Thieves' World: Turning Points

ROBIN WAYNE BAILEY: Ring of Sea and Fire

The sea shimmered like a dark mirror, still and smooth as glass beneath a windless, starlit sky. The faintest sliver of a waning moon hung like a beacon low in the west. To the south, it was impossible to discern any demarcation between the water and the heavens. Not even the barest breath of a breeze teased the placid surface, and all the world seemed smothered in an unnatural hush.

Along the coast to the north and northwest, it was the same. The hour was late, and only a few lanterns and torches glimmered on Sanctuary's shoreline. The distorted shadows of warehouses and fisheries stretched over the wharves, and the masts of the few sailing ships anchored in their berths rose stark and unmoving.

Then from around the brief peninsula called Land's End, an Ilsigi trireme glided on banks of oars that broke the water with lumbering precision. The muffled throb of its master-drum, issuing from deep within the ship, counterpointed each sloughing oar-stroke as the vessel rounded the point and eased into the city's harbor.

A lantern brighter than the few that burned along its deck suddenly appeared in the trireme's prow. It cast a beam that rippled out across the black water. A moment later, the beam winked out. Then it flashed again, over and over in rhythm with the drum.

At the end of Empire Wharf, another flashing lantern appeared, and a small skiff launched out across the harbor. Following the now-steady beam of light from the trireme, it approached the Ilsigi ship. An old man, thin as a fish bone and weathered as driftwood, sat alone in the skiff. He worked the pair of oars with the skill and strength of long practice.

A deep voice called down from the trireme's prow. "Ahoy, Mar-kam! Ahoy, the harbor pilot!"

The harbor pilot shouted back gruffly. "You're Wrigglie-ass late."

"No winds, Markam!" came the answer. The speaker could not be seen against the lantern's glare. "We've been working the oars since noon this whole damned day, and we'll have to put to sea again by dawn to keep our schedule. But we've got passengers and freight, and no matter the hour, our berth is already paid for. So lead us in, and no more of your flatulent mouth."

Markam grumbled a low curse, but turned his skiff. The master-drum throbbed again, softer now. A single bank of oars dipped into the water, and the trireme slipped into Sanctuary's port. Guided by the pilot, it nestled gently into a berth and dropped anchor. A dozen men leaped over the rails to the wharf. Thick ropes sailed through the air, uncoiling, and in no time, the ship was lashed and secure.

A gangplank slid down from the deck.

Regan Vigeles paused at the top of it and gazed from under his hood down the wharf toward the Wideway and the warehouses and the dark silhouettes of the rooftops beyond, and he wrinkled his nose. After days at sea with the sweet salt air filling his lungs, the stench of Sanctuary was a rude perfume. His black leather trousers, polished boots, and fine matching cloak marked him as a man of wealth. In one hand, he gripped a pair of gloves; in his other hand, a small purse.

A wagon drawn by a team of horses creaked slowly down the wharf as it approached the ship. Footsteps on the deck behind him. Regan Vigeles turned slightly as the Ilsigi captain approached. The captain wore a smile as he chatted with the woman at his side. Her flawless skin was as black as shadow, her eyes large and dark over sharply defined cheekbones. Her full lips were parted slightly as if in a bemused grin, perhaps at some joke or comment of the captain's. She was dressed for sea travel, not in women's clothing, but in trousers of brown leather with a white silk tunic whose sleeves flowed at her easiest movement, as did the jet black hair that hung straight to her waist. On her belt, she wore a pair of sheathed daggers.

"I believe you've charmed Aaliyah, Captain," Regan Vigeles said, looking down at the Ilsigi. He held out the purse in his hand and lowered his voice. "For your inside pocket. The voyage has been pleasant, and you've treated us well."

The Ilsigi captain bowed his head in thanks as he quickly thrust the purse under his sash before anyone else saw it. "I'm loath to abandon you, Lord Spyder," the captain said as he stared at the wagon that pulled to a stop by the ship. "I've set into this port many times, and it's no place by night for you and your lady."

"No need to worry, Captain. We'll be quite safe." Regan Vigeles took Aaliyah's hand. "Perhaps I could impose upon you to have your men load my freight into the wagon."

The captain patted the purse under his belt and bowed as he backed away.

Aaliyah's vacuous smile faded. A look of alert concern took its place as she gazed toward the city.

"Nha su preo, shahana Aaliyah," Vigeles murmured as he placed an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. He pushed back his hood as he looked down at her. His hair was black and cropped short, and his tanned, strong-featured face was beardless. She turned in his embrace to face him, and he looked into the dark warmth of her eyes as he drew a finger along the velvet line of her cheek.

A noise on the wharf below caught his attention as crewmen began unloading his crates and stacking them in the wagon. Each crate bore his seal, a painted emblem of a black spider that was visible even in the faint light of the ship's lanterns.

Regan Vigeles walked down the gangplank to the wharf, and Aaliyah followed, her soft footsteps making no sound at all.

The driver of the wagon climbed down. His name was Ronal, a short man, but powerfully built, in his mid-fifties although he looked much younger. Disdaining a cloak, he wore only trousers, boots, and a plain leather vest that laced across his broad chest. An old burn-scar showed on his bare right biceps, the brand of a slave-gladiator. It marked him as the property of House Donadakos. Years ago, however, he had won his freedom in the arena with fifty kills to his credit.

Ronal ran a hand through his short gray hair. "I'd nearly given up waiting, Spyder," he said quietly to Vigeles. "It's past the third hour of morning, but it's good to see you. Welcome to the anus of the empire." He ran an appreciative eye up and down Aaliyah. "Aren't you a beauty!" He gave a low whistle. "Where did you find her?"

"She's not a slave, Ronal, so watch your tone," Regan Vigeles, called Spyder, said stiffly. Then he relaxed again as he took her hand. "Aaliyah comes from a land beyond the western edge of any formal maps." He changed the subject as the last crate was loaded into the wagon. "I assume you've handled everything with your usual efficiency."

Aaliyah had strayed to the end of the wharf where she stood staring out toward the sea. The lanterns on the trireme's rails cast a nimbus of light about her that sent her shadow spilling across the old boards and over the water below.

Ronal's voice dropped a note. "There's something lonely and strange about that one," he whispered almost to himself.

Leaving Ronal by the wagon, Spyder came up behind Aaliyah. "Shahana," he said softly, "ven veiha ma elberatb. Ten ki."

She seemed to hesitate before she turned and came to his side. Together, they returned to the wagon, and he handed her up to the seat.

"What language was that?" Ronal asked. He had good ears. "It's beautiful—like the wind through leaves, or like water lapping the shore. I've never heard it before."

"Her language," Spyder answered, as he climbed up beside her. "You should know, however, that Aaliyah doesn't speak at all."

Ronal stood gape-mouthed for an instant before he, too, climbed into the wagon and took the reins. With a clucking of his tongue, he turned the team and headed into the city.

By mid-morning, the crates were unpacked and The Black Spider was open for business. Groups of rough-looking men, surprised to find a new and well-appointed shop in such a run-down neighborhood, ventured through the door with narrow-eyed curiosity. Most quickly exited to alert their compatriots. One or two lingered to scrutinize the shop for weaknesses, possible entry points, figuring the proprietor for a fool and the shop for easy pickings.

Swords of the finest manufacture and from many nations depended in their scabbards from pegs on three walls. Racks of bows, lances, and intricately worked staves stood along the fourth wall.

There were barrels full of arrows and crossbow bolts. Tall wooden display shelves held daggers, knives, darts, and shuriken of various shapes. Expensive glass cases placed throughout the shop contained more exotic weapons—brooches with spring-loaded needles, belt buckles with concealed blades, still other objects whose surprises could not be guessed.

From a stool by the door, Ronal watched over it all, and throughout the morning, he broke only a single arm when a would-be thief, after examining a superbly crafted Rankan short sword, attempted to dash into the street with it.

"I suppose that made your day," Spyder laughed as the racket drew him down from the upper living apartments. He petted a small white cat that purred in the crook of one arm.

"I'm positively erect with pleasure." Ronal yawned as he hung the sword back in its place. "I see you've found a new friend. Named it yet?" The cat meowed softly and leaped from Spyder's arm onto one of the display cases where it arched its back, circled itself twice, and gracefully curled up to lick its paws.

Ronal started for the stair, then stopped. "Vasalan? I thought they were coming from—"

Spyder cut him off. "They are. But they stole a ship out of the Vasalan Islands to bring them to Sanctuary."

Ronal mounted the stairs, then stopped again. "How do you know… ?"

"I know."

Shaking his head and frowning, Ronal disappeared up the stairs. Spyder watched him go with a thoughtful expression on his face. Ronal was a good man, a solid friend and ally, one of the few who knew Spyder's true name and heritage. But there were other things he didn't yet know, secrets that had to be kept. Perhaps in time…

Spyder moved to the doorway of his shop and watched the street. In years past, the Hill had belonged to Sanctuary's wealthy class. With the Temple of Ils crowning its peak and a panoramic view of the harbor and the sea beyond, it had been prime real estate.

Now, it was little more than a slum. The grand estates had been dismantled for their stone. Ramshackle shops and apartments now lined the streets, most thrown up too quickly after the great floods had destroyed the low-lying parts of Sanctuary and the poor district once known as Downwind. The wind that swept the Hill shook some of the older buildings, making them creak, and sometimes it collapsed one completely. Fortunately, it also blew away the stench that might have lingered otherwise.

The Hill, once a place for lords and ladies, had become the refuge for Sanctuary's poor, downtrodden, and luckless.

An old woman with a small girl child clinging to her skirts trudged up Face-of-the-Moon Street. She was probably no more than Spyder's age, somewhere in her twenties, but she looked sixty. Her face was lined and weather-beaten, her shoulders already slumped from hard work and constant hunger. Her clothes and those of her child were little more than rags, and her eyes were infinitely sad.

"Mother?" Spyder called out to her as he reached into the purse on his belt. She almost kept going, then stopped in mid-step, as if startled to realize that someone was talking to her. "Do you own a broom?" He held out a quarter piece of an Ilsigi shaboozh. The afternoon sunlight glinted on the silver metal.

She nodded slowly as she stared at the coin he was offering. Then, eyes narrowing with suspicion, she studied his face.

"I need someone to sweep my shop each morning."

The woman hesitated. Bending down, she instructed her child to remain a safe distance back before she approached Spyder. She licked her lips, staring again at the silver coin, but she kept her hands at her sides. "That's too much pay for a shop-sweep," she said nervously.

Spyder smiled to himself. Despite her poverty, the woman had not lost all her pride. "One of these each week will adequately nourish yourself and your daughter. I am content to pay for a clean floor." "The Hill is full of criminals and worse. What if I take your coin and never return?"

"Gray eyes," the woman grumbled. "Gray eyes always mean trouble."

"But not for you, Mother," Spyder answered. He closed his fist around the coin, then opened it again. The coin was gone. He reached toward her ear with his other hand, and the bit of silver rested between two of his fingers.

Her eyes lit up in brief amazement, then narrowed again.

"My name is Channa," she said, finally taking the coin. "And I have the finest damned broom in the city, Master Spyder. I'll sweep your shop every morning till the boards gleam and shine, and mop it, too. And I'll use it over your head if you ever get out of line with me or my little girl."

Though she tried her best to sound tough, she couldn't hide her excitement. Taking her child's hand, she hurried on her way and entered another apartment a short distance on.

Cat brushed against Spyder's ankle and made a soft meow as he continued to watch the street. "It didn't take much persuasion," he whispered as he picked Cat up and cradled it in his arms. "She needed the job and the money, and we'll benefit from another pair of friendly eyes and ears."

Cat meowed again, then jumped down and padded across the shop and up the stairs.

Word spread swiftly about the unexpected overnight opening of a new weapons shop on the Hill. The morning and the early afternoon might have been reserved for the curious locals and immediate nearby residents. But by mid-afternoon a seemingly endless parade of colorful characters from all classes and parts of the city passed through the door of The Black Spider.

Red-haired Raith, young and wide-eyed with curiosity, became enamored of an expensive White Hart bow. White Harts were rare and of extremely fine quality, made only by one artisan in the northern Rankan city of Tarkesi. Spyder, with a quiver full of arrows, escorted the young man to a narrow archery range behind the shop so that he could try it out. It took only five shots to clench the sale.

Eraldus and Gorge, two officers of the guard, arrived to introduce themselves and to remind Spyder of the dangerous location he had chosen for his shop. Neither the Guard, nor the City Watch, ventured onto the Hill after dark, they warned.

A dark-faced little gnome with a hunchback and a serious lisp wandered in just as Ronal descended the stair from above. The two shortest men in Sanctuary glared at each other, much to Spyder's silent amusement. Then the hunchback rushed off, muttering something about telling his "mathter."

Spyder introduced himself to all his visitors. To Soldt, a grim man with a professional eye for weapons. To Galen, another shopkeeper from the Maze, to whom Spyder took an immediate, if cautious, liking. To an arrogant young Rankan named Vion Larris, who despite disdaining and criticizing virtually everything in the shop, nevertheless bought and bought until his considerable purse was empty.

Despite the Hill's reputation, throughout the afternoon friendliness and courtesy prevailed—until the arrival of Naimun, the Irrune chieftain's second son, and his pair of burly escorts. Half of The Black Spider's customers, those nearest the door, exited at once. The other half backed into the far corners of the shop.

"Do you make all these weapons?" Naimun demanded as he took a Yenized sword down from its peg on the wall and unsheathed it. He ran his thumb along its edge.

"Then you're just a common shopkeeper," Naimun sneered. His two comrades laughed openly. "Tell me, shopkeeper, do you have any particular skill with the things you sell?"

It had been unseasonably warm for mid-winter in Sanctuary, warm enough that the shop's more elderly customers had muttered about a return of "wizard weather," and made finger signs against it; but with Naimun's question, the temperature in the shop dropped inexplicably. At the same moment, Aaliyah appeared on the staircase in a simple white dress with her hair spilling down her back. She paused there, her gaze fixed on the troublemakers. Though she had made no sound at all, every eye—even Naimun's—turned her way, as if sensing her presence.

"So we shall have a pissing contest," Spyder said in a low voice. His breath came out in a soft white stream, suggesting the chill in the air was no mere matter of nerves. "But then, pissing would make a mess of my floor, and the cleaning lady won't come until the morning." He reached toward a display case and drew down a pair of finely matched daggers. "I hear the Irrune have some skill with these." He handed one to Naimun.

Naimun looked at him with surprise. Though Spyder was actually an inch or two taller than the Irrune, the governor's son was far more muscular, not to mention backed by two friends. "You wish to fight me?"

Spyder shook his head and tapped the blade of the second dagger on his palm. "That, too, would make a mess of my shop, and I'd be all night cleaning up the blood." He paused as he looked around the shop. A young dark-haired boy in the unlikely garb of a S'danzo stood off to one side. In his hand he held a pear from which he'd taken a single bite.

"Kaytin," Spyder said. His breath no longer streamed white, and the chill seemed to have left the shop. "Would you mind tossing that into the air?"

Kaytin paled a little. "You want me to toss my lunch?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Spyder answered. He turned back to Naimun. "I'll bet this pair of daggers you can't skewer the pear in mid-toss."

Naimun sneered again. "Against what?"

"I'll name my price in a moment. Nothing too exorbitant."

Spyder nodded to Kaytin. The boy tossed the fruit and swiftly dove for the floor. Naimun's dagger flashed through the air, missing, embedding itself in the far wall. "It's impossib—!" he shouted. Before he could finish, Spyder's dagger flew as the fruit came down again, piercing the pear, cleaving it. A split-second after the first dagger, another one embedded in the wall, dripping juice.

"Not impossible," Spyder said quietly amid gasps and applause from the onlookers. "And now, my price."

Naimun's face darkened, and his two comrades stepped closer.

"Your friendship," Spyder continued. He extended his hand. "And perhaps your patronage the next time you're really in the market." The governor's son hesitated, then grinned as he accepted Spyder's hand. "Well played, shopkeeper," he answered. "I'll pay your price and more." He turned to his escort. "Spread the word: This shop and its owner are under my protection. If anyone causes them trouble"—he glanced toward Aaliyah on the staircase—"especially this beautiful lady, they'll answer to me."

"Gilthona maha," he whispered, kissing her lightly on the brow. "My protector."

When the sun finally set, The Black Spyder closed. It had been a successful opening in many respects, and with the profits safely locked away in a concealed vault, Spyder and Aaliyah sat down on the rooftop to a supper of roasted pigeon breasts prepared by Ronal. She had changed into a dress of saffron-colored silk that hung off one ebony shoulder. He wore only a kilt of blue linen. Sesame oil burned in a lamp of pale alabaster. Its glow lent the rooftop an air of romance and tranquility.

"I don't understand it," Spyder said quietly as he sipped wine and stared outward toward the harbor. "I was sure they would arrive today. But you both kept watch, and I made what inquiries I safely could without arousing suspicions among the customers. No one has seen a Vasalan ship for a week.

Aaliyah reached across the table and touched his hand. It was meant to reassure him, but he could feel the tension in her touch. She was as worried as he was. More so, for she had more at stake-He met her gaze. "No, I can't be wrong," he insisted, answering her unspoken question. He raised his face toward the full moon that hung low and golden on the eastern horizon. "The eclipse is tonight or tomorrow night. They must perform the ritual before it's over, or all their hopes are lost."

Rising from her seat, Aaliyah came around the table and took his face in her hands. Her eyes were storms of anger, pain, fear, and doubt.

"Silivren mi akare, Shahana," he said, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her head to his shoulder. "I will not let that happen! They will not take Lisoh from you, I swear!"

Swallowing, Aaliyah nodded and returned to her seat. They resumed supper, though neither ate much. Their eyes watched the harbor—and the rising moon.

When the meal was done, Spyder leaned on the rooftop parapet and stared impatiently outward. Aaliyah paced back and forth, her tread soundless, her eyes wild with worry and torment as the night grew later. Ronal was gone; Spyder had sent him to the wharves to learn what he could and to keep watch from there.

A light wind stirred Spyder's short-cropped hair and played on the back of his neck as he folded his hands together and leaned on the rough stone. The moon and the night mocked him, he thought. The streets, indeed the city as far as he could see, was a maddening patchwork of shadows lit only by Sabellia's wan smile and the occasional flickering torch.

The bay and the sea beyond were a silvery mirror where nothing moved. Merchant ships rested in their slips for the night; fishing boats bobbed lightly on their lines at the docks.

He had chosen these apartments just for this view. Jamasharem would be interested in the comings and goings in this city's harbor. The Rankan Empire yet regarded Sanctuary with suspicion, and in truth, even fear. Too much had happened here. The place was strange. Enchanted, some said. Cursed, said others. Whichever, gods and sorcerers and demons had left their marks here as they had in no other city.

So he was Spyder, a man without heritage, without a nation.

And yet, for reasons he couldn't fully grasp, he served the Rankan emperor. Some lingering ember of loyalty still burning in his breast? Some minuscule hope of restoring the honor of the Vigeles?

It embittered him to deny his true name.

Aaliyah touched his arm, and he turned to her. Filled with a sudden need, he drew her close and pressed his head down upon her shoulder. The smell of her hair, the feathery brush of her fingers on his bare back—whether by his action or hers, his kilt fell away as their lips met. She tasted of honey and mint, sweeter and more intoxicating than the wine in his cup.

On the couch beside the table, in the open night, they made love. The soft illumination from the alabaster lamp highlighted the con-trast between their bodies and charged the air with an eroticism and sensuality that, for a time, allowed them to forget Sanctuary and danger, bitterness and fear. For a time, they had no other mission, no other purpose, but each other.

Afterward, they lay side by side watching the moon. Spyder felt Aaliyah's breathing, the soft vibration of her body next to his. He knew that she was changing his life in a way that was both fantastical and disturbing. There was no room in his life for the feelings she stirred in him, and yet already in the short month since he'd found Aaliyah, he couldn't imagine being apart from her.

He kissed her mouth, then rose from the couch. The sesame oil burning in the lamp was beginning to smoke, so he sprinkled a few grains of salt in it to stop the smoking. As he did so, something in the flame caught his attention. He stared with puzzlement as a blood red shadow touched the edge of the flame and slowly engulfed it, turning blacker and blacker.

Spyder jerked his gaze away and rubbed a thumb and finger over his eyelids. Then he shot a glance at the moon. It floated in the sky over the harbor, effulgent. Next, he noticed Aaliyah. She stood at the parapet, her attention riveted on the moon, her fingers curled like claws on the stone, her body rigid, and her head thrown back.

The braided flax wick in the sesame oil crackled suddenly, drawing his attention once again, and the flame was just a yellow flame. But he knew, without understanding how, that he had seen a vision of the coming eclipse in that small lamp light, and that Aaliyah had shared that vision, or at least, in her own way, that she had sensed something.

He caught her shoulders and drew her against him. Her face was a mask of panic and desperation. He studied the harbor again for the Vasalan ship, then slammed a palm down on the parapet in frustration. Though it had only been a small vision, it had to mean something!

"Prepare yourself, Shahana," he said, leading her to the staircase.

"They're here. They've gotten by us somehow. Now we have to find them."

They descended to their separate apartments. Spyder quickly donned garments of black leather and threw a cloak about his shoulders. From a chest at the foot of his bed he took a double-edged sword of medium length. The scabbard, though sturdy, was unremarkable, but before he strapped it on, he grasped the hilt and exposed a few inches of the blade. The candlelight in his room gleamed on fine Enlibar steel. To this, he added a plain dagger, and closed the chest once more.

But Aaliyah had reacted, too. Something had plainly agitated her.

He hurried downstairs into the darkened shop and let himself out a side door into an alley that was barely wide enough for two men to pass through shoulder to shoulder. He followed it, pausing at the opening to stare both ways down Face-of-the-Moon Street. A few torches burned here and there. One burned in a sconce before the entrance to The Black Spider.

With his hood up and his cloak drawn close, Spyder moved into the street. He kept to the shadows and the dark places as he made his way down the Hill, his footsteps silent, his movements swift and stealthy. A gang of rowdy bravos passed him without so much as noticing his presence. A pair of customers stumbled arm in arm from a tavern almost into his path with no more awareness.

Once, a low animal growl caused him to pause in mid-step. With narrowed eyes, he searched the street and the darkness around him for some sign of danger, one hand going carefully to the hilt of his sword. Behind the poorly fitted shutters of a nearby shop he noted the furtive movement of faint light, a candle or perhaps a shaded lantern, which was odd at so late an hour. Thieves, he suspected, but it was no business of his.

As he neared the bottom of the Hill, he heard the rapid clip-clop of horses' hooves and the creak of wagon wheels on rough cobbles. From the shadowed recess of an alley, he measured its approach. As it rounded a corner, the moonlight fell full upon both wagon and driver. As it passed his hiding place, Spyder leaped aboard.

The driver, Ronal, jerked hard on the reins with his left hand. At the same time, he launched a backfisted blow toward his uninvited passenger's face. Spyder caught his arm before the blow could land.

"Such a swift ride must mean you have news," he whispered as he settled on the buckboard beside his friend.

Ronal's breath hissed between his teeth. "Damn it, you nearly gave me heart failure!"

"You've a stouter heart than ten men," Spyder answered, letting go of Ronal's arm. "To the point. The ring is here—I'm certain of it."

Ronal half-turned on his seat to regard Spyder. "How do you know that?"

"I just know," Spyder answered from beneath his hood. "A feeling."

"You may be right," Ronal said in a low voice. "In the Broken Mast a short time ago I overheard Markam telling a wild story. Seems there's a ship from Inception Island anchored at the easternmost end of the harbor, and some of its sailors were claiming they saw a ghost ship last night, all black with no running lights, off their starboard side hugging the shoreline. Sailed straight up the White Foal River, they claimed, before it disappeared in the fog. Markam was laughing about it. Impossible, he said. But I thought you'd want to know." "Turn the wagon around," Spyder ordered quietly. "Take the Wideway at the best pace you can manage without drawing too much attention, and head for the White Foal."

Spyder didn't answer. He glanced over his left shoulder at the moon high above the bay. There was no trace yet of the eclipse Ranke's finest astrologers were predicting. And yet, there was that strange little trick with the candle flame on his rooftop. Out on the water near the pinnacles of stone called Hag's Teeth a number of ships were anchored. Lanterns burned weakly along their rails, in their bows. They were single and double-masted sailing vessels without oar-banks like the Ilsigi trireme he had arrived on.

There had been no wind last night. How could a ship have hugged the shoreline and sailed almost unnoticed up the White Foal? The river ran deep enough, but it was full of snags and tangles, particularly for the first few miles or so inland from the mouth.

They had come to the end of the Wideway. Ronal brought the wagon to a halt, and Spyder rose, standing on the seat to study the black ribbon of water. The river ran wide, but not so swiftly as in former days. It had washed out of its old banks and spread over the land, making bogs and marshes. "There is a name for that place," Spyder said with a sweep of his hand.

"The Swamp of Night Secrets," Ronal answered. "An evil place, especially at night."

Spyder climbed down from the wagon and turned slowly. Just behind them between their position and the sea were the low rooftops of Fisherman's Row. "Steal us a boat, Ronal. A skiff, a row-boat, anything that will get us to the other side. Hurry!"

Ronal turned the wagon and slapped the reins across the horses' backs to speed them along. Spyder watched him go, then drawing his cloak about himself, he moved into the shadow of a warehouse and turned back toward the river.

The Swamp of Night Secrets. An evil place, Ronal called it. What better place then for a coven of Nisi witches to make their sacrifices and work their damnable magic? He clenched his fists inside his leather gloves and swore silently. It was no longer enough to thwart their rituals and destroy the Ring of Sea and Fire—that much he had promised Jamasharem. He must also save Lisoh. That he had also promised.

The sharp, feline growl of a jungle cat sounded near the river's bank, interrupting his thoughts. He gazed in the direction of the sound, then sank deeper into the shadows and deeper into his thoughts.

The Ring of Sea and Fire.

Forty years before, two Globes of Power had been forged on Wi-zardwall in the land of the Nis, one each for the King and Queen of Night, who were the greatest warlock and witch of their day. Into those crystal orbs were poured the essences of the blackest sorcery, power magnified and amplified beyond understanding. Armed with such power, Nis looked with hungry eyes on the Rankan Empire, its neighbor.

A long and costly war followed, and though Ranke eventually prevailed, the globes were not destroyed. As with so many things arcane and magical, they made their way to Sanctuary. Here, in the slum district once called Downwind, demigods and sorcerers and vampires and their masters, the strangest of allies, finally shattered them. Spyder sniffed the air as he looked around. Downwind—he stood now upon its very edge, recalling the tales, how for a single night following that destruction every man, woman, or child with a mote of magical talent found their abilities elevated to drastic levels as the power contained in those globes diffused through the city. Then, like fire smothered under sand, the magic went out.

The creak of wagon wheels in the quietness alerted him to Ronal's return. The shorter man hopped down and threw back a tarp, exposing the small rowboat he'd appropriated. "I don't feel good about stealing from honest, hard-working folks," he grumbled as the two men together seized hold of the boat.

"Perhaps you'll feel better about it when someone steals your wagon and team," Spyder commented. "We'll have to leave them here."

Ronal frowned as they lifted the boat and carried it to the water. "And you're a right prick for mentioning it."

Again there came the feline cry that Spyder had heard earlier. Ronal straightened instantly. His startled eyes widened as he whirled and searched the darkness, and he gripped an oar like a club. "That came from behind us!"

Spyder gazed toward the sky again. The full moon hung directly overhead. Yet, there was a thin veil of clouds gathering over the sea, a moon-tinged grayness that had come up without warning out of nowhere. "Get in the boat," Spyder insisted. Climbing in first, he settled himself in the bow with his eyes fixed on the far side of the White Foal.

Ronal pushed off from the bank and seated himself in the middle of the boat. Quickly, he positioned the oars in the oar-locks and dipped them into the water.

A soft splash sounded off to their right. Ronal froze at the oars to stare. Spyder calmly turned his head for a moment. "You're nervous tonight," he said.

Ronal resumed rowing. "Swamps and witches," he muttered. "Witches and swamps. Why would I be nervous? This isn't your usual business, my friend. I've helped you count army divisions in secret, intercepted correspondence for you, watched you seduce information from the wives of generals. This is different."

Under Ronal's determined strokes they moved swiftly across the White Foal. Spyder remained silent, his jaw grim, his teeth clenched. All that Ronal said was true. This was not his usual business. This was far more dangerous, perhaps beyond his talents. Ronal was not the only nervous man under the moonlight. He felt the slight breeze upon his face like an evil breath. He listened to the water dripping from the oars, to the barely audible sound of something swimming off to the right just beyond the range of his vision. He smelled the industry of Sanctuary behind him and the rot of the swamp ahead.

And crawling at the edge of his senses, something more. Already in the air, the taint of Nisi witchcraft.

"When you get to the far side, row northward against the flow. Look for a tributary or a place wide enough to allow a ship to pass or to hide." He gripped the side of the boat until his knuckles cracked with strain and continued in a low voice. "We must stop them, Ronal. We don't dare fail."

Ronal shrugged as he rowed and answered with faint bravado. "It's only a ring," he said. "We break up their nasty little party and snatch the trinket, hopefully killing a few of the bastards as we go."

As they neared the western bank, Ronal turned the boat. Though the river lacked its former power, still there was a current, and his muscles bulged as he worked the oars. "There's more you haven't told me, though," he whispered. "Something worries you."

After a hesitation, Spyder nodded. "The ring is forged from minerals distilled from the sea, but it must also be tempered in fire." He hesitated again. "In the fire of a burning boy with sorcerous blood in his veins." He paused to listen again for the swimming sound that had followed them across the river. He could no longer hear it. "That sacrifice performed under a certain rare lunar eclipse on the ground where the globes were destroyed will complete their ritual."

"I'm a fool for misjudging you," Ronal said, his eyes narrowing as he regarded his friend. "It's not this bunch of mumblers and cauldron-stirrers that have you tied in knots. It's the boy, isn't it? They've got him already, and you know him."

"I don't know him, but his name is Lisoh," Spyder said. "He's fifteen summers old, and he's Aaliyah's brother. He was on a spirit-quest, something his people call Vahana meh aaha diano. It's a kind of initiation into adulthood. But he wandered much too far, and when he didn't return, Aaliyah went looking for him. I found her on the Nis border where I originally tried to stop this coven—and failed."

And you will fail again, Regan Vigeles called Spyder, just as you did then.

Ronal stopped rowing and looked nervously toward the shore. "That wasn't me," he whispered.

The jungle cat's cry sounded again, a shrill, high-pitched roar that chilled the blood.

From the east a sudden wind rose. It shook the leaves and the moss-dripping branches, shivered the reeds, and rippled across the water. The rowboat pitched and rocked. Spyder gripped both sides of the small craft and fought to keep it from overturning while Ronal struggled to do the same with the oars. "We're gonna flip!" Ronal shouted.

But just as suddenly as the wind arose it ceased, and the river became calm once again. Spyder crouched in the bow. "You're not in Nis now, Rime! Your powers are weak here!"

Laughter soared on the night, coming from everywhere and nowhere, and when it faded, the throb of coven drums replaced it, an ominous pulsing beat that came from deep within the Swamp of Night Secrets.

Ronal leaned on the oars, his powerful muscles visibly knotted, his face pale. "There once was a woman from Nis," he muttered, pausing to chew his lip, "who went into the forest to piss. Her soft little splash turned a boulder to ash, and lizards crawled out of her…"

The wind ripped through the swamp and over the river again, and Rime's voice took form on it. Nasty little man, I heard that! The rowboat rocked and bounced precariously on huge moonlit swells. Yet, the river seemed darker, the night less bright.

Spyder twisted around in the boat and shot a glance skyward. "The moon!" he shouted. "It's begun!"

The smallest sliver of the left side of the moon was gone. A faint arc of redness, like a trickle of blood, marked the slowly advancing edge of the black, light-devouring shadow that would soon consume its radiance entirely. Somewhere in the swamp, the coven drums beat louder even as the wind stilled once more.

"Head for that sound!" Spyder ordered.

"I'd rather head for the Unicorn," Ronal shot back, "and for a couple of beers—I'd even buy!" But he angled the boat out of the main stream and into the reeds. "But no, before we ever find the witches we're going to wind up cat food."

A swarm of gnats, unseeable in the darkness, immediately surrounded them. Spyder pulled up his hood and covered his mouth and nose with one hand. Ronal, working the oars, cursed and sputtered, defenseless under the sudden onslaught. Then they were through whatever nest or insect home their passage had disturbed.

Spyder turned one shoulder toward his old friend. "Did you say gnat food?"

"No jokes from the bow," Ronal grumbled. "You're only allowed to brood and look ominous under your big black cloak."

"Be glad they were gnats," Spyder answered, "and not bees."

Rime's laughter touched their minds again, not borne on a wind this time, but on a malevolent buzzing.

Ronal ceased rowing and looked up in horrible expectation. "I think I mis-remembered the limerick!" he hissed. "They weren't lizards that crawled out of her orifice. They were… ! Oh no!" Leaving the oars to rattle in their oarlocks, he flung himself over the side.

The bees came like a black wave over the tops of the reeds and through the tall river grasses. Clutching both sides of the rowboat to steady it, Spyder crouched down. He was not only cloaked and hooded, but also gloved. Still, he felt the weight of the creatures striking at his back, at his arms, trying to sting him. In only moments, hood or no hood, they would find his face and eyes.

"Get out of the boat!" he heard Ronal yell. "We can get under it!"

But there was no need for that. The buzzing diminished. Bees dropped out of the air into the boat, or into the water with little plops. Spyder shook one gloved hand, then straightened, shedding bees from his back and shoulders like droplets of water. Ronal's head broke the surface about three feet from the side of the boat. He shrieked and pushed wildly at the water with his hands, parting the bobbing curtain of insect corpses around him.

Then the panic left his face and a look of puzzlement replaced it. He swam to the boat, caught it with both hands, and peeked over the side at the unnatural cargo they'd taken on. "What the… ?" He brushed a dead bee off the oarlock.

"The cold," Spyder said, balancing the boat while Ronal clambered back in. "Bees go dormant in the cold."

Ronal settled back between the oars, clutching himself and shivering. "It's been a warm winter…" He stopped as his teeth began to clack and chatter. "Until now." He hugged himself even harder and rubbed his bare arms. It was Spyder's turn to laugh. "Is that the best you can manage, Rime?" he shouted. "Nis's Grand Witch reduced to conjuring annoyances?"

"You don't seem to be able to finish your sentences, my friend."

Spyder observed as he unfastened his cloak and tossed it to Ronal. "Row, and you'll quickly warm up."

They didn't row much farther. Abruptly the bottom of the boat dragged, and the bow bumped up on land.

It couldn't be called dry land. They slogged through ankle-deep mud for the first fifty paces and forded a stream that cut suddenly across their path. Patches of dense foliage also impeded them, and strange groves of trees with willowy, whip-like branches and complicated, interlocking root structures sometimes blocked their way.

There was no sign of the Vasalan vessel. Spyder began to fear that the drums were a trick, a distraction intended to lure him in the wrong direction. He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder. Sometimes the thick trees hid the moon from him. But sometimes he could catch a glimpse of it—what remained of it.

"It—it—shouldn't be so c-c-cold!" Ronal muttered as he walked. His breath came out in a feathery stream. Spyder's cloak was much too long for him, so he wore the hood up and the rest of it clutched around his upper body.

Spyder didn't answer. He moved through the undergrowth with the speed and sureness of desperation. The drums were louder than ever in his ears—or were they just in his mind, an auditory hallucination sent by Rime to confound him? He pressed his palms to his ears. If the sound were real, wouldn't he be able to shut it out? He no longer glanced at the sky; he could feel the darkening moon on his neck. Far ahead he thought he spied a glow that might have been a fire.

He had no choice but to trust his natural senses as he plunged forward.

Rime's voice touched his mind again. You cannot hope to succeed, Regan Vigeles. You didn't even get close to me in your first pathetic attempt.

"You killed one of my agents on your border," he answered without slowing his pace. "For that alone I would hunt you to the ends of the world."

You are too late, fool. The boy is at the stake, and the torch is in my hand. The ring is already on my finger!

"You're a lying whore," Spyder answered. "The ring can't be tempered until the moon is completely eclipsed."

"Lying whore," Ronal repeated sarcastically as he hurried along on Spyder's heels. "I like that. It has a ring—oh, pardon me!"

You and your witless lackey are far outnumbered. If you do find us, I'll eat your heart with a spoon.

Spyder's eyes narrowed as he felt Rime's power weighing down upon him. Her words were more than mere words; they were tiny spells designed to feed his doubts, to erode his confidence, to slow him. Despite himself, he glanced over his shoulder again. No more than a quarter of the moon remained. And in the instant that he diverted his attention from his path, he stumbled over an unseen root. Yet, he caught himself and did not fall.

He felt as much as heard her gasp. Now it's you who lie, Rankan!

A cold sneer turned up the corners of Spyder's mouth. "But it's you who flinched, bitch."

At last he knew he was on the right course. He heard the desperation in her words as she strove to delay him, and panic lent her thought-sendings a serrated edge. More, he was certain that the glow he saw ahead was firelight. It flickered among the trunks and branches, danced on the leaves. And yet with that sense of certainty a new fear came. Rime had said the boy was already at the stake!

"Spyder!"

Steel rang loudly on steel, and Spyder's eyes snapped wide at the sound of his name. For an instant, Rime had almost trapped him in his own web of doubt, and he had to admire the subtlety of her effort even as he shrugged off its effects.

Rime laughed inside his head. You are surrounded, Rankan. In moments you will be dead!

Three of Rime's coven brothers leaped out of the foliage and ran at him. Their nude bodies were painted with green mud and black slime. More mud dulled the metal sheen of their swords. The sounds of combat behind him indicated that Ronal was already engaged.

Spyder's hand went to the dagger on his belt, and the glittering blade flashed under the reddening moon as it flew straight to the nearest attacker's throat. A second Nisi rushed at him, swinging his sword in a horizontal arc. Spyder ducked low and side-stepped, and as he straightened he freed his own sword, raked it through the man's mid-section. Without pausing, he smashed his booted foot into the third Nisi's groin. It failed to have the expected effect— perhaps the man was a eunuch?—and Spyder dodged and parried a wild flurry of strokes.

"You'll learn not to meddle in the affairs of your betters!" the Nisi shouted, pausing to catch his breath.

"Here's a lesson for you," Spyder answered. He spun sharply, ripping a handful of leaves from a bush and flinging them at his foe's eyes. The Nisi recoiled, instinctively jerking his head away to protect his sight, and never saw the Enlibar sword before it bit deeply into his neck.

"And the witless lackey scores three on his own," Ronal said with mocking calm. At his feet on the muddy ground lay three more coven members. He tore leaves from a bush and wiped his blade.

Spyder turned toward the distant fire. "No words, Rime?" he shouted as he sheathed his sword. "Do you feel my breath on your neck, Witch?"

A pantherish roar sounded from the trees nearby. Startled, Ronal jumped and stumbled over one of the bodies, landing on his back. "Shite!" he cursed as he scrambled to his feet again. "That damned beast is getting too close for comfort!" He kicked the body he'd fallen over. "Maybe this meat will satisfy its appetite. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!"

He remembered the clouds he'd seen far out over Hag's Teeth. If Rime couldn't see the moon it might affect the timing of her spells. But that was too small a hope; those clouds were too thin and too far away.

What was worse, he wondered as he began to run. Failing to destroy the ring? That would mean another war with Nis, one that neither Ranke, nor Ilsig, could afford. Or losing the boy, Lisoh. That would break Aaliyah's heart. Why was he even asking the question now? He had his duty to the empire. No matter that it had ruined his family and declared him outcast—Ranke still commanded his loyalty.

Yet, it was Aaliyah, though, who commanded his heart.

He leaped a barricade of twisted roots, ducked under a low branch and dodged the gaping mouth of a hissing serpent that hung from it. Puddles splashed under his feet. He no longer valued stealth. Only speed mattered. A grove of willow trees loomed before him. A pale mist drifted over the grass, unnaturally thick, he thought, but there was no time to find a way around. He feared losing sight of the fire if he veered off course.

Clouds. Mist.

Perhaps.

The air turned chilly again, and a light fog began to eddy over the ground. Wispy tendrils swirled lazily upward, diffusing on the air. The stars, so bright in a crisp sky, began to waver and fade as a gray veil obscured their light. Stubbornly, the remaining sliver of moonlight lingered, yet moment by moment, the milky effluvium rose and deepened. The Swamp of Night Secrets seemed to shrink in upon itself as one by one the stars vanished entirely.

Spyder ran, narrowly avoiding trees and obstacles in his path. Only the barest hint of fireglow remained, and he focused his gaze on that and nothing else. He was sure Ronal was behind him, but he didn't know where. He didn't hear any sound of pursuit. Indeed, he didn't hear anything but those frantic drums and his own harsh breathing and his sloshing footfalls.

Then, he stopped suddenly, grabbing desperately at a slender tree to catch his balance as he found himself at the edge of a fifteen foot high embankment above a narrow tributary. A black Vasalan ship sat anchored on a river of mist at the opposite bank, its mast swaying ever so slowly. Not one, but three crackling bonfires burned on that far side. The lanky silhouettes of Nis witches danced around them, their shapes and movements twisted, distorted by the fog.

He stared for a moment, tasting desperation.

Again, he glanced over his shoulder through the branches above his head. There was no moon to see—only fog.

Securing his sword with one hand, he slipped and slid down the embankment, finishing the descent on his backside before he hit the water with a splash. He didn't worry about the noise. The drumming covered any sound he was likely to make. He began to swim with fast, furious strokes.

Quanali muriel maba elberah canta. She was in his head, in his heart and blood. Each time we meet, my heart sings! Only a month ago, he'd found her searching for her brother along the Nis border. She'd looked—Ronal had put it rightly—lonely and strange, more than a little lost.

A splash interrupted his thoughts, and a moment later, a softer splash. Under the muffling blanket of fog he couldn't tell what direction the sounds came from. It might have been Ronal behind him, or it might have been one of the Nisi warlocks swimming to intercept him. It might have been both.

He reached the opposite shore and crept out of the water. With the enemy so near now, his natural stealth reasserted itself. Crouched, he stole along the edge of the bank and angled toward the fire, stopping behind a thick tree trunk to observe. The underbrush and foliage had been cut away or pulled up by the roots to form a sizable clearing. Spyder counted the dancers weaving among the fires, then the drummers, who sat in a circle to one side. They beat their drums with a hysterical passion, and their bodies gleamed with sweat and fire-sheen. As if they could see through the fog, all their gazes were turned skyward.

Regan Vigeles, called Spyder. Rime's voice slipped into his mind like a sharp knife. Know that you have failed again. It is time. All the power of the Nisi globes will be mine, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it.

He didn't know why he turned toward the Vasalan ship and caught his breath. With regal grace, the Grand Witch of Nis strode down the gangplank. Her beauty dazzled. Though bred in Hell, her form was something far more heavenly. Black hair swept down her back over her hips and to her knees. Large eyes glittered over perfect cheekbones and a lush mouth. A diaphanous skirt loosely encircled her waist. Rather than hiding her loins, it seemed to enhance and emphasize them. She wore nothing over her breasts but jewels. Dozens of necklaces sparkled with rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, nuggets of gold, and gold circlets banded her upper arms.

As she walked down the plank, she held her left arm rigidly at right angles with the back of her hand turned outward. The only jewelry that mattered tonight shimmered on her middle finger—a band seemingly of purest silver. But the firelight caught the metal and played strangely upon it so that at some moments it seemed liquid, not solid at all.

The Ring of Sea—and Fire.

As she moved into the clearing the dancers ceased their gyrations and threw themselves to their knees. Naked, they were covered in mud and filth, their hair matted. With their lips almost to the ground they chanted her name. Rime! Rime! Rime! As far as Spyder could tell, none of them bore any weapons at all.

"Looks more like grime, grime, grime, to me." Ronal whispered as he drifted from behind another tree to Spyder's side. "You want your cloak back?" He held out a wad of dripping cloth.

When Spyder put a finger to his lips for silence, Ronal shrugged and dropped the sopping bundle. He eased his sword from its sheath. "Is there a plan?" he asked. "Kill everyone," Spyder said. "But not until I know where the boy is."

Spyder's gaze narrowed. On the ground right at the fire's edge, barely visible against the glow, was a white shape. It lay so still, but as he watched, the form twitched ever so slightly within the limits of its severe bindings. Lisoh—wrapped like a mummy!

He knew where the ring was. Now, he knew where Lisoh was, too. "Stay hidden," Spyder said to Ronal. "You'll know when I need you."

"You need me," Ronal muttered. "Wait until I tell 'em at the Broken Mast you finally admitted that."

Drawing a breath, Spyder walked into the clearing. The drummers saw him first, and the drums fell silent. When the drums stopped, the chanters also stopped and stared wide-eyed at him.

Rime also stared with disbelief and fear.

Then she laughed.

"I told you my knife was at your back, Witch."

"But how can that be," she answered, her voice deeply seductive, "when you are standing before me?" Indeed, when you are kneeling before me!

Her power hit him like a hammer, and he felt his knees start to buckle. But he resisted, drawing another breath, gathering his strength as he took a step forward. "My knives are many, Rime," he answered. A pair of her coven brothers seized his arms, but he ignored them. "They are everywhere! They strike from everywhere!"

She laughed again. "You're… !"

Her mouth gaped, and her eyes shot wide with pain before she could finish. One of the dancers screamed and leaped up to catch her elbow as she faltered and sank to one knee. Rime looked at the dancer. Then she looked at the bound form by the fire. A red spittle bubbled on her lip as she hissed, "Burn him!"

But the dancer was staring beyond Rime, and he wore a look of horror as he pulled the dagger from her back.

Indeed, Ronal always knew when Spyder needed him. The former gladiator ran into the clearing, his gaze focused on Rime. The witch was down, but not yet dead. The drummers leaped up. One of them threw a drum at Ronal's legs before he could reach his target. He dodged it, but they were on him. He cut and slashed with an expert fury.

Spyder twisted and drove his knee into one of his captors. He'd distracted Rime while Ronal worked his way behind her. Now, nothing but sheer ferocity would win the game. Freeing his sword arm, he drew the Enlibar blade and slashed through his second captor. Two more Nis rushed at him. He cut them down ruthlessly.

But a ring of witches had encircled Rime, and within that ring still another ring of witches. He rushed at them, then staggered under a chaotic assault of hastily cast spells. Some commanded him merely to stop; some ripped the breath from his body. Pain spells, blindness spells, even love spells. For a moment, he felt himself drowning on dry land, the next moment he saw his sword turn into a serpent in his grasp, then back to steel. There was no order to the assault, and one spell interfered with another, so that all of them lacked sufficient power. Still, he reeled.

A terrible cat-cry ripped the air, a scream louder than his own. High in a tree at the edge of the clearing, a pair of eyes gleamed with green anger. A panther, sleek and black, poised on a branch with its gaze fixed on Rime.

Spyder cried out, "Shahana!"

The panther sprang, landing on the back of an inner-circle witch. But that one was not its prey. In an instant, the creature was on Rime. Its jaws closed savagely on her neck. One powerful rear leg raked open the witch's belly. Necklaces broke, and jewels scattered like colored rain.

Still, the Nis sought to close ranks around their mistress. Two hurled themselves at the panther, oblivious to the death-dealing claws, and the two bearing Lisoh lifted him and threw him into the flames.

If the boy screamed, he could not be heard over the screams of the witches, the panther, and Spyder, himself. He waded into the witches, blind with hate and rage and shame. Even when the witches finally broke ranks and tried to flee, he chased them, cut them down mercilessly.

And the panther, with teeth and claws, claimed as many lives.

When no foes remained standing, his rage still not spent, Spyder seized a brand from one of the fires and flung it at the Vasalan ship. The flames caught in a coil of rope, spread along the deck, touched the furled sail and climbed the mast.

Only then, with the heat of the burning vessel scorching his face did Spyder drop his sword and sink to his knees. "I'm sorry, Sha-hana," he cried. "I promised you, but I failed!"

The panther padded slowly to his side.

"Regan! The beast… !" Ronal called from the far side of the clearing where he sat leaning against a tree unable to stand.

Spyder looked into the panther's eyes and touched its blood-matted shoulder. The beast hung its head and gave a low growl. Then, its form shifted, stretched, and transformed.

"I'll be damned," Ronal said quietly. "I knew there was something strange about her."

Aaliyah and Spyder fell into each other's arms and wept together, and Spyder wondered how they could ever share love again through so much pain. He hadn't known the boy, Lisoh, but he knew what Lisoh meant to Aaliyah. And he had promised—he had promised. Through his tears, he looked up. The fog had melted away. In the sky, the moon was past full eclipse.

With an effort, Spyder got to his feet and, picking up his sword, went to Rime's body. Her mouth, though caked with mud, seemed turned up at the corners as if the bitch were still laughing at him. For a long moment he stood there letting the rage wash over him again, then the grief, then a terrible emptiness.

He raised the sword once and cut off her right hand. The untem-pered ring went into his pocket. It was evidence for Jamasharem. Unless he decided to keep it. A second time he raised the sword and cut off her head. That was for spite. Then he cast hand, head, and her entire body into the flames to burn with Aaliyah's brother.

"She's a shapechanger," Spyder explained quietly. He didn't feel obligated to tell Ronal that he was the witch, or rather, the warlock, and that the weird weather tricks had been his. Perhaps in time. It wasn't that he didn't trust his friend, but some secrets were best kept. Especially in Sanctuary.

Ronal sat on the couch with his swollen left leg in a swath of herbal poultices and bandages. "I'm getting too old for this," he said after a pause. "That knife-toss should have found the witch's heart."

"You did well, Ronal." He turned and stared from the rooftop parapet out toward the bay. Half to himself, he added, "My knives are always where I need them."

His knives. His agents.

After another long pause, Ronal asked, "Are you going to keep the ring?"

Spyder pursed his lips. Though the ring was untempered and would never be as potent as it was intended to be, it was not entirely without power. He wasn't sure yet if he wanted to hand that unexplored power to Jamasharem. "For now, it's safe in my vault. I may destroy it." He had no idea how to accomplish that, but he was certain it would take more than his meager talent.

Aaliyah appeared at the top of the stair with a tray of food and a fresh jug of wine. She set them on the table by the couch within Ronal's reach and went to Spyder's side. He slipped his arm around her and drew her close. "Quanali muriel maha elberab canta," he whispered.

A sudden chill touched the air, but this time he wasn't the cause.

"It's beginning," he told her as he glanced toward the sky. Slowly the sun began to weaken and fade. He swept his gaze over the harbor below, then westward toward the Maze and the Bazaar, then toward the palace.

"Why do I have a feeling you don't mean the eclipse?" Ronal said as he bit into a roll.

"Witches, wizards, demons—even shapechangers." He forced a smile as he tilted Aaliyah's face toward his and kissed her forehead. "The Nisi covens are finished for good, but the things I've seen in two weeks' time. The things I've heard. We're all being drawn to Sanctuary again. It's as if we're being assembled for something. For what, I don't know."

The sky grew sullen and cool. Birds took to the air and flew in confused circles. Dogs barked. Everywhere Spyder looked people stood in the streets, on the docks, or on their own rooftops. They watched, too, with an uncharacteristic hush.

Slowly, the sky darkened, and the shadows of Sanctuary twisted into strange shapes as a black disk crawled across the sun. When it was finally in place all that remained where the sun had been was a flickering blood-red ring.

Spyder was not looking up, however. The placid, almost mirror-smooth surface of the bay held his attention. It reflected the spectacle in the sky with an uncanny precision. He wondered if anyone else saw it. He wondered if Aaliyah noticed.

On the bay was another ring of sea and fire.