Blood Ties

LOVERS WHO SLAY TOGETHER by Robin Wayne Bailey

Chenaya stretched in her bed as the morning sun centered itself in her east window. A mischievous little grin stole over her lips as she thought again about her encounter with Tempus Thales. Not so imaginative as Hanse Shadowspawn, not half so enchanting as Enas Yorl, and the poor madman had been disappointingly quick. If nothing else, she had added one more of Sanctuary's notables to her personal scorecard, and she was glad to have spotted him sneaking about in that gar- den, glad she had decided to intercept him.

It had, after all, been a boring party until he showed up.

Of course, he thought he'd raped her, and that only added to her amusement. The impish grin she wore blossomed into a truly wicked smile. What the poor fool didn't appreciate was the price he was going to pay for his brief pleasure.

She sat up languidly, threw back the thin coverlet, rose, and pulled on a sleeveless robe of pale blue silk. On a small, ornately carved table beside her bed lay a bronze comb. She picked it up, began idly to tease it through the thick mass of her blond curls as she crossed the room and sat on the window sill. The sun felt wonderfully warm on her flesh. It would be a scorching day.

She shut her eyes and leaned back. Her thoughts turned to the strange meeting in Ratfall. It was the first time she'd met or even seen Zip, the leader of the so -called Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary. She smiled at the irony of the name. Zip wasn't particularly popular with anybody right now, and if Sanctuary wanted liberation from anything it was from the bloody terrorist tactics of his night-running faction.

Somehow, in her imagination and from the stories she'd heard, she'd always thought of Zip as closer to her own age. Probably because everyone called him boy all the time. It had surprised her to see that the rebel was older by some years, She called up her memory of him again: dark-haired, with that cute sweatband above his eyes, pleasant to look at. He hadn't cared much for her, though. That had been clear enough in his eyes.

Tempus had made more than one amusing proposal to her in that garden. Both his Stepsons and the 3rd Commando were leaving Sanctuary, he'd told her. That would leave the city virtually defenseless unless someone seized control of the PFLS and used it to forge a unified force of all the other factions.

"Use your gift," he'd grunted in her ear as he fumbled with her skirts. "You can't be defeated. Be the one to take control."

Control, indeed. It was she who'd been in control even as he'd pushed her to the ground. She smiled at that. It was a morning for her to smile, it seemed.

Tempus had even tried to blackmail her into accepting his proposition. Apparently, he'd realized it was she and her gladiators who had attacked Theron's barge when the cursed usurper had unexpectedly come to Sanctuary. Unfortunately, the wily old crown-thief had possessed the foresight to dress some luckless fool in his raiments while he saw to business elsewhere. Her attack had been successful; she'd just aimed at the wrong man.

Still, there was merit to the Riddler's idea, and a plan had come to her in the night, like a dream, like the voice of Sa-vankala himself guiding her. She opened her eyes, glanced at the sun thoughtfully, and resumed her combing.

Things had not gone well between her and Kadakithis lately, and Chenaya knew she had caused the breach by returning her cousin's missing wife to Sanctuary. It hadn't been a charitable act, by any means; she'd done it to prevent a marriage between him and the Beysib Shupansea. Despite a Rankan law forbidding divorce among the royal family, Kadakithis clearly intended to announce his betrothal to the Beysa at summer's end.

Chenaya set the comb in her lap and leaned back. Unless she made some effort the breach might never heal. She couldn't bear to have her Little Prince angry with her, and she resolved to face the fact that she might even have to make peace with the fish-eyed bitch he wanted to marry.

Tempus, bless his inadequate little self, had handed her the means to do so. She stared upward at the sun and uttered a hasty prayer: Thank you. Bright Father, thank you for filling the world with such an abundance of fools.

She smiled yet again, rose, and began to dress. It was going to be a good day, full of events sure to entertain her.

The door to her quarters opened without so much as a knock to announce her visitor. The dark-haired beauty who strode toward her wore a sullen look and the garments of a Rankan gladiator. Sandalled heels clicked smartly on the un carpeted floor stones. She gave Chenaya a look of disapproval. Then, all the starch went out of the young woman; her shoulders sagged; she sighed, fell backward with great drama, and sprawled on the bed. "Up at the crack of dawn, you've told me a score of times, and out on the practice field ready to work." Another sigh rose from those pouty lips, and a delicate ivory finger pointed accusingly. "You're not ready, mistress." Her last words dripped with mockery and accusation.

"Daphne, your bad attitude can do nothing to spoil this day," Chenaya replied as she pulled on a scarlet fighting kilt and buckled on a broad leather belt that gleamed with gold studs.

"Since Daxus," Daphne whined, "you've given me no more throats."

Chenaya tied the straps of her sandals and lied patiently. "I've told you before. The only other names I could give you would all be Raggah. Daxus sold information about your caravan to that gods-cursed desert tribe. They're the ones who sold you to the pirates on Scavengers' Island. There was no conspiracy to dispose of you. It was just business as usual for the Raggahs."

It wasn't the truth. But those others in Sanctuary who had plotted to destroy Daphne's caravan were too important- given the threat posed by Theron-to let Daphne carve them. Despite Chenaya's promise, Daxus was the only throat Daphne was going to get.

"Right," Daphne snapped. "Business as usual. They just happened to land themselves a princess of Ranke-Kada-kithis's wife. Nothing personal. How stupid do you think I am?"

"I'm sure I haven't begun to plumb your depths." Chenaya lifted her sword from a wooden chest at the foot of her bed. "If you've got nothing better to do than bitch about life's un-faimess, then get up and head for the practice field. Leyn will instruct you today."

Daphne sat up, startled, angry. Then, her face recomposed itself into a familiar frown. "Leyn?" she cried. "Where's Dayme? He's supposed to be my trainer."

"He left on a mission last night," Chenaya told her newest student. "He's attending to some business for me that will take him to various parts of the Empire. While he's gone, Leyn will be your trainer." She pointed a finger at Daphne. "And no complaints. You've whined enough this morning. Even the least of my men has plenty to teach you. Now, on your way, Princess." She put special emphasis on the title, a not-so-subtle reminder that Daphne's rank counted for nothing while she wore fighting garb.

Daphne rose with deliberate slowness, giving a haughty toss of her waist-length black hair. "As the mistress commands," she answered with false meekness as she moved toward the door. But before she passed through and out of sight she added, just loud enough for Chenaya to hear, "bitch."

It was one more cause for Chenaya to smile. After all, she didn't train automatons-she trained gladiators. And fighters without some spit in their souls would never be worth a damn. She'd kept a close eye on Daphne; for a princess she was coming along just fine.

Chenaya headed for the practice field, but before she got much farther than her door she bumped into her father. "Ummm, pardon me," she said, leaning one hand on the door he had just closed. "Isn't this Aunt Rosanda's room?" She batted her eyelashes in mock innocence, knowing how such an expression usually irritated him.

But this time Lowan Vigeles imitated her, batting his own eyelashes. "I knew all those expensive tutors were a fine investment." He tapped her on the forehead with a fingertip. "I brought your aunt a breakfast tray. Nothing more lascivious than that."

She just stood there, looking up at him, grinning, batting her lashes.

Lowan drew a deep, patient breath, his usual silent invocation to the god of parenthood, and pushed open the door. Lady Rosanda flashed them a startled look of embarrassment from her bed as a strip of cold meat fell from her lip to the tray on her lap. She chewed hurriedly, hiding her busy mouth with one hand.

Lowan pulled the door closed once more and regarded his daughter with the look of an unjustly wronged man.

Chenaya brushed at her hair with one hand and refused to look repentant. "What a selfish bastard you are. Father," she accused. "Too saintly to offer what we both know you've got? Have pity! The only man she's seen in years is Uncle Molin." Chenaya faked a shiver.

Lowan Vigeles took her by the arm and led her from Ro-sanda's door and down a broad staircase to the floor below. "I saw Dayme off," he said, changing the subject. "He bears a writ from me that should speed our cause. Later today, I'll hire artisans to start the barracks and outbuildings. I'll set Dismas and Gestus to constructing the training machines."

"Not those two," she contradicted. "I'll need them myself today. Have Ouijen see to it, and Leyn when he has time. But there's no rush. It'll be a few weeks at least before anyone arrives. Assuming any will answer the summons."

Lowan shook his head as they left the manse and stepped out into the rear garden where nearly a score of falcons were elaborately caged. "That's not an assumption. Daughter. My school in Ranke produced most of the finest auctorati ever to fight in the games. They will come when I call. And Dayrne carries enough money to purchase any other fighters he deems worthy."

She nodded. She would miss Dayme's presence at her side, but when it came to choosing trainees and fighters there wasn't a better judge of manflesh. And except for herself or Lowan there was no other she would trust with such a mission.

"I have to get to the field. Father," she said suddenly. She raised on tiptoe and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "Then, I'll be gone most of the day. Don't worry if I'm not back tonight."

Lowan batted his lashes, turning her own coy expression against her.

She punched him playfully in the ribs. "Nothing so lascivious," she said, adopting his line. "This is business." Then, she looked thoughtful and amended her remark. "Well, some of it's business. Some of it will be pure pleasure." She reached up and scratched his chin; "That mare of yours, is she still hot?"

Lowan Vigeles eyed her suspiciously. "Changing the subject? Don't want to talk about tonight's boyfriend?" He sighed. "Yes, the mare's still hot. I've taken pains to keep her away from any boyfriends. It spoils them for riding when they swell."

She said no more to her father. He'd forgive her, after a few days, when he found out what she'd done. Tempus, on the other hand .. .But who cared about him? She grinned, relishing the delightful mood she felt today. Had she said pure pleasure? She chuckled aloud.

Lowan looked at her strangely. She patted his hand, winked, and headed for the practice area where Daphne and eleven of the best gladiators ever to set foot in the arena were already hard at work and sweaty.

The sun was nearing its zenith when Chenaya called a halt to the workout. She sent Daphne, Leyn, and the others back to the manse, but called Dismas and Gestus to her side. The two were a team, almost never apart. Lovers, they even resembled each other with their sandy hair, close-cropped beards, and exaggerated musculature.

"Interested in a little game, friends?"

The two looked at each other, then at her, and said nothing. They had a good idea what she meant. They'd helped her with other little games before.

"Nobody can sneak around like you two," she continued. In fact, they'd been the shiftiest pair of thieves and burglars in Ranke before they were finally caught and sentenced to Lowan's school for arena training. "And very few are faster on their feet."

Dismas folded his arms, repressing a grin. "Save the grease, mistress," he said in clipped Rankene. "It's too hot to stand here and exchange flatteries, even true ones."

Chenaya sidled up to Dismas and rubbed her body against his. "Aren't you taking good care of him these days?" she said teasingly to Gestus. With a knuckle she tapped the leather groin guard under Dismas's kilt. "He's so grumpy today."

"N'um faults," Gestus answered with a shrug. That was the odd thing about this pair. So alike in everything else, Gestus had never mastered Rankene. Dismas, on the other hand, spoke it like a court noble.

She stepped back again and turned serious. "There's someone I want you to watch for me, and something I want you to do. You'll have a fat purse of coins to spend. If your quarry goes to a tavern, so do you. If he goes to a brothel..." She hesitated, scratched her temple. "Well, you'll think of something." Gestus folded his arms, too, and grinned. Clearly, she'd caught their interests. "Just make sure you don't attract notice." She flipped a finger against their studded belts. "Wear something less identifiable."

Dismas unfolded his arms, so Gestus did, too. "The name of our fox?" he said conspiratorially.

"No fox," she cautioned. "A deadly mountain cat. Mind you, don't cross him. Just keep an eye on him and inform me of his movements." She beckoned them closer, and they bent to hear. She made a show of glancing in all directions, then put a finger to her lips. "Now here's the fun part. Before sundown I want one of you back here with half a brick of krrf."

That raised eyebrows.

As she'd predicted, the day turned scorching, too hot for her usual fighting leathers. Yet she'd wanted to make sure she attracted attention, so she'd donned trousers and blouse of shining black, loose-fitting silk and spit-polished boots that rose almost to her knee, not quite high enough to conceal the hilts of the daggers stuck in each one. Over one shoulder she wore a leather strap to which a number of Bandaran throwing stars were attached; a simple twist easily freed them from their stud mountings. On her right hip she wore one more weapon -a gladius whose golden tang was fashioned to resemble the wings of a bird. Lastly, because she'd seen Zip do it, she'd tied a sweatband of clean white linen above her eyes.

Every gaze turned her way as she strode brazenly across Caravan Square on her way to Downwind. She smiled and winked at the gawkers, sometimes lightly brushing the hilt of her sword. Only a few had balls enough to smile back; most glanced quickly in some other direction and passed on.

As she approached the bridge that crossed the White Foal River a gaggle of grubby street urchins surrounded her. She smiled at their play, dipped a hand into the purse on her belt, and tossed a fistful of coins over her shoulder. The children lost interest in her and began scuffling for the glinting bits of metal. She laughed heartily, started past the deserted guard-post and across the bridge.

As she set foot in Downwind two men appeared to block her path. "Mebbe y'ud be s'free wi' the rest o' yer spark," croaked the one on her left. The point of his sword indicated her purse.

"An' wit' yer other charms, too," his partner suggested.

A disdainful smirk flickered over Chenaya's features as she heard two more slide up behind her, heard the soft susurrus of steel slipping from sheathes. They wore no armbands, so they weren't part of Zip's group. From the rags they wore she guessed they followed Moruth.

That suited her fine. Moruth-the beggar king-was one of the faction leaders that had dared to oppose the PFLS. Well, she hadn't come to Downwind to win Moruth's favor. Unfortunately for His Beggar-Majesty, she had come to win Zip's.

She didn't bother turning to see the two behind her. They gave away their positions by their breathing and by their constant foot-shuffling. "You'll make perfect offerings," she informed them gruffly. "I'll pour your blood as a libation to the leader of the PFLS."

The man who had spoken first tuned pale, but he held his ground, tapping his blade against his palm. "You part o' Zip's group?" he asked suspiciously. "You got no band on yer sleeve,"

"Spoils the silk," she answered. She waited a brief moment, daring them with her haughty gaze to make their move or to scatter from her path. The man on her left stopped his incessant sword tapping; the one beside him chewed his lip. Yet they were unwilling to back away from her, a mere woman.

"She mus' think she's purty good wit' that sticker," said one of the men behind her.

Chenaya had no more time to waste. "Watch carefully," she advised with impatience. "I don't often give lessons to scum."

Her hand was almost a blur. Bright steel flashed through the air. A soft thunk; a groan of surprise and fear sounded as a throwing star embedded in the first man's throat. His sword tumbled into the dirt, followed instantly by his lifeless body.

Even before the star scored, Chenaya had her sword free. She ran screaming at the man on her right. In stark terror he raised his sword to protect his head. Her blade crashed down twice against his, then arced down and across, opening his belly. On the backswing she knocked the sword from his grip, severing several fingers.

There was no time to watch him fall. She whirled, settled in a deep forward stance to meet the remaining two. But these were beggars, not seasoned warriors. Still, they knew the better part of valor. She watched their departing backs as they ran for shelter beneath the bridge. Laughing, she hurled a second star with all her arena-trained skill. A scream ripped from one of the fleeing beggars; he tumbled headlong through the weeds, down the bank, and into the river. Sputtering, screaming, clutching at the four-pointed agony behind his knee, he dragged himself onto the bank and scrambled after his comrade.

She laughed again, a bitter and challenging sound that rattled in her throat, and she glanced around in time to spy the street urchins who had gathered at the far end of the span to watch. They melted away like shadows in the sun. On the Downwind side, too, figures faded into alleys and doorways, unwilling witnesses. Chenaya bent and wiped her blade on a dead man's garments, retrieved the first star, and cleaned it, too.

She had no doubt that Zip would hear of this. She wanted him to hear. It was why she had come to this stink-hole side of town. Sheathing her sword, she walked on, giving no further thought to the bodies in her wake.

Come to me, Zip, she willed, come to me.

There were taverns in Downwind, or places that professed to be taverns. Only Mama Becho's, though, could legitimately claim to be such. Even so, there were lifelong drunks in Sanctuary who wouldn't deign to spit on its threshold, let alone consume its questionable product.

Chenaya stepped through the low, doorless entrance, her vision swiftly adjusting to the dim light. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to examine her. Quite a different crowd from the one that frequented the Unicorn. There the faces were full of menace or scheming or general disinterest. The eyes at Mama Becho's reflected only desperation and despair.

It was like no place she had ever seen before, and she thought of the men who had met her at the bridge, men like these, men with the same desperate eyes. They had wanted her gold and had gone down for it. She saw in Mama Becho's men who would have done the same and welcomed the death she gave. And why not? For such as these, life had little to offer, little to hold them.

She thought of the bridge again, of men who poured their blood into the dirty street for a handful of spark, and for one moment, Chenaya hated what she had done.

Fortunately, the moment passed. She reminded herself she had come to this cesspool on business.

"You want somethin', honey, or you jus' come to see the sights?" A mountainous woman in a tattered smock leaned one elbow on the board that served as a bar and leered at her. She wiped at the interior of an earthen mug with a grimy rag that hadn't seen a rinsing in weeks. Wisps of grizzled hair floated about her thick jowled face as she worked.

"Uptown bitch," someone muttered into his cup. Pairs of eyes began slowly to turn back to their drinks, to the private fantasy worlds found only in foul brews.

"Honey," Chenaya said smiling to Mama Becho, "I want a couple of things. First, a cup of some decent beverage, Vuksi-bah if you've got it in this dump." The eyes all turned her way again, whether at her mention of the expensive liquor or because of the insult, she didn't know or care. "A respectable wine or cool water if you don't." She leaned on the board facing the fat proprietor and felt it sag under their combined weights. The old woman's breath was worse than fetid, but Chenaya managed to force a grin. "Then I want Zip."

That got their attention. She reached into her purse, drew out another handful of coins. Not bothering to look at them or judge their value, she threw them over her shoulder, all but one which she placed on the board. It was a gleaming soldat.

"I'm betting somebody here knows how to contact him," she said, still addressing Mama Becho, well aware that everyone could hear. "And when he walks through that door I'll scatter another fistful of coins."

"An' what if we jus' take yer spark, lady?" said a lean, twisted man who squatted in a gloomy comer against the wall. He fingered one of the silver pieces that had fallen his way.

"Shet up yer mouth, Haggit," Mama Becho snapped. "Can'tcha see we got us a fine noblewoman here? Mind yer manners!"

Chenaya cast the soldat to the one called Haggit; he caught it with a deft motion. "I give my gold where and when I see fit. Two who tried to take it are still cooling at the foot of the bridge." She gave him a hard, penetrating look. "Now, I want to see Zip, and I'll pay fairly to find him. Play me any other way, Haggit-" Chenaya winked at him and nodded her head "-and you'll do all the paying."

Haggit glared at her for a long moment, bit into the soldat with his front tooth, then rose and went out. One by one all the other customers drifted out, too. Not one of Chenaya's coins remained on the floor.

"Now ye've scared away my business," Mama Becho complained. She still scoured the same mug with the same filthy rag. "Might as well get comfy, honey." She waved at the cloth-covered furniture that served in place of stools and tables. "No tellin' when Zip'11 turn up. Thet boy comes an' goes as he pleases."

Chenaya remained where she was as the old woman disappeared to fetch her wine. She took a deep breath and let it out. Zip would turn up, she had no doubt. She'd spread enough wealth to insure that; she'd killed his enemies, too. He'd come all right, if only out of curiosity.

She took another deep breath and held it. What was that odor? She glanced at the doorway Mama Becho had gone through. An old, worn blanket hung across it; a thin, tenuous smoke wafted around the edges.

Krrf smoke.

She wet her lips slyly and wondered how Gestus and Dismas were faring.

Two bitter cups of wine and one cup of water later, the man she had come to find mercifully walked in, leaving, by the sound of things, a couple of his cronies standing guard in the alleyway. Mama Becho made a discreet nod of greeting and headed for the back room.

"Don't bother listening through the curtain or one of the cracks in the wall. Mama," Zip called and waved his hand to draw her back. "Up here-where I can keep an eye on you, too." Mama Becho put on a look of wounded innocence and reached for another mug to polish.

Zip walked calmly up to Chenaya; his gaze ran unabashedly up and down her body.

"There's a lot more swagger in your step than when we met in Ratfall," she commented wryly.

His gaze met hers with unconcealed arrogance. "You've got a lot less muscle with you this time," he answered bluntly. "What do you want, Chenaya? Did Tempus send you?"

She laughed. Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, drifted down over his chest, then resumed its place at her belt. Hard, lean muscle beneath his clothing, she'd discovered, no fat. "Tempus Thales isn't quite the puppeteer he thinks himself."

Zip leaned on the board, close to her, giving her a long look. "I wouldn't tell him that-not me."

He had a nice face, she realized. Young and rugged, crowned by a mop of dark hair. Sweat-tracks lined his brow and cheeks, and there were circles of dirt around his neck where the flesh showed above his rough-woven tunic. He smelled, but it was a man's musky odor, not the stench of Downwind. She stared brazenly into his eyes and chuckled.

"Oh, I've taken his measure," she said, "and he comes up short."

"He hears the voice of the Storm God," Zip cautioned with an enigmatic, taut, little smile.

"He hears voices, all right." She caught a piece of his tunic and pulled his face close to hers. In conspiratorial tones she whispered, loud enough still for any to hear, "But the Storm God?" She shrugged meaningfully. "Between you and me and these others, I suspect he's just a crazy, common madman. He uses the so called voices to excuse his perversions and aberrations. After all, he can't be blamed-and needn't take responsibility for his actions-if divine voices compel him. He's only a poor avatar."

Chenaya didn't actually believe it; she had little doubt of the veracity of Tempus's relationship with the Storm Gods. Her own experiences with Savankala were proof enough that such god/mortal alliances evolved. Still, it was a delicious rumor to start.

Zip picked up the mug of beer Mama Becho had placed at his elbow. He took a long drink, regarding Chenaya over the rim. He set the vessel down between them. "You threw away a lot of money to find me, woman," he said finally. "Why? Not just to gossip about the Riddler."

She gave him her look of mock-innocence, picked up his mug, and drained the contents. "But I did want to talk about Tempus," she replied. "At least about a proposal Tempus suggested to me."

She crooked a finger, beckoning him close again. "Your Riddler wants me to seize control of your PFLS. He thinks I can shape it into an adequate defense force to replace his Stepsons and the 3rd Commando when he leads them out of Sanctuary."

A hint of red colored Zip's cheeks. He straightened, took a step away from her. "You play dangerous games, Rankan." His eyes glinted. "So you'll just take over? You think it's that easy?" He chuckled at her.

She threw a fist at his face. Zip raised an arm to block it. But her move was only a feint. Chenaya caught his rising arm at the elbow, tugged, and kicked his foot when he tried to catch his balance. Zip fell heavily, stunned. She straddled him, sat on his chest, and brought one of her boot daggers to rest at his throat.

Then, she smiled at Zip, and suddenly her lips crushed down on his. There was power in her kiss; it didn't surprise her at all when he began to return it. She sat up, wiped her mouth, grinning.

"Just that easy. Zip, my love," she told him. "And Tempus knows it. That's why he approached me." She tangled her hand through his hair and kissed him again.

When she sat up, the point of her blade flashed downward to bite deeply into the boards near Zip's ear. She left it quivering there while she loosened the laces at the neck of his dirty tunic. "But I'm not interested in running your little social club," she whispered, "and what Tempus wants is unimportant." She dragged her nails teasingly over the exposed portion of his chest. "However, I have some proposals of my own. Would you like to hear them?"

His eyes reflected so much: uncertainty, defiance, curiosity, lust-all half hidden behind a facade of nonchalance. Zip drew a breath. "Get the frog off of me." The knife was still there by his ear. He could have gone for it-his eyes slid that way-but he didn't.

She patted his cheek. "Soon, lover, when we have an agreement. But right now. Mama Becho is going to bring us a couple more drinks, right. Mama?"

The old proprietor said nothing, but waddled over with two mugs of bad wine. It was too far for her to bend over and place them on the floor, so Chenaya reached up to accept them. Mama Becho grumbled incoherently and backed away.

"I'm supposed to drink from here?" Zip asked caustically.

Chenaya moved one of the mugs near to his head, dipped a finger in it, and held it to his lips. After a moment's hesitation, Zip's tongue poked out and licked away the red droplets, their gazes remaining locked all the while.

"I know the funds from your Nisi supporters have dried up lately." Chenaya dipped her finger again and held it for him to suck. "The PFLS needs money, like any group, and I've got plenty of that. We've also got mutual enemies, so it's only natural that we should join our efforts." She paused long enough to swallow a draught from her own cup. "You want to free Sanctuary from the Rankans and Beysibs." She tapped his chest. "I want to drive out the Beysibs, too. But it looks like I've got to get rid of a Rankan to do that."

One of Zip's men slipped through the door and made a move toward his leader. A throwing star flashed briefly through a random sunbeam that spilled through a crack in the ceiling and thunked into the wall. The man leaped back. Chenaya clucked her tongue and wagged her finger, and he leaned uncomfortably against the doorjamb.

"Kadakithis?" Zip guessed. "But isn't he your cousin?"

She spat. "He's going to marry that fish-eyed slut, Shupan-sea, in defiance of Rankan law. Bad enough that he allowed them to land here without a fight. Bad enough that he beds the silly carp. But to marry one? To make her part of the royal family, a princess of Ranke?" She spat again. "Blood is only so thick, lover."

"I'd 'preciate it if ye'd stop that," Mama Becho snapped. "Someone's gotter mop up when yer gone now."

Zip shifted beneath her, locking his hands together behind his head, an arm cocked around her dagger. He tried to look innocent and almost achieved it. But his face was full of suspicion. "All right, lover," he mocked her. "What you got in mind?"

She pulled the dagger from the floorboards and returned it to her boot, rose, and extended a hand to help Zip to his feet. Unsurprisingly, he declined her offer and got up on his own. He made a show of brushing Mama Becho's dust from his clothing.

"Tomorrow night," she told him, "meet me with as many of your men as you have the entire PFLS-at the old stables near the granaries."

Zip frowned, bent down, and picked up the mug of wine that yet remained on the floor. He turned it in his hands without drinking. "That's right across from the dungeons."

Chenaya taunted him with a nasty grin. "Don't get nervous, Zip. I heard you were a man of action. Well, action is what I'm going to give you." Let him interpret that as he wished, she thought wickedly. "I happen to own the guard who works the Gate of the Gods tomorrow night-he has a very expensive krrf habit-and a word from me will open that passage. It's a very brief run from there to a side entrance into the palace itself." She pushed back her hair with one hand, raised herself from the floor with the other, and poured the last of her own bitter wine down her throat. Her hand opened then, and the earthen mug shattered at her feet.

"Now," she challenged, "you and your playmates can go on butchering helpless shopkeepers and limp-wristed nobles and getting nowhere with your so-called revolution..." She took the cup he'd been fidgeting with, raised it in a silent toast to him, and drained it, too, regarding him over the rim. An instant later it joined the first one in pieces on the floor. "... or the PFLS can at last strike a meaningful blow. What do you say?"

Zip looked thoughtful. "With Kadakithis dead we'd still need some kind of defense for when Theron returns." He scratched his chin, frowning.

"Theron will probably thank you," she pointed out. It was safe to gamble that Zip had never met the usurper, knew nothing of the subtle workings of the old general's mind. Theron wanted Sanctuary for a bastion on Ranke's southern border. Nothing would convince him to release the city from the Empire's iron grip. Not even the execution of the legitimate claimant to the very crown he had stolen.

But Zip wouldn't understand that. He was a fighter, no politician.

"No need for all my men," Zip argued. "A small force- two or three-just enough to sneak in and do the job."

Chenaya stepped closer. She was almost as tall as Zip, almost as broad through the shoulders. Again, she inhaled the smell of him and bit her lip. "A small force for the prince and his fish-faced consort," she agreed, nodded her head as a patient teacher might with a dim-witted but struggling pupil. "The rest will take care of every other Beysib in the palace- and anyone else who gets in the way."

Plainly, Zip's thoughts were churning. He glanced at his man by the door. He'd heard every word; eagerness gleamed in his face, though he kept his silence. Zip began to pace back and forth, crushing pottery under his tread. "And the garrison?" he asked. "What about a way out? Armed resistance inside?"

Chenaya scoffed at his endless questions. "Tempus told me you were a man who knew when to act, yet you sound like Molin Torchholder with your endless queries."

Zip shut up, but continued to pace.

"Would you do it with Tempus to lead you?"

He stopped in mid-stride, regarded her through narrowed eyes. Still he said nothing, but questions hung on his lips.

She spat again, but this time for Mama Becho's sake the wad landed squarely on Zip's boot. "I'm everything that Tempus is, lover," she said, grim-voiced, mocking his trepidation. "And more. You don't believe that yet, but you will." She turned her back to him, went to the serving board. To Mama she said, "Got a pair of dice?"

The old woman reached up onto a shelf and found a pair of yellowed ivory cubes. She set them on the counter with a rude grunt. Chenaya crooked a finger at Zip. "Roll 'em," she ordered. "High number wins."

He paused, studying her, their gazes locked in a game of dare and challenge. Finally, he swept up the cubes and tossed them. "Eleven," Chanaya announced. "Not bad." Then, she rolled them. "Twelve." Zip seized the dice again and beamed when eleven black dots showed up once more.

Chenaya didn't even bother to look as she gathered and dropped the ivory bits.

Zip blinked.

Twelve.

"I can't be beaten," she assured Zip, never taking her eyes from his. "Not at anything."

"Kind of takes the fun out of life, doesn't it?" Zip said, dead-pan.

She flicked a glance over her shoulder. "Call your man," she instructed him.

Zip did. The man she'd nearly shaved with the throwing star took a step forward. "The black smudge on the far wall," she suggested. The man threw his belt dagger. One of the daggers from her boot followed. Two good throws, but hers was clearly nearer the center of the mark. "Not at anything," she repeated.

"So you have luck and skill," Zip conceded. "That doesn't mean squat against the Riddler's god-or his curse, or whatever it is."

She rolled her eyes; a long sigh hissed between her teeth. "I'll bet you another kiss," she said at last. "You've played guess-the-number?" She waited for him to nod. "Go to the far end of the bar, take your knife, and carve any number between one and ten. No, wait. Let's make it fun-between one and twenty-five."

Mama Becho waddled up, her gray hair flying. "Oh, no, ye don't!" she cried. "Yer not cuttin' on my fine board, yer not. Not easy to come by good wood. An' I've jus' about enough of this spittin' and breakin' mugs an'-"

Chenaya pulled her purse free and upended it on the counter. Coins spilled everywhere. She dropped the empty leather bag on the top of the pile. "Mama," she said softly, "shut up."

"All right," Zip announced from the other end, covering his scratching with one hand, flipping his knife nervously and catching it.

"Forty-two," she answered smugly. "Cheater."

Zip stared at the number he'd carved into the wood, at his knife, at his men, at her. Without another word, he went to Chenaya and made good on his bet.

The glaring sun had long since disappeared beyond the western edge of the world, and beautiful Sabellia, resplendent in her fullness, scattered diamond ripples over the ocean's surface. Chenaya dangled her feet over the end of Empire Wharf, stared at the glistening water, and listened to the muted sounds of a nearly silent thieves' world. The old pilings creaked gently, rocked by the relentless surf; the riggings and guy wires of nearby fishing ships hummed and sang in the night wind. There was little else.

It was one of the places she went when she was troubled. She couldn't say for sure exactly what it was disturbed her, but she felt it like a gloomy darkness on her soul. She tried to dismiss it. The water often made her melancholy. But the mood lingered.

She touched the bag that was tied to her belt. It contained a mixture of sugar and the high-grade krrf Gestus had obtained for her. She squeezed it and grinned. No, it certainly wasn't that which bothered her. She planned to enjoy her little prank on Tempus.

What then?

Far out on the water something flashed in the moonlight. There was a muffled splash. She peered, straining to see, and spied the silver gleam of a dorsal fin as it cut through the waves. Briefly visible, it submerged and was gone. A dolphin, she wondered? A shark?

The world-particularly this thieves' world-was full of sharks. She thought of Kadakithis and Shupansea hidden away in their palace, and she thought of Zip and Downwind. She thought of the betrayal she planned.

She knew, then, the cause of her dark mood.

But it must be done, she swore. Sooner or later, it would be done.

Chenaya extended her arm; the metal rings of her manica shone richly under Sabellia's glory. She pursed her lips, gave a thin, piercing whistle.

It was impossible in the darkness to see Reyk; she didn't even hear the beat of his pinions, leading her to guess he had been circling overhead and had simply plummeted in response to her call. She felt only a sudden rush of air on her cheek and then his weight and the tension of his talons on her forearm.

She stroked the falcon very lightly down the back of his head and between his wings. "Hello, my pet. Did you feast?" She had expected to find traces of beyarl plumage between his talons. Several of the sacred birds had skimmed the water earlier. But Reyk's claws were clean. She took a jess from her belt and slipped it around his leg.

Together, they sat quietly and watched the goddess's argent chariot sail over the ocean. Chenaya didn't even mind that the moon seemed to watch her, too. The light seemed to ease her troubled spirit, and eye to eye, she thanked Sabellia for that small relief.

Reyk stretched suddenly to full wing-span. Talons tightened on her arm; he emitted a single, sharp note.

The falcon's keen eyes had spotted Dismas before Chenaya had heard his footsteps on the wharf. Reyk calmed immediately, recognizing the gladiator as he padded with a burglar's swift stealth toward his mistress. "Now, lady," Dismas whispered urgently. "It's the perfect time and place. We may not get a better chance."

Chenaya squeezed the bag of krrf and sugar again, feeling her pulse quicken. She had waited at the wharf a long time for Dismas to report. "What of Walegrin and Rashan?" she asked, getting to her feet.

"They should already be on their way to Land's End. Gestus carried your message and returned to keep watch while I came for you."

She removed Reyk's jess and returned it to her belt one-handed. "Where is he?"

The huge gladiator hesitated only a moment and swallowed. "With the vampire woman, Ischade." He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. "Not far, but a good run. We should hurry. He's been there an hour already."

"Then up, pet." She sent Reyk aloft. His pinions beat a steady rhythm as he climbed into the night sky and disappeared. She squeezed the krrf bag once more. "Let's go," she called, tapping her friend on the arm in comradely fashion. There was more than a hint of glee in her voice.

Dismas led her down the Wideway, up the Street of Smells and along a narrow road she didn't know. The road rutted out; they were in undergrowth denser than any she'd imagined this side of the White Foal. They stopped in a wide ditch.

"There," he whispered.

The windows were dark; no light spilled out. Nothing told that anyone was within. Yet Tempus Thales' huge-muscled Tros horse was tethered to the gate.

"An hour, you say?" she questioned Dismas. "Where's our other partner?"

He pointed silently to the deeper brush.

She smiled and stole a peek at Tempus's magnificent mount. A very rare breed, Tros horses. No other steed could match them for strength, endurance, intelligence. She had seen only two others in her lifetime. It was a cause for wonder that Tempus had left the beast unguarded.

Yes, a rare breed, Tros horses, and she meant to have one.

"Get Gestus and make for Land's End as quick as you can. Have everything ready at the family stables when I arrive. Have Walegrin and Rashan there, too."

"But, mistress," Dismas protested. "The vampire and the Riddler-you may need our help."

Chenaya shook her head sternly. "I can handle them. Do as you're told and have everything ready. Discreetly, too. I don't want my father to know anything about this." She smacked his chest with the flat of her hand and gave him a little shove. "Go!"

She watched as he faded back into the night, then leaned back in the shadows and drew a slow breath. With her friends gone she could safely get on with her little prank. It would have been an insult to two good men if she had explained why she sent them on. But she knew Tempus Thales, and she knew the stories about Ischade. If anything went wrong with her plan she didn't want her men to pay the price.

Chenaya took the bag of krrf and sugar from her belt, loosened the strings that held it shut, and moved toward the dark house. The Tros horse, she suspected, had been trained to recognize warriors. She would have trained it to do so, and she expected no less of Tempus. But she was a woman and had left her weapons at home this night. Reyk was weapon enough-and her god-spawned luck.

She approached the beast slowly, mumbling soft words. The Tros eyed her with suspicion and snorted once. It kept still, though, and that encouraged her. She reached into the bag and extracted a handful of powder. Holding her breath with excitement, she took the final step that brought her within reach of the horse.

The Tros smelled the sugar but not the raw krrf. He licked it eagerly from her hand and whickered for more. Chenaya gladly obliged. There was enough drug mixed in the sugar to kill several big men. Enough, she hoped, to make this creature very, very happy.

Handful by handful, the beast consumed the entire contents of the bag. Chenaya cast cautious glances over her shoulder from time to time, watchful of the doors and windows in Ischade's home, ready to bolt if anyone peered out.

The horse's eyes quickly glazed over. It slurped the last of the powder from her fingers and palms and gave her a look that almost made her laugh aloud. If a horse could go to heaven, this one was on its way.

Have a good time, horsie, she thought, grinning, and don't give me any trouble.

She didn't actually underestimate Tempus or his pride; unguarded as the horse might appear, it wouldn't easily be stolen. Carefully she untied the reins and stroked the horse along the withers while muttering in its ear. The Tr6s didn't move or make a sound. She held her breath and locked her fingers around the pommel, levering herself quickly into the saddle. The animal trembled; its ears twitched. She paused, then settled herself more comfortably, smiling.

Then her head snapped back, rolled around on her shoulders, threatening to rip off first to the left then the right. Her spine folded backward; whipped forward. Her right leg came free of the saddle and she kneed herself in the eye.

The world spun crazily. Were those bright stars in the heavens or in her head? She squeezed with her thighs as tightly as she could, clung to the saddle with one hand, to the reins with her other.

There was a metallic creaking and breaking. The Tr6s stumbled and lurched, making a ruin of Ischade's fence and gate. The beast reared, pounding the twisted wrought iron with its shod hooves. It reared again, screamed, raced away from the house, and collided with a good-size tree.

It staggered back a pace; stared with huge, wet eyes at the offending obstacle. Dazed, confused, it took a side step, then another, and stood still.

Chenaya hesitated, afraid to let go of saddle or rein. Her heart thundered against her ribs, a trickle of blood ran down her chin; she had bitten her lip. Finally, she dared to let go of the saddle. With her free hand, she rubbed the small of her back. Breath held much too long hissed between her teeth. She glanced back at Ischade's fence, let go a low chuckle, then reached down and stroked the Tros's powerful neck.

"That looked like fun. Do it again."

Chenaya knew that voice by now. Her gaze rose to find her observer. He looked down at her from a comfortable notch in the very tree the Tr6s had struck.

"Does the Riddler know you're stealing his horse?" Zip asked sardonically.

She put a finger to her lips and glanced back at Ischade's darkened windows. "I think he's too busy knowing the vampire woman, if you get my meaning," she answered, matching his lighthearted tone. "Are you doing anything tonight? How about a date?"

Zip swung his legs back and forth absent-mindedly, much as she had done earlier at the wharf. The similarity struck her as odd.

He rubbed his chin, a barely visible shadow against the starlit night. "It has been rather dull. Nothing I'd like more," he said in his most affected Rankene. "You're so easy to follow."

"When I want to be," she acknowledged. "I figured you couldn't keep your eyes off me." She stared upward, craning her neck, guessing what was going through his mind as he rose to stand in the notch. She admired his daring, if not his sense, as he balanced above her.

"A date, you say?"

She stroked the Tros again. "How about a ride?" She put on a big grin. Zip wore the shadows like a cloak, but she was limned in Sabellia's light. She knew he could see her smile. "You can help me with my prank on Tempus Thales. Make up your mind, though." She cast another glance over her shoulder at the darkened estate. It occurred to her to wonder why all the racket had roused no one. She didn't particularly care to wait around to find out-not on Zip's account. "This isn't a very good neighborhood, I'm told, and a lady has to guard her reputation."

"You expect me to ride behind you?" His voice was incredulous. "After what I just saw?"

Chenaya leaned forward, scratched the horse between'its ears. "It's all right," she assured. "We're good friends now, aren't we, horsie?" The Tros didn't contradict her.

Zip hesitated. She wondered if he had ever ridden before, or if he was daunted by the fact it was Tempus's horse he was being invited to help steal? In either case, she couldn't wait around for Zip to find his balls. Dismas had assured her that Tempus was inside Ischade's house. At this very moment he might be struggling into his breeches, reaching for his sword....

She blew Zip a kiss. "Sorry, lover," she called. "It's yes or no and no time to think about it-that's the way it is with me." She gathered the reins in both hands. "But how about tomorrow night?" She nudged the Tros with her heels and clicked her tongue. The horse raced through Shambles Cross and turned onto Farmer's Run before Zip could say another word.

Though Lowan Vigeles's properties extended all the way to the Red Foal River, the major portion of the estate was ringed by a massive, fortified wall. Along the southern rampart, with gates of their own, stood the stables. It was through this gate that Chenaya rode. Dismas held it open, hailed her, then leaped frantically clear before the Tr6s trampled him into the dirt.

Chenaya jerked on the reins with all her might. The war-horse's hooves tore up chunks of earth. It reared, nearly throwing her again, then stopped, completely still, trembling.

She blew an exhausted breath, swung one leg over the Tros's neck, and slid to the ground. Dismas, Gestus, Walegrin, and Rashan hurried to her side.

"Damn beast nearly gave it to me!" Dismas mutterred, brushing dust from his sleeves, looking as if he'd eat the Tr6s if given time to build a fire.

Chenaya pushed the hair back from her eyes. Her golden mane was a tangled mess; sweat and dirt streaked her cheeks. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and passed the reins to Gestus. "Put him in the pen with Lowan's mare. Hurry! She's in heat, and this one's got enough krrf in him to incite the lusts of an army." She swatted the Tros's rump as the gladiator led him away. "Rashan, I want you to invoke Savan-kala's blessing on this union. The mare must conceive. I want a strong foal from her."

The priest's eyebrows shot up. "You want me to bless copulating horses?"

"You're a priest, aren't you, the Eye of Savankala?" She embraced him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Rashan had lived at Land's End while he oversaw the building of her private temple on the shore of the Red Foal. They had shared many late night discussions, and he had taught her much.

"Very well," he agreed, rolling his eyes. "But we must speak this night before we part." He turned to follow Gestus, but continued talking over his shoulder. "I've had another dream. You must hear the message. It was the voice of the Thunderer himself."

She watched him go, saying nothing. But his words disturbed her. His walk and bearing were those of a warrior, not a priest, and his body was developed as befitted a Rankan. Yet a priest he was, and first among Savankala's hierophants. Yet, lately, Rashan had been having dreams, messages from the god, he claimed, visions that foretold Chenaya's future and her destiny. All through the winter they'd argued the meaning of his dreams. Not messages at all, she'd tried to convince him. Just the wishful thinking of an old man who saw his nation decaying around him.

She clung to that argument now as he disappeared inside the stables with Gestus and the Tros. There could be no truth to his dreams. She was not the Daughter of the Sun. That was only a name, an appellation pinned on her by arena spectators and fellow gladiators. Nothing more.

There was movement on her right side. She had forgotten her other guest.

"Lady," Walegrin said uneasily. "It's the middle of the night. Your man said it was of the direst importance that you speak with me, that I come dressed thus out of uniform. Because you are Lord Molin's niece I hastened, but the morning-"

She cut him off with a curt gesture. "If you came only because of Uncle Molin, Commander, then you may leave again." She looked him straight in the eye, not at all intimidated by his towering height. "If you came, though, to enhance your own career or to do good service to your prince, then stay and hear me out."

His eyes grew wide in the moonlight, but she turned her back on him and spoke to Dismas. "There's a sectarius of red wine on a peg in the stables. Bring it."

A sudden din from the stables interrupted her. They all looked toward the building. There came a crashing and cracking of wood, the challenging cry of the Tros horse, the lamentation of the mare. There was cursing from Gestus, and Rashan's shouted prayers soared over the whole.

"Bring the wine," she repeated, touching Dismas's arm in comradely fashion. "There's parchment and ink there as well. Bring them along, too."

She turned back to Walegrin when they were alone. "You command the garrison in this garbage pit," she said, folding her arms over her chest, regarding him evenly. "And the closest thing to a police force in Sanctuary is your men. I'm not going to hold it against you that you've been keeping company with that scheming uncle of mine. We all seek advancement by the fastest means, after all."

"If your uncle schemes," Walegrin broke in defensively, "he does so on Sanctuary's behalf."

Chenaya threw back her head and smiled scornfully. "Molin Torchholder does nothing except in his own behalf. But I didn't call you here to argue my uncle's lack of virtue. As you pointed out, it's late." She rubbed her backside. "And I've had a rough night."

Walegrin folded his arms, unconsciously imitating Chenaya's aggressive stance. He looked down at her. "Then what did you call me here for?"

"You're the police," she said over the noise from the stables. "What's the biggest problem you've got in the city right now?"

He scratched his chin and considered. "Right now?" He pursed his lips, put on an expression of intense seriousness. "I'd say it's finding the thief who stole Tempus's horse before he takes the town apart."

She stared disdainfully at him, gave him her back, and headed after her friends. "Go back to your bunk. Commander. I picked the wrong man. I'll take care of Kadakithis myself as I've always done."

He came after her, caught her by the shoulder. Chenaya whirled, knocked his hand away. "Wait," he pleaded as she started to leave him again. "What about Kadakithis? If thfcre's some trouble, let me help."

She ran her gaze up and down his rangy height, taking his measure. She'd kept an eye on him during her time in Sanctuary and generally considered him one of the few honest men in the city. Reportedly, he was competent with his weapons, though not a brilliant fighter. He did seem, however, to have the loyalty of his men, and that counted for much.

She not only needed his help, she wanted it.

"The PFLS," she said at last, drawing a deep, calming breath. "They started out murdering Rankans and Beysibs in cold blood. Men, women, children-armed or unarmed, it didn't matter. They began a reign of terror that ended up carving Sanctuary into sections like a big pie, and their terrorist activities have earned them the animosity of nearly every citizen in town." She paused, thinking suddenly of Zip. "Their leader still harbors dreams of Ilsig liberation, but the rest kill and kill simply for the feeling of power it gives them when they grind someone else into the dirt."

Dismas came back bearing the sectarius of wine, the parchment, and the inkpot. "Keep those," she told him, taking the leather vessel. She unstoppered it, swallowed a mouthful, wiped her lips, and passed it to Walegrin who followed her example. "How goes it in there?" she asked Dismas, nodding toward the stables.

The gladiator looked askance and grinned. "Such a mating as I've never seen. Hear for yourself how the mare enjoys her pleasure. I thought they were going to tear the stalls down, but they've taken more than a liking to each other."

"I thought I heard Gestus cursing." She took the wine from Walegrin, offered it to her man. Though her gladiators called her mistress, she treated them fully as equals.

Dismas lifted the bottle and swallowed. "He got kicked in the hand," he explained. "He tried to unsaddle the Tros, but the mare already had her tail in the air."

"I've met men who similarly couldn't wait to undress," she quipped. "I guess you're all part horse." She hesitated purposefully, then added, "or some part of a horse." She slapped her rump and winked.

"The PFLS," Walegrin reminded her, trying to remain patient. "And Kadakithis. Is there some threat?"

The noise from the stables suddenly ended. A few moments later, Rashan emerged and started across the lawn. She waited for the old priest to join them and offered him the wine. He drank deeply, then accepted the parchment and ink-pot from Dismas. He gave Chenaya an inquiring look.

"Tempus came to me with a proposal," she said to Walegrin. "One with implications for all of Sanctuary. You know that Theron has promised to return at New Year's and make this city what he wants most-a bastion for the Rankan Empire's southern border." She glanced at Dismas and a silent message passed between them. "You also know that I have no love for Theron."

Walegrin surveyed the faces of those around him. "It was you and your gladiators who attacked his barge and killed his surrogate." He said it with absolute calm and certainty.

Chenaya reached up and tapped his forehead exactly as her lather would have done to her. She had never attempted to make a secret of it, just as she had never thought to fail. In fact, she hadn't failed, just shot her bolt at the wrong target. The man in Theron's robes hadn't been Theron at all, and the Usurper had gotten out of town before she could try again.

Her mouth shaped itself into a smirk. "Tempus was stupid enough to try to blackmail me with information that seems to be common knowledge. He'll be leaving soon with his Stepsons and the Third Commando." Walegrin nodded. The imminent departure of the two groups was not news. "Well, he had an idea that I should take control of the PFLS and use it to weld the various factions into a Sanctuary defense force." That much of her speech was the truth, then she added her own thoughts and plans. "And use it to resist Theron when he returns."

The garrison commander rubbed his chin, his nose, an ear, wishing he hadn't heard that tidbit, thinking about what he'd have to do with it. "You realize you're accusing him of a treasonous offense?"

Chenaya shrugged, took another drink of wine, passed him the sectarius. "I wouldn't try to make it stick," she advised. "Tempus owes more loyalties than you and I can begin to guess. He joins Theron but plots against him. Who can know his motivations?" She shrugged again. "Anyway, I thought there was some merit to the idea-but not the way he formulated it. Take a look around, Walegrin. You don't expect this city to become just another good little satellite obedient to the Empire, do you? Something's brewing here. Call it rebellion."

Rashan spoke up, passing the wine to Dismas. "If you expect resistance when Theron returns," he said softly, "then Sanctuary will need a defense force. Theron is a murderer and a usurper. Loyal Rankans should rise up against him."

Chenaya waved a hand, dismissing his speech. "Loyal Rankans have little to do with this," she said. "But Sanctuary is a different matter entirely, a melting pot of many interests, none of which favor Theron. Yes, Tempus had the right idea, but because he is Tempus Thales, and a fool, he overestimates the importance of his Stepsons and commandoes. Even without them Sanctuary is far from defenseless. And we don't need the PFLS to take their place, either."

She held up her fingers and began to tick off a few numbers. "The Beysibs have a good five hundred warriors; that doesn't include the Harka Bey, who are an unknown quantity. The garrison houses at least sixty men-at-arms, almost all of them raised and recruited locally. There are the Hell-Hounds, who feel the Empire has deserted them; I think they'll fight for us. There are Jubal's minions-they have nothing to gain and much profit to lose if Theron should pacify this region." She tapped her chest with one hand, rapped the knuckles of her other on Dismas's shoulder. "Then I have my twelve gladiators, the finest arena-flesh in the history of the games. And by the New Year I'll have a hundred more, the best fighters ever to come out of Rankan schools."

Walegrin looked thoughtful, seeming to forget that, as he spoke, he was also committing a treasonous offense. "We could dredge up more from the streets," he observed, "and we have our wizards. Sanctuary is full of wizards."

"What we don't need," Chenaya continued, encouraged by his participation, "is the PFLS. That group has caused too much dissension, actually fostered the factionalism that has cost so many lives. The swiftest thing we can do to unify those factions is to put an end to Zip and his bloodthirsty band."

The garrison commander nodded slowly, perceiving the truth in her words. Even Zip's own people, most of the Ilsigi population, had turned away from the ideas espoused by the PFLS when it became general knowledge that the group was backed by Nisibisi insurgents who wanted only to stir up trouble on Ranke's rear border while their demon-spawned sorcerers pushed their conquests from Wizardwall through the surrounding kingdoms.

"Without the Third Commando liaison, we've never been able to lay hands on Zip," Walegrin complained. "What makes you think that's going to change? They're like rats. And it's not just Ratfall that they call home; the Maze and Downwind belong to them as well."

Chenaya took another swallow of wine when it came her way again. "Any rat can be lured out of its hole with the right cheese," she said. "I've already set the trap. I only need you to help spring it."

Gestus emerged from the stables leading the Tros by the reins. The big creature seemed completely bewildered, still in the krrf's embrace. Chenaya could almost swear the beast was grinning. She pointed to the parchment and the inkpot that Rashan held. "Write for me, Priest, " she instructed. "Use your finest calligraphy."

Rashan looked over his shoulder, located the full moon, and positioned himself in the best light. He took the stylus from the inkpot and held himself poised for the first stroke.

"Write..." Chenaya paused, thoughtful. "Thanks for the stud service, lover." She laughed then, remembering her garden encounter with the Riddler. "Sign my name in big letters."

Rashan gave her a disapproving look, the kind Lowan Vigeles would have given her. She paid him as much attention, and he wrote. When he was done she took the parchment and gave it to Gestus. "Fix it to the saddle," she instructed, "and let the Tros go."

The gladiator looked shocked. He was, after all, a thief, and he thought he'd taken part in a very clever and daring theft. A good thief didn't give back the booty. "Let go horse?" he mumbled.

"Let it go?" Walegrin echoed in better speech.

Chenaya repeated herself. "I'm no fool. Commander. Though I enjoy pricking Tempus's bubble a little, I don't underestimate him. In a short time, the mare will have a foal, then I'll have a half-Tros of my own to ride. I can wait a couple of years. Keeping this one could lead to a direct conflict between the two of us." She glanced up at Sabellia floating serenely in the dark sky. "Who knows what cosmic forces that would unleash, what war among the gods would result?" She shook her head. "No, when I risk that, it will be for something far more important than a horse, even a Tr6s."

Rashan made the sign of his god. "Let us hope Tempus has as much sense. You know him better than he knows you, child."

Gestus led the Tr6s toward the gate. But before he got beyond it, a penetrating and high-pitched whistle sawed through the night. Chenaya cried out in pain, clapped hands to her ears to stop the sound. Through tear-moistened eyes she watched her companions do the same. The Tr6s reared unexpectedly, jerking the reins from her gladiator's hand. It whinnied and sped out of sight, as if in response to the strange whistle, the sound of its hooves adding thunder to the shrill, knife-edged keening.

Abruptly, the sound ceased, and Chenaya straightened. Despite the ringing in her ears, she found strength to smile. "I don't know what that was," she said, "but I think our living legend finally missed his mount." She rubbed her ears and the side of her neck. "I hope the note doesn't fall off."

A look of utter confusion lingered on Walegrin's face. He whispered to the priest in an overly loud voice. "What was she talking about? Gods and cosmic forces, all that? I'm beginning to think Molin is right. You're all insane!"

Rashan shook his head, doing his best to calm the excitable commander. "You'll leam soon enough," he said, low-voiced. "Tempus is hundreds of years old, they say. Imagine all his power, maybe more, in the person of such a young woman." He made a bow in Chenaya's direction. "She is truly the Daughter of the Sun."

Chenaya ground her teeth. "Shut up, Rashan. I told you, I'm tired of that title and your little fantasy. Now leave us. You've done your part this night, and I've got plans to discuss with the commander."

Rashan protested. "But the dream," he reminded her. "We've got to speak. Savankala summons you to your destiny."

She waved him away, her irritation growing. Such talk was disturbing enough in private. Before Walegrin, she felt a genuine anger. "I said leave us," she snapped. "If I'm really who you think I am, you don't dare disobey me. Now go!"

Rashan stared sorrowfully at her, not angry, not disappointed, patient. "You don't believe," he said gently, "but you will. He will show you. When you look upon his face, you will know the truth." He raised a finger and pointed at her. "Look upon his face, child. See who you are." He turned, strode toward the gate and beyond.

She sighed, her anger turned suddenly upon herself. Rashan was her friend, and he meant well. She resolved again not to let his delusions interrupt that friendship. In such troubled times and in such a city as this, trustworthy comrades were hard to come by.

She put fingers to her lips and gave a high whistle of her own. While he was free and unjessed, Reyk was trained to follow wherever she went. The falcon dropped from the sky to perch on her arm. She took the jess and a small hood from her belt, stroked her pet a few times, and passed him into Dismas's care.

Then she took Walegrin by the arm. "Come up to the house. Commander. There's more wine and a bite to eat." She called back to the two former thieves. "Wake all the others," she instructed. "Daphne, too. They're all involved."

These were treasonous times, and it was time to talk treason.

Eight men. That was all that remained of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary, Zip assured her. There were no more. And looking him straight in the eye, she believed him.

They were a rag-tag lot, some even without sandals or boots. But they carried good Nisibisi metal or equally well-crafted weapons recovered from Rankans and Beysibs they had murdered. They were young, the eight, but as they huddled in the deep shadows of the old stables off Granary Road, their armament was cold reminder of the treachery and chaos they had inspired.

It was time, though, for her treachery, and she led them swiftly down Granary Road, past a comer of her own estate to the Avenue of Temples. Noiselessly, they stole up to the Gate of the Gods, wide-eyed rats, eager for a taste of cheese.

She looked at Zip's face, barely visible in the shadows, feeling something that bordered on regret. He, of all these cutthroats, seemed sincere in his quest for llsig liberation. But he had murdered Rankans-her people-and so many others, done such evil in freedom's name. She turned away from him and rapped quietly on the sealed gate, glad that Sabellia had not yet risen to shine on this moment.

The gate eased open a crack. From beneath the metal brim of a sentry's helm, Leyn peered out. He cast a suspicious gaze over Zip's band, playing his part well, and held open his palm. "The other half of my payment, lady," he whispered slyly. "It's due now, and the gate is yours."

Chenaya took a heavy purse from the place where it rested between her leather armor and her tunic. It jingled as she passed it over. Leyn weighed it, considering, frowning, chewing the end of his mustache.

Zip pressed forward impatiently. "Move it, man, while you've still got a hand to count with!" The others, too, pressed forward, demonstrating that the gate would be breached whether the guard was satisfied or no.

"You sure it's all here?" Leyn grunted. "Then inside, and damn you all, and damn the filthy Beysibs." He tugged the gate wide and stood out of the way, waving them in with a bow full of mockery. "Blood to you this night, gentlemen, much blood."

Chenaya led them, hurrying, crouched low, across the courtyard toward the governor's roses, toward a small entrance in the western palace wall. She had come here once before, her first week in Sanctuary, to save Kadakithis from an assassin. By this very way she had come. She found that a bitter irony.

Because she listened for the sound, she heard the gate close behind them, heard the sturdy iron lock click into place.

Zip heard it, too. His sword slid serpent-quick from the sheath as all around them shadows rose up from the ground where they had rested flat in the gloom. There was horror in his eyes when he faced her, and anger. But worst of all was the look of betrayal. In an instant, he knew her for what she was, and she knew he knew.

That didn't stop her. Furiously, Zip lunged, his point seeking her heart. Chenaya side-stepped, drew her gladius. In the same back-handed motion she smashed the pommel against his brow as he passed her. The rebel leader fell like a stone at her feet and didn't move.

"Sorry, lover," she muttered honestly, meeting the nearest man with balls enough to try avenging Zip. Blades clashed in a high arc, then she dropped low and raked her edge over his unarmored belly. As he doubled, screaming, she cut upward through his throat.

A manic yell went up from the PFLS as her gladiators crashed into their ranks, hacking at their foes. The Rankans let out their own cry, a vengeful paean full of rage for all their slain kindred. There was no mercy in them and no thought of surrender in Zip's band. Blades clashed and clanged, throwing blue-white sparks. Blood fountained, thick and black in the night. Cries and groaning and grunting filled the palace ground. Walegrin's men came running.

Then hell erupted. All around, flame spumed upward. Within the bright geyser a Rankan screamed, threw his arms up uselessly, and ran like a crazed demon trailing fluttering fire.

Another incendiary exploded. Fire spread like a deadly liquid across the earth. Rankans and PFLSers alike shrieked and burned. Someone ran screaming toward her, swathed in fire. Foe or one of her own, she couldn't tell, but she gave him a quicker death.

She had thought to stay by Zip, to guard and keep him alive through this carnage. But now she whirled about, searching for the bomber. He was the paramount threat.

She spied him then, as he lobbed yet another bottle of the strange fluid. The flash dazzled her vision; heat seared the left side of her face. The smell of singed hair crept malodorously into her nostrils-her own hair, she realized with a start. And though she knew she could not die thus-Savankala himself had shown her the manner of her death-in that moment she tasted a small bite of fear.

She gripped her sword more securely and started toward him.

But the bomber's eyes snapped suddenly wide; his mouth opened in a horrible scream. His hands went up as if to supplicate the heavens. Then, he toppled forward, dead.

Daphne eyed her mistress across the courtyard, her sword running red with the bomber's blood, a mad grin spreading over her small face. Knowing Chenaya watched, the Rankan princess threw back her dark-haired head and laughed obscenely. Again and again she hacked at the body until the torso was a scarlet mass.

Chenaya glanced over her shoulder at the palace. Lights flared in the windows where darkness had been before. Heads peered out at the slaughter. Armed Beysibs, barely dressed, surged out to join the tumult.

It ended quickly after that. Gladiator, garrison soldier, naked Beysib looked around for new foes and found none. Taciturn as ever, the fish-folk wiped their blades on whatever was at hand and went back to bed. Walegrin gave orders; his men began to drag away the corpses.

Leyn rushed to Chenaya's side and returned her pouch of gold. He had thrown aside the sentry's helm or lost it in the conflict. His curly blond hair shone with the glow of the fires that still burned. "Mistress," he said softly, "we lost two of our own." He told her the names.

Chenaya drew a deep breath. "Fire or sword?" she asked.

Leyn turned his gaze away. "One to each."

She winced, full of grief for the one who had burned. It was no way for a warrior to die. "If you can, get the bodies from Walegrin. We'll give funeral rites ourselves at Land's End and scatter their ashes on the Red Foal."

Leyn moved away to carry out her order. Alone for a moment, Chenaya fought back tears of anger. All of her gladiators were hand-picked men, all completely loyal to her, and she had led two of them to their deaths. Death itself was nothing new to her, but this responsibility for other men's lives was. Suddenly, she found it a heavy yoke to bear.

She gazed up at the sky, wishing Sabellia would come to brighten up her world. There were but twelve links on her chain now-no, only ten. But soon there would be a hundred. One hundred bonds to bind her.

She went back to Zip's unconscious form. Already, a bruise had appeared where her pommel had struck him. She knelt and felt for a heartbeat, fearing she had hit too hard.

"Is he alive?"

She looked up at Walegrin. The garrison commander was smeared with blood, though apparently none of it was his own. He was a grisly sight. The color and smell of it had never bothered her before, but this time she turned her gaze away.

It was then she saw her own hands. They, too, were dyed the same mortal shade.

"He lives," she answered at last. "I meant for him to live." A light breeze stirred Zip's black curls. Unconscious, there was almost an innocence about his features, so composed, peaceful. "He should stand public trial for his crimes," she said, disturbed to the core of her soul. "People must know that the PFLS's long night of terror has come to an end. Then we can start putting the pieces of this town back together."

A lamb, she thought of Zip suddenly. The sacrificial offer ing that will make us well and whole again. She took one of his still hands in hers, then pulled away. For the second time that night she tasted fear. Zip had fallen on his sword. There was a long cut across his palm. It relieved her to find no more serious wound.

Literally now, his blood was on her hand.

She rose, trying to wipe her fingers clean on her armor. "Take him," she said to Walegrin, "and say this to Kadakithis and Shupansea"-she looked at Zip's quiet face as she spoke, almost as if her words were meant for him-"that Zip is my peace offering to them and to this city. I will feud with the Beysa no more, but it's they who must pull the factions of Sanctuary into one unified whole." She hesitated, swallowed, went on. "Say also that they cannot do this from behind the palace walls. It's time for them to come out into the midst of their people and lead as leaders should."

She looked away from Zip's face and surveyed the courtyard. The dead were being arranged in separate groups: those that could still be recognized, those that could not. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the air. Her gladiators worked beside the garrison soldiers. Even a few Beysibs who had not gone back to bed lent their hands.

"Otherwise," she said to Walegrin, "all this will have been for nothing."

She left him then, and Leyn, who still had the key, let her out through the Gate of the Gods. When no one could see her, the tears at last spilled down her cheeks, and hating the tears, she began to run. She didn't know the streets she took, nor did she know the time that passed before her grief and anger subsided. She wound up on the wharf again where she had been the night before, sitting, dangling her feet over the deep water as Sabellia began her journey through the sky.

She could still feel Zip's eyes upon her back, watching her as he had last evening.

She shuddered and hugged herself and wished for Reyk to keep her company. But the falcon was in his cage, and she was alone.

Alone.

As alone as Tempus Thales?