If I Pay Thee Not In Gold

• Chapter 4

Xylina gazed at the wreck of her garden. The sun, directly overhead, illuminated the damage pitilessly. Healthy young plants, carefully nurtured from seed and watered by hand, had been uprooted and scattered across their beds. Young vegetables had been partially devoured. Something-or someone-had gotten into it while she and Faro had been out, and had destroyed all the tender young plants, leaving them to wilt in the sun. By the time the two of them had returned, it was too late to save any of them. They would have to be planted over again from seedlings rather than seed, or else they wouldn't mature before the first frost. It had been almost too late when they planted the seeds, though luck had been with them, and the plants had grown quickly.

Replacing the plants would cost money; money they could ill-afford. Not replacing them meant that they would have to buy all of their food, instead of only staples and meat.

"Guinea-fowl," Faro grunted, straightening from his examination of the ruined beds. "Look, you can see the scratch-marks, and the places where they pecked the seedlings apart. Somebody turned a whole flock of guinea-fowl loose here. Too bad there aren't still some birds here; you could have conjured a net over them, and they're tasty eating."

Xylina shook her head, feeling doom descend upon her, a heavy weight settling on her heart,

"What's the matter, little mistress?" Faro asked, evidently reading her sinking spirit from her expression.

"It's the curse," she blurted, without thinking. "I'm cursed, nothing I do is going to turn out right! I'm going to destroy anyone who is with me!"

Faro turned to give her a reproving look from under his black brows. He left the ruined garden and came to stand at her side, blocking her view of the withered plants. "That's rot," he said shortly. "I don't believe in magic curses, and neither should you. I do believe in accursed people: people who send snakes through gates and toss guinea-hens over a wall. Someone wants to ruin you, but that doesn't mean you're under some kind of a mythical influence."

Xylina shook her head again, wishing she could believe him. But why else would snakes appear where there were none, or guinea-hens mysteriously turn up, destroy only her garden, and vanish again? Surely if anyone else had seen the fowls, or had their gardens destroyed, the neighborhood would be buzzing with indignant homeowners.

Faro seemed to be reading her mind. "Guinea-fowl can fly," he reminded her. "And you don't know what they did in other yards; just because the neighbors aren't out in the street complaining, doesn't mean they didn't have problems.They have garden-slaves to chase off the pests; you don't. The birds might still be here, in someone else's garden. For that matter, they might have been some fool's idea of watch-fowl or garden-birds, and they might have gone home again. You don't know that you were the only one with a garden the birds invaded."

But she knew he was wrong, deep in her heart. She knew that if she asked-which she would not-she would learn that no one else's property had been touched, that no one had a flock of guinea-hens, and that no one had seen or heard anything. She knew this, because no one else's gate had been smeared by paint-wielding vandals, no one else had rotting garbage appear overnight in their forecourt, and no one else had to fortify her doors and windows against intruders when she left. She had asked her neighbors if they had been disturbed, or had even seen or heard anything, after the first two incidents, and had been rewarded with odd looks and denials of trouble.

"This is such a quiet neighborhood," said one woman. "We've never had any incidents before."

Before you moved here... That was what had been implied. After that, she had stopped asking.

The protection against intruders, at least, had been relatively easy. She simply conjured massive metal plates in front of all of the portals whenever she and Faro left, and banished them when she returned. But the first time it had happened, she and Faro had come home to find all their food ruined, the cushions on the furniture slashed, and the walls smeared with filth. It had taken them several days to clean up the mess, and both of them had been forced to take up needle and thread to mend the slashes. At least she was buying this place and not leasing it. She would not have to account to the owner for the damage done.

Once again, Faro seemed to be able to read her mind, understand her doubts and fears without any word from her. "People did all these things, Xylina," he said gently. "Not curses, not gods, not some invisible hand. People. Someone does not want you to succeed, and that is the simple truth. You have an enemy-it might even be an enemy you 'inherited' from your mother, a feud you did not even know about. It would suit that person for you to believe in this curse, for that would make you despair and look no further for your persecutor. I think this has been going on for years; that was my concern when I first joined you. Your misfortunes seemed too patterned. But I didn't want to alarm you with a foolish conjecture. Now it no longer seems foolish."

That made sense-and as his words sank in, they made Xylina angry. She raised her chin defiantly, taking heart from Faro's inexorable logic. "You're right, Faro," she replied, letting her anger burn away her despair. "You're right. I don't know who or what is behind this-but-but I'll be damned if I give in to her! No one is going to break me!"

Faro nodded approvingly, and his expression lightened just a little.

She surveyed the ruined garden with renewed determination. "Well, we'll just have to get seedlings somewhere," she said. "We can't just give up the garden; we need the food we can grow ourselves." She thought for a moment. "Don't farmers thin out their plants now and again?" she asked her slave. "Wouldn't seedlings be cheaper from them rather than from a nursery?"

"I'd have to go outside the city, but I think you are correct, little mistress," he replied, his eyes warming. "We would have to take a chance that the roots had been damaged, but if I speak with another slave, we might be able to persuade him to take some care in the thinning and in his selections. It would probably take several days, one day for each kind of seedling we need-"

"Why would you have to go outside the city?" she asked. "Couldn't you make an arrangement with the farmers' slaves in the city market? I've often seen slaves there rather than the farmers themselves. Couldn't you ask them to bring in seedlings with the vegetables, perhaps pay them some in advance?"

Faro smiled slowly. "I could indeed," he said, dusting off his hands on his tunic and nodding. "I think that would be the best plan. And one slave will often do something for another that he would not for his mistress. If I make it clear that my own future dinners depend on this garden, it may make a distinct difference."

"Then, once we have replanted, I can conjure a metal net to protect the whole garden-yes, and the forecourt too," she told him with grim determination. "That will let the sun in and keep birds-and anyone else-out. And perhaps I had best conjure some kind of barrier at the front gate as well. Then the only damage they will be able to do will be to the exterior wall."

"Good." Faro nodded approval of all her remedies. "We have an appointment tonight, do we not?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject, as was his habit when he felt the subject had been exhausted.

Xylina grimaced; in the ruin of her garden, she had forgotten that. Though they had gone to the marketplace every day to post Faro's services for hire, the men of the quarter had been as yet unwilling to use him as a scribe, and the women were not sufficiently intrigued by his novelty value to become steady customers. She had finally interested one of those wealthy women in her idea of using Faro as a kind of entertainment; he would "perform" at a party held by the noted merchant Klyta Stylina tonight. Faro had not particularly liked the idea, but he had to admit it was a faster way of making their payments on this new dwelling than hiring himself out as a market-scribe. At a copper-bit for every letter and tally, it would take a long time before the house was paid for-and the plan he and Xylina had formulated together depended on being able to buy more slaves and educate them, so that she could supply a cadre of trained scribes to anyone who might need them. Merchants just setting up a new business for instance, or someone whose trusted scribe had become ill or had died. He was convinced there was a need for such a cadre; she was inclined to agree with him.

But none of this would take place while they were struggling simply to make ends meet.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "I need to know if I'm going to act properly as a foil for your performance. You know, I am sorry to be asking you to perform like some kind of trained dog-and that is exactly what they will think of you. I'm not very comfortable seeing you in that role, and I wish I didn't have to do this."

"I know," Faro replied, and his smile turned feral. "I honor you for that, little mistress. Well, since they are expecting a trained dog, I think we should give them a trained wolf instead. It will give them a feeling of threat- that if you were not there to restrain me, I would tear them to pieces."

The unbidden thought occurred to her,As he would, if he had the chance . The smile alone said it all. Xylina was under no illusions; Faro hated the Mazonites for what they had done to him. He honored only her, for seeing him as an intelligent being, for treating him as one. And perhaps for being a friend. She sensed, beneath his words, as they spoke of many things in the hours between dusk and bedtime, that he had been as lonely as she in his own way. He was just too different from the other men to have taken pleasure in the gossip and harem-politics, in the trifles of dress and status in the household. His mind ranged as far as the stars; confining it to the narrow rooms of the harem was as wrong as clipping a falcon's wings and making an ornament of him. If he had been a woman, she had no doubt that he would have been Queen by now.

He did not fit; neither did she. Perhaps that was why they were friends as well as mistress and slave. She could not see a slave without seeing the man beneath the livery, the human being. And she was only one step above slavery herself, having endured poverty for so long. Indeed, most slaves were better off than she had been, in the last year before her woman-trial.

In this, she knew that she was following in her mother's footsteps, for her mother had been Marcus' friend as well as his owner, and had not been wealthy or even moderately secure.

"I shall recite some of Arimis' History of the Slave Revolt , unless you choose otherwise," he continued. "That will titillate them with my boldness. Then I shall lift some weights, until I have alarmed them. Then I shall complete the performance by lifting some large weight, with you perched atop it all."

She nodded. "What if I conjured the weight for you?" she asked, tilting her head to one side. "If there are to be performing creatures here, we might as well both perform." She hoped that this offer would ease the bitter feelings he must be experiencing, but to her surprise he saw something more in the idea.

"That is an excellent thought, little mistress," he exclaimed. "Think of all the powerful women who will be at this affair-and you will demonstrate your ability at conjuration before them all, in the guise of an entertainment! They will be impressed, and when they have time to think about it, they will also wonder just how good you truly are, and wonder why they have heard and seen nothing of you except for the arena-trial."

That gave her pause. "But what if one of them is this unknown enemy?" she ventured. "Would this not make her angrier, and inclined to make further attempts to destroy us?"

"We learned one thing in our training as gladiators," he told her, his eyes darkening with unpleasant memories. "The one who loses his temper loses the fight. You saw for yourself how that was true, for if I had not lost my temper, I think I might have won even against you." He paused. "It is my habit to review my experiences, and I think that if I had grabbed one of your rods from the air and hurled it instantly back at you, I might have scored. You must see that no other opponent ever has the chance to use your conjurations against you; you must be ready to abolish them the moment they leave your hands." He paused again, and she nodded, appreciating the advice. Then he continued. "If this enemy of yours is among these women, I think it would be a good thing to goad her into losing her temper, for it will make her rash and inclined to act before she plans. Thus, she will expose herself, and we can take steps to rid our path of her."

Xylina tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and looked up at him, thoughtfully. "Are you really sorry you did not win?" she asked quietly.

He took a deep breath, and his expression stilled for a moment. She knew she should not have asked; he had, after all, tacitly reassured her on that point. Yet reassurance seemed to be something she could never quite completely accept, so she had to verify it, and re-verify it.

"At the time-yes," he said, after a moment of silence. "But now-" He shook his head. "I cannot say. If it had been anyone but you, I think I would rather have died. No, I would have died. I would have kept attacking until she was forced to kill me. You-were so different, I did not know how to react. Often I still don't. When you leaped onto my back, naked, and I felt your breasts and thighs on my body, my will to fight faded, even before you conjured the wire at my neck." He gave her a crooked smile. "So now you know the great secret, little mistress."

So he had been aware of her body. She had not thought of that at the time. Her femininity had been a weapon! There was more, much more, unsaid between them. But she would not force him to say those things aloud.

"We should go back to the marketplace before the farm-slaves return to their mistresses," she said instead. "Then we can get something done about new seedlings before we need to prepare for this exhibition. Should I conjure you a costume, do you think?"

"Yes to both," he replied, going to hold open the door to the house for her. "And we should discuss the costume on the way to the marketplace."

The evening was an unqualified success, at least insofar as Xylina was concerned. Faro had given a performance that pleased both of them, and had caused a sensation for their hostess, who obviously had not expected that the slave would be nearly so erudite. The guests had gasped at the demonstration of weight-lifting, which had ended with Faro hoisting an incredible pile of "stone" pieces, with Xylina enthroned atop them in a slab-sided "chair" of her own conjuration. Perhaps they suspected that Xylina had conjured a very light form of stone; it didn't matter. The women had expressed their enjoyment to the wealthy merchant at being entertained in such a surprising way. And the hostess had, in her turn, expressed her pleasure in the form of an addition to the agreed-upon fee.

The entertainment had been held in a spacious and luxurious room just off an inner garden of the villa. The perfumes of night-blossoming flowers mingled with the subtle odors of incense and the exotic fruits and wines that the merchant served her guests. The guests half-reclined on scarlet upholstered couches, and were served by discreet slaves, who saw to it that the cups remained full and the bowls of fruit at their sides remained cool and attractive. Perfumed lanterns lit the room, giving them plenty of light to perform by, yet preserving a warm intimacy. There were about a dozen guests, all of them dressed in rich fabrics and heavy gold jewelry. Some of it might have been conjured, but Xylina doubted it. She didn't recognize any of them, but she hadn't really expected to-the women who had attended her mother's entertainments were not generally found among the merchants, but among the artists and warriors.

Faro had somehow managed to keep the proper balance between "dangerous" and "under control." Xylina had no idea how he had managed, for she had seen the signs of anger on him many times during the evening. But then, she had trod a fine line herself as she was drawn into the conversation. She had tried to convey the impression that she was much more aware of city gossip and the current tales among the wealthy Mazonites than she actually was. Her conjurations had at least impressed many of the merchants and wealthy women at the party; she had caught more than one of them regarding her with an appraising look when they thought her attention was elsewhere.

But there was no indication that any of these women were her mysterious enemy, or even if indeed such an enemy existed.

Both she and Faro were as tired at the end of the entertainment as if they had been putting in a day of heavy manual labor. Conjuration took a great deal out of a woman in terms of concentration, if nothing else. And Faro had been lifting huge weights until his bare torso, minimally decorated with "gold" chains, ran with sweat.

Her attention was not always on the conversation; when it drifted away from her, she found herself coming back to the mysterious enemy, and the threat she posed. At least the house was secured against intruders; it would take an entire crew of workers with a winch and levers to remove the conjured stone blocking the front gate, and another crew with metal-saws to cut through the conjured mesh she had created between the top of the outer walls and the house itself. The good thing about protecting her property with conjurations was that she could, quite literally, create something that had no entrance. Where there was no way to get in naturally, an intruder would have to create one at a huge cost in terms of time and effort.

Faro continued to amuse the women reclining on their couches around him with his audacious replies to their questions for more than an hour after their performance was over and the hostess had paid Xylina. But as the night lengthened and the party showed no signs of breaking up, she gave Faro the signal that they should take their leave, and whispered as much to the hostess.

"I'm certain you have things to discuss that you would rather outsiders did not hear, great ladies," Xylina said into a momentary lull in the conversation. "I am, after all, only a very young woman, and by no means could I have anything to contribute to your wise counsels. So with your permission, we will take our leave."

A few of the Mazonites looked as if they would rather have enjoyed Faro's rather caustic wit for a while longer, but as Xylina had expected, they did not object. No "party" was ever held strictly for entertainment; she recalled that quite clearly from her childhood. At some point in the evening, the slaves would be sent away and the women would get down to some serious discussions of politics and business. Often, they were one and the same, and when that was the case, the discussions continued until dawn.

So when she and Faro ventured out into the lamp-lit street outside Klyta Stylina's villa, she was not surprised to look up and see from the stars that it was well past midnight. She pulled her conjured "cloak" a little closer around her shoulders; the air was chill and rather damp, and she shivered as she covered a yawn. She hated to think about getting up at dawn to go down to the market to get the promised seedlings, and to post Faros services for hire, but one good fee did not make up for possible lost revenue. In fact, she would need every copper-bit of the added gratuity to help ease the financial burden those new seedlings were going to place on their resources.

Strange: here she was worrying about seedlings, gardens-but a short time ago she was ready to die. Sometimes the changes in her life made her feel as if she were astride a runaway horse, being carried on to some unknown destination, whatever her wishes in the matter might be.

There was no one in the street at this hour to see them, so Faro fell in beside her, rather than taking the proper position of a slave, three paces behind his mistress.

"You were excellent, Faro," Xylina told him, warmly and honestly, as they walked slowly to the cross-street that led most directly to their quarter of the city. "I don't know how you managed to keep your temper when some of them asked you about the arena and our fight."

The street was bordered by the walls surrounding the forecourts and front gardens of the expensive villas of this section of the city. Walls of limestone, of granite, of glazed tile and of semi-polished marble loomed high over their heads on either side of the wide, brick-paved street. Those walls were broken from time to time by massive doors, or iron or brass gates; on either side of these portals were lanterns or torches that would burn all night. The tops of the walls would be set with flint-shards, potsherds, broken glass or revolving spikes to ensure the privacy and security of the wealthy owners.

By day, those portals would stand open, allowing the passerby a brief glimpse of luxury, but at night they were closed firmly against those who haunted the night. Mostly those were simply the poor, who prowled the streets at night looking for usable discards. Xylina had done so herself, in the past, finding just enough to make it worth the shame of possibly being seen. But there were thieves, and vandals; there were also the gangs of slaves commanded by renegade women who would do anything for a price. More than one Mazonite had hired such gangs to work as much damage as possible to an enemy or rival. Xylina had seen one or two of those gangs on her own nocturnal expeditions, and had hidden herself in the shadows with her heart in her mouth, waiting for them to pass. She could have defended herself with conjurations, of course, but the shame of being discovered on the street at that time would have haunted her.

And in between such commissions, they took on other "work"; robbing anyone who happened to cross their path. Usually they only robbed any women they encountered, for the penalties for a man to harm a Mazonite in any way-even if he had been commanded to do so by his mistress-were far too high for any of them to take the risk of identification and reprisal. But male slaves, sent out on late errands, were beaten without mercy, and often killed.

The lanterns and torches made puddles of light between the huge stretches of shadow; shadows that could hide almost anything. From over the walls drifted sounds: laughter and talk from the party behind them, then soft music, then another flurry of women's voices in talk and song, then the melody only fountains and falling water could produce. Occasional scents wafted over the walls as well: savory food, incense, the heady perfumes of night-blooming flowers.

The sounds and scents coming over the walls evoked an aura of calm, but the huge blots of shadow evoked the very opposite.

"It was-difficult to remain calm, little mistress," Faro said, long after Xylina had stopped expecting any kind of reply. "One of those women was my former owner."

Xylina noted that he did not say, "former mistress." She did not think that this distinction was an accident. Faro would acknowledge no Mazonite as his mistress except Xylina-that much she was certain of. To call a woman his mistress implied that she had a right to rule him; he would no longer give any Mazonite but her that right.

"I didn't know that," she said, after a long, awkward moment. "If I had, I do not think I would have asked you to perform that way."

To her surprise, he chuckled. "Oh, little mistress, believe me when I tell you that it was much better this way. I think I terrified her all over again. She heard my threats, when they took me away to the arena, of the things I would do to her. She expected me to lunge for her and make those threats good every moment that we were there. I suspect she will insist that all her slaves guard her every step on the way home, and will post more guards around her very bed tonight and every night for some time, certain that I will escape you and come for her." He chuckled again. "All things considered, this is a much better revenge than I could ever have hoped for."

She giggled a little. "Was that the scrawny woman in the gold-tissue, with too many earrings?"

"The same," Faro confirmed.

"She did look as if she expected you to leap on her like a tiger." Xylina had to smile. "I suppose she thought my control of you far from adequate. Because she was failing completely to assign any possibility of self-control to you."

"Exactly," Faro agreed. "And there you have it. Everything I do-or do not do-will be credited to your control of me."

"Such illusion!"

"No illusion, mistress."

He did not seem to be joking. Xylina shook her head as they turned the corner and headed towards their home. "Perhaps mother was different-perhaps I am simply remembering things wrongly-but I don't remember her ever treating her slaves that way. Certainly she and Marcus talked all the time about everything under the sun, and she listened to his opinions and often followed his advice."

"What happens in private and what happens in public are two different things, little mistress," Faro cautioned. "I am certain that your mother must have acted in the same arrogant fashion as any other Mazonite in public. And you must do the same, if you are going to impress other women with your control, your strength and-"

Whatever else he was about to say was lost, as a hint of movement in the shadows of the street ahead of them made them both stop dead in their tracks.

The lanterns and torches were fewer and farther between here; the blotches of shadow larger and deeper. And there was something in the third pool of shadow from where they now stood.

They remained right where they were, beside one of the lanterns, in the full light. That made it difficult for them to see into the shadows, but impossible for anyone to sneak up on them.

The only sounds were the ones coming over the walls; distant reminders of a different kind of life. Xylina felt her stomach knot, her spine tingle with a premonition of danger. A moment later, the danger manifested.

Impatient for their prey to come to them, the ambushers moved out of concealment and into the lit portion of the street.

There were five men and one woman. The woman hung back, remaining at the edge of the shadow, only the outline of her form revealing that she was a woman. The men were all large, roguish-looking, with cruel, hard eyes and the scars of those who had fought others before.

But they were not as big or as muscular as Faro-and none of them had that "arena look," a look as if they longed for death and did not care whether the death was their own or someone else's. They carried no weapons; that was a death-penalty crime for any man without a special permit, even if the weapons weren't used.

They said nothing, nor did they need to. It was obvious that their chosen targets were Faro and his mistress. What they could not have guessed was that the two might oppose their attackers as a team.

For an ordinary man to be armed within the city was death-but a man might carry a stave or a staff, and although the law said that it must be of light, hollow material, easily broken, who was to say what that staff might truly be made of? Especially if it had been conjured and could be banished long before the City Guard arrived at the scene.

No sooner thought than done; Xylina gathered her power from deep within, spread her hands palms up, and conjured a staff as tall as Faro, but made of metal. She staggered a little as it dropped into her hands, but tossed it quickly to the slave.

He took it immediately, casting her a feral grin, and went into a "guard" position with it.

She dropped behind him a step, her heart pounding and her mouth dry, as the ruffians rushed them.

She used the strategy that had been so successful against Faro: conjuring metal rods and hurling them at the legs of their attackers. One went down in mid-charge; two more stumbled but recovered.

The two who had not been stopped hurled themselves at Faro; the other two came for Xylina.

She conjured a metal net and threw it at them, dancing backwards and hoping there were no more of the ruffians behind her. The net ensnared the first of the attackers neatly; the second continued to charge.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Faro snap up the tip of his staff, taking the first man to reach him under the chin. The man's head jerked back as the tip connected with a meaty crack. He fell over backwards, landing in a limp heap in the street, and did not move.

Now Xylina's second attacker was within arm's-length of her; she changed her tactics and conjured something different: a double-handful of grit that she tossed directly into his face before ducking under his groping arms and getting behind him.

He cried out with pain and his hands flew to his face- but he still had the momentum of his charge, and now Xylina was in a position to add to that.

She did, with a kick to his back that sent him into the wall. He landed heavily against it, hitting it with his head and shoulder. She conjured another heavy rod the length of her forearm, and while he was still dazed, she clubbed him across the back of his skull.

The impact jarred her hand and made her let go of the rod, but it no longer mattered. The man dropped to the bricks like a felled ox, his scalp split open and bleeding.

She heard a sound behind her and ducked, dropping to the ground and tumbling out of the way. Just in time, for the man she had tripped with her rods had recovered-and had one of the rods in his hand. He swung-

Just as she banished her conjuration. How apt Faro's warning about that had been!

The sudden loss of his improvised club startled him- giving her a chance to repeat her trick with the grit. She hit both his eyes with the stuff, and he yelled and stumbled back-right into range of Faro's staff.

Faro dispatched him with careless ease and a blow to the side of the head, and turned his attention back to his other opponent before the clubbed man hit the pavement.

This was when the woman in the shadows made her move.

She left, abandoning her slaves.

Xylina could hardly believe it when the woman whirled and took to her heels, running off into the shadows and leaving her men to fend for themselves and extract themselves as well as they could. But she had no time to congratulate herself on her luck, for the third man came at her, and she was fairly certain that he would not be taken by either the rods or the net, nor would he leave his eyes vulnerable to a handful of grit.

He was fast, charging her like a sprinter, and there was nowhere for her to run.

So she conjured a patch of the most slippery oil she could think of right under his running feet, then dodged to one side as he hit it.

His feet went right out from underneath him and flew up; his head hit the bricks of the street with a sickening crack.

He did not get up.

Faro used the moment of distraction as she took out her third opponent to eliminate his second. He drove the tip of the staff into the ruffian's stomach, then brought the other end down on his head. The man went down with a muffled cry.

And the street was suddenly silent. Quickly Xylina banished her conjurations. The woman might come back with the City Guard, and accusations of an armed slave. Faro stared at his empty hands for an eye-blink, then quickly dusted them on his tunic.

"Are you all right?" he asked Xylina carefully, as if he were having trouble forming words. She could understand that; she trembled from head to toe with reaction, and she was not certain she would be able to talk coherently for several moments yet. She simply nodded, and walked cautiously over to one of their felled opponents. Felled? No-she realized as she touched the first one that she and Faro had done their work too well. There would be no one to question, for they had killed all five.

As she had half-expected, there were no badges or livery, or anything else to identify the woman who was their mistress. Their tunics were plain, coarse linen. There were no brands of ownership on them, either. Even the slave-rings about their necks were cheap iron bands with no writing on them.

She straightened from her examination to see that Faro was doing the same thing-checking the dead men for anything that could identify them.

Or was he?

She took a closer look-to see that he was rifling the bodies!

"What are you doing?" she blurted in astonishment.

He calmly pocketed the pouch of coins the man had worn about his neck, and went on to the next victim. "I am doing to them what they were going to do to us," he said with calm logic. "The pickings seem to be meager, but every copper-bit we take from them is one we didn't have before."

She stared at him for a moment with open mouth-then, as the logic behind his statement sank in, she closed her mouth with a snap, and bent again to do the same to the man at her feet.

After all, these men might have been hired by her unknown enemy. And if that was the case-

Well, it was poetic justice to have the one who had destroyed her precious garden in the first place help to pay for the new plants.