The Dead of Winter

KEEPING PROMISES by Robin W. Bailey

A horse careered insanely along the Governor's Walk, heedless of the cold, drizzling mist that treacherously slicked the paving stones. Its breath came in great steaming clouds. It made the corner onto the Avenue of Temples at a speed that threatened to unseat the two cloaked riders on its back.

From the shadowed steps of the Temple of Ils a small, lithe figure leaped into the road. There was the glint of metal in its clenched fist. With a wild shout the figure flung out its arms. The horse whinnied in terror, reared, and crashed to a stop.

The rider in the saddle answered with a curse, swung downward with a sword, and made a swift end of the attacker on the ground.

"More behind and coming fast!" the second rider warned, wrapping arms even more tightly about the first rider. "Go, damn it!"

Again, the horse raced onward, past the park called the Promise of Heaven where half-starved women sold their bodies for the price of a lean meal. The beast wheeled to the right and down a street between two dark and immense edifices. A set of massive iron gates loomed.

The first rider jerked sharply on the reins, threw a leg over the mount's head, and jumped to the ground. The second rider slid backward over the damp, lathered rump, stumbled, then sagged to the pavement.

A hood was flung back; a pommel smashed against the unyielding barriers. A voice called out full of desperation and anger. "Father! Let us in! Dayrne-anyone awake!"

"Chenaya!" The second rider rose to a timid crouch and drew a small dagger. "They're coming!"

Four men ran down the street, weapons drawn. Even as they came on, three more emerged from the shadows to join them. Chenaya whirled to face them, cursing. Gods knew what the hell they wanted! This was too much trouble for a common robbery. Perhaps it was vengeance for the two she'd already slain that drove them.

"Get behind me," she ordered, dragging her companion by the arm. Then she put a pair of fingers to her lips, gave a sharp whistle, and called, "Reyk!"

The lead runner gave a choked scream, then a long gurgling cry of frightened pain. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, beat at his face. But he was much too slow. The falcon, Reyk, climbed back into the sky, leaving the man's eyes in bloody ruin. He winged a tight circle, then settled on his mistress's arm. She sent him aloft once more. "Can't carry you and fight," she whispered tersely. Without turning away she banged her pommel on the gate again. "Father!"

One runner stopped to help his fallen comrade. The rest rushed on. She couldn't make out their features or identify their dress, but she could feel their hatred.

Her companion beat on the gates with a dagger. "Open! For pity's sake, let your daughter in!"

Chenaya ripped off her cloak and drew a second sword. With the two blades she stepped forward to meet her attackers. "All right, you miserable dung-balls!" She twirled the weapons in dazzling double arcs. "I don't know what you want, but I'll play your game. Try to entertain me, you sons of whores!"

Before the first blow could be struck the gates swung wide. Six giants, in various stages of arming themselves, spilled into the street, steel gleaming in their fists. Che-naya's pursuers caught themselves up short, then ran in the other direction, dragging their blinded friend with them. They were quickly swallowed by the damp gloom.

Chenaya spun to face the tallest of the giants. "Dayme, what the hell's going on around here? We've barely arrived in Sanctuary, but we've been attacked twice. Some group hit us in Caravan Square at the end of General's Road. Then these attacked as we came along Governor's Walk. Nobody's on the streets but madmen!"

Dayrne's gaze lingered on her face a bit longer than was proper, and he gave a distinct sigh of relief even as he chewed his lip. "Politics later. Mistress," he said finally as he ushered Chenaya and her hooded companion inside the estate grounds. He paused to make sure the gates were sealed then continued. "Things have gone to hell in the city since you've been gone. We can talk more of it later, but first you must see your father. Lowan Vigeles has been nearly ill worrying about you." His brows knit in consternation. "You promised to return before the onset of winter."

"Something important came up," she answered defensively, avoiding his eyes. She extended her arm again. In the light of the few torches that illumined the interior courtyard the metal rings of her manica glimmered. Again, she whistled. It was impossible to see the bird in the dark, but she heard the soft beat of its pinions, felt the rush of air by her cheek as he took a familiar place on her wrist. Chenaya slipped a jess from her belt and fitted it over Reyk's leg. From another small pocket she extracted a hood to cover his eyes. Only then did she pass him into Dayrne's care. "Have one of the men clean his talons immediately." She stroked her pet. "He scored one of them. Don't let the blood crust. And have someone take care of that poor horse. He's carried the two of us a long way."

Chenaya took her traveling companion by the elbow then and led her across the court. Dayrne gave quick orders to the other men and fell into step behind. As they crossed the grounds she noted how well the restoration of the old estate was progressing. Land's End, the locals called the place, though she was damned if she knew why.

Light streamed through an open doorway. She stepped inside a grand entrance hall and gazed up the wide staircase that curved along the east wall. Lowan Vigeles stood at the top. His face was full of relief at the sight of her, but he couldn't hide his anger.

Two of her gladiators, the former thieves Dismas and Gestus, flanked him according to standing instructions. Lowan was not to be left unguarded during a disturbance. But there was someone else at the top of the stair who she could barely see. The woman seemed to hang back.

Lowan descended the stairs and stopped halfway down. "You've been gone far longer than your three months, Daughter." There was a hard edge to his voice, but it couldn't mask the deeper joy he felt. "You broke your promise. You're long overdue." Then he relented and extended his arms. "Welcome home."

Chenaya unfastened her weapon belt and dropped it at the foot of the stair. She ran up to her father, threw her arms about him, and pressed her head against his shoulder. Lowan Vigeles was a tall man, but the past months had made him appear haggard. He had lost weight and there was little color left in his cheeks. "You worried too much!" she admonished with a whisper only he could hear.

"How much is too much?" he said, letting a hint of his anger show once more. "Things are changing, Chenaya. Law has broken down all over the city. Hell, all over the Empire. You could have been dead and rotting for all I knew."

"I'm sorry, Father," she said honestly. "It couldn't be helped. You know I'd have come home if I could've." And that was enough of that, her tone conveyed without her needing to say more. She regretted having caused him pain, and she knew he had worried, but she wasn't a child. She wouldn't be treated as one, even by her father. She started to remind him of that, then caught a clearer look at the woman above.

It took her by complete surprise. Then, abruptly, a broad grin spread over her face. Chenaya had become immune to shock long ago. Still, she found considerable amusement in the idea that her father might cuckold his own brother.

"Good evening. Lady Rosanda," she said grandly. "How's Uncle Molin these days?"

Rosanda's shy, delicate smile turned to a look of infinite perplexity. Then the older woman blushed hotly and fled from Chenaya's view.

Daughter winked at father. "A chunky little tidbit to ease your worried mind, eh?"

Lowan rapped her lightly on the brow with his fingers. "Don't be impudent, child. She and Molin have separated, and your aunt is quite upset. She's staying here a | few days until she gets herself together."

"By the Bright Light!" Chenaya exclaimed, clapping a hand melodramatically to her heart. "She must be giving Dayrne fits about the housekeeping."

"Not at all. Mistress," Dayrne said from the foot of the stair.

"She's actually been quite helpful," Lowan Vigeles insisted. "She's taken a firm hand in the restorations." He laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder and compelled her to meet his gaze. "And you must be kind to her. Whatever you think of Molin, Rosanda is a lady and a guest in our house. Her head may be full of sky, but her heart is full of love." He smiled suddenly and ran a hand over her blonde curls. "And she's inordinately fond of you. She thinks you're the only true Rankan woman left in the city ... beside herself, of course." He reached for her hand. "Now, come sit by the hearth in my room and tell me of your journey." •

Chenaya hesitated. "I'm afraid we're going to have more company than Rosanda." She indicated her companion who had remained patiently near the entrance. "I've brought someone home, too."

Still clutching the unsheathed dagger, her companion pushed back the concealing hood and glared sullenly up at her hosts. A spray of wild, black hair tumbled forward, partially obscuring classic features turned hard and thin.

Lowan Vigeles turned pale. Then he bowed his head respectfully to the small, silent woman. "Please, come up!" he urged, holding out his hand. "Come up and get warm." |

But Chenaya intervened. "Not now. Father. She's tired and needs a bath. Dayrne will prepare the room next to mine for her." She glanced down at her companion, and an unspoken message passed between them. "Then, tomorrow she starts a new life."

Dayme touched the woman's elbow to guide her up the staircase and to her quarters. Adder-quick, she slapped his hand away, spun, and spat at him. The dagger flashed.

"Daphne!" Chenaya's harsh shout was enough. The tiny weapon froze in mid-plunge. Chenaya and Dayme exchanged hasty glances. Of course, he'd never been in danger. The giant was one of the best gladiators Ranke had ever produced, more than able to defend himself from such a feeble attack. But it wouldn't do to have Daphne's little wrist broken, either.

"He doesn't touch me!" Daphne screamed. "No man touches me again." Then she drew herself proudly erect. A malicious smirk creased her mouth. "Unless I want him to." She drew the dagger's edge meaningfully along her thumb, then without another look at Dayrne, she marched up the stair, around Lowan Vigeles, and disappeared the way Rosanda had gone. Dayrne followed at a safe distance.

"She's half-mad," Chenaya said softly with a shake of her head.

Lowan Vigeles raised an eyebrow. "Which half?"

An hour later Lowan greeted his daughter again with another hug and a goblet of hearth-warmed wine. She accepted both gratefully, sipped the drink, and took one of the two massive wooden chairs before the fireplace. She had hastily bathed and changed into a gown of soft blue linen. The traveling leathers she had lived in for months were even now being buried by one of her men.

"I really tried to keep my promise. Father." She set her wine on the chair arm and stretched wearily. "I tried to get back." She gazed into the fire, finding a measure of tranquility in the dancing flames, and she took another drink. The liquor warmed her thoroughly.

"It's all right, child," Lowan soothed. "So long as you're safe. I just worry too much." He sipped his own wine and regarded her. "Where did you find Daphne? Did you leam of anyone else?"

Chenaya shook her head slowly. Memories of her journey flooded her head, overpowering her emotions. "No one else," she said at last. "Either the rest of the Royal Family is dead, or they're hidden too damn well in fear of Theron." She looked up at him. "In fact, I was on my way home when I happened through Azehur. That's just the other side of the Gray Wastes."

She told him of the tavern she had stopped at. There had been a high-stakes game of dice. She wasn't playing for once, just watching with interest, especially when one of the players pulled a ring from a pouch on his belt.

"It was a Royal Sigil," she said, holding up one hand to show the ring she wore, "just like you and I and Molin and Kadakithis and all the Royal Family own. It wasn't a fake. It was real."

She had waited until the player lost even that, then she had followed him from the tavern. There was no need to bore her father with the details of how she had lured the man into an alley or how she had convinced him to talk. Lowan wouldn't have approved.

Chenaya tossed back the last of her wine and held out the cup for more. Lowan rose, fetched the bottle from the mantel above the fire, and poured for her. "The son of a bitch was a part-time sell-sword. Nearly a year before, he'd helped attack and destroy a caravan leaving Sanctuary for Ranke as it crossed the Wastes."

"Daphne and the Prince's concubines," Lowan interrupted as he filled his own vessel, "fleeing the Beysib invasion."

Chenaya nodded. "They were supposed to kill the women. Instead, they saw a chance to make a little more profit and sold them outside the Empire."

Lowan turned sharply, splashing his sleeve with the red liquor. "Sold ... ?"

She fully approved of the anger she read in his expression. She shared it in fullest measure. Daphne had always been a whiner and a constant complainer. Chenaya hadn't liked her much. Still, she hadn't deserved such a fate. "Those men were hired," Chenaya continued, "by someone right here in Sanctuary."

Lowan leaned on the mantel and chewed his lip. He turned the goblet absently in his hands. "Did your man tell you who?"

"I don't think he knew," she answered with a frown. "Or if he did, he preferred to expire with his secret." She drank again and licked the corners of her mouth. "But he did tell me where the women were sold. That's why I was late coming home, Father. I made a side-trip to Scavengers' Island."

Lowan squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a quick oath.

"I can take care of myself!" she snapped before he could say anything. She didn't need his lecture on what a hell-hole Scavengers' Island was reputed to be. She'd seen for herself, had walked among the scum of humanity that dwelled there. "I hired a boat to take Reyk and me across. For anyone who asked I claimed to be a fugitive from one of Theron's purges. That wasn't hard. After a couple of fights most of the rowdies left us alone." She winked. You know how mean that falcon looks.

"It took days to find her," she continued after another swallow. "Turned out she was a special attraction at a particularly nasty brothel that catered to, shall we say, deviated tastes." She paused and smiled a malicious little smile, remembering. "Tempus Thales would've loved it." She shook her head and let the smile fade, wondering vaguely what had happened to that butcher. She looked up at her father and handed him her empty cup to set on the mantel. "You've known men, I'm sure, who could only get excited by violent rape. Well, the proprietor sent those to Daphne." Chenaya wrapped her arms about herself. Despite the fire's warmth, lingering memories of Scavengers' Island sent a chill through her. "They kept her locked in a room. Father, she was a mass of bruises and scratches. She still is. Every time she fought tooth and nail. All it got her was a reputation on the island and a lot more customers with ideas of taming her." She shuddered.

Lowan Vigeles refilled her vessel a third time and urged it upon her. Then he asked quite calmly, "Did you kill the proprietor?"

"I didn't get the chance." She took one more drink, then set the wine aside. She hadn't come here to get drunk with her father, and there were things she had to do come daylight. She didn't need a fuzzy head. "There was plenty of blood letting, though, when I broke her out. Some customers tried to get in the way. But as soon as Daphne spied her keeper she grabbed one of my daggers and leaped at him with a screech that, I swear, made my flesh crawl! The man didn't even get a chance to fling up his arms. I tell you, she carved him like a mince pie. I had to drag her off and hustle her down to the quays before the entire island came after us. Good thing I had a boat waiting."

"Where is she right now?" Lowan asked softly.

"Rosanda volunteered to bathe her. It's probably the first bath she's had since her capture. Speaking of Aunt Rosanda, can you keep her busy out here for a few days? Very busy? I don't want her spreading word of Daphne's return. I want that pleasure for myself, and I want it to be very special."

Lowan frowned. "Now I see. Daphne's just a tool for you, isn't she? Another thorn to stick in Shupansea's side?"

Sometimes, Lowan Vigeles could be irritating, particularly in the accuracy with which he saw her motives. Chenaya had to admit she intended to relish the moment when Shupansea learned about Daphne, but her own father shouldn't be so snide about it.

"You're partly right," she admitted sheepishly. "That Beysib bitch is going to squirm like a hooked fish." Chenaya hooked her little finger in the corner of her lip and stretched it upward to illustrate her words. "But my motives run a little deeper than that, as you'll leam in time." She changed her mind and took one more sip of wine. "I'm glad I rescued Daphne. No woman should suffer what she did. I've promised to find out who in Sanctuary was responsible for the caravan attack."

Lowan sat back down in his chair and met her gaze over the rim of his winecup. The firelight glimmered on the burnished metal and reflected strangely in his eyes. "Promised who?" he said cautiously.

"Daphne," she answered evenly, "and myself."

He closed his eyes. After a while she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then she saw him move to speak. "How will you even begin? It's been a year."

There had been weeks on the road to ponder that. It would do no good to ask the Hell-Hounds to investigate. Even before she left those bumblers seemed to have locked themselves in the garrison and hidden there. Nor could she rule out that one of their rank might be the guilty one. Certainly, they would have known of the caravan's departure. For that matter, it could have been anyone in the palace. Or, she had to admit, anyone who just kept a watchful eye on the city gates. That meant anybody in Sanctuary. No, she needed help to find her answers, and she had someone special in mind for

that.

Of course, Lowan Vigeles wouldn't have approved, so all she told him was, "I have a plan, Father."

She awoke at sunrise after only a couple hours' sleep. She could have used more, but there was a lot to do. She had promised Daphne a new life. It began today.

But before she could stretch and climb out of bed Rosanda knocked quietly and entered with a breakfast tray. Chenaya pushed herself up against the headboard and gawked in utter surprise as the noblewoman spread a soft white cloth over her lap and set the tray upon it. It contained several slices of cold roast meat, fresh bread, and a rare Enlibar orange. There was a vessel of water to wash it down.

"Aunt Rosanda," Chenaya protested, "this wasn't necessary. The men take care of everything, or we see to our own needs."

Rosanda shushed her. "I don't mind, really. It's been far too long since I lifted my hand in a kitchen. I baked the bread myself early this morning." She blushed and looked away. "I thought I'd forgotten how. It used to be the duty of every Rankan woman to bake bread, you know, but we've all become so spoiled. No wonder there are stories that the Empire is crumbling."

Rosanda turned to leave, but Chenaya caught her hand. "Rosanda," she said in confidential tones, "what happened between you and Uncle Molin?"

Sadness was reflected in the older woman's features, but then she drew herself erect. "Chenaya, no matter how long I live in this city of thieves and vipers," her eyes narrowed to angry slits, "I am still a Rankan. I can't turn my back on my heritage." Rosanda began to rub at some invisible spot on her palm. "Molin has forsaken it all. Ranke means nothing to him. He schemes with the Beysib fish-folk. He turns away from our gods and our customs." She threw up her hands suddenly in frustration, and there was a moistness in her eye. "I just couldn't stay with him anymore. I still retain my lands and my titles. But I needed to get away from the Palace and all its intrigues for awhile. You and Lowan Vigeles are the only relatives I have in this city, so I came here." She leaned down and placed a gentle hand on Chenaya's hair, smoothing it on the pillows. "You and your father are the best of Rankan society, of all that we hold ideal. I needed a little of what you have to remind me who I am."

It was Chenaya's turn to flush. Perhaps she should have taken time long ago to get to know her aunt. The old woman might seem air-headed, but there was a kindness in her that was endearing. "Thank you. Lady," Chenaya said simply. Then, she decided to trust Ro-sanda. "I asked Father to find a way to keep you here a while ..."

Rosanda put on a faint, patient smile. "So I wouldn't talk about Daphne?"

That startled Chenaya. Her aunt was perceptive, too. More and more about Rosanda surprised her.

"You needn't worry about that," her aunt promised. "But the palace walls are going to shake when word gets out. Are you planning to take her to the Festival of the Winter Bey?"

Chenaya picked up the orange, peeled it, and took a juicy bite. "Festival?" she said with barely contained interest. An amusing idea began to form in her head. She hadn't yet decided how or when to reveal Daphne to an unsuspecting Sanctuary.

"The Beysa is hosting a lavish celebration to honor the seasonal aspect of their fish-goddess." Rosanda smiled again and winked. "They tie Mid-Winter to the moon rather than the sun. Our festivals will be long done with. Literally everyone who's anyone will be there."

Chenaya hid a grin behind her water goblet as she sipped. "Thank you again, Aunt Rosanda. I'm in your debt."

Rosanda nodded with mock sobriety, but she struggled to repress a giggle. As her aunt left, Chenaya noticed there was decidedly more bounce in her old step. When the door closed and Chenaya was finally alone, she sprang out of bed. She loved parties, and this festival came at just the perfect time. Gods, how she would enjoy it! She went to the window, drew a deep breath of fresh air, and gazed up at the sun that rose in the east. Thank you. Bright Father, she prayed, Savankala, thank you!

She dressed hurriedly in a short red fighting kilt. Around her waist she fastened a broad, gold-studded leather belt. She added a white tunic, then sandals, and tied back her long hair. Lastly, she set on her brow a golden circlet inset with the sunburst symbol of her god.

On the grounds of the estate, midway between the house and the Red Foal River, Chenaya and her gladiators had constructed a workout arena. It was crude by capital standards. There was no seating for spectators, but there was a complete series of training machines, iron weights for strength development, wooden and metal weapons of all types, and even a huge sandpit for wrestling or small matches. Of all the household, only Lowan Vigeles was exempt from the vigorous daily training sessions.

Her eight warriors and Daphne were already hard at work. On the sand, Gestas and Dismas slashed at each other with real weapons, testing each other, each secure in the other's skill and control. To the inexperienced eye it looked like the final climax of a long and bitter blood-feud. She nodded approvingly.

These eight were the best the Rankan arenas had produced. There were no longer crowds to fight for, no games, no purses, but she was damned if she'd let that fine training fade.

Daphne stood attentively beside Dayme before a rack of weights. She was dressed much like Chenaya, but without the leather belt. That honor was reserved for one who'd triumphed in an arena death match. Daphne had never fought. But looking at the scratches and bruises on the young woman's legs, recalling how she'd disposed of the brothel keeper, Chenaya wondered just how long it would be before she too wore the band of an accomplished warrior. Daphne hung on Dayrne's instruction as he explained a particular curling movement, and she took the heavy weight without complaint when he told her to. Her face twisted in a grimace as she strained, but she executed the motion perfectly.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Chenaya said as she joined them. "Up at dawn every day, working until your body aches all over, bleeding or bruising in places you never knew you had? It's no life for a Rankan lady."

Daphne performed one more perfect exercise, then she set the weight aside. She met Chenaya's gaze unflinchingly. The sun shone brilliantly in those dark eyes, shimmered in the thick, black luster of her hair. She pointed to the mottling on her legs. "There's no place I haven't bruised or bled already." She crossed to another rack, took down an old sword. The hilt was too big for her grip and the blade too long, but that didn't matter to Daphne. "And you're a lady, Chenaya." She said the words as if they were an accusation. "Yet you slaughtered half a dozen men to break me out of that hell on Scavengers' Island and another six at the quay before we got away. On top of that you saved us from those men last night. You ask if I want this?" She raised the sword between them and shook it so the sunlight rippled on the keen edge. "Cousin, this is freedom I hold in my hand! With this, you go anywhere, do anything you wish. No man dares touch you unless you want him to. No one orders you. Nothing frightens you. Well, I want that same freedom, Chenaya. I want it, and I'll have it!"

Chenaya regarded Daphne for a long, cool moment, wondering what door she was about to open for the younger woman. Daphne was but a few years her junior, but an age of experience separated them. Still, there was a fire in Daphne's eyes that had never been there before. She glanced once more at those scratches and bruises, then made up her mind.

"Then I'll train you as I'd train any slave or thief sent to the arena. When you stand on this field in those garments you're no more than the least of my men. You'll do exactly what I or Dayrne or any of them tell you. If you don't you'll be beaten until you do. It will break your spirit, or it will make you tougher than ever before. I pray for the latter. If you agree, then you'll learn every trick and skill a gladiator could want, and you'll learn from the best teachers." Chenaya walked a tight circle around her new pupil. "Whether that will make you free or not ..." She faced Daphne again and shrugged. There were many kinds of freedom and many kinds of fear. But Daphne would have to learn that for herself. "Now, say that you agree to my terms. Swear it before the Bright Father, Savankala, himself."

Daphne hugged the sword to her breast. The sunlight that reflected from the blade made an amber blaze across her features as she swore. "By Savankala," she answered fervently. "But you won't beat me, Chenaya. No one will. I'll work twice as hard as your best man."

Chenaya hid a knowing grin. It was easy to say such a thing now. But when her muscles began to crack, when the training machines knocked her to the ground, after the first broken bone or the first slice of steel through skin- would she still prove so eager?

"Then pay attention to Dayrne. He'll be responsible for your daily regimen. Of all the men I ever fought in the games only he gave me a dangerous cut." She showed the pale scar that ran the length of her left forearm. "Couldn't bend or use it for nearly a month. Some physicians even thought I would lose it. Fortunately, the gods favored me."

Daphne put on a smirk. "But I've heard rumors that you never lose."

Chenaya frowned. She had fostered the rumors herself to frighten opponents. Nor were the rumors untrue, though only she and Molin Torchholder knew the details of her relationship with Savankala the Thunderer. In truth, she couldn't lose at anything.

But here was a chance to teach Daphne an important first lesson. "It may be true that I cannot lose, Daphne," she said sternly, "but not losing is not the same as always winning. And remember, even winning can cost a very dear price. Be sure you're willing to pay it." She turned away, but Daphne stopped her. "I've taken your vow, and on this ground as I train I'll call you Mistress as the others do." Something flared in the young woman's eyes, and her hand closed around Chenaya's wrist. "But you swear now, too, to remember your promise to me."

Calmly, but quite firmly, Chenaya freed herself from Daphne's grip. "I've already given you my promise. This afternoon I'll begin to search."

"I want a name, Mistress," Daphne hissed, giving special emphasis to the title, "and I want a throat between my hands. Soon."

Chenaya reached out casually, seized Daphne's tunic, easily lifted the smaller woman up onto the tips of her toes. She pulled Daphne's face very close to her own. She could smell Daphne's breath. "Don't dictate to me; don't threaten, even with subtlety," Chenaya warned. "And don't ever play games with me." She set Daphne back on her feet and motioned for Dayrne to resume the training. "Now work hard. And make up your mind to let Dayrne touch you. Each day he'll massage the soreness from your muscles." Then she winked. "And in four days you and I are going to a party."

"Where?" Daphne asked suspiciously.

"The Governor's Palace," she answered lightly. "Where else in this city?" She left Daphne then, chose a manica, a buckler, and a sword from the weapon stores and went to engage both Gestas and Dismas at once.

She had changed to leathers again to move through the afternoon streets. One sword hung from her weapon belt, and two daggers were thrust through straps on her thighs. She wore a heavy, hooded cloak to conceal her face and to keep out the chilly cold that seemed to bite right through to her bones.

In daylight, more people braved the streets. Apparently, the different factions that tried to carve up the city restricted their activities to nighttime. That suited her. She had plenty to attend to without the minor distractions of wild eyed fanatics.

The doors to the Temple of the Rankan Gods stood open. She mounted the marble steps one at a time and went inside. At the entrance she paused, pushed back her hood, gazed around. The structure was magnificent, yet it had an odd, unfinished feel to it. The interior was lit by hundreds of lamps and braziers and by a huge skylight that illumined the prime altar with Savankala's own glory. Above the altar an immense sunburst of polished gold burned and shimmered and cast reflections around the huge chamber.

On either side of Savankala's altar were smaller altars to Sabellia and Vashanka. They were of equal beauty and craftsmanship, but they were illumined only by the fires of men. Marvelously carved figures of the goddess and her son rose behind their altars. Such a representation of Savankala was not allowed, however. A man could look upon the moon and stars; a man could see the lightning. But who could see the Thunder or bear to look upon the blazing face of the Bright Father Himself?

As she approached the sunlit altar a young, white-robed novice came forth to greet her. Chenaya made the proper obeisance to her god and ignited the stick of incense the young priest offered. She spoke a soft prayer and watched the smoke waft toward the open skylight.

When the incense was consumed she spoke to the novice. "Will you tell Rashan that I am here?"

He bowed gracefully. "He has been expecting you, Lady Chenaya." He left her, disappearing into the maze of corridors that honeycombed the temple.

Rashan, called the Eye of Savankala, appeared moments later. He was a grizzled old man. There was a toughness to his features that suggested he had not always been a priest. Or perhaps it was that difficult, she thought, to rise through the priestly hierarchy. It had taken him years to achieve his position and title. Indeed, before the coming of Molin Torchholder, Rashan had been the High Priest of the Rankan faith in this part of the Empire.

He smoothed his gray beard, and his eyes showed a rare sparkle as he came forward. "Lady," he said, taking her hand. He dropped to one knee and lightly kissed her fingertips. "I was told to expect you."

She pulled him to his feet. "Oh, and who told you?"

He raised a finger toward the skylight. "He sends the signs and the portents. You make no move He does not know about."

She laughed. "Rashan, you are too devout. The Bright Father has more to do than watch constantly over me."

But Rashan shook his head. "You must accept his plan for you, child," he urged. "You are the Daughter of the Sun, the salvation and guardian of the Rankan faith."

She laughed again. "Are you still insisting on that? Look at me, Priest. I'm flesh and blood. I'm no priestess, and certainly no goddess. No matter how many dreams come to you, that will not change. I'm the daughter of Lowan Vigeles, nothing more."

Rashan bowed politely. "In time you will learn otherwise. It isn't for me to argue with Savankala's daughter. You will accept your heritage or reject it as fate decrees." He went to stand before the altar of Vashanka, and his shoulders slumped. "But there is a void in the pantheon. Vashanka has fallen silent and will not answer prayer." He turned and leveled a finger at her. "I tell you, Chenaya, if something has happened to the Son of Savankala, then the time will come for the Daughter to accept Her responsibilities."

"No more of this talk!" Chenaya snapped. "I tell you, Rashan, it borders on blasphemy. No more, I say!" She paused to collect herself. The first time Rashan had suggested such a thing it had frightened her beyond words. She herself had received dreams from the Bright Father, and she knew their power. In such a dream Savankala had granted her beauty, promised she would never lose at anything, and revealed the ultimate manner of her death. All in a single dream. Now it was Rashan who dreamed! And if his dream was not false-if it was a true sending from the Bright Father.... She shut her eyes and refused to think about it further. Of course, the dream was false. No more than the wishful fantasy of an old priest who saw his empire fading.

"Have you thought more about what I asked when last we met?" she said, changing the subject. "It is more important now when the streets are so dangerous. You know I've come before only to find these doors closed."

Rashan held up a hand. "I'll build your small temple," he told her. "You can ask nothing that Rashan will not grant."

"What about Uncle Molin?" she said in a conspiratorial tone.

Rashan looked as if he would spit, then remembered where he was and hastily made the sign of his gods. "Molin Torchholder has no power in this House any longer. Your uncle has turned his back on the Rankan gods. He reeks of dark allegiances with alien deities. The other priests and I have agreed to this silent mutiny." He spoke with impressive anger, as if he were pronouncing sentence on a criminal. "I will build your temple, and I will consecrate it. Molin won't even be consulted."

It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old priest. It thrilled her to see others defy her uncle. For too long his schemes and plots had gone unopposed. Now, perhaps there was divine justice after all.

"Build it on the shore of the Red Foal at the very edge of our land," she instructed. "Keep it small, just a private family altar."

Rashan nodded again. "But you must design it."

"What?" She gave a startled look. "I'm no architect!"

"I'll handle the mechanics and the geometries," he assured her. "But you are the Daughter of the Sun. The core design must spring from your own heart and soul."

She sighed, then remembered her other errand. It was getting late, and the gods knew she didn't want to worry her father. She clasped the priest's hand gratefully. "I will design it," she said, relishing the idea of a new challenge. "We'll begin immediately. The cold mustn't stop us. My thanks, Rashan." She pulled up the hood to conceal her face and started to leave. But at the door she stopped and called back, "And no more dreams!"

Outside again, her breath made little clouds in the air. She hadn't meant to spend so long with Rashan. The daylight was weakening; a gray shroud had closed over the city. She hurried down the Avenue of Temples and turned onto Governor's Walk, passing with a wary eye the same corner where she and Daphne had been attacked the night before. It was quiet now; the shadows and crannies appeared empty of threat. She turned down Weaver's Way and crossed the Path of Money. At last, she reached Prytanis Street and her destination.

The air seemed suddenly colder, unnaturally cold as she pushed back an unlocked gate and approached a massive set of wooden doors. She knocked. There was no answer, nor any sound from within. She gazed around at the strange stone statues that loomed on either side of the door. There was a curious atmosphere of menace about them. They cast huge shadows over the place where she waited, completely blocking the sun. But she wasn't frightened. She embraced Savankala in her heart and felt safe.

The second time she knocked the door eased open.

There was no one to greet her, so she stepped inside. Eerily, the door closed, leaving her in a foyer lit by soft lamps. "Enas Yorl?" she called. The words echoed hollowly before fading. Chewing her lip, she wandered deeper into the house. Everything looked so old, covered with the dust of centuries. Brilliant pieces of art and sculpture were half-hidden by cobwebs. The air smelled of must and mold. She wrinkled her nose and went through an interior door.

Halfway across that chamber she stopped. A shiver crept up her spine. It was the same room she had just left behind.

"Enas Yorl!" she shouted angrily. "Don't play your wizard's games with me. I want to talk." She hesitated, waited for some kind of answer. "I thought you had a servant," she continued impatiently. "Send him to guide me to you, or come yourself. I'll wait here." She crossed her arms stubbornly, but on the far side of the room another door opened. She thought about it, then sighed. "Oh, all right. Whatever amuses you."

Once again she passed through the door, and once again found herself in the same room. "I've heard a lot about you, Enas Yori," she muttered, "but not that you were boring."

Again the far door opened. To her relief it was a different room. The smell of mold was gone, replaced by a heady incense. Instead of soft lamps, braziers glowed redly, providing the light. This new room was much larger, full of shelves with books and old furniture. Thick carpets covered the floor. In a corner an odoriferous vapor steamed from a large samovar.

At the opposite end of the room was a huge chair on a low dais. Someone, completely obscured by a voluminous cloak, sprawled upon it.

"Pardon me if I'm mistaken," the figure addressed her, "but most people tremble in my presence. You're not trembling."

She batted her eyes innocently. "Sorry to disappoint you."

He held up a hand to silence her, and he pulled himself more erect. "You have the mark of a god upon you." Two red eyes gleamed at her from beneath a hood as spacious as her own. "You are Chenaya, called by some the Daughter of the Sun."

She was beginning to hate that title. "I came to bargain with you, Wizard. I've heard of your power. If there's anything to know in this hell-hole, you know it. It's information I want."

His laughter fairly shook the walls. "Have I changed so drastically? Do I look like Hakiem the Storyteller, or Blind Jakob? Seek those for your information, woman. I'm no peddler of gossip. More important things occupy my time."

"Indeed? Well, occupy yourself with these!" She flung back her cloak and brazenly cupped her breasts. "Nearly a year ago a caravan bearing the Prince's wife and concubines was attacked in the Gray Wastes. The conspirators organized the attack from right here in Sanctuary. You have power, Enas Yorl, and you can find things out. You give me their names, and I'll give you the time of your life!"

The red eyes shone like twin coals. The wizard leaned forward to regard her with interest. "Why on earth, woman, would you offer such a bargain? Do you not know what I am, what my body is? Yes, I can give you what you seek, but do you truly know the price?"

Chenaya barked a short laugh. "You've seen my god's mark upon me, but do you know what it means? It means I can't lose-at anything. And that would get boring if I didn't find new and exciting ways to amuse myself." She unlaced her cloak and let it slide to the floor. "You're the most feared wizard in the Empire, and I decided when I first came to this city that it might be fun to crawl around in your bed. But the price of my flesh is the information I seek."

"But my body, Rankan," the wizard interrupted. "Do you know how it changes?"

"Of course," she answered with another laugh. "And I'll be very disappointed if you don't undergo some transformation while we're making love." She winked. "I told you, I'm always after a new thrill."

His voice took on a deeper, more lusty quality as he rose from his chair. "I have no control over the changes. I can't promise such a thing."

But he changed, even as he whispered in her ear.

Chenaya frowned in irritation as she hugged the cloak tighter about her shoulders and crept from shadow to shadow. It wasn't her normal way of travel. She preferred to stride the center of the streets and damn anyone stupid enough to block her path. But tonight was different. She had business, and there was no time for pointless altercations with any of the factions that governed the night.

The animal pens of Corlas, the camel merchant, were on the shore of the White Foal River just outside the Bazaar. According to rumor, it was one of the places to avoid these days. The war between the two witches, Ischade and Roxane, had made an unpredictable hell of the area, and half the residents had apparently chosen sides.

Games, games, she sighed. Everybody plays. And who could tell-if things got dull maybe she'd take a closer interest in the players. On the other hand, things were looking anything but dull. Enas Yorl had surprised her in more ways than one.

Unexpectedly, she heard voices behind her. She ducked into the nearest cranny and crouched behind a barrel. Slops, to judge by the odor. She held her nose and waited. A ragtag squad of men passed without noticing her. Most appeared to wear swords, though a few carried only clubs. There was nothing disciplined about them. They talked too loudly and swaggered as if they owned the night. She suspected they'd all been drinking.

When they were past she resumed her journey. Quickly, she reached the bank of the White Foal. The swiftly flowing surface caught her attention. Starlight sparkled on the waves. The gentle lapping had an almost mesmerizing quality. A strange emotion stole upon her, a mixture of fear and fascination, the same sensation that had overcome her when she set foot upon her first boat and sailed to Scavengers' Island. Again, she remembered the voice of Savankala and the promise that sealed her fate. Not by sword or by any hand of man, the Thunderer told her those many years ago. By water....

She shivered and forced herself to move on. So it had been when she sailed to the island. On the way back there had been too much to do, plans to make. And there was much to do now. She felt the water calling, calling. But she denied it.

A new odor permeated the air, almost as bad as the barrel's contents. She had spent enough time with Rankan bestiarii to know a camel when she smelled one. The odor was quite distinct. She moved silently and came, at last, to the pens themselves.

Daxus-that was the first name Enas Yorl had whispered in her ear. For several years the man had made his living standing night watch over Corlas's beasts. According to the wizard, however, he also made a little selling information about caravan cargoes to various raider groups such as the desert-dwelling Raggah. It was he, Enas Yorl claimed, who had arranged the attack on Daphne's caravan.

Chenaya fingered a folded length of gold chain that hung on her belt, and she licked her lips. Now Daxus would pay as she had promised Daphne.

The pens were built of wooden posts set close together and planted deep in the earth. The outer wall was a small fortification designed to foil would-be thieves. It would require a grapple to climb it. There was only one gate, and it would be barred from the inside. Because of the street disturbances, Daxus had taken to sealing himself inside with the camels.

Noiselessly, she crept around the walls, peeking through the frequent tiny gaps. The interior was sectioned into smaller pens. She listened for sounds. Even the camels seemed at rest. But ... was that the glow of a small fire?

She stole up to the gate and laid a hand against the rough wood. Only guile would open it without attracting half the rowdies in the city. And guile wasn't one of her more reliable talents. Daxus was a man, though, and if she'd learned nothing else, she knew she could count on his basest instincts.

She removed her cloak, then shed her tunic, careful not to mislay a thin metal probe secreted up her right sleeve. She hugged herself, wondering about her trousers and boots. Damn, it was cold! Already, she was covered with gooseflesh. Still, if Daxus was suspicious he might want a better look. Cursing silently, she gazed up and down the street and slipped off the rest of her garments. Lastly, she propped her sword against the wall close at hand.

Then she pounded frantically on the gate. "Help!" she cried in a tight whisper. "Please let me in! My husband will kill me! Help!" She beat the wood with the flat of her hand, shooting glances around, hoping no one else would hear.

A narrow portal slid open a bare fraction. No face appeared, but a voice whispered back. "Who's that? I don't want no trouble. Go away."

The portal started to slide shut, but Chenaya shoved her finger into the aperture. "Wait!" she begged. "You're Daxus. I've seen you before. Please, let me in before my husband finds me. He beats me, but this time I ran away. He chased me across Caravan Square, but I lost him. He'll catch up, though. Please, it's so cold!" That much was certainly true. "Hide me, I beg you!"

The portal opened wider; one eye peered through. "Is this a trick?" Daxus grumbled. "Stand back so I can get a look at you. Say, you haven't got a stitch on!"

She thanked the gods for her foresight. But it was freezing! It might be a good touch, she decided, if she sank to her knees, so she did. "I had a dress, but he ripped it off. Tried to rape me, the drunken oaf!" She hoped she was whining convincingly. Was Daphne really worth this kind of humiliation?

The portal slid all the way open, and the watchman poked his face out, glanced from side to side as far as the opening allowed, and licked his lips. Decision gleamed in his eyes as he grinned at her. "Well, I've got a fire that'll warm you, sweet. Warm you through and through."

The portal scraped shut. Chenaya heard the heavy bar lift on the inside of the gate. It started to swing back.

She rose swiftly and grabbed her sword. She remembered that lustful look on his face and how it repulsed her; she loathed the role she had assumed to trick him; on top of that she was chilled to the bone. For those reasons, she hit him a lot harder than was needed. Fortunately for Daxus she only used the pommel of her weapon.

Moving quickly, she dragged him back inside, then retrieved her garments. She pushed the gate closed, took a moment to throw the cloak around her shoulders, then bent over his unmoving form. The length of chain came free from her belt, and she fumbled for the wire-thin probe in her tunic sleeve.

She worked by the light of his fire. At one end of the chain two small, blunt prongs were clasped together with a piece of wrapped string as long as the chain itself. This she inserted in the watchman's right nostril. With the probe she guided the chain up his nose and into the nasal passage that led deep into his throat. Chenaya knew when the prongs were positioned. Carefully, she separated the lengths of chain and string and began slowly to pull. The probe insured that the chain remained in place, but it twisted as she tugged on the string. Moments later, the wrapping came free, and the prongs snapped open. She gave a light tug on the chain. It was firmly anchored.

It was the method used to handle recalcitrant slaves and criminals in Ranke. Awake, the process was quite painful. Daxus was lucky she'd hit him so hard. He wasn't, however, going to like it at all.

She didn't like the smell of the camels. It was time to go. All she had to do was sneak him back to Land's End. She wrapped the free end of the chain around her hand and started to heave him over her shoulder.

The gate pushed open. It was Day me.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered angrily, heart pounding. With her hands full of Daxus she hadn't been able to reach her sword.

"Watching your back," he answered calmly. "Pull on the rest of your clothes. I'll carry him."

She blushed hotly. No doubt he'd seen a lot more than her back. And she'd been in such a rush to get away with Daxus she'd forgotten to pull on more than the cloak. She released the chain and hurriedly dressed. But it irritated her that she hadn't noticed Dayrne, and she mentioned it.

"Mistress," he grinned, "I was sneaking through streets and back alleys when you were still playing with dolls."

"But you got caught," she reminded haughtily.

He nodded. "Everyone gets caught sometime."

She stamped into her boots and pointed to Daxus who showed signs of stirring. "Well, let's not get caught tonight. This package is for Daphne."

Dayrne's fist sent the watchman back to sleep.

"Lady Chenaya, daughter of Lowan Vigeles, cousin to His Highness Prince Kadakithis."

Lu-Broca, the Palace's major-domo, smiled graciously as he announced her arrival to the festival guests. He made a curt bow of personal greeting which she acknowledged with a nod.

Five steps descended from the entrance to the floor of the Grand Hall. She took them slowly, noting the tables piled with food and drink, the musicians and dancers, the faces that turned in her direction.

It was a good mix of the city's upper class; Rankan rubbed shoulders with Ilsig and Beysib in stark contrast to the intense street rivalries. On the far side of the hall Hakiem the storyteller-turned-Beysib-advisor stood in conversation with several guests. Nearby, listening discreetly, was the man called Lastel; Chenaya knew little of him save that he was apparently quite rich. There were others: Gonfred the Goldsmith, Dr. Nadeesha, Master Melilot the Scribe. There were also lots of Beysibs she didn't recognize; they all looked alike to her.

Then she spied Kadakithis. Shupansea, the Beysib ruler, hung on his arm. It amused her to note that even the Beysa had adopted local fashion, covering her breasts instead of brazenly painting them. Of course, Molin Torchholder was with them.

The Prince hurried forward, all smiles and warmth, glad to see her. Neither Shupansea nor Molin appeared to share his enthusiasm.

"Cousin!" the Prince exclaimed over the noise of the celebration. "I'd heard you'd returned to us. Why didn't you come visit?" He wrapped his arms around her and gave his favorite relative a gentle hug.

"Business, my Little Prince," she answered, rumpling his hair in a manner that made Shupansea frown. "There were things 1 had to do." She glanced back at the entrance, then hugged her cousin again. "Can we speak alone?" she whispered in his ear.

Even as children they had shared confidences. The Prince didn't hesitate. He turned to Shupansea. "Excuse me a moment, my love, while I lead Chenaya to refreshment. I'm sure Molin will see to your entertainment." He gave the Beysa no chance to voice disapproval, but caught his cousin's arm and steered her into the crowd.

"Now, what's so important that it makes you wrinkle your face that way?" he said when they were safely on the far side of the hall.

Chenaya swallowed. Until last night she hadn't thought about her cousin, only about scoring another point on Shupansea-an important point. "You know I love you, Kadakithis," she started, searching for the right words. "But you know I love Ranke more." It didn't sound right; she was stalling and he could tell.

Lu-Broca's voice boomed from the entrance. She caught her breath.

"Lowan Vigeles and the Lady Rosanda," the major-domo announced to her relief. There was still time before all hell broke loose.

She squeezed her cousin's arm fiercely, not wanting to hurt him, knowing it was too late to avoid it. "Cousin, do you have it in mind to marry that Beysib bitch?"

Kadakithis pulled away in irritation. "Chenaya," he said, "I regret that the two of you have taken such a dislike to each other-"

She cut him off. "No games, Cousin. I've seen how you two look at each other, and I know how she feels. But I can't-"

It was his turn to interrupt. "Are you disappointed because I haven't amassed some kind of army and ridden north to reclaim the throne from Theron?" She had never heard him sneer before, and it startled her. "Do you think I'm a coward because I've sequestered myself here in Sanctuary-"

She put a hand over his mouth to stop the ugly accusations. "Of course not!" she snapped. "I know better than you the extent of Theron's power and the length of his reach. You'd be raw meat for Theron; he'd chew you up if you rode against him." She swallowed hard and cast another glance at the entrance. "But no matter who sits on the throne, Ranke must still be preserved. And Sanctuary is part of Ranke, no matter how many Beysib ships sit in the harbor or how many of Shupansea's fish-eyed relatives move into the Palace."

She pressed his face between her hands, hoping in her heart of hearts that he would someday forgive her. "But you can't marry her, Kadakithis. I can't let you marry her. Shupansea must never gain any legitimate claim to this city. A guest she may be, but never your wife, never a princess of Ranke."

Kadakithis bristled. "And how would you stop it, Cousin. // we had even talked marriage, how would you stop it?"

Anger made him a stranger to her. He pushed her hands away, and that hurt more than she could say. They had been playmates and friends, confidantes. Now she had driven in a wedge that might never be removed.

Still, it was for Ranke. Shupansea was an invader as evil as any of the forces seeking to fragment the Empire. The fish-faced temptress was more subtle, more patient, but it was still Rankan land she desired, even if it was only the slimepit called Sanctuary.

Chenaya drew a deep breath and ignored the stinging in her eyes. "I have stopped it, my Little Prince. I have stopped it."

Kadakithis backed a step. His gaze bored into her with a menace she had never seen in him. As if on cue, Lu-Broca's voice filled the Grand Hall announcing the newest arrivals. Chenaya spun around. The major-domo was pale, a frightened expression on his face. She located Shupansea and Molin Torchholder. She had wanted to be close, wanted to see their faces. Now it didn't seem so important.

"Her Royal Highness, Daphne, Princess of Ranke, wife to Kadakithis." Lu-Broca swallowed. "And escort."

All color fled from Kadakithis's face as he pushed through the suddenly silent throng. Chenaya followed him to the foot of the stair. The Beysa and Molin were quickly with them. The Beysib met her with a look of purest hatred. Chenaya had thought about how she would respond: smile, stick out her tongue, bat her eyelashes innocently, anything to mock the woman, to drive home another victory. She found instead that she could do nothing but look away.

Daphne glided down the steps with supreme grace. Her right hand rested imperiously on Dayrne's massive bare arm. Her left hand held the end of Daxus's chain, and she led him like an exotic pet.

Rosanda had done a wonderful job preparing the princess. Daphne was radiant. Clouds of sky-blue silk swathed her form, hiding the bruises and scratches. Her hair was bound in curls about her head. Her eyes were lightly kohled and her cheeks rouged to perfection. Chenaya could smell the gentle perfumes. Most pleasing of all was the sun-burst circlet, one of her own, that gleamed on Daphne's brow.

"I promise you'll pay for this insult," Shupansea whispered tightly.

"Pay attention, fish-face," Chenaya suggested evenly. "You don't yet appreciate the full extent of my insult." She looked down on the shorter woman and forced a smile. "I do want you to appreciate it."

Daphne reached the bottom step. She and Kadakithis regarded each other for a long moment. The Prince reached out to take her hand. Daphne clung to Dayrne's arm instead, "Hello, my husband." She spoke gently, yet loudly enough for all to hear. "Are you surprised?"

"Yes, yes!" Kadakithis stumbled on his words. "Very!"

"You should be." She didn't snap, but formed her remarks politely, coolly. "Did you even bother to conduct a search? Did you look for me or wonder about my fate?"

Chenaya, too, had been puzzled about her cousin's lack of concern for his wife's disappearance. How, she wondered, could Shupansea have so bewitched him? Still, she ached for her Little Prince when he hung his head in shame.

Daphne released Dayrne's arm, dismissed him with a nod. He moved a few steps back to stand beside Daxus. Daphne floated past her prince-husband. She stopped directly before Shupansea.

"You do look like a carp, as I've been told," Daphne said with some amusement. Shupansea shot another hateful glance at Chenaya. "Perhaps you're descended from fishes." Daphne paused to survey the faces of those around her. Nobody made a sound, but all pressed closer to hear the exchange. She turned back to the Beysa. "But whatever you are," she continued, "I'll tell you what you are not and never will be. You are not Kadakithis's wife. That title will never be yours. Divorce is forbidden among the noble families of Ranke."

Shupansea regarded the younger woman coldly, un-moving, unspeaking.

Daphne went on mercilessly. "Oh, I don't plan to stay here, so I won't be in your way. I've made quarters at Land's End with Lowan Vigeles and the Lady Chenaya whom the gods allowed to find and rescue me." She put on a false smile and looked on Shupansea as she might have looked on a worm. "You can have Kadakithis if you want him. But you'll never be more than his concubine. Number eight if I recall, though the others are dead or wish they were." Daphne's smile vanished. "If you love him, though, the role of whore may be enough."

Kadakithis made a foolish attempt to change the subject. "Who is this poor fellow?" he said, indicating Daxus.

"Perhaps Uncle Molin knows him?" Chenaya interjected.

The priest glared at her from the corner of his eye and shook his head. He was uncharacteristically silent, watching, and, Chenaya knew, scheming how he might turn the situation to his advantage.

"My pretty-boy?" Daphne jiggled the chain, causing Daxus to wrinkle his face in pain. He couldn't catch the chain, for his hands were bound securely behind his back. When he tried to protest all that came out was a harsh, raspy sound that set him to gagging. Maliciously, Daphne shook the chain harder. Tears sprang from her prisoner's eyes, and he sank to his knees. So it had been for Daxus the past three days.

Daphne reeled in the length of chain, making Daxus crawl to her. "Haven't I done him up nicely?" She fingered the fine silk tunic she had put on him and ran her hand over his head. "Fine garments for a piece of dung. He arranged the attack on my caravan and hired the men that sold me into a year of hell. He's only the first to be discovered. I assure you, there will be others." She ran her gaze meaningfully around the hall. "I promise." She jerked on the chain again, and a trickle of blood oozed from Daxus's nose. "And they'll all end up like this!"

With a flick of her wrist she looped the chain around Daxus's throat. Her hands clenched around the chain and she strained, forearms bulging. Her face turned into an insane mask of fury; her lips curled back in a snarl. Daxus emitted a scraping howl as the links bit sharply into his flesh. His cheeks purpled; a vein throbbed in his temple, and his eyes snapped wide with death-fear.

It was over with startling swiftness. Daxus slumped forward, his head making a loud crack as it hit the floor. "So they will all end," she promised again, recovering her composure, patting a loose curl back into place. She stepped away from the body. "But for the moment this business is done." She took Kadakithis's arm in a firm grip. "Many of you were my friends before I left, and I'm eager to speak and laugh with all of you. This is a celebration, so let's celebrate!" Without giving Shupansea another look. Daphne led her husband into the thick of the crowd.

Chenaya motioned to Dayrne that he should take Daxus away. She didn't miss the shocked expression he wore. Neither of them had considered that Daphne would kill Daxus there. She had taken too much pleasure in tormenting her plaything.

Lowan Vigeles appeared at her elbow. His features were stony. "This was not well done. Daughter," was all he said before he left her to rejoin Rosanda.

Shupansea whirled on her. For an instant Chenaya thought the Beysa would spit. The woman seemed barely in control of herself, unable to find words. Instead, she mounted the stairs and stormed from the hall.

Molin was next in line. "You foolish child!" he started. "You've made her a whore in the eyes of the entire city. Do you know what you've done?"

Chenaya glared at him, recalling with disgust how once she had trusted this man. He alone knew of the gifts Savankala had granted her. With that knowledge, of course, he had made a small fortune by betting on her battles in the arena. She peered at her uncle and felt nothing but anger.

"If you want to talk, Old Weasel," she said low-voiced, "we'd better do it on the terrace away from other ears."

Molin looked as if he'd swallowed bitter wine, then he turned and shoved a path through the guests to the terrace. Chenaya leaned far over the balcony, tempting him to push her. On the docks in the distance she could see the glimmering fires of the poorer Beysib sailors. They, too, celebrated the Winter Bey in their own less lavish way.

"... Stupid, thoughtless action!" Molin Torchholder raged, shaking his fist. "If Shupansea is angry enough to take action where will we be? She has a thousand warriors!"

Chenaya's waist was encircled by numerous chains. She unfastened one of them and draped it around Molin's neck. One end was pronged.

"You ordered the attack on Daphne's caravan. Uncle Molin." She held up a hand before he could protest. "Don't deny it. I know. I saw everything, including your face, in a scrying crystal."

Molin didn't bother to hide his laughter. "You accuse me because of something you saw in a fortune-teller's ball? You're as insane as Daphne!"

"No, Uncle," she answered. "What I saw was real. It was no mere fortune-teller. I promised Daphne the names of her tormentors, and I did what I had to do to get those names. Gods know every one of them deserves to die. Scavengers' Island is filthier and more vile even than Sanctuary." She clasped both ends of the chain around his neck, slid her hands toward his throat. "But when I left here over three months ago it was to find and save any remaining members of the Royal Family. And for better or worse, you're Family. I won't turn you over to Daphne. If we ever do get the chance to strike back against Theron we may need someone with your ability to scheme and plot." She released the chain, smoothed a wrinkle from his tunic. "And if we never get the chance," she smiled darkly, "then, in time, I'll take care of you myself."

Molin drew himself proudly erect. "Don't threaten me, Niece. The gods have made you powerful, but you forget I know your secrets. I know how you can die!" Chenaya grabbed Molin by the front of his robe, ripped the hem of her own gown as she lifted and bent him backward over the balcony, twisted him so he could see the ground far below.

"You know how," she growled, "but not when. Would you drown me. Uncle, throw me in the river? You foolish old man! After I discovered what a snake you are the first thing I learned to do was swim. You have my secrets, but see what good they do you." She set him back on his feet, pleased by the fine, sudden sweat sheen on his brow.

Molin rubbed his back where the stone had bitten into it. "Damn you! Don't you ever get tired of games? Don't you weary of always winning?"

Amazed, she threw back her head and laughed. "Uncle, you're such a delight! The joy isn't in the winning, but in seeing the effect of winning on the loser."

She left him, then. Inside the hall, the noise of conversation had reached a new height. Shupansea had not returned, nor was Kadakithis anywhere in sight. Daphne moved through the crowd, smiling and tinkling with laughter with Dayrne as her escort. Lowan and Rosanda stood alone in a corner in private dialogue.

"Is it true you were undefeated in the Rankan Games?"

Chenaya looked disdainfully at the little man who had dared to brush her elbow. He offered her a goblet of wine which she refused, and he repeated his question.

"Your name is Terryle, isn't it?" she asked innocently. "The tax collector?"

His face lit up, and he made a slight bow. "My fame precedes me!"

Chenaya wrinkled her nose and imitated his tone. "Is it true you're the most detested man in Sanctuary?" His brows shot up. She walked away before any more could come of the conversation. She saw the man Lastel coming her way.

Strange, she thought. None of this is as I thought it would be. She'd won, but there was a bitter taste in her mouth. She recalled something she'd said to Daphne: Even winning can cost a dear price.

Without a word to anyone she mounted the steps, nodded goodnight to Lu-Broca and left the Palace. A few guests mingled in Vashanka's Square on the Palace grounds, but she avoided them. Just outside the Processional Gate four of her gladiators waited with her palanquin. Too late, she realized she'd left a fine cloak inside. No matter, she would send for it tomorrow. Right now, she wanted to get home, change into leathers and take a walk with Reyk. The falcon was the only company she wanted.

The palanquin began to move. Chenaya sighed, pulled the curtains closed and hugged herself against the cold.