Blood Ties

SPELLMASTER by Andrew Offutt and Jodie Offutt

Wear weapons openly and try to look mean. People see the weapons and believe the look and you don't have to use them.

-CUDGET SWEAROATH

One thing led to another and swords came scraping out of their sheaths. Fulcris knew he was in trouble. The two men facing him with sharp steel in their fists had left the caravan yesterday afternoon when it halted here, just outside Sanctuary. They had gone on down into the town for a little of the partying he had denied them en route from Aurvesh. Now, just after midday, they'd come the short distance back out here to the encampment. Looking for trouble.

Fulcris wasn't the sort to pretend not to see them and be somewhere else, however wise that would have been. They had obviously been drinking their lunch. That was bad; these two, still cocky adolescents at thirty or so, were mean as sat-on spiders to begin with.

He spoke quietly and calmly and everything he told them was true. They chose not to accept any of it. Furthermore, they chose to push it. All three men knew that part of the reason was the sword-arm of caravan guard Fulcris. Only a few days ago he had taken a wound, high up near the shoulder. It still bothered him. The arm and its muscle were weakened, a little stiff. That made him a good man for two men to pick a fight with. Or a good victim.

Now their sword-hands had made it clear that they were through talking and he'd better be, too. His choices were two: he could run or he could defend himself. The fact that it was not fair because of his arm was not important to them and it had better not be to Fulcris. Besides, the choice did not exist for him. He couldn't run. He was a caravan guard. To flee from attackers, whether two or four, days-old wound or no, would ruin his reputation and the life he hoped for in this new town.

With only the slightest of winces, well hidden behind clenched teeth, he reached across his belt buckle. He made sure that when he drew his sword, the blade swished audibly and blurred as it rushed across him into readiness.

The man in the green tunic blinked at that and his arm wavered. Fulcris remembered his name: Abder.

His companion kept coming, though, and so Abder did, too.

Just feint at the green tunic, Fulcris told himself, going high, and try to get the more dangerous one on the backstroke, down. Abder will waver. If I can hurt his crony, it will be over.

If I don't, they'll kill me.

Damn. What a way to end a good life. And just when I was thinkin' about trying to settle down. He whipped his sword back and forth, strictly to make a bright flash and an impressive whup-whup noise that should give third thoughts to Abder, who had already had second ones about this encounter.

Uh. The exertion started the wound leaking. He felt the trickle of blood, warm on his upper arm.

"You son of a bitch," snarled the one in the grayish homespun tunic.

One more step, Fulcris thought, knowing the name-calling stage was about to end. The homespun man was worked up just about enough. For the first time in a long while, Pulcris knew fear. One more step. Then either 1 end it or they do.

"Yo!"

Fulcris ignored the hail. He kept his gaze on his assailants. They glanced toward the source of the call. A solitary traveler was pacing his large dun colored horse toward them, trailing a pack-animal. His hair was invisible within the odd flapped cap he wore, leather left its natural shade. Fulcris could have taken out both of them, then. He didn't.

"You two fellows need help with this mean-looking criminal?"

"No business of yours," homespun said, while that big dun-colored horse kept coming at him, just pacing.

"That's true," the newcomer said in a quiet voice, staring levelly. Not menacingly, or with a mean expression; it was just a steady look.

Fulcris allowed himself a glance. He saw what they saw: a big man with a big droopy moustache, sort of bronzey-russet. A great big saddle-sword, and another sheathed at the man's left thigh. A shield, looking old and worn and bearing no markings whatever. His dusty, stained tunic was plain undyed homespun with an unusually large neck. Its sleeves were short enough to show powerful arms.

A horseman coming alone, with seeming consummate confidence, from the northeast Aurvesh? A man of weapons. He kept his mount pacing easily, while his calm gaze remained on the two men before Fulcris. He never glanced at Fulcris at all.

An experienced man of weapons, Fulcris thought.

"Just interested," the quiet voice said equably. "No blow's been struck but his arm just started leaking. Got yourself a man with a recent wound, hmm. Two of you. You calling him opponent or quarry?"

Abder of the green tunic said, "Huh?"

Homespun said, "Listen, you-"

And then he had to back a couple of paces, because the big-dun colored horse paced right in between him and Fulcris. Fulcris was on the horse's left. The mounted man stared down at homespun. Abder tried to be unobtrusive about backing two more paces.

"Came here to ask a favor. You with the caravan?"

The two men exchanged a look, homespun having to turn a little because his companion had backed farther away. Homespun looked back up at the interfering newcomer.

"Naw. He is."

"Mind if I tock with him, then?" He had said "talk," but part of his accent was that the aw sound came out as short o.

Abder moved away from his companion. His arm hung straight down; the one with the sword in it. Homespun exchanged stares with the nosy newcomer a while, then glanced at Abder. He was surprised to see that the latter was several paces behind him and well to his right.

"Huh! Leaving me alone, huh, Ab?"

"Pardon us," the mounted man said, "while we lock." On Fulcris's side the newcomer's left hand moved in a little waving gesture.

When the dun horse began pacing forward again, between Fulcris and his accosters, Fulcris paced too. He noticed that the newcomer never so much as glanced at him. They took about twenty steps without anyone's saying a word. By that time, the other two were well behind them. The newcomer leaned back to swing a big-thighed leg over the pommel of his saddle, which was molded in the shape of a turtle's head. He dropped to the ground a foot from Fulcris. Surprisingly blue eyes looked into the very brown ones of the caravaner. They were about the same height. The traveler was bigger.

"You a caravan guard?"

"Aye. Those two-"

"Mean on strong drink. You took a wound a few days ago?"

"Aye. You just-"

"I could sure use some wotter, and your arm could use something."

Not much for talking, Fulcris thought, and nodded. "Right. Just over here."

"Uh. Wait here. Jaunt."

Fulcris assumed that was the name of the big man's horse. He tried not to talk as they walked toward his old tent of faded blue and dull yellow stripes, but just now that was impossible.

"I started with the caravan in Twand. Those two joined us in Aurvesh. Just a little trouble the first night, and me'n another guard had to forbid them anything stronger'n water. Caravan stopped here to break up; sort ourselves out. You know. They went right on into Sanctuary last night lookin' for what we kept from them. They obviously had some more this mom-ing."

"Urn."

Sure not a talker, Fulcris mused. "Oh-name's Fulcris."

"Strick."

Guess that's his name, Fulcris thought. And didn't this man speak quietly and in an unusually matter-of-fact voice, no matter what he was saying or talking about! "The arm's not bad, but it could've made a difference. Thanks, Strick. Here."

His gesture indicated the interior of his tent; the flap was open and fastened back.

Strick glanced back to see the two men, swords sheathed, heading toward the city's wall. He nodded. "Saw it all. Noticed the arm." Ducking his head, he entered.

"Uh-huh. You notice a lot, don't you."

"Only one of 'em was dangerous. I never glanced at the other. He cot that: contempt. When I called, you kept your eyes right on them. You know what you're doing, Fulcris. Might want to be careful, in Sanctuary."

"Cot" was "caught," Fulcris realized. "You too! They don't like either of us, now. Here you go." Fulcris started to pass Strick the cloth-wrapped water skin, then changed his mind. He decanted cool water into the tin cup he had carried for years. The cup showed it. "You didn't think I was a 'mean-lookin' criminal'?"

Strick shrugged. He drank, uttered the predictable "ahh," and drank some more. "I wanted to interrupt and that was something to say. Didn't want to come galloping and embarrass you. Let's see about that arm."

"It's all right."

"Wouldn't have started leaking if it was all right. Clotted now. Hmm." Strick had pushed up the other man's sleeve and bent a little closer to peer at the wound. "Spear cut. Not one of those two?"

"No. Little trouble just this side of Aurvesh, four days ago. Six idiots thought we looked attackable and played bandit. Two of them got away. One of the dead ones gave me this. It's all right."

"Looks all right. Give me some wine, though, so I can give you a sting."

After Strick had re-reopened the wound and treated it with wine-it stung-he rearranged and re-tied the bandage. "It will be fine in two days," he said with casual confidence. "Won't leave a scar, either."

More like another week, and there will be a scar, Fulcris mused, but certainly didn't say it. Instead: "Saying 'thanks' is getting to be a habit. What about putting some of that wine on the inside?"

"I wouldn't mind."

Fulcris filled the tin cup. Noticing that Strick asked no questions, he decided to emulate that, though naturally he wondered where the big fellow was from and why he'd come here. From how far, alone? He even managed not to volunteer his own business. After a couple of minutes he remembered: "Oh. You mentioned a favor."

Strick looked at him, lowering his cup. The lines around his eyes, Fulcris thought, put the big man up in his thirties. Maybe forty, depending upon how much of his life he'd spent traveling. Fulcris was thirty-eight, but years of escorting caravans had lined his face so much that he could pass for forty-nine or fifty.

"I'd like to leave my horse here, along with the shield and saddle-sword." His eyes gazed straight into Fulcris's and his moustache writhed in a smile it concealed. "Don't want to ride into a town looking like a dangerous man of weapons."

"Who rode here alone, from... someplace that gave you an accent I can't place."

Strick shrugged. "True. Will you name me a charge for keeping my horse for a few days?"

"You looking for work as a-for weapon work? There's a mere camp not too far from here, and another in the city."

"No, that's not what I want to do. You know a few things about this town."

"Just a few," Fulcris said, thinking that the man was not telling the truth but that he even lied well, in that same matter-of-fact way. "You leam things from people you pass on the road, and I listened, up in Aurvesh. This town's had a real mess in the past year or so. Fire, flood, a war among witches trying to take over and the Stepsons-mercenaries under someone named Tempus who has sort of taken over 'defense' and peace-keeping; and all the while the town's really been taken over by some odd invaders from oversea. The Empire's not as strong as it was."

"Ranke?"

"Right."

"So I heard. Odd invaders?" Even "odd" sounded odd; this man's short o was extremely short.

"Freaks, or half-humans, or something. Guess we'll find out. Listen, you know I'm not going to charge you to take care of your gear and horse for a few days. But here's a thought, unless you're in a hurry. A man and a couple of women are riding into town later, and they've already asked my caravan master if he'd give them an escort. He asked me. Sure; that trio's rich!" Fulcris flashed a smile and noticed that the other man only nodded. "Anyhow, if you care to rest here while I see to a few things I have to do, the five of us can ride in together. You'll be a lot less noticeable-people will take you for another from the caravan."

"Fulcris, well met and I thank you. I can waste some time knocking the dust off and leaving the shield and big sword- here?"

"Of course. Just consider the tent yours while I take care of business. Have some more of that, if you want."

"I don't."

I didn't think so. Fulcris thought, and left the tent.

He was surprised, a couple of hours later, at sight of his new friend. Fulcris had seen him an hour ago, putting his stripped pack-animal into the temporary enclosure the cara-vaners had set up.

Now Strick's tunic of drab, undyed homespun had given way to a considerably nicer one in medium blue wool. He had buckled on his sword again, an unremarkable weapon with a brass-ball pommel in a worn old sheath, but he had replaced his worn old belt with a newer one, black with a silvered buckle. Never mind the dagger. That was an everyday utensil no one saw as a weapon until one came at him. Strick's was plain of handle and pommel. Merely utilitarian; a working man's tool. The stained leather leggings were gone, replaced by snugly fitting cloth, dun-colored. What calves and thighs the man had! His light boots were medium brown, and well worn.

Aside from his bronze-red moustache and ruddy face, a quite drab man despite the handsome tunic of Croyite blue. He still wore that odd, napped skull-covering cap, too.

Jaunt stood nearby, saddled and bridled anew-with worn old leather that had been unremarkable even when new-and wearing a smaller version of the traveler's pack. Shield and the big sword were not in evidence.

"Left a few things inside," he said, so quietly and half apologetically.

"Good," Fulcris said, and introduced the wealthy man and the two women.

All three of them looked dressed for court. The not-unhandsome man in matching tunic and leggings of yellow-green silk wore a fine cloak of a blue so pale it was nearly white-not from age or wear. Strick was polite, greeting each woman with a little inclining of his head, speaking quietly as ever. The bosomy, steatopygous one in pink to the collarbones, along with garnets set in silver, was the wife of this Sanctuarite nobleman. Chest on her like a shelf for displaying fine glassware, Fulcris thought. The lean, dimply young blonde in blue, Fulcris saw, was interested in Strick. Despite both his and Strick's efforts to avoid it, she rode beside the big man with the bronze moustache as they walked their horses the sixth of a league or so to the city walls.

"Where are you from, Strick?" Her voice was girlish and her dimples glorious.

"North."

She shot him a look. "Oh. Do you intend to settle in Sanctuary?"

"Might."

After a few moments of silence, she tried again: "Will you, uh, go into business here, Strick?"

"I'm considering it."

Riding in front of them beside the wealthy Noble Shafra-lain of Sanctuary just back from a lengthy stay in Aurvesh, Fulcris smiled. The Noble Shafralain's doubtless noble wife was chattering away about what son of shape the house might be in. The lean young blonde had gone silent, doubtless wracking her brain for a way to get Strick to converse. Politeness forbade her pursuing any of the previous questions, since he apparently was not minded to volunteer any information on those subjects.

At last her voice piped again: "Do you know where you plan to stay, Strick?"

"I don't know, my lady. Perhaps-"

"Oh goodness, Strick, do call me Esaria!"

A glance to his left showed Fulcris how Noble Shafralain's well-molded face went grim in disapproval. From behind them the quiet voice spoke as if Strick had seen that expression: "Perhaps you could suggest an inn, my lady Esaria. It need not be the city's fanciest!"

"Oh. Father-would you recommend an inn to this traveler from afar?"

"My dear," the silken-cloaked man beside Fulcris said stiffly, "we do not know this foreigner's means. The prices of Sanctuary's inns vary as greatly as the quality of their food. The Golden Oasis, I should say, is our best."

"Oh darling, it's been so long-let's do take dinner there tonight!"

"A moment, Expimilia," Shafralain said, with mild impatience.

"I am from Firaqa to the northwest. Noble Sir, and hardly of your means. What are second- and third-best?"

Fulcris smiled.

"Could we do that, darling? I really don't relish opening the house just in time to have to eat there! Who knows what the servants have done with the place-and what shape the larder's in!"

Fulcris's smile broadened at Lady Expimilia's importun-ings.

Her husband continued to stare straight ahead, chin nobly high. Without turning so much as his head in replying to the man riding behind him where Shafralain doubtless thought he belonged, he named two other inns.

"A grateful foreigner's thanks," Strick said, with only the hint of stress on the third word.

"Are we going to sup at the Golden Oasis, Father?"

"For all we know," Shafralain said, this time with a slight turning of his head, "the Golden Oasis has been destroyed, or sadly damaged."

"I'd be glad to ride straight there and have a look," Esaria said. "I'd be perfectly safe, too; Strick would ride with me, wouldn't you, Strick?"

"That," her father said, "will not be possible."

They rode in silence, approaching the wall of Sanctuary. Abruptly the nobleman's noble wife turned partway around and spoke in a determinedly pleasant voice.

"Well, Strick of Firaqa, will you please escort me to the Golden Oasis? Yes, Esaria, you may come along. Aral," she said to her husband in a different voice, "we will be fine and will join you later at home."

The Noble Shafralain gave his wife a long, slow stare.

"My lady," Strick said softly, "I regret that I already have other plans."

"Oh-h!" Esaria said, in clear exasperation. Obviously Strick had chosen diplomacy and deference to her father over touching off family problems.

For the first time, Shafralain turned to give the foreigner a fleeting glance. It was not an unpleasant look.

"Firaqa," he said, turning back. "Firaqa... oh. That where the pearls come from?"

"Aye."

"Freshwater pearls," Expimilia exclaimed. "Of course! Firaqan Souls of the Oyster!" Abruptly she half-turned to look at the quiet man. "You didn't come here to sell any of those beauties, did you?"

Shafralain snorted. Strick made a chuckling noise. "Sorry, my lady."

They entered the city and within a few hundred feet were accosted by two young men. Each wore a cloth band of the same color around his upper arm and bore a crossbow in addition to sheathed sword.

"Welcome to Sanctuary! You will need a pass in this area, gentle travelers," one glibly told them. "We offer five armbands for two pieces of silver."

"A pass!" Shafralain snapped. "Likelier you'll be ridden down! Since when does the Noble Shafralain need to wear a dirty patch of cloth in order to move through his own city?"

The faces of their accosters underwent unpleasant changes. The one who had not spoken stepped back and showed that his crossbow was cocked. Passersby were carefully not-seeing the tense encounter. Most wore brassards matching those the two youths wore and offered for sale.

"Since quite awhile, Noble," the spokesman said. "Maybe you left town when things got nasty last year and're just coming back, hmm? See, citizen security is sort of divided up amidst serveral pertection groups, and we just can't gamtee yer safety here without but you're wearing onea these handsome armbands."

"Oh, I think they're quite pretty armbands really," Esaria said.

Her mother said, "If it's what people are wearing this season. .."

Shafralain, however, was Shafralain: "You threaten us, fellow?"

"Here is a piece of silver," a quiet voice said. "It should suffice. See that nothing happens to these people, whether they consent to wear your armbands or no. I will."

"So will I," the surprised Fulcris heard himself say, even as they heard the ring of silver off a thumbnail and saw the young man before him throw up a hand to catch Strick's coin.

He examined it. "Huh! Never seen onea these before. What's this on it, a fire? Whur's it from at?"

"Firaqa," Strick told him. "Way up northwest. Not part of Ranke's Empire. Mints its own coins, with the sign of the Flame. It will spend; it's silver."

Immediately after his last word came the sound of his clucking to his horse. Fulcris swallowed, but at once made the same sound in his cheek. That worked; the horses moved forward and the two accosters stepped back on either side. The speaker extended a number of armbands.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he told Strick, as the latter accepted the "passes."

"Fulcris," Strick said, and passed one to the caravaner. "Noble Shafralain?"

The nobleman would not turn or glance at the proffering hand. "I had far rather chop the arm off that arrogant snot than put one of his dirty rags on my arm!"

"Me too," Strick said, equably as ever. "But while we did that, the other would have flicked his trigger and sent a crossbow bolt into... one of us."

"Those boys?! Likelier he'd have missed!"

"Father-r..."

"Agreed," the quiet voice said from behind stiff-backed Shafralain, "and alone, Fulcris and I might have taken that chance. I'm very aware of being in the presence of a noble of this city-and of two women."

The only way out of that one was for Shafralain to take offense by pretending to have been accused of cowardice. Either he chose not to do or he didn't think of it. "Hmp," he muttered. "What has become of my city while I have been out of it?"

Coincidence or that goddess known as Lady Chance chose to let Strick and milady answer in chorus: "We had better find out," and she went on, "and be careful the while."

"Good advice, my Lord," a nervous Fulcris said. He was beginning to wonder how soon a caravan might be heading east and need a guard. Or north, or west either. Or even south, right into the sea.

Abruptly Shafralain's arms tightened. "Whoa," he said, and turned-with stiff dignity-in the saddle to look back at the big man beside his daughter. After studying him for a moment, the noble asked, "Can you use that sword, foreigner?"

"Name's Strick. From Firaqa."

The two men gazed at each other, each maintaining a practiced serene look from wide-open eyes that each had learned obtained this or that result. The moment stretched on, with four people watching the lean, thin-moustached face of Noble Shafralain with its high cheekbones and sculptured brows. Suddenly those features moved in a small smile.

"I was hoping you would answer my question. Can you use that sword, Strick of Firaqa?"

Stick shrugged and made a depreciatory gesture. "When I must."

"Until we know more about the situation in my city," Shafralain said, "we shall not be going to the Golden Oasis or anywhere else save our home. My family and I can not stoop to giving aught to scum who demand 'protection' money with crossbows. I would like to double what you gave that scum if you would ride with us, Strick ofFiraqa."

Strick nodded.

"Good, then. Let us-"

"Perhaps you could change a few of these Firaqi coins for me," Strick said, just as Shafralain started to turn back to face front. "Collector's items for you, and I attract less attention as a foreigner. If we exchanged ten for ten, I believe I'd owe you a difference; a few coppers."

Shafralain clicked in his cheek while jiggling his reins of shining red leather. His horse paced a few feet before being reined about so that its rider could face the man from Firaqa.

"Difference! A few coppers! I just heard astonishing honesty! Certainly you are not a banker! But... do you have ten silver coins, Strick?"

Strick nodded lazily.

"We will exchange ten for ten as soon as we reach my home, sir!"

"Your pardon. Noble, but-let's do it now. Just in case."

Shafralain cocked his head. "Just in case of what?"

Strick tapped the armband he had slipped on. Even below his elbow, it was snug. "Just in case your home is in another area of protection."

"Damn!"

"Agreed."

While Fulcris watched, more astonished than nervous now, the two men solemnly exchanged ten coins of silver, while sitting their mounts on a street in Sanctuary. At least they were as discreet as possible about what they were doing. In daylight, in the street. In the town called Thieves' World!

Shafralain turned to Fulcris. "Caravaner," he said, "thank you and good fortune."

Since that was an obvious dismissal, Fulcris touched a finger to his forehead, nodded, and started to rein away.

"Meet you at the Golden Oasis at noon tomorrow for a cup of something," the by now familiar voice said quietly, and Fulcris nodded and smiled as he rode on into a city suddenly sinister. Wearing a cloth brassard as "protection."

Strick was right about the city's "security" zones. By the time they reached the imposing mansion on its walled estate, they had collected another set of armbands and the noble owed more silver to the quiet man from Firaqa.

That was how it came about that on his first night in Sanctuary the foreigner dined with the Noble Shafralain and family in their fine big manse, waited upon by silent servants in beige and maroon. He did an amazingly superb job of telling little about himself and wandering around the outskirts of questions and answers, and he would not stay the night. Shafralain was glad of that, considering his marvelously dimpled daughter's fascination with this unusual and quite mysterious fellow.

Strick knew that. It was precisely why he declined the invitation and departed to walk alone through the darkness of that divided city.

Although Fulcris walked into the Golden Oasis before noon next day, he found Strick there before him. The reason was simple: Strick had spent the night here. He had risen relatively early to descend for breakfast. Since then he had done no talking, asked few questions, and done a lot of listening. Seated privily at a small, shining table in the well-kept main room, the two newcomers sipped watered wine and shared new-gained knowledge of a damned city.

The place was a mess. Too many people had grabbily tried to treat it as their own and, greedy for power and control, indiscriminately introduced too many random factors. Meanwhile supposed rulers, anointed and otherwise, took no firm stand and failed to exercise the control they were supposed to have and wield.

"Sanctuary," Fulcris said, "is ruled by King Chaos."

"Black magic," Strick said morosely, looking ill. "The bot-tomness of humanity's inhumanity."

Sanctuary had not even recovered from or grown accustomed to Rankan rule before the seaward invasion of the folk called Bey sins. Both men had by now seen examples of that strange womanish sea-race with the unblinking eyes equipped with nictitating membranes.

They merely turned up one day "in about a million boats," as a man had told Strick at breakfast, and after that it was essentially "Hello: Welcome to the Beysib Empire!" That turned the city on its ear-on its rear, as Fulcris put it. The Beysin gynecharch, the Beysa, moved herself right into the palace. No one in power did anything. About ten minutes later, out of the gutters crawled something called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary: a rabble organization of the unorganizable led by a feisty-swaggery street-lord-and-dolt. His avowed dedication was to throwing out the invaders and their (god-related?) lady boss with her twining snakes and bare jigglies, along with her people's ghastly habits with small, preposterously lethal serpents.

What he and his PFLS accomplished was a great deal of mischief and murder and discomfort among his fellow Ilsigs. The fish-folk nourished.

"Ilsigi," Strick corrected Fulcris. "It's plural and possessive both. No s."

Next came still another group, this one with the unlikely name of the Rankan 3rd Commando, whatever that meant. By then the staggering town was divided some four ways and none of the rival groups could claim to be in charge.

All did.

Meanwhile gods wrangled and rassled, people murdered each other indiscriminately, and consumption of alcoholic spirits increased dramatically. An apparently brutish fellow named Tempus and his herd of nomadic womanless warriors-for-hire stayed just long enough to make things worse for the people they despised as "Wrigglies." Then they decamped, to leave behind a vacuum that led to more struggling and more murder of guilty, guiltless, and innocent alike. Decent, normal citizens cowered about their daily business. As a matter of fact so did indecent and abnormal citizens. Daily business had come to mean a striving to continue living.

To what purpose, none could be sure.

Speaking of the abnormal and indecent, the next advent was of a vampire witch and a necromant-or maybe it was a necromant and a vampire witch; everyone was confused because it was all too much-along with acres of walking dead. The two witches juggled people and Balls of Power and did everything but dice for poor pitiful Thieves' World. The rule of females in Sanctuary became absolute. The founder-god seemed to have abdicated. Tale-tellers tried using female names for their characters, even when they were transparently male. That did not work; the storytellers bogged down and received fewer coins because reality was beyond their imaginative abilities.

Dead men wandered about and acted and a dead horse clop-clopped the streets of a city surely forsaken by all gods. Meanwhile intelligent natives, smart people such as Shafra-lain, got the hell out.

Fifteen or so minutes ago Fulcris had learned why the ruler -the youthful Rankan governor-wasn't ruling; he was busy playing house with the fish-eyed snake-lady with the naked turrets. Even his fellow Rankans sneered at this Kadakithis, calling him by a contemptuous nickname.

All right, so she wore her turrets partially covered these days. Because of the invasion of her striding dykish females, decolletage was very much in vogue. Sanctuarite breasts were bared just short of the nipples-while skirts were long and flounced and saddlebagged.

"I've no-tisssed," Strick said, and Fulcris chuckled.

"Me too. The skirts are stupid and ugly but I do love all the jiggle above!"

A demonic monoceros had run rampant, goring people and wrecking real estate.

"They have a low inn or dive called the Obscene Monoceros," Strick said, shaking his head.

Fulcris stared for a moment, then fell back laughing. "Vulgar Unicorn!" he corrected.

Strick shrugged. "Blackest magic," he muttered, staring into his cup. "This city is damned and abhorred by all gods, surely."

"Yet why do gods or people allow it," Fulcris said, and drank. "You heard about the dead (?) warrior-god-female, of course-some fool revived to terrorize streets and citizenry?"

Strick countered with the fact that another someone had broken into the palace, impossibly, and (impossibly) made off with the head snake-lady's wand or something, and she had done not a bloody thing about it. Incredible!

A nasty adolescent boy in a female body was going about in the garb of a Rankan arena-fighter, insulting and threatening everyone in sight, including the ones she whorishly lay with. Five well-trained soldier-bodyguards from Ranke were reduced to guarding cattle or goats or orchards, while a street tale-teller was in the palace, wearing silk robes. The Rankan highest priest was apparently giving more time to personal romance-despite his being married-than priesting.

And King Chaos waved his scepter over Sanctuary.

Street skirmishes erupted into street war. Blood flowed in the gutters and someone started a fire that burned a good bit of real estate-mostly the homes of the poor, of course. After that Sanctuary was assaulted by a few years' worth of rain, all in a few days. Every creek, river, and sewer decided to back up.

"Sorcery," Strick muttered. "Abhorrent black magic. Ashes and embers, what poor pitiful people in need of help!"

A burned town was washed off and hoisted off its foundations on swirling flood waters. Somewhere in there the high-civilization bisexual meres of Tempus had come back and barbarously massacred a band of men in "their" barracks. More innocents had of course perished in that private war. Meanwhile in Ranke someone did away with the emperor and the new one-up from field general, hurrah!-dropped over to Sanctuary to say hello. Apparently he did naught else.

Yet perhaps it was he who pushed it along: the war against the witches/vampires/Things had grown, and a whole fine estate-mansion had burned in a towering pillar of fire for days or maybe it was weeks. When the fire went out the place was still there but no one dared go near it.

"Still is," Fulcris said. "Furthermore, one of the witch-women-Things is still about, living peacefully just outside town, and none of these poor excuses for humanity is doing a bloody thing about it."

"Black magic," Strick muttered, staring into his cup. "All black magic, on and on. By the Flame, but these people need relief, help, an advocate! A little surcease from agony and blackness in their lives!"

While Fulcris was still blinking at that strange utterance, their attention was drawn to the door. It had opened to admit a good-sized fellow in a light tan tunic whose skin- and sleeve-hems were decorated with maroon bands, and with a maroon bar running over each shoulder and down his torse. His high buskins were dark red. He bore a sword and long dagger in maroon sheaths, and he looked competent. Just inside, he swept the common room with a bleak gaze. It lingered for a moment on Strick and Fulcris before passing on. He backed a pace, nodded to someone outside, and stepped in to stand to the door's left. Rather stiffly, in the manner of a sentry.

Through the doorway, all bright and summery in white and yellow, bustled a beaming Shafralaina Esaria. Smiling and dimpled, she came straight to the two men. Strick continued looking past her long enough to note the other man outside, also in her family's livery.

"Strick! Fulcris! Well met!"

"What a coincidence," Strick said drily, as both men rose.

"Don't be silly! I came here to see you! I'd have been here earlier, but first I had to convince father that I needed to shop, and then I had to wait while he gave detailed instructions to no less than two 'escorts' to accompany me. What's in those cups?"

She had a breathless, girlish way of talking that Strick could not despise. The tallish, lean girl with the pale hair was too fresh, too charming. Soon she was seated with them, also with a cup of water-weakened wine. Well met indeed, Strick soon learned, when he mentioned that he wanted information as to where he might "open a place of business." Flashing those bemazing dimples, Esaria was delightedly able to help. A cousin of her father's, it seemed, was a civil servant whose customs job had remained secure through the various administrations. That was partially because of his sideline: he remembered everything and conducted scrupulously private investigations.

An hour later Fulcris was on his way back to the remnant of the caravan and Esaria was introducing Strick to her second cousin. Then she took her leave to buy something or other to prove to her father that shopping had indeed been her goal.

"And what about the report those dangerous-looking bodyguards give him?" Strick asked, smiling a little.

"Oh, they tell him what I tell them to tell him. They do exactly as I tell them."

Strick thought this an opportune time to say, "I am not that sort of man, Esaria."

White teeth flashed and dimples sprang into bold evidence. "Can't I just see that, 0 Mysterious Foreigner!" And with a wave, she was gone.

Still smiling that close-mouthed smile of his, Strick turned to her Second Cousin Cusharlain.

"Second Cousin Esaria is ... taken with you, Strick."

"I know. That's why you just heard me warn her. I am being careful, Cusharlain, and not encouraging your noble and wealthy cousin's dotter, believe me. Now let me tell you a little about my plans, and the sort of information I need."

Confident that Cusharlain was working on his behalf, Strick wandered. Passing snatches of conversation informed a tourist who used his ears as well as his eyes.

Carrying a bag formed of a dirty sheet trailing dirty laundry, he studied the palace while Beysin guards studied him with little interest. He went on his way, and soon bought a third armband. When it would not fit around his upper arm, he was apologetic about returning it. The "protectors" chuckled after him as the foreigner, apparently chicken-hearted for all his size, went on his way. Having strolled to the very end of Governor's Walk, he had a look at Sanctuary's main temples. He noted destruction, and the busy work of reconstruction. No, he learned, there was no Temple of the Flame or any kind of fire in Sanctuary. About every other deity imaginable was represented here, though, including a little chapel to Theba.

The foreigner nodded. The death goddess was of no interest to Strick of Firaqa.

He took the Street of Goldsmiths down to the Path of Money, noting among the well-off citizenry more decollete dresses too busy below the waist. He found the moneyhandler Cusharlain had recommended.

They held a bit of converse, during which both men learned this and that of interest to each. Then, in private, Strick opened the dirty-sheet bag to reveal its other contents, carefully pressed together and snugly wrapped to prevent their clinking.

The banker was delighted to make the acquaintance of Torezalan Strick tiFiraqa and his foreign gold.

Strick left in possession of several documents and carrying the bag that now held only dirty laundry. Two doors down and across that showily clean street, he entered the establishment of the second moneyhandler Cusharlain had mentioned. While that individual might have been uninterested in a foreigner with so little taste as to carry his soiled clothing along the street called Money, he was experienced enough to know that eccentric people came to him with treasures in eccentric disguises. He acceded to a private interview and was rewarded.

From his underwear the foreigner in the strange skullcap took a small felt bag. It did not jingle, but it did contain two gleaming examples of the largesse of Firaqa's Pearl River. They were worth over twenty horses, or much gold.

Strick departed with several more documents, less weighty underclothing, and carrying the bag that now held only dirty laundry.

He stopped in at the Golden Oasis to get something done about the latter and to visit his horse. He left bearing a smaller, cleaner bag. It contained food and wine. Ever listening, he walked down the Processional to Wideway. Here he noted that most damage to the ever-important docks had been repaired. He saw workmen, fisherfolk and their boats, and Beysib ships. Ambling easily, keeping his face wide open and his eyes large, he observed, listened, asked carefully unpointed questions, and listened. He noted some flood damage, rather less decolletage among these working people, and some damage from fire.

Three workmen were astonished at the offer of the strange big man who spoke so quietly. Naturally they accepted: They joined him on a loading dock for a bite and a bit of wine. This time he learned the location of the dive called Sly's Place; two of these men knew of it. He was in the wrong section of the city, though close. He was advised to stay out of that area of town, and he thanked the adviser.

Only after he had meandered off on his way, leaving the rest of the wine, did they realize that they had learned little from him while he had learned much. No matter. What a fine nice fellow he was, with his funny accent!

Strick, meanwhile, was wandering some more, observing and listening.

"Well. Here's a new face! I'm Ouleh. Buy a girl a cup, good-lookin'?"

Strick looked up at the woman who materialized beside his comer table in this noisy place. She was a "girl" of thirty or so, wearing a canary yellow blouse scooped deeply to display a great deal of her head-sized breasts. Her long skirt was without flounces or adornment other than its positively manic striping.

He said, "At the bar."

"Hmm?" She cocked her head on one side and tried to look sweet.

"Go to the counter, tell Ahdio I'm buying you one, and to look this way. I will nod."

"Nice man! Be right back."

"No. I drink here, you there."

"Oh."

Without further comment aside from a shrug that imparted massive movement to her blouse, she jiggled back to the counter. Strick saw her point, saw the big mail coated man look at him. Strick held up one finger and nodded. So did the big man in the coat of linked chain. A moment later Ouleh was making expostulatory noises and gestures while Ahdio headed for the comer table, bearing a blue glazed mug. Strick heard the jing-jing of the armor as the other large man approached.

Is he the focus? Strick could not be sure. He read three separate spells in this place. Two involved Ahdio's assistants, the extra-homely woman and the young fellow with the limp. The other was in back, and seemed to have to do with an

animal.

Someone called, "Takin' that poor innocent stranger another mug o' cat-pee, Ahdio?"

"Nah," the dive's proprietor called back, turning his head that way. "Sweetboy Special is what's in your cup, Tervy. Newcomers get the good stuff." Arrived at Strick's table, he went on in a lower voice: "Ouleh said you said you'd buy her one and would nod to prove it. Overhung Ouleh's an old friend and this place's favorite blowze, but for all I know she told you to nod hello to me when I looked this way. Brought you one, though."

Strick decided to stand. Patrons stared. They seldom saw a man as big as Ahdiovizun, even one an inch or so shorter.

"She told it right. And she's to stay over there. I have a message for you." When the other man instantly shifted the mug to his left hand, Strick backed a pace. "Easy. I just came here from Firaqa. Name's Strick. Along the way I met a young man and woman. Boy and a girl, maybe. He asked me to tell you that the big red cat with them followed them-even out across the desert-and to swear that he did not take it."

Ahdio stared for a moment, then smiled. "You get the next one," he said, and drank half the contents of the cup in his left hand. "Dark fellow, hawkish nose, medium height and wiry? Wearing anything unusual?"

"Knives."

Ahdio laughed. "That's Hansey! Thanks, uh, Strick. I've been wondering about Notable. Hanse is the first person that cat ever took to. Be damned. Where was this?"

"Hey Ahdio, how about onea them sausages over here?"

Ahdio glanced that way. "Suck your finger, Harmy! This is an old war crony. Throde? Sausage for Harmocohl. Oh, and fill a cup for Ouleh before she stares a hole in my back."

"Up in Maidenhead Wood, other side of the desert," Strick told him. "A day or two this side of Firaqa. They were headed there."

"They were? You know, I've never even met anyone from up there. You just arrive, Strick? Moving to Sanctuary? Got a place to stay?"

"Aye."

Ahdio grinned. "All three. All right. I won't ask any more. Thanks again. You're not staying here in the Maze?"

"No."

"Thought not. The cat look all right?"

"Large and well-fed. Stared at me the whole time we locked."

"That's Notable!" Ahdio nodded, beaming. "Uh-Strick. Because you bought Ouleh one, Avenestra will be over here next. She's a mighty unhappy little girl, and taking too much mouth from too many of the boys here. You did Hanse and me a favor. Wish you'd do her one. They'd leave her alone when she's with a man as big as you-who is also an old war crony of mine," he added, with a new grin. "Maybe just talk with her a while, or just let her talk. She's all right. Mixed up pretty bad. A round for you both is on me."

"All right. Give her what she wants and suggest that she bring it over here with a mug of something weak for me. Ahdio: any men in here looking for work? Anybody you trust?"

Ahdio smiled. "That narrows the choices! What kind of work? Beg pardon, but you look like a weapon-man to me."

"No. Need a guard, when I open a shop. And a-oh, a lackey who knows Sanctuary and can look and act decent."

"I'll give it some thought and tell you later, Strick. Oh- and thanks, for all of it. The girl too, I mean."

Strick nodded.

Ahdio returned to the counter. Strick didn't see what he did, but a few moments later a girl-this one really was, an angular girl in her mid-teens-was moving toward his table. Her black singlet fitted her like a coat of paint above a violet skirt slit up both sides to her big black belt. Looked as if she had a waist measurement to match her age and a chest maybe eight inches larger. She bore two mugs. Someone said something she didn't like and someone else slapped her bottom and that quickly she turned to dump the contents of one of the mugs down his front. Men laughed, but not that one, and two big men converged on the trouble spot.

The man in the soaked tunic, on his feet with his hand raised to slap her less intimately but more painfully, glanced up to his left. Massive chest and scintillant mail, chin at a level with his eyebrows. Then up to his right. Big broad chest and arms in an undyed tunic big enough to fit him twice, and a chin on a level with his eyelashes. The butt-slapper sat down.

"When a girl wants her tail slapped, Saz, that's one thing. When you know she doesn't, that's another. You want to stay?"

Saz nodded. Ahdio nodded. "Throde! Saz needs one, and so does my old war crony oh no! Now Avvie, damn it, why'd you go and do that? You have two mugs-why'd you have to throw the qualis on him 'stead of the beer?"

That brought more laughter, while both Saz and Avenestra kept their heads down. Ahdio said something, and Strick did, and the girl went to sit with Ahdio's old war crony.

Conversation began slowly. He knew at once that Avenestra was unhappy and defensive. She kept darting curious/ suspicious looks at him from black eyes under jet brows that indicated her hair had help in being gold-blond. She glugged her qualis, set the cup down rather sharply, and stared at him. He signed for more. It came. He told her little and said none of the things a male might be expected to say to a female in her apparent profession. He asked questions and shrugged when she didn't answer or was evasive. He even said "Sorry; not prying," a couple of times, and he did not ask her age. He studied her, but looked away when she acted uncomfortable. He did leam that Avenestra was infatuated with Ahdio, and that the homely woman was his wife. Never mind his age; he'd been kind to Avenestra. She told Strick what qualis was and assured him he would like it; she offered him a taste. He shook his head and she knocked back the expensive wine. He signed for another round.

Avenestra put her gaunt-faced head on one side. "You trying to get me drunk?"

"No. You had your limit?"

"You rich?"

He shook his head. "Are you an orphan, Avenestra?"

Her eyes clouded. "How'd you know? Oh, Ahdio told you!"

"No. If I'd known I wouldn't have asked, believe me."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because you know you can and because I don't want a damned thing from you."

"Huh! That's a first."

He said nothing and neither did she. She drank and let him see that her cup was empty. He looked at the empty mug, looked at her, and signed for another. Again she put her head on one side and gave him that dark, dark suspicious look.

"You're hardly drinkin' anyth' but you keep or'erin' f'me. You sure you not tryina get me drunk?"

"Do you need help?"

Avenestra put her head down and wept for the next ten minutes.

Strick sat silently. He did not touch her. Ahdio's wife came, but Strick raised a finger to his lips. He gave her money. "Tell Ahdio to tell Cusharlain." She did not understand, but gave him his difference and went away. Good woman, spell or no, Strick thought, while Avenestra kept weeping. After another five or eight minutes she raised her head, looking horrible and pitiful. She watched him thrust a big hand down into the outsize neck of his tunic and come out with a white cloth. He handed it to her.

"Wha'm I sposed to do wi' this?"

"Wipe your eyes and face, and blow."

She sat staring, blinking, oozing kohl from her eyes. Then she wiped her face and eyes, and blew. She looked at the kerchief and shook her head.

"Avenestra: let's go."

"Wan' 'nother cup first."

"If you have another qualis you won't be able to go."

"So?" She made a feisty face and used a matching voice: "You said you didn't want anything from me."

"So you'll be here, drunk and unable to wock, and then what?"

She didn't have to translate his "wock" to "walk." She wept for ten more minutes. After that, they left. Ahdio watched. His fingers were crossed.

The Golden Lizard was hardly golden and hardly comparable to the Golden Oasis, but it was not a hole and aye, a room was available. No eyebrow was raised when Strick laid down coins for two days and three candles, and took a candle and a silent Avenestra, her legs almost functioning, upstairs. He was careful to secure the door and inspect the window. He turned to the girl slouching unprettily on the edge of the bed.

"Avenestra, I want you to give me something."

"Uh-huh. How you wan' it?"

"No, I mean an object. Something of yours. A coin. Anything."

"Huh! Think you're that good? You give me someth'."

He handed her a silver coin. "That's yours. I want nothing fork."

She stared at it, held it up closer, stared, and slid off the bed. Sitting on the floor, she wept for the next ten or so minutes. When at last she looked up, he bade her use his kerchief. She did. He repeated his request. She stared, head on one side. At last, wriggling loosely, she gave him her broad black belt.

"Thank you." He squatted and put his hands on her narrow and meatless shoulders. "You think fondly of Ahdio as an uncle. Since you have no reason to drink, you just stopped."

"You," she advised, "are so full of shit your blue eyes are turning brown."

Grinning helplessly, he whipped back the tired old spread and inspected the bed. He found nothing alive. He picked up the slumping girl with preposterous ease, and stretched her on the bed. He took off his weapons belt, thinking about the new armband he'd been forced to buy. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall. The candle he set to one side.

When Avenestra awoke five or so hours later, headachy as always, he was not in the room. The silver coin was. She was certain that she had done nothing for it. And she remembered what he had told her. Crazy, she thought, and was thinking fondly of that nice fatherly Ahdio when she slipped back into sleep.

Cusharlain arrived in the common room of the Golden Oasis shortly after noon and Esaria shortly after that. She was bright and summery and pretty in a long sky blue dress cut dazzlingly low. She was also babbly, and her cousin put a hand over her mouth.

"I have two good prospects as places of business and lodgings, Strick, and Ahdio suggested four names. A fifth he is not totally certain about. Said he had seven, but you specified decent and honest. You can interview them where and when you wish. Unh! Stop licking my palm, brat!"

"Let's go look," Strick said. "Stop giggling, Esaria, and you may come along with the big boys."

They went. Along the way Esaria told them how miserable her mother was because of the new bosom-displaying style.

"Beard of Us!" Cusharlain said. "With those melons? She should be pleased and proud to display all that bounty of the gods, much less half!"

"You don't understand. Second Cousin. Never tell her I told you, but mother has a large hairy mole rather high up on her left, uh, bounty. Right on top. That's why she has stayed covered to the collarbones, always. Now-either she reveals it, or everyone whose opinion she cherishes will sneer at her for being so ridiculously out of style."

Cusharlain laughed. Strick did not, and Esaria noticed. She took his arm and snugged it to her. Her bodyguard ambled along behind, aware that he was smaller than Strick.

By midaftemoon that quiet man with the accent had leased three rooms, two upstairs over the ground-floor one, and had optioned another. His shop and dwelling were on the street called Straight, between Chokeway and the Processional and thus not at all far from the Golden Oasis. By the following afternoon, with the help of Cusharlain and an eager Esaria, he had acquired most of the furnishings he needed.

He paid Cusharlain and returned Esaria's hug.

"I will visit Sly's tonight and observe the men Ahdio recommends," he told her cousin. "But as to Harmocohl: no, in advance."

"Surely I can be trusted by now, Strick. You have a carpet, drapes, some chairs and a desk, and beds. What sort of shop is this to be? What do you plan to do here?"

"Help people," Strick told him, and after a while Cusharlain went his way, having learned no more. Strick turned to Esaria.

"Esaria: you must get your mother here as soon as you can. I don't care how many bodyguards she brings. You've just got to get her here."

She looked at him. "It isn't going to do me any good to ask why, is it?"

"Not yet. Try."

"Try! I'll do it! Are you going to take me to that dreadful dive back in the Maze?"

"A bunny in the lions' lair! Never!"

"What about to bed? Are you ever going to take me to bed?"

He repeated his previous utterance.

No, Strick was told, Avenestra was not in the Golden Lizard. No, she had not drunk anything and she had not stayed the second night. But she had been in four times, asking after him. She had bidden the proprietor mention... Uncle Ahdio?

Strick smiled, paid for two more days/nights and made his thoughtful way back to the Golden 0. There he was confronted by a certain caravan guard. Solemnly Fulcris turned up the sword-arm sleeve of his tunic.

"The wound is fine," he said. "And by the very beard of Yaguixana, I'd wager there will be no scar, either!"

"Told you, Fulcris. I know a good wound when I see one. What are your plans for "

"It's not going to be that easy, my friend. What did you do? What have you done?"

"In addition to which," a new voice asked, "what are you, Strick?"

Strick looked at him, eyes large. "Hello, Ahdio."

"You might as well call me Uncle Ahdio. Avenestra does. And now I have a non drinker cluttering up my place!"

Strick didn't laugh. "You know what I am, Ahdio. Just understand this: It is what Sanctuary needs most. It's all white."

"All, Strick? Always?"

Strick met his eyes and put force into his gaze. "All, Ahdio, always. It's a vow-and don't question me that way again."

Ahdio returned the gaze, his head moving almost imperceptibly in the mere hint of a nod. "I believe you. I even apologize."

Strick smiled and squeezed his arm, while their exchanged look lengthened.

"Do... do I dare ask?" Fulcris asked nervously.

"Fulcris my friend, I will tell you. Not just now. I repeat, though: what are you going to do? Stay? Go? Find work here, or on the next caravan out?"

"I will tell you," Fulcris said with dignity, "but not just now." And he turned and walked away.

"That's interesting," Ahdio said. When Strick said nothing but only gave him a questioning look, he said, "He's the fifth man. The one I told Cusharlain I couldn't be sure about because he isn't a Sanctuarite and I don't know enough about him."

Strick smiled and looked at the door that had closed on Fulcris. "I do," he said, so quietly. "Proud fellow, isn't he!"

"Um. That's three of us. Strick-you said 'you know' when I asked what you are..."

Strick looked at him again, into the other big man's eyes. "Aye. Three spells in your place, none dark-though I can't be sure about the cat I've never seen. I doubted coincidence."

"You can ... see spells?!"

Strick nodded. "Usually. Often, anyhow. Not always. It's an ability."

"God-it's a talent! A marvelous talent!"

"No, Ahdio. An ability. I paid. I paid for all of it."

Ahdio met the gaze of those large blue eyes for quite some time before he said, "I won't ask, Strick."

"Good. I won't either. Tell Avenestra she has a room at the Lizard tonight and tomorrow night."

"I'll tell her. And I won't ask, Strick."

The man named Frax arrived clean and military-looking for his interview. He had been a palace guard. Then the Bey sins came. Now Beysibs guarded the palace. Frax had yet to find employment. Strick sat thinking about that for a while, chewing the inside of his lip. Suddenly he stared past Frax, his eyes going wide. He had not finished his "Look out!" when Frax had spun to face the door, crouching, poised. Each fist had grown a dagger. He saw nothing; no one and no menace.

"You're hired," Strick said, and Frax turned to find him still seated comfortably. "A partition will divide the room downstairs: an entry hall and your room. Your bed will be in it, and your belongings. You'll consider yourself on duty at all times, starting on the morrow. What payment did you receive, as palace guardsman?"

Still in partial shock, Frax told him.

"Hmp! The Prince is no less important than I am-yet. Same wage, Frax."

"You-that was a trick! You tested-"

Frax blinked down at the swordpoint at his chest. His new employer had stood and drawn and set it there as fast and smoothly as any man Frax had ever seen.

"You had to be almost as good as I am, Frax," he said in that equable way, eyes large and serene. "I won't be wearing a sword." And Strick swung the sword up and back, touched his shoulder with it, and sheathed without glancing down. "Do you know anything about a sort of over-age street urchin named Wintsenay?"

"Not much, Swordmaster. He's a-"

"You definitely are not to call me that, Frax! We'll-" He paused, listening, and smiled. "I have a guest, Frax. If I'm lucky, two guests. In the morning, Frax?"

Frax was nodding, working at finding a respectful title for his astonishing employer, when Esaria bubbled into the room.

"I eluded my 'escort' for once! Hurry, Strick," she said, and, triumphantly: "Mothahhh awaits your pleasure in the Golden O!"

Strick smiled. "Good. My guardian Frax will accompany you." He unbuckled his weapons belt and passed it to the other man. "Hand me one of your daggers, Frax; there's a good one in that sheath. Frax will escort you. Noble Shafra-laina, and will escort your mother back. This is my place of business."

"I will do anything for you. Lord Strick!"

"Do not call me lord and do not be silly, Avenestra. Your infatuation with Ahdio is ended and so is your nightly drunk-enness, that's all. You are right back where you were. An orphan of fifteen who hangs about a low tavern every night and survives by selling her body-for what little poor men can afford to pay! It's a rotten life and will only rot you. Besides, there is the trade, or reverse effect. The Price. What effect is your new craving for sweets going to have on the body you peddle?"

Avenestra looked at the floor and began leaking tears. "What-what else can I d do-o?"

"What would you like to do? Think, girl! For once, think!"

"B-b-be you-you-ourss!"

Strick slapped the desk cover, a huge piece of deep blue velvet trailing gold tassels on her side. "My dotter, you mean."

"Daughter? Uh-"

"Look at me and consider my age and forget the other, Avneh!"

She did look at him, from unkohled eyes all soft and misted with tears that traced glistening tracks down her gaunt cheeks. She bit her lip. She nodded.

"What-what does your daught-your dotter do?"

"Strangely enough, she is called niece rather than dotter, calls me Uncle Strick, and lives in the room across the corridor. I am helping to relocate the present tenant. My niece learns decent behavior and decent things to do, wears decent clothing, and will I hope become aide and receptionist."

"I-I-I don't even know what that means..."

"In the meanwhile, she markets for me and cooks for me."

"Oh, oh M-Mother Shipri-yes, yes, I will cook for you!"

Strick smiled. "My niece also stops watering this nice carpet with so many tears."

She smiled. "Oh my lor-Uncle Strick! How did you come by your ability?"

"The power of the Ring of Foogalooganooga, far west of Firaqa, Avenestra. Wints!"

The door opened and a thin man appeared. He was freshly barbered and shaven, wearing a nice new tunic of Croyite blue. "Sir?"

"Take my niece around to a few places and introduce her, Wints. You and she will be buying some food. At Kalen's, tell him she is to have a tunic from the same bolt as yours. White broidery at the neck and-umm. Length just above the knees. Avneh: it is not to be tight!"

"Y-ess, Uncle," she said, trying not to weep in her joy.

"All right then, be on your way-what's all that damned noise!" Then, "Easy, Wints. Don't be so fast to draw that dagger!" Strick strode to the door and stared at the stairwell. "Frax! What's all that n-oh. Noble Shafralain. Come in. My aide and my niece were just leaving. Wints: despite his stride and fiercely determined look, this man and I are friends."

He gestured. Wide of eye, Wintsenay and Avenestra departed while the silken tunicked nobleman strode into the room that Strick called his "shop." Shafralain paused to regard the other man, who was most unusually attired. Strick's calf length tunic of medium blue and oddly, unfashionably matching leggings made him seem less big and yet more imposing, in a different way. A matching skullcap, encompassing most of his head, had replaced the odd leathern cap of the same design.

"What are you, Strick? First I saw a big man with a sword and few words. Another caravan guard, I thought, probably looking for mercenary employment. Then I discovered you had character and consideration-and silver. In my home I was struck by your comportment-aye, and deportment: the manners of a man well born. Nonetheless I was nervous about my daughter's uh seeming fondness for you. Yet Cusharlain assured me that you were not encouraging her; strange way for a man to behave, with a highborn girl who shows him attention! Soon I learned from her that you had taken these rooms, in a good location, and purchased furniture. Next I discovered that you have real money; we share a banker, Strick. Ah, don't look that way! He is close-mouthed as he should be; it is just that I am one of his partners. Now my wife-gods of my fathers, Strick! What are you?"

"Sit down. Noble," Strick said, as he did so. "It's no secret, now: I am open for business. I recognize most spells, and I possess a smallish ability to redirect... problems. Call it an ability to cast minor spells. I also have rules. I help people, but by what most would call 'white magic' only. I will have nothing to do with the other kind, but would fight it."

"That is the most I have ever heard you say!" Shafralain had slid down into the comfortable chair across the handsomely draped desk from the quiet man. "Whence... whence came this ability?"

"From Ferrillan, far north of Firaqa. From a woman now dead. I am unbound by gods and locale, or by spells or anti-spells. Partners with my moneyhandler, eh?"

"Never mind that. The unsightly mole on my wife's... chest has been there for over ten years. Now it has vanished without a trace, because she came to see you. She is ecstatic -and she says you did not even touch her."

"Not quite true," Strick told him. "I did see the mole, and later I did put my hands on her shoulders. It was sufficient."

Shafralain shook his head. "Such power-and can you heal? Are you a physician mage, is that it?"

"Not really. Can't raise the dead and wouldn't strike dead an enemy of yours, not for all your fortune. Couldn't heal a dagger wound in your belly either, Shafralain."

Shafralain made a face at the image that brought to mind. "My lady wife is the happiest of women, and yet you took from her a single piece of silver. Now-"

"No. I asked for something of value, in advance, and a silver coin was what she my third client here-chose to give me. Another gave me water and wine; another a worthless belt. But it was of value to her, you see."

"Now my wife tells me I should give you a hundred more!"

"I have what I want of her and of you, Shafralain," Strick said, omitting the other man's title for the second time. "How many of high station has she told?" He smiled. "I hope she exaggerates the amount paid but not my ability! Because of her, others will come. I will have my hundred pieces of silver! But-is she totally happy? There is always another Price; a Trade. I paid mine. A person who was infatuated with one much older and driven to drunkenness now has a craving for sweets that will become trouble. Fulcris's wound healed swiftly without a scar. I had only a little to do with that, but he will have some small complaint by now. The reverse effect; the Price."

Shafralain stared. "Expimilia's tooth! You are telling me that the suddenly painful tooth my wife had to have drawn is an additional price she paid for your help?"

"Probably. It was not in front, I hope. Ah, good. Doesn't show? Good. Has she any other recent complaint?" When the other man shook his head, Strick shrugged. "The painful ab-cess was probably the Price, then. Not a terrible one. That is beyond my control. It might have been gentler, and it could have been worse. Still, some people prefer the original problem to the Price."

Shafralain sat studying him. "I am not sure I believe all you say, Strick. Easy to admit that I'd like to! White magic only, eh?"

Quietly and in an equable tone, staring, Strick said, "Snarl and sneer at street urchins. Noble Shafralain, but do not question me."

Shafralain stiffened and his knuckles paled as he gripped the arms of the comfortable chair Strick provided for his visitors. Strick's eyes never wavered from the nobleman's stare. At last Shafralain's hands and body loosened.

"Strick, my family existed in ancient Ilsig since before Ranke was. My family has been here since Us the All-seeing led my people out of the Queen's Mountains and here to Sanctuary. The city of the children of Us has been beset by blood lusting Rankans and weavers of the darkest spells. For a time it seemed that the All-father had turned our city over to His son, the Nameless One who is patron of shadows and thieves. For a time some of us thought we saw promise in the young prince whom the emperor-the murdered emperor, now- sent out from Ranke. He is no Ilsig, but damn it we thought he was a man. Now we have the sea people. New conquerors. And that same young prince, who has a Rankan wife, consorts openly with one of those... creatures."

He came to painful pause rather than a halt, but Strick said, "All this I know, Aral Shafralain t'llsig."

Shafralain nodded. "1 said that I want to believe you, Strick. White Magic is the Old way. We need it. Sanctuary needs hope." Abruptly he rose. "I was not questioning you, my touchy friend. I love Sanctuary and hope you do."

Strick rose. "My vow is long since made, Shafralain, and bound about. I am what I say. A minor weaver of spells; spells for good and that only."

"You said that you paid a price," Shafralain said, after gazing at him for a time. "I would dare ask what price you paid for your... abilities. A tooth?"

Strick shook his head. He reached up and brushed his hand over his skullcap, wiping it backward from his head. Shafralain stared at the other man's head, and at last he nodded. He extended his hand. Strick took it, and again their gazes met. Then Shafralain departed amid a rustle of silk. The big man carefully replaced his skullcap.

Noble Shafralain could guess at the rest of the Price Strick had paid for the ability, but probably would not. Strick didn't care.

His name was Gonfred and he was a goldsmith with a reputation for honesty. No shavings, no scrapings or drippings remained in his possession when he worked with the gold of others. He hiccoughed as he entered Strick's shop and again by the time he was seated and laying a silver coin on the desk's blue cloth.

"Is this of value to you, Gonfred?"

The goldsmith gazed at him, smiled shyly, and added another silver coin. And he hiccoughed.

"How long have you had the hiccups, Gonfred?"

"Six days. I work with my ha-uh!-hands. Can't work."

"I want you to sit back and take about three deep breaths. Hold the third as long as you possibly can. If you hiccup during that process, do it again. Avenestra!"

Sucking up great breaths, Gonfred saw the blue-tunicked young girl who appeared. "Sir!"

"Please fetch an ounce of Saracsaboona for this honest goldsmith, with two ounces of water."

She departed. Gonfred hiccoughed and started the deep breathing again. He succeeded in holding the third. Avenestra returned from the adjoining room. In both hands she bore a goblet of translucent green glass. It contained an ounce of ordinary wine, an ounce of water, and an ounce of saffron water for color. She set it before Strick. Taking it in both hands, he rose and came around to the seated goldsmith. Gonfred accepted it and looked questioning; he was still holding, barely.

"Let the breath out," he was told. "Drink, and try to do it in such a way that it all goes down at a gulp."

When Gonfred took the goblet, gasping, Strick put his hands on the seated man's shoulders. "Your hiccups are going, Gonfred..."

Hurriedly Gonfred knocked back the contents of the goblet. He gasped some more, watching the other man return to his chair behind the cloth-draped desk.

"Your hiccups are gone, Gonfred my friend. There is always a trade, a Price beyond this silver, over which I have no control. If it is unbearable, return."

Gonfred sat staring. His hiccoughs were gone. "Thank you, Spellmasier!" He was at the door when he turned, paced back to the desk, and retrieved both silver coins. In their place he laid down a plain, drilled disk of pure gold. Then he departed.

He entered carrying a sack. His name was Jakob and he was called Blind Jakob. Strick's face was sad as he watched Wints guide the fruit pedlar to the chair. Jakob's hand found the desk and he set the sack upon it.

"I am Strick, Jakob, and I have fear that I cannot help you."

"It-it is-you think it is permanent, sir?" The blind man looked stricken. "Ah gods. But it is so troublesome-so embarrassing."

Strick blinked. "Embarrassing?"

"The roiling inside is bad enough, but when I break wind in public, particularly when a woman is examining my fruits..."

Strick clamped both hands over his mouth to hold back all sound of laughter. The poor fellow was accustomed to his true affliction. But gas disturbed him; it was socially embarrassing! Strick rose and moved around the desk.

"I am coming to put my hands on you, Jakob. Give me something of value."

The blind man leaned a little forward to touch the sack. "Three people have insisted on buying those in the past hour, sir. They are the most valuable I have had in a long while."

Strick's hands were on him, now. He was relieved to feel no death here, and he knew at once that the offering was of value to this man. Then he felt the tension, and was sure that Jakob's gas was not dietary. He must be careful. This man did not live or work in a truly dangerous area. Yet relieve him of all tension and he might be left so complacent that he really would be in the danger that now he mostly imagined. Strick did what he could, to the extent he dared.

"Your gas is gone, Jakob my friend, save when you overindulge in food or drink. Radishes and cucumbers are your enemies, Jakob. Mind now, there is always a trade, a Price beyond this sack, and over that I have no control. If it is unbearable, return."

Jakob arose, made his request and heard it granted, and traced out the lines of the other man's face with his fingers. He departed with his sack, now empty. The two muskmelons were superb, indeed things of value.

"Bad breath, yes. Would you open your mouth and let me see the source, please?" Bent close to look, Strick was half overcome by the foul odor that was his client's complaint. He turned his head aside, took a deep breath, and looked closely into that mouth. He straightened. Shaking his head, he went to give Wints quiet instructions. Strick returned to stand over this friend of Shafralain, looked sternly down at him.

"Noble Volmas, you must have more love for both gods and self. The gods gave you those teeth. You have not cleaned them for years. Do so, man! In the meanwhile ah, thank you, Wintsenay. In the meanwhile. Noble, take this cup. Note the five seeds in its bottom. The cup also contains salt water. Aye, make a face-and drink! See that you swallow the seed. The Seeds of Malasaconooga are the source of my abilities."

Strick remained standing, sternly watching, while the poor fellow drank off the salt water. Finished, he made choking noises and a dreadful face. A stem Strick held out his hand for the cup. He peered within. A seed remained. He heaved a mighty sigh, sent it back to be filled with water, and gave the finely dressed man with the great belly even sterner instructions. The noble drank. The fifth seed went down.

"Now. That foul breath that has cost you friends and alienated your wife is not gone, but will go, steadily. I am only a maker of small white spells. Noble, and sometimes I must have help. Keep that cup. Use it. Clean your teeth twice daily, after you eat. Get in there with cloth and soap. Yes, it will taste terrible; you've been told there is a Price here, beyond those ten silver coins you claim to find dear. After you have cleaned, add a goodly measure of salt to that cup, fill with water-not-wine, and rinse. You heed not drink. Swirl it about in your mouth and spit, until all is gone. Remember all this! It is important. If in two weeks your breath is not improved fivehold, return to me."

After Volmas had left, Strick stood shaking his head. Charlatan, he told himself. Yet he had done good for everyone who had to come in contact with that stupid swine, to whom ten pieces of silver were as naught. That cup was one he had never liked, and he had known he'd find a use for some of the seeds from blind Jakob's melons!

"My dear, you are under a spell. I cannot see whose, and I am sorry. You need the aid of powers beyond mine. Go to Enas Yorl. Here now, take back your gold. I have not earned it. If he does not or will not help, return and we will try."

Smoke of the Flame, he thought in anger and true pain, watching her unhappy departure. Abhorrent black magic again. After two weeks here I have done so little for these poor pitiful people with their misery and their wicked sorcerers!

The lady of wealth was forty-eight and showing about one gray hair for every six black. The dyes she had tried made an ugly mess, deadening her hair. He considered her, her vanity, and her offer of three golden disks bearing a likeness of the new Emperor.

"It is a natural process. Lady Amaya. The problem is that presently it's streaky. If it grayed faster, or went white, you would be both beautiful and striking."

"Oh-oh my."

She went away and he waited an hour before sending her golden coins to her.

She returned next day. "Show me silver," she said, setting a largeish dinky bag of purple cloth on his desk, and he showed her. He also "cheated." She did look magnificent with silver hair, and he added a small spell so that she and her vanity agreed with the fact.

"Oh! Oh my!" she said, staring at the mirror, turning her head this way and that. "Oh, Spellweaver! You are a genius! My husband will love it and all the girls will-oh my. What shall I tell them?"

"That you have been dyeing it for two years or so, and are so happy to be over your vanity!"

Amaya laughed in delight. "A genius! They will be filled with both shame and envy!"

Within the next two weeks he had five requests for silver hair, although none of these others, of varying stations in life, gave him fifty pieces of silver. Not to mention the chain of gold Amaya's husband sent as "token of his pleasure."

"So. It's been a month, and you are staying busy. Tell me about your day," Esaria said, looking so bright and sunny across the little table from him. They were taking dinner in the Golden 0, while her guard and Frax sat across the room, visiting. He wore his odd blue "uniform," including the plain gold disk on a gold chain about his neck.

He spoke to the pepper pot with which he toyed. "I was asked for a love potion. She said she just knew he was fond of her but when he's up close he loses ardor, unto aloofness. I gave her what she needed. A vial of colored wotter with a bit of wine and camomile for aroma, and soap made green by simple herbal coloring. I bade her bathe daily and well, putting a bit of each into the bath wotter and drying thoroughly."

Esaria looked very skeptical indeed. "That's a love potion?!"

"It is what she needs. She stinks. If he doesn't respond to her better aroma, someone will; she's attractive. For that I earned two coppers. Stop laughing, brat. My business is help for the people. I had to turn away a clubfoot. I can do nothing about that-by the Flame, how I wish I could! A former client returned. Looked good: I had indeed removed his acne, but his Price took the form of diarrhea he could not bear. I removed the spell and returned his two coppers. So-he has acne and a settled stomach." Strick shrugged. "He's seventeen. The acne will go. Mine did."

"So has most of mine," she said. "But at this rate you could

starve!"

He shook his head. "Hardly. A certain friend of your mother's is very sensitive about her scraggly hair. I put a little spell on it and made her promise to wash it at least every other day. For that, she left fourteen silver Imperials-old Imperials. Said it is her magic number."

"Is it?"

He smiled. "No. Must be mine, though," and they chuckled together. "Too, a messenger arrived from Volmas. His message was a nice fat gold piece."

"Is that what happened to his foul breath! Ah, my hero!" Clasping her hands under her chin, she gazed at him. "What else. Hero of the People?"

"I spelled a wart off a finger. Ten coppers! Accepted a sack of decent wine for still another head of silver hair. I think it was more than she could afford, at age thirty. A woman asked me to cast a spell on her neighbor, who is after her husband. Third request for punitive spells this week. I refuse them all. The very next client asked me to make her more attractive to her husband. See the difference in the minds of the two individuals? I told her she would be, as soon as she gets him to come to me. The spell, you see, needs to be on him, so that he perceives her as more attractive!"

"How lovely! You might put one on a certain man for me," she said, tracing a finger idly along his forearm.

"If you were more attractive no one in Sanctuary could stand it," he said, and rushed on before she could say what he did not want to hear. "This is interesting. The man and the woman came together. Their neighbor's dog barks every night and disturbs their sleep and that of their infant. He said he wanted the dog dead and I told him no. He came back with almost a command: 'At least punish my neighbor! The swine sleeps right through that beast's noise!'" Strick sighed. "That was tempting!"

"I should think so! Sounds like justice to me," Esaria said.

"True. But it's beyond what I will do. When he settled down and she begged for any sort of relief, I promised that the dog would not bother their sleep again."

"Oh how wonderful, Strick!" She squeezed his arm. "You put a sleeping spell on them?-or one on their ears?"

"No! Never that; I couldn't make such a spell selective. They could perish in their sleep because they heard nothing. No, but if you'd like to take a little ride with me 'morrow afternoon, we will visit their neighbor's dog. Simple: I merely see to it that he makes no sound between late twilight and

dawn."

She laughed aloud. "How marvelous! And yes, I'd love to go!" She squeezed his arm at the elbow. After a few moments she sobered: "Oh. But suppose someone tried to break in at the home of the dog's owner? Won't you have done bad along with the good?" Now her leg had found his, under the

table.

"A dog that barks at night without real cause is of no value, and better off on a farm someplace. Besides, its owner sleeps right on, remember? Else he'd have got rid of the dog long ago. Or become its master as well as merely owner."

"Ah. I should have known better than to question you. Oh Strick you're so wise and so sensitive! You care so, about

people!"

Strick responded to compliments no better than most, and chose not to respond to that. "Do you know someone called

Chenaya?"

"Yes. Uh-not well. I am not interested in knowing her

well."

"Um. Neither is much of anyone else, apparently. Came in yesterday. First she challenged Frax and sneered at him, then made a sexual suggestion to Wints and then a nasty remark, said another nasty to Avneh and came swaggering in. Reminds me of an adolescent boy with a lot to prove. Challenged me -not to a passage at arms, I mean, just by remarks and attitude. A thoroughly poison personality. She had persuaded herself to come, but had trouble stating her problem. A very, very defensive... person. Demanded to know the source of my ability. I told her the emerald Eye of Agromoto and-"

"That's not what you told me!"

"No, but it's what I thought of yesterday; today I told a fellow it came from the Hoary Head of the Hawk of Horus. I asked this Chenaya for something of value and she slapped down a dagger. Nice sticker, with a jewel or two. She wondered aloud what's under my cap and I only stared, waiting. She kept hedging and meandering verbally. I made the signal for Wints to interrupt and tell me someone was waiting. 'Get out of here, lackey!' she snapped at him, and I quietly told her that I would give orders to my people, thanks, and never to hers. She glowered for a while, then looked away, mentioned needing privacy, and told me what she perceives as her problem."

Strick paused to shake his head. '"I'd like to-to do better with people,' she said. 'No one-I mean, some people don't uh er seem to uh like me.'"

Esaria made a nasty noise.

He went on: "At last she'd got it out, but she continued looking at the wall. Embarrassed and defensive. Ready to challenge, snap back, fight, argue. What a rotten job her parents did with her; how defensive and unhappy she is! I told her that I could help her, but that she would not like the solution -and only her gods could know what the Price might be! She looked at me, then, and I thought how sad it is that she has such genuinely pretty eyes."

He shook his head. " 'What would you do that would be so terrible?' she wanted to know, and I told her: Lock your tongue. Render you unable to speak. That and some real counseling."

Esaria giggled.

"Her glare got worse," he said, ignoring her. "She called me charlatan, snatched up the dagger, and stalked to the door. That didn't surprise me; it just saddened me. Then she surprised me: she turned back and made a sexual suggestion. I said no. Unfortunately she demanded a reason. I told her I did not find her sexually attractive. I don't, and stop looking that way. She seems bent on couching every male in the city-as if, Wints says, her creator mandated it. Not this one. I am more than disinterested: The idea is abhorrent."

"Glad to hear it," Esaria said. "Does that vow encompass all women?"

He shook his head and leaned back, smiling to cover discomfort. "No. Just Chenaya, girls such as Avneh, and the daughters of wealthy noblemen."

"Bigot!"

In his mind Strick identified his bankers as the Pearl One and the Gold One. Amaya was the wife of the Pearl One with the simple name: Renn. The Gold One was Melarshain- probably another ancient Ilsig and relative. After three months in Sanctuary, the quiet man had a considerable amount on deposit with each; far more than the pearls and gold that had established his credit here. It was Melarshain who asked him to come in this afternoon for a "discussion." Without asking questions, Strick went. First he changed clothes.

The floor on which he paced into the chamber was of rich tile, alternating a warm russet with a nicely contrasting pale cream yellow. Handsomely painted scenes decorated the walls; one centered around an intricately fitted mosaic. Entering with his lightweight beige cloak flapping at his ankles, Strick saw that the furnishings were designed simultaneously for show and for comfort-rich comfort.

He was surprised at the collection of men who awaited him, but did not show it. They showed their surprise that he did not wear the "Strick uniform" of unfashionably long tunic over unfashionably matching blue leggings. Today he boldly displayed large bare calves and big bare arms in the undyed tunic with the extra-short sleeves and extra-large opening at the neck. He had chosen to appear as colorless as he had been when he arrived in Sanctuary, three months agone. The cloak, however, was no inexpensive garment.

"So the moneyhandlers of Sanctuary are not enemies, hmm?" he asked, looking blandly at Renn. And at Volmas, and Shafralain, and another man he did not know, and then at Melarshain. "A moment, please." He turned back to the doorway. "Fulcris? It seems that I have not been invited here to be murdered after all. Come and take this, will you, and find some aide of Melarshain's to go down and tell Frax he can relax his guard."

While five men of wealth sat staring, an armed man Shafralain recognized came into the chamber. He wore a blue tunic with darker bands at hems and over both shoulders. Without so much as a glance at them, he accepted the weapons belt Strick unbuckled, and took it away.

Strick turned to face the seated men, who were staring and exchanging looks of surprise or worse. These five represented a fifth of the wealth of Sanctuary. Strick nodded to them, and sat. He gazed at Melarshain with a mildly questioning look and an expectant air.

"This is Noble Izamel, Strick."

"Hello, Noble Izamel. You probably know why you are here. Melarshain, I have come as asked. Tell me why."

Izamel, a quite old man around whose skull remained only a halo of white hair, chuckled. "I have been told considerable about you, but I had not realized how direct you would be, Spellmaster."

"I am in the company of wealthy men who can afford an afternoon off. I am a working man who can ill afford the luxury."

"You are hardly a poor man, sir."

"I did not say that I was poor. Noble. Since it is you who speaks and not my moneyholder Melarshain who invited me, I repeat to you: I have come as asked. Tell me why."

Melarshain glanced at Renn, but it was Shafralain who made an impatient gesture and rose. He paced as he spoke.

"We are men who love Sanctuary. We believe that you do. We have heard that you consider leaving."

Strick's face was open, his eyes large. He said nothing. He had started the rumor.

"You have done good in Sanctuary; for Sanctuary," Shafralain resumed, when it became obvious that Strick would not comment. "For four of us here directly, but what is more important, for the city. For the people. For us of Ilsig, for Ran kans-even the Beys. We wish you to remain, Strick."

"I am moving into the city from my villa, sir," Izamel said. "The villa is for sale. We wish you to purchase it."

"You... flatter and please me," Strick said, even more quietly than usual. "Too, I appreciate bluntness. Noble Izamel. Yet while I have prospered here, I am sure I cannot afford your villa."

At last Melarshain got himself together. "Strick, what you see here is a new cartel. We have discussed. The five of us love Sanctuary and welcome another who has only her good in mind. We propose to loan you the money to purchase the villa of Noble Izamel, at no interest, and to sell you as well an interest in the glass manufactory two of us own. You may specify the terms."

Strick looked about at them. The ancient aristocracy and wealth of ancient, long-dead Ilsig. Five men who genuinely cared. Cared. These were Ilsigi Wrigglies, to some who did not care. He saw five men with their arms outstretched to a foreigner who had come to act as advocate for the people- for their people.

"You seek to whelm me, and you succeed. In fact, you quite overwhelm me. I have not seen your villa, Izamel, but I accept. Yet we all know that I am nothing if I do not continue to see anyone and everyone who comes to me." He looked at Shafralain. "You know pan of the Price I paid, my friend. The other pan is that I Care. I must. I Care, unto agony. This is not always what I have been. There was a time when I cared about nothing save me. I was a swordman. Then I made a bargain, and I made the demanded trade, paid the Price." He paused, looked away from their eyes. "I may have been happier before.... But there is no going back. This is what I am. I accept your offer, provided you realize that I must maintain my shop in an accessible area, with my same people."

"We had thought that you would move the-the shop to the villa, Spellmaster." That was Renn, moneyhandler.

"No. I am not the toy of Sanctuary's aristocracy. I am all people's advocate." In a low, low voice he added, "I have to be."

Melarshain only glanced at the others. "Then we accept that, Spellmaster. The chances are excellent that we insist on, say, two more bodyguards. You employ them; we shall pay them."

"No. I pay my people well. They are loyal to me. I shall not have them loyal to you."

Shafralain said, "Still the mistrustful swordsman, Strick?"

"Who am I to dispute the judgment of Noble Shafralain?"

Volmas and Izamel laughed aloud, in chorus.

Strick rose. "The loan will be open-ended. I wish to pay interest; one-half the going rate for such men as you. Prepare the documents. Renn: I wish one of my pearls back. The other goes to Volmas as down payment. And gentlemen, gentlemen all: I wish to see the Prince."

Good then, Strick thought as he walked back to his shop. Now it's time to begin work toward my true purpose in Sanctuary.