shook Walegrin for emphasis. "I found this!"

He withdrew an object from his pouch and held it so close that Walegrin couldn't see it. A measure of calm returned to the smith, he released Walegrin and let him study the object. It was a metal gauntlet boss, engraved and distinctive enough to identify its wearer, should he be found. But Walegrin did not recognize it. He handed it to Thrusher.

"Do you recognize it?" he asked.

"No-"

Cythen took the boss from Thrusher's hands. "Stepson-" she said with both fear and anger. "See here, the lightning emerging from the clouds? Only they wear such designs."

"You have a plan?" Dubro demanded.

It wasn't only Dubro waiting for a plan. With the mention of the Stepsons, Cubert had re-entered the room, and Cythen was warm for blood; the hawkmasks all had reasons for vengeance. Even Thrusher, still rubbing his sore head, acted as if this were a challenge that must be answered. Walegrin tucked the boss in his belt-pouch.

"We know it was a Stepson, but we don't know who," Walegrin said, though he suspected the one who had overturned Illyra's table earlier. "We don't have time to run them all to ground, and I don't think Tempus would let us. Still, if we had a Stepson hostage or two ourselves, it would be easier-"

"I'll go with Thrusher. I know where they're at at this hour," Cubert asserted. Cythen nodded agreement.

"Remember, a dead Stepson won't do us any good. So if you must kill one, hide the body well-dammit."

"It'll be a pleasure," Cubert grinned.

"See that they get their swords," Walegrin said as Thrusher led the ex-hawkmasks from the room. He was alone with Dubro. "Now, you and I will search the back streets-and hope we find nothing."

Dubro agreed. For one generally reckoned no smarter than the hammer he used, Dubro moved well through the darkness, leading Walegrin rather than being led. The latter had expected him to be a massive hinderence and had kept him apart from the rest, but Dubro knew blind alleys and exposed basements that no-one else suspected.

At length they emerged from the Maze to the stinking structures of the chamel houses. Butchers worked there, gravediggers and undertakers as well. Slippery mounds of rotting flesh and bones stretched, undisturbed, down to the river. The gulls and the dogs avoided this place, though the shadows of huge rats could be seen scurrying over the filth. They had found Rezzel here that morning-and left her here. For a moment Walegrin thought he saw Illyra lying out there-but no, it was just another jumble of bones, glowing with decay.

"She'd come here every so often," Dubro said softly. "You'd know why, wouldn't you?"

"Dubro-you don't think I-"

"No, she trusted you and she's not wrong in such things. It's just, if she were frightened, if she thought she had no place else to go-she might come here."

"Let's go back to the bazaar. Maybe her people have found something. If not, well-I'll gather my men and whatever they've found in the morning. We'll deal with Tempus from there." Dubro nodded and led the way, carefully, around the eerily glowing things lying on the mud.

Moonflower, who was as large among women as Dubro was among men, sat awkwardly at Illy-ra's table when they entered the little rooms behind the awning. "She is alive," the immense woman said, rearranging Illyra's cards.

"Walegrin has a plan to get her back from the Stepsons," Dubro said. Between them they almost filled the room. -

Moonflower got off the creaking stool and approached Walegrin, a predatory curiosity in her eyes. "Walegrin-you've grown up!"

She wasn't tall; no taller than Cythen, but she was built like a mountain. She wore layers of colorful clothes, more layers and colors than the eye cared to record. Yet she could move quickly to trap Walegrin before he reached the door.

"You will rescue her?"

"I didn't think you S'danzo cared about her," Walegrin snarled.

"She breaks little rules and pays a little price-but not like this. You think of the mother. She broke the big rules and paid the big price. But wouldn't we all like to break the big rules? She paid with her life-but we remember her here," Moonflower pressed a beefy hand over her heart. "You go and bring her back, now. I'll stay with this one." She stepped aside and pushed Walegrin back into the night. She probably wasn't very strong, but at her weight she didn't need to be.

Alone in the bazaar, Walegrin remembered what Illyra had said about the S'danzo. They were two societies, men and women, and their purposes were not the same. It had been the S'danzo men who had dismembered his father-and S'danzo men who had cursed him. But it was the S'danzo women who had the power, the sight-

Walegrin made his way slowly up the hills behind Sanctuary to Balustrus' villa. His energy went into finding the ground with each foot. He'd need food and sleep before he could face Illyra's problems again. It occured to him that he wouldn't be able to leave until she was found, one way or the other.

A woman's weeping caught his attention. His half-asleep thoughts converged around Illyra as a shape rose out of the darkness and threw itself around him. By the smell it wasn't Illyra. He pushed Cythen aside and studied her in dawnlight.

The jagged cut along the girl's face had been re-opened sometime in the night. Fresh clots of blood had twisted her expression into something worthy of Balustrus. Tears and sweat made vertical lines across her dirty skin. Walegrin's first impulse was to toss her headfirst into the brush. Instead he took her hand and led her to a rock. He unfastened his cloak and handed it to her, telling himself he'd do the same for any of his men, and not entirely believing it.

"They've got Thrusher and Cubert's dead!" she sobbed.

He took her hands, trying to distract her from the hysteria that made her all but incoherent. "What about Thrush?"

Cythen buried her face in her hands, sniffed loudly then faced Walegrin without the tears. "We were Downwind, past Momma Becho's. We were trailing a Stepson pair we'd been told passed that way after sundown carrying a body. Thrush was leading, I was in the rear. I heard a noise. I gave a warning and turned to face it, but it was a trap and we were outnumbered from the start. I never got my knife out-they had me from behind. It was a carry-off; they weren't trying to kill us. I went down before they hit me hard-but Thrush and Cubert kept fighting.

"I got my chance once we were back in the City, near the palace. I didn't linger, but they only had Thrusher with us-so Cubert's dead."

"How long ago was this?"

"I came straight here, and I haven't been here long."

"And you're sure it was the Prince's palace- not Jubal's?"

She became indignant. "I'd know Jubal's if I saw it. I'd have stayed and gotten Thrush out if it had been Jubal's. The Stepsons and Tempus haven't had enough time to learn what any hawkmask knows about the mansion. But we were attacked by Stepsons, anyway."

"You knew that?"

"By the smell."

Walegrin was too tired to continue sparring. He'd lost Thrusher who'd been with him longer than anyone, who was more friend and family than lieutenant. Moreover, he didn't have a hostage to strengthen his position. It was impossible to believe this scrawny, starving woman could escape where Thrush hadn't-

"You don't believe me, do you?" she said. "Thrush trusted me at his back. He must've fought until they hit him hard, where's I gave up sooner. That's the difference, Walegrin, you say women have no honor because they'll lose first and win later. You men have to win all the time or die trying. If I was in on it, would I have come back like this?"

"To lead me in," Walegrin challenged, but without conviction.

The sun was up when he slid the bolt of the villa-gate and led Cythen into the courtyard. Balustrus was waiting for them. The metal-master already knew some of the night's events.

"Seems you won't be jumping early after all?" he accused.

"Yes, I'd planned to leave," Walegrin agreed. "The longer I stay; the tighter the noose. I'm getting out. I leave you the ore, the necklace and the formula you don't need anything else."

"It won't be that easy unless you've replaced Thrusher with that bone-bag behind you. Word's come from the palace." Balustrus handed him a scroll with its seal broken.

The writing confirmed Cythen's story that they'd been taken to the palace by Stepsons. The Prince commanded Walegrin's presence in the Hall of Justice. Walegrin crumpled the paper and threw it into the dirt. He could have abandoned Thrusher; he could have abandoned Illyra-but he could not abandon them both.

"Cythen," he whispered to her as they entered the room he shared with Thrusher. He looked about for a cleaner tunic. "No matter what, don't stop looking for Illyra, hear me? If you find her you take her back to the bazaar. The S'danzo will help, and Dubro. They won't ask about your past. Do you understand?"

She nodded and watched without interest as he cast his filthy tunic aside and pulled another one over his head.

"You should wash first," she told him. "You shouldn't stink before the Prince. You won't win any bargains."

Walegrin glared at her, dropping the second tunic to the floor as he stormed toward the stream where they washed.

"I wasn't always like this," she shouted after him.. "I know better ways."

Dripping, but clean, Walegrin returned to the room to find his tunic lying neatly on the mattress. Somehow the girl had gotten the extra wrinkles out. His bronze circlet had been given a quick polish and some of the mud was gone from his sandals. But Cythen herself was gone from the shed, the courtyard and the villa. Coming on top of the loss of Illyra and Thrusher it was almost more than he could endure. Had he found her right then he would have cheerfully beaten her.

But the girl had been right, damn her. He felt better clean. His few men straightened up as he assembled them in the courtyard. He told them what he'd told Cythen. They grumbled and he doubted they'd wait more than a day before going their separate ways if he did not return. He looked for Balustrus too, and found only his share of the swords. The ore, the necklace and the metal-master had vanished. He was getting used to that.

Knots ofpeople ducked out of his path once he was on the streets. He was recognized, but no-one stopped him. With eyes fixed forward, he walked past the gallows, not chancing a glance at the corpses. The gatekeeper took his name without ceremony and a lad appeared to conduct him to the Hall of Justice.

He was left alone there in the echoing chamber. Kadakithus himself was the first to enter, accompanied by two slaves. The young prince dismissed the slaves and took his place on the throne.

"So, you're Walegrin," he began simply. "I thought I might recognize you. You have been no small amount of trouble."

Walegrin had intended to be quiet and meek-to do whatever was necessary to free Thrush. But this was Kittycat and he invited disrespect. "Finding your clothes each morning must be equal trouble. You've got my man in your dungeons. I want him freed."

The Prince fidgetted with the ornate hem of his sleeve. "Actually I don't have your man. Oh, he's been taken all right, and he's alive-but he's Tempus' prisoner, not mine."

"Then I should be talking to Tempus, not you."

"Walegrin, I may not have your man-but I have you," the Prince said forcefully.

Walegrin swallowed his reply and studied the Prince.

"That's better. You're entitled to your opinion of me-and I'm sure I've earned it. There's a lotto be said for playing one's part in life. Now, you'll talk to Tempus after you've talked to me-and you'll be glad of the delay.

"I've had gods know how many letters from Ranke about you-starting before you disappeared. I got my most recent one with the recent delegation from the capital. Zanderei-as cunning an assassin as they could find. I know how much money you got from Kilite. Don't look so surprised. I was raised in the Imperial Household-I wouldn't be alive at all if I didn't have some reliable friends. The chief viper in my brother's nest is always asking for you. He seems to think you've discovered Enlibar steel; I assure him that you haven't, though I know you have. I know how much he said he'd pay you for the secret; so I know you're not in Sanctuary looking for a better price. But then, I also know what Balustrus said about your progress with the steel. Does any of this surprise you?"

Walegrin said nothing. He was not truly surprised, though he hadn't expected this. Nothing was truly surprising today.

The prince misunderstood his silence. "All right, Walegrin. Kilite's faction found you, paid you, pardoned your absence and then tried to have you killed. I've run afoul of Kilite a few times and I can promise you you'll never outsmart him on your own. You need protection, Walegrin, and you need protection from a special sort of person-the sort of person who needs you as much as you need him. In short, Walegrin, you need me."

Walegrin remembered thinking the same thing once, though he'd envisioned this interview under different circumstances. "You have the Hounds, Tempus and the Sacred Bands," he remarked sullenly.

"Actually, they have me. Face it, Walegrin: you and I are not well-equipped. Alone with only my birth or your steel, we're nothing but pawns. But, put my birth with your steel and the odds improve. Walegrin, the Nisibisi are armed to the teeth. They'll tie up the armies for years before the surrender-if they surrender. Your handful of Enlibar swords won't make any difference. But the Empire is going to forget about us while they're fighting in the north."

"Or, you want my men and my steel here instead of on the Wizardwall?"

"You make me sound just like Kilite. Walegrin, I'll make you my advisor. I'll care for you and your men. I'll tell Kilite we found you floating in the harbor and make sure he believes it. I'll keep you safe while the Empire exhausts itself in the north. It may take twenty years, Walegrin, but when we return to Ranke, we'll own it."

"I'll think about it," Walegrin said, though actually he was thinking of Illyra's visions of an invading fleet and her warning that he would not go north.

The Prince shook his head. "You don't have time. You've got to be my man before you see Tempus. You might need me to pry your man loose."

They were alone in the room and Walegrin still had his sword. He thought of using it; perhaps the Prince thought the same thing for he sat far back in the throne, playing with his sleeve again.

"You might be lying," Walegrin said after a moment.

"I'm known for many things, but not lying."

That was true enough. Just as much of what he'd said was true. And there was Thrusher's safety, and Illyra's to think of. "I'll want a favor, right away," Walegrin said, offering his hand.

"Anything in my power, but first we talk to Tempus-and don't tell him we've made an agreement."

The Prince led the way along unfamiliar corridors. They were in the private part of the palace and the surroundings, though crude by capital standards, dazzled Walegrin. He bumped into the Prince when the latter stopped by a closed door.

"Now, don't forget-we haven't agreed to anything. No, wait-give me your sword."

Feeling trapped, Walegrin unbuckled his sword and handed it to the Prince.

"He's arrived, Tempus," Kadakithus announced in his most innane voice. "Look, he gave me a present! One of his steel swords."

Tempus looked around from a window. He had some of the god's presence to him. Walegrin felt distinctly outclassed and doubted that Kitty-cat could do anything to help him. He doubted that even the metal boss in his pouch could help him free Thrusher or Illyra.

"The steel is Sanctuary's secret, not Kilite's?" Tempus demanded.

"Of course," the Prince assured him. "Kilite will never know. The entire capital will never know."

"All right, then. Bring him in," Tempus shouted.

Five Stepsons crowded into the room, a hooded prisoner with them. They sent the man sprawling to the marble floor. Thrusher pulled the hood loose and scrambled to his feet. A livid bruise covered one side of his face, his clothes were torn and revealed other cuts and bruises, but he was not seriously hurt.

"Your man-I should have let my men have him. He killed two last night."

"Not men!" Thrusher spat out. "Whoresons; men don't steal women and leave them for the rats!"

One of the Stepsons moved forward. Walegrin recognized him as the one who had overturned Illyra's table. Though he felt the rage himself, he restrained Thrusher. "Not now," he whispered.

The Prince stepped between all of them with the sword. "I think you should have this, Tempus. It's too plain for me-but you won't mind that, will you?"

The Hell-Hound examined the blade and set it aside without comment. "I see you can control your man," he said to Walegrin.

"As you cannot." Walegrin tossed the Hound the boss Dubro had found. "Your men left it behind when they stole my sister last night." They were of a height, Walegrin and Temp us, but it cost Walegrin to look into Tempus' eyes and for once he understood what it meant to be cursed, as Tempus was.

"Yes, the S'danzo. My men disliked the fortune she told for them. They bribed some Downwind to frighten her. They don't understand the Downwind yet. They hadn't intended her to be kidnapped, any more than they'd intended to get robbed themselves. I've dealt with my men-and the Downwinders they hired. Your sister is already back in the bazaar, Walegrin, a bit richer for her adventures and off-limits to all Stepsons. No one guessed you were her brother-certain men are assumed not to have family, you know." Tempus leaned forward then, and spoke only to Walegrin. "Tell me, is your sister worth believing?"

"I believe her."

"Even when she rattles nonsense about invasions from the sea?"

"I believe her enough that I'm remaining in Sanctuary-against all my better judgement."

Tempus turned away to take up Walegrin's sword. He adjusted the belt for his hips and put it on. The Stepsons had already departed. "You won't regrethelping the Prince," he said without looking at anyone. "He's favored of the gods, you know. You'll do well together." He followed his men out the door leaving the Prince alone with Walegrin and Thrusher.

"You might have told me you were going to give him my sword!" Walegrin complained.

"I wasn't. I only meant to distract him-I didn't think he'd take it. I'm sorry. What was the favor you wanted?"

With Illyra and Thrusher safe, and his future mapped out, Walegrin didn't need a favor, but he heard his stomach rumbling and knew Thrush was hungry too. "We'll have a meal fit for a king-or Prince."

"Well, at least that's something I can provide you."