Wings of Omen

DAUGHTER OF THE SUN by Robin W. Bailey

"Did you miss me?"

Kadakithis whirled away from his window at the sound of that voice and stared in mute disbelief at the young woman in his doorway. She moved through his apartment toward him, aswirl in a summer cloud of dazzling white silks and shimmering sun-drenched hair. Smiling, she reached out to embrace him.

"Cousin!" They squeezed each other until they were breathless, then the Prince held her back at arm's length and laughed. "Gods, how yor've changed!" He made her turn while he rubbed his chin with mock-seriousness. "Chenaya, favorite of favorites, you were lovely even before I left Ranke, but you've grown positively exquisite." His fingers traced a thin, pale scar barely noticeable against the deep bronze of her left forearm. "Still playing rough, I see."

He clucked his tongue chidingly and sighed. "But what are you doing in Sanctuary, cousin? Did your father come with you?"

It was Chenaya's turn to laugh, and the sound rolled silver-sweet in her throat. "Still my Little Prince," she managed finally, patting his head as if he were a puppy in her lap. "Impetuous and impatient as ever. So many questions!"

"Not so little anymore, my dear," he answered, patting her head in the same condescending manner. "I'm taller than you now."

"Not by so very much." She spun away, her gown billowing with the movement. "Perhaps we should wrestle to see if it makes any difference?" She regarded him from across the room, her head tilting slightly when he didn't reply. A silence grew between them as he studied her, brief but suddenly more than she could bear. She crossed the apartment again in swift strides and seized his hands in hers. "It's so very good to see you, my Little Prince."

Their arms slipped about each other, and they embraced again. But this time his touch was different, distant. She backed off, slipping gently from his grasp, and gazed up at his face, at the eyes that suddenly colored with tints of sadness, or something just as disturbing.

Could he know the news from the capital?

"I smelled a garden when I entered the grounds," she said, tugging his hand, urging him toward the door. It struck her now how dark his quarters seemed, how sparse and empty of warmth or light. "Let's go for a walk. The sun is bright and beautiful."

Kadakithis started to follow, then hesitated. His gaze fixed on something beyond her shoulder; his hand in hers turned cold, stiff with tension. She felt his trembling. Slowly, she turned to see what affected him so.

Four men, guards apparently, stood just beyond his threshold. She had noticed several like them as she passed through the palace-strange, blank-eyed men of a racial type unknown to her. She'd been so eager to see her cousin, she had paid little attention. She'd assumed them to be mercenaries or hirelings. She took note of their garb and the weapons they wore, and hid a private smirk. A man would have to be good with his steel to dress in such a tasteless, gaudy fashion.

One of the four clapped the haft of a pike on the floor stones, needlessly announcing their presence. "The Beysa requests that Your Highness join her on the West Terrace." Then, Chenaya's confusion gave way to a flush of anger as the guard looked directly at her and added with more than a hint of insolence, "At once."

Kadakithis carefully slipped his hand from hers and swallowed. With a shrug of resignation he drew himself up and the tension appeared to melt from him. "Where are you staying, cousin? There are quarters in the Summer Palace if you need them. And I must prepare a party to celebrate your arrival; I know how you love parties." He shot the guard commander a haughty glance as he lingered over this small talk, but he took a first step toward the door.

His expression begged her indulgence; more, it warned her to it. She watched, brows wrinkling, as he moved away from her. "My father has purchased an estate just beyond your Avenue of Temples. The lands reach all the way to the Red Foal River. The papers are being finalized at this very moment." She pushed the small talk, forcing the Prince to defer his exit, studying with a subtle eye the guards' minute reactions. Whoever this Beysa was, these were certainly her men. And who was she, indeed, to command sentries within a palace of a Rankan royal governor?

The Prince nodded, drifting farther away. "Good land can be had cheaply these days," he observed. "How is Lowan Vigeles?"

"Loyal as ever," she said pointedly. What the hell is going on? was the message her expression conveyed. Are you in trouble? "Though somewhat tired. We made the journey with only eight servants. Protectors, really. Gladiators from my father's school. I handpicked them myself."

Kadakithis pursed his lips ever so slightly to acknowledge her offer. If they were from Lowan's school, better fighters could not be found, and she had placed them at his service. "Go home and give Lowan my well-wishes. I'll need time to plan your party, but I'll send you a message." He turned to join the four guards who barely hid their impatience or their indignation at being made to wait. But he stopped once more. "Oh, have you seen Molin, yet?"

She frowned, then put on a very wide, very forced smile. "I wanted to delay that unpleasantry and visit a friend first."

The smile that spread on the Prince's face was genuine; she'd learned to read his moods in early childhood. "Don't be so hard on the old priest. He's been a great comfort to me, always full of"-he hesitated, and a twinkle sparked in his eyes-"advice."

"Maybe I'll see him," she agreed, running her hands over her bare shoulders, down her arms, feeling somewhat naked and alone as Kadakithis went through the door and out of the apartments.

Two of the fish-eyed sentries remained. "Would you accompany us, please."

Polite words, but she sensed there was no courtesy in them. She shook back her hair, batted her lashes, lifted her nose to a neck-straining angle, and walked over the threshold into the corridor. She was very careful to step on their toes as she passed between them.

Chenaya held her anger in a clenched fist behind her back and regarded the tall, fair-skinned woman who addressed her. Obviously a foreigner like the four guards, she thought, but from what god-cursed land? Painted breasts, indeed! Was that really some kind of webbing between those bare toes? Why, she must be a freak! The woman would be laughed out of any court in Ranke, if only for her garish costume.

Yet, she was also the Beysa, whatever that was, and the guards had bowed when they had presented Chenaya.

The Beysa moved about a room that had to be part of her private apartments. With a short clap of her hands, she dismissed guards and servants all. Only the two of them remained facing each other.

"What did you want with Kadakithis?" the Beysa probed, moving to a chair in the center of the room. Chenaya suspected it had been placed there for just this audience. The foreign woman sprawled there, making a show of appearing at ease.

Chenaya answered slowly, containing herself. There was much to learn here, a secret she had not known when she had come to this city. Now she began to suspect why no word had come to Ranke from Sanctuary in some months.

"The world is a vain collection of private pursuits," she responded vaguely. "By what right do you issue commands in a Rankan governor's palace, or in violation of Rankan law, dare to maintain a personal guard within these walls?"

The Beysa's gaze hardened, fixed on her with a subtle ^ menace. Chenaya lifted her chin and hurled the same cold glare back at the foreign bitch.

"I am not accustomed to rudeness. I could have your tongue ripped out by the root." The Beysa straightened in her chair; the carefully manicured nails of one hand began to tap idly on the chair's carven arm.

Chenaya arched a brow. "You could try," she answered evenly. "But I rather suspect I'd be holding both those marbles you call eyes in the palm of my hand before your guards could answer your summons."

The Beysa stared, but Chenaya could read nothing in those strange eyes. Only a slight twitch of the mouth and those tapping nails betrayed the woman's irritation.

The Beysa spoke again after a long, uncomfortable silence. Her tone was more conciliatory this time. "Perhaps you are not so accustomed to rudeness, either. The regular gate guard who admitted you to the grounds claimed you bore the Imperial Rankan Seal. How is it you have such a thing in your possession?"

Chenaya felt the sigil she wore on her right hand and twisted it. Each member of the Imperial family owned a similar ring by right. Even a Rankan peasant knew that, but she was disinclined to explain it to this woman. Instead, she glanced around the chamber, finely furnished but less lavish than her own in Ranke, and spied a wine vessel and small chalices on a side table. She crossed to it, purposefully ignoring the Beysa, poured a dollop and sipped, not offering to serve. It was sweet liquor, unlike any she had-tasted; she wondered if the foreigner had brought it from her own land.

"You are a very rude young woman," her hostess said.

"So are you," Chenaya shot back over the rim of her cup, adding the lie, "only you're not so young."

The Beysa's brow crinkled; a delicate-seeming fist smacked on the chair arm. "Very well, let me be blunt and trade rudeness for rudeness." She rose from her chair, her face clouding over, her finger out-thrust in anger. "Do not come here again. Stay away from Kadakithis. I cannot make myself plainer."

Chenaya nearly dropped the chalice in surprise. Her own cool fury dissolved. She drifted back to the center of the room, the meekest grin blossoming on her lips. Then, unable to restrain herself, she laughed.

"Damn! By the bright lights of the gods, you're in love with my Little Prince!" she accused when she could get her breath again.

The Beysa stiffened. "Kadakithis loves me. I know this, though he says nothing. Mere days after our eyes first met he sent his wife away and all his concubines."

Chenaya felt her brows knit closer. She had not liked Kadakithis's bride; the frail little thing whined far too much. Yet, her cousin had seemed devoted to her. "Sent his wife where?" she persisted.

"How should I know?" the Beysa answered, mocking. "Haven't you reminded me that Rankan business is for Ran-kans?"

Chenaya studied again those weird brown eyes, the thin pale hair that reached to the waist and lower, the finely boned hands and ivory skin. The Beysa was, perhaps, only slightly older than she. Yet, she gave some impression of age. "You're pretty enough," Chenaya admitted grudgingly. "Maybe, by some god's whim, you have bewitched him."

"Yet, mine is the beauty of the moon, while you shine like the very sun," the Beysa answered harshly, making what could have been a compliment sound like an insult. "I know the ways of men, Rankan, and I know of temptation."

Amazed, Chenaya reassured her. "There is no need for your jealousy. The Prince is my cousin."

But the fish-eyed woman would not be calmed. She answered coldly, "Blood has no bearing on passion. In many lands such a relationship is not only condoned, but encouraged. I do not know your customs, yet. But the thinner the blood, the easier the passion. Cousins you may be, but let us not put temptation in his way. Or there will be trouble between us."

Chenaya clenched her fists; scarlet heat rushed into her cheeks. "On Rankan soil I come and go as I please," she answered low-voiced, moving closer until only an arm's length separated them. Then, she turned the chalice and slowly poured the remainder of her wine on the floor between them. It shone thick and rich on the luxurious white tiles, red as blood. "And no one orders me." Her fingers tightened about the gold chalice as she held it under the Beysa's nose. The gold began to give and bend as she squeezed; then it collapsed under her easy exertion.

Chenaya cast the cup aside and waited for its clattering to cease. She no longer bothered to contain her fury; it found a natural vent in her speech. "Now, you understand me, you highborn slut. You think you're running things around here right now. That doesn't matter a bird's turd to me. If Kadakithis has developed a taste for painted tits, that's between you and him." She raised a finger, and a small, threatening little smile stole over her mouth. "But if I find he doesn't approve of your residence or your highhanded attitude, if he's not a fully agreeable party to your presence in his city"-the little smile blossomed into a grin of malicious promise-"then I swear by my Rankan gods I'll hook you and scale you and clean your insides like any other fish sold in the market."

The Beysa's only response was an icy, unblinking stare. Then, a tiny green snake crawled up from the folds of her skirt and coiled around her wrist like an emerald bracelet. Eyes of vermilion fire fastened on Chenaya. A bare sliver of a tongue flicked between serpentine lips. It hissed, revealing translucent fangs that glistened with venom.

"Quite a pet," Chenaya commented, undaunted. She stepped away then and drew a slow breath, willing her anger to abate. "Look," she said. "I've no great desire to make an enemy of you. I don't even know you. If you care for Kadakithis, then you have my good will. But if you're using him, watch out for yourself." She drew another slow breath and sighed. "I'm leaving now. I'm so glad we had this little talk."

She turned her back on the Beysa and strode from the apartment. The guards waited in the hall beyond and escorted her through the palace, across the grounds, and to the main gate. Her litter and four immense and heavily muscled men clad only in sandals, crimson loincloths, and the broad, carved leather belts that were the fashion of Rankan gladiators waited just beyond.

"Dayme!" she hailed the largest of the four. "Come see the fish-eyes they hire for guards around here!"

Coming to his mistress's side, Dayme laid a hand on the pommel of his sword. A nasty grin, not unlike the one Chenaya wore, twisted the comers of his lips. He towered head-and-shoulders above the tallest of the Beysa's men. "Not much to them, is there. Lady?"

Chenaya patted the closest Beysib on the shoulder before she stepped through the concealing silks of her conveyance. "But they're very sweet," she replied.

"Shupansea!" Molin Torchholder raged. His normally reserved and passive face reddened, and he shook- a fist at his niece. "She rules the Beysib people. When will you ever learn to hold your cursed tongue, girl?"

Chenaya muttered an oath. Her father had brought Molin home after concluding the purchase of the estate, and she'd made the mistake of mentioning her exchange with the Beysa. She hadn't had a moment's peace in the past hour. Not even the sanctity of her dressing room gave her reprieve as he followed her through the house, questioning, berating.

She gave him a blistering glare. If the old priest had the balls to invade her chambers, he was going to get an eyeful. She ripped the silken garments from her body with an angry wrench and cast them at his feet.

Molin sputtered and kicked the shredded clothing aside, ignoring her bare flesh. "Damn everything, you spoiled brat!" He grabbed her arm and spun her around when she started to turn away. "You're not in Ranke anymore. You can't lord it over people as you once did. There are different political realities here!"

"Brother," Lowan Vigeles spoke from the threshold, "you are in my house, and you'll speak civilly to my daughter. And you'd best release her arm before she breaks yours."

Molin gave them both a frosty stare, but he abandoned his grip. Chenaya flashed a false smile and moved to one of many chests pushed against the walls. There had been no time to unpack, but she knew the right one and opened it. She pulled out a bundle of garments, finely sewn fighting leathers, and began to dress.

"Brother," Molin began again in a more moderate tone. "Niece. I beg you to trust my judgment in these matters. You're very new to the ways of Sanctuary." He folded his arms and made a show of pacing about the room. "Your news of the Emperor's murder is terrible, indeed."

"The entire royal family," Lowan Vigeles reminded, "at least those within Theron's reach. Chenaya and I barely escaped, and they may hunt us here. You too. Brother."

Molin frowned; then the frown vanished. "That's why we need the Beysib. They will protect Kadakithis. They are completely loyal to Shupansea, and she seems to dote on the Prince these days."

Chenaya shot her father a look; a barely perceptible nod of his head silenced her. "What about the 3rd Commando?" Lowan insisted carefully. "They placed Theron on Ranke's throne, and they know Kadakithis is the legitimate claimant to that throne. Did Theron truly exile them, or are they here to commit another murder?"

Molin frowned again and rubbed his hands. "I know nothing about them, except that they were originally formed by Tempus Thales when he served the Emperor."

Chenaya stomped into a boot. "Tempus!" she spat. "That butcher!"

Molin Torchholder raised an eyebrow. "How many have you slain in the arena since I've been gone, child? For Tempus Thales, death is a matter of war or duty." He looked down his nose at her. "For you, it is a game."

"A game that fattened your own purse," she shot back. "Do you think I don't know about the bets you placed on me?"

He chose to ignore that and turned to her father, extending his hands. "Lowan, trust me. Kadakithis mustn't leam about his brother's death. You know what a young, idealistic fool he is. He would ride straight to Ranke to claim his throne, and Theron would cut him down like late wheat." He turned to Chenaya now, genuine pleading in his voice. "Better to keep him here, safe in Sanctuary, until we can formulate a plan that will give him his birthright."

With every word that fled his mouth, Chenaya remembered the small green serpent the beynit her uncle called it-that wound about the Beysa's wrist. Molin was a snake; she knew that from long experience. He did not hiss so horribly, and he concealed his fangs, but nonetheless, she felt him trying to tighten his coils about her.

"Uncle," she breathed, struggling with the other boot, "you make a big mistake to assume me such a fool. I know my Little Prince far better than you will ever know him. I did not go to the palace to tell him of events in the capital, but to see a friend I've missed." She stood up and began to buckle the straps that were more decoration to her costume than utilitarian. "And to get a feel for the grounds and the palace itself. I plan to spend some time there. Your precious Beysib will not be the only protection Kadakithis has to count on." She took a sword from the chest, a beautifully Grafted weapon, gold-hiked with tangs carved like the wings of a great bird and a pommel stone gripped in a bird's talons. She fastened its belt so it rode low on her hip. Lastly, she donned a manica, a sleeve of leather and metal rings favored by arena fighters; a strap across her chest held it in place. "Theron will never reach him; I promise you that."

"My niece is confused about her sex," Molin sneered. "Can a common gladiator guard the Prince better than the garrison? Or the Hell-Hounds? Or our Beysib allies?"

She shook back her long blonde curls and set a circlet of gold on her brow to hold the hair from her face. Mounted on the circlet so it rode the center of her forehead was a golden sunburst, the symbol of the god Savankala. "I am no common gladiator," she reminded him coldly, "as you well know, old weasel."

Much as she regretted ever telling him, Molin was the only man to share the secret of her dream and the rewards given to her by the chief of the Rankan pantheon. Himself. But she was very young then, only fourteen, and could be forgiven the foolish confidence. He was a Rankan priest; who better to tell about the dream and Savankala's visitation and the three wishes he granted her? Moi . had tested her; he knew the truth of her dream.

She ran her hands teasingly over her breasts, reminding him of the first of those wishes. "Did I not grow into a beauty. Uncle? Truly, Savankala has blessed me."

She saw her father frown. To him, her words were mere boastfulness. Though he disapproved, he was used to such from her. He leaned his bulk against the doorjamb. "You're going out?" he said, indicating her dress.

"It's nearly dark," she answered. "I'm goings to the temple. Then, there's a lot to leam about this city." She turned that mocking smile on Molin. "Wasn't it you. Uncle, who told me nighttime is best for prying secrets?"

"Certainly not!" he snapped indignantly. "And if you go out dressed like that you'll find nothing but trouble. Some of the elements in this town would kill just for those clothes, let alone that fancy sword or that circlet."

She went back to the open chest, produced two sheathed daggers, and thrust them through the ornamental straps on her thigh. "I won't be alone," she announced. "I'm taking Reyk."

"Who's Reyk?" Molin asked Lowan Vigeles. "One of those giants you brought with you?"

Lowan just shook his head. "Take care, child," he told his daughter. "The street is a very different kind of arena."

Chenaya lifted a hooded cloak from her chest and shut the lid. As she passed from the room, she raised on tiptoe to peck her father's cheek. She gave nothing to Molin Torch-holder but her back.

It wasn't sand beneath her boots, nor was there any crowd to cheer her on, yet it was an arena. She could feel the prey waiting, watching from the shadowed crannies and gloom-filled alleyways. She could hear the breathing, see the dull gleam of eyes in the dark places.

It was an arena, yes. But here, the foe did not rush to engage, no clamor of steel on steel to thrill the spectators. Here, the foe skulked, crouched, crawled in places it thought she couldn't see: tiny thieves with tiny hearts empty of courage, tiny cutthroats with more blade than backbone. She laughed softly to herself, jingling her purse to encourage them, taunting them as she would not a more honorable foe in the games.

They watched her, and she watched them watching. Perhaps, she thought, ;// throw back my hood and reveal my sex.... Yet she did not. There was much she had to do this night and much to leam.

The Avenue of Temples was dark and deserted. She located the Temple of the Rankan Gods easily, a grand structure that loomed above all others. Two bright flaming braziers illumined the huge doors at its entrance. However, hammer as she might with the iron ring, no one within answered. She cursed, m the capital the temples neverclosed. She slammed the ring one last time and turned away.

"Father of us all," she prayed tight-lipped as she descended the temple stairs, "speak to me as you did that night long ago." But the gods were silent as the city streets.

She paused to get her bearings, and realized the high wall on her right must be part of the Governor's compound. The park on her left, then, would be the Promise of Heaven, or so she had heard it called earlier as she rode past it to her home. There, men who could not afford a higher class of prostitute haggled for sexual favors from half-starved amateurs. She shrugged, passed the park by, following the Governor's wall until she came to another street she recognized from her day's tour, the Processional.

She stopped again, looked up at the sky, and marveled at how brightly the stars shone over this pit of a city. Though she prayed to Savankala and swore in his name, the night fascinated her. It had a taste and a feel like no other time.

She whistled a low note. A fleet shadow glided overhead, eclipsing stars in its path, and plummeted. She extended the arm on which she wore the manica, and Reyk screeched a greeting as he folded his wings and settled on her wrist. She smacked her lips by way of reply and attached a jess from her belt to his leg.

"Do you feel it, too, pet?" she whispered to the falcon. "The city? The dark? It's alive." She smacked her lips again and Reyk fluttered his wings. "Of course you do." She looked around, turning a full circle. "It seethes in a way Ranke never did. We may like it here, pet. Look there!" She pointed to a shadow that slipped furtively by on the opposite side of the street. She hailed it; it paused, regarded her, moved on. Chenaya laughed out loud as it passed into the gloom.

With Reyk to talk to, she wandered down the Processional, amazed how the few strangers she spied crept from doorway to doorway in their efforts to avoid her. She walked in the middle of the paving, letting the moonlight glint on the hilt of her sword, both a temptation and warning to would-be thieves.

A peculiar odor wafted suddenly on a new breeze. She stopped, sniffed, walked on. Salt air. She had never smelled it before; it sent a strange shiver along her spine. The sea was often in her thoughts. She dreamed of it. Her steps faltered, stopped. How far to the wharves, she wondered? She listened for the sound of surf. In the stories and tales, there was always the surf, foaming, crashing on the shore, pounding in her dreams.

She walked on, sniffing, listening.

At last, on the far side of an immense, wide avenue she spied the docks and the darkened silhouettes of ships in port. Bare masts wagged in the sky; guy lines hummed in the mild breeze that blew over the water. No crashing surf, but a gentle lapping and creaking of wooden beams made the only other sounds. New smells mingled in the air with the salt: odors of fish and wet netting, smoke from fishermen's cook fires or from curing, perhaps. She could not spot the fires if they still burned. Only a dim-lighted window here and there perforated the dark.

Chenaya moved quietly, every nerve tingling, over the Wideway and down one of the long piers. There was water beneath her now: the boards rocked ever so slightly under her tread. Above, the moon cast a silvery glaze on the tender wavelets.

She swept back her hood. The breeze, cool and fresh on her skin, caught and billowed her hair. She threw back her cloak and drew breath, filling her lungs with the briny taste.

A shadow rose unexpectedly before her. Her sword flashed out. Screeching, Reyk took to the sky as she released his jess. She fell back into a crouch, straining to see.

But the shadow was more startled than she. "Don't hurt me!" It was the voice of a child, a boy, she thought. "Please!" It raised its hands toward her, palms pressed together.

Chenaya straightened, sheathed her blade. "What the hell are you doing out here?" she demanded in a terse whisper. She had never killed a child, but had come damned close just now. "When so few others have the guts for venturing out at night?"

The little figure seemed to shrug. "Just playing," it answered hesitantly.

She smirked. "Don't lie. You're a boy, by the sound of you. Out thieving?"

The child didn't respond immediately, but turned and faced toward the sea. Chenaya realized she had come to the end of the old wharf; if the boy hadn't sprung up when he did, she might have walked off the edge.

"I sneaked out," he said finally. "I sometimes come here alone so I can look out at my home." He sat down again and dangled his feet over the water.

She sat down next to him, giving a sidelong glance. About ten, she judged. The note of sadness in his voice touched her. "What do you mean, your home."

He pointed a small finger. "Where I come from."

So, he was a Beysib child. She could not have guessed in the absence of light. He did not look so different; he didn't smell different; and he hadn't tried to kill her-not that he'd be much threat at his size.

She followed his gaze over the water, finding once again that strange chill on the nape of her neck. Then came a rare tranquillity as if she had come home somehow.

"What do you Beysib call this sea?" she asked, breaking the shared silence.

The little boy looked up at her, reminding her with a shock of his foreignness. Those wide, innocent eyes did not blink. They held hers with an eerie, mesmeric quality. The stars reflected in them, as did her own face, with a magical clarity. He said a word that meant nothing to her, a name in a melodic, alien tongue.

She tore her gaze away. "That means nothing to me, but the sound of it is pretty." The whisper barely escaped her lips, so softly did she speak. The moon sparkled on the dancing waves. The dock swayed and moaned beneath her. One hand crept slowly to her breast, and an old dream bubbled unbidden into her unsleeping mind. Savankala's face hovered, floating on the argent ripples; his lips formed the answer to her third wish....

"You are not Beysib," the child beside her spoke. "You are not of the sea. Why do you stare so at it?"

The dream left her, and the chill. She smiled a thin smile. "I've never seen the sea," she answered gently, "but we're old friends. Almost lovers." She sighed. "It's very beautiful, just as all the stories said it was."

"So are you," the child answered surprisingly. "What is that you wear in your hair?"

She touched the circlet on her brow. "An ornament," she said simply. "It bears the sign of my god."

He leaned closer; his hand drifted up toward her face. "May I touch it?" he asked. "My parents are poor. We have nothing so pretty. It shines when it catches the light." She felt his fingers touch the metal above her temple; they slid around softly toward the sunburst.

A brilliant flash of white intensity exploded in her eyes, blinding her. She fell backward, the edge of the pier under her spine, her balance tilting toward the water below. Then a strong hand caught hers, helped her to sit again.

But for a swirling host of afterimages, her vision cleared. The Beysib child sat before her, both his hands on hers. On his brow a tiny blaze of shimmering radiance burned, a small sun that illumined the very air around him.

His mouth moved, but it was not his voice. "Daughter." It was acknowledgment, little more.

Chenaya clapped her hands to her eyes, bowed her head in reverent fear. "Bright Father!" she gasped, and could find no more words. Her throat constricted, breath deserted her.

His hands took hers once more, pulled them away from her face. "Do not fear me, Daughter." His voice rolled, filled her ears and her mind, sent trembling waves all through her. "Have you not called me this night?"

She bit her lip, wanting to be free of his touch, fearing to pull away. "I sought your priests," she answered tremulously, "I sought augurs, portents. I never dreamed..."

"You did once," the god answered. "And I came to you then to reward you."

She stammered, unable to look upon Him. "And I have worshipped you, prayed to you, but not once since then..."

He gently chided. "Have I not favored you more than others of our people? Were my gifts not great enough? Would you have more of me?"

She burst into tears and hung her head. "No, Father. Forgive me, I didn't mean..." Words would not come. She shivered uncontrollably, stared at the ambient glow that bathed her hand in his.

"I know what you mean," Savankala spoke. "You called me, not for your own need, but for one we both love. And I will give what little help I can."

"The 3rd Commando," she cried suddenly, blinking back her tears, realizing a prayer was answered. "Strike them down before they harm Kadakithis!"

The god shook his head; the light on his brow wavered. "I will not," he said. "You must defend the last Rankan prince with the skills I have given you. You may not even see the faces of those who would do him injury. But you may know the hour."

She protested, "But Father!"

Those eyes bored deeply into her, fathomless and frightening, more alien than ever. She squeezed her own eyes shut, but it didn't matter. Those eyes burned into her, seared her soul. She feared to cry out, yet her lips trembled.

"When the splintered moon lies in the dust of the earth, then you must fight, or your Little Prince will die and the empire of Ranke fade forever." He released her hands, leaned forward and stroked her hair, shoulder, breast. A sweet radiance lingered wherever he touched her. "Farewell, Daughter. Twice have I come to you. No man or woman can ask more. We shall not meet again."

She opened her eyes as if waking from a long dream. The child stared out toward the sea, swinging his legs over the water. No light gleamed on his brow, nor did he give any indication that anything unusual had transpired. She touched his arm; he turned and smiled at her, then returned his attention outward. "It's very pretty, the sea, isn't it?"

She exhaled a slow breath, reached out and rumpled his hair. "Yes, very pretty." She rose slowly to her feet, fighting the weakness in her knees. "But I really need a drink." She gave a whistle. High atop the nearest masthead, Reyk answered, spread his wings, and glided downward. Chenaya lifted her arm, and the falcon took his perch.

The Beysib child gave a startled cry and scrambled to his feet, eyes widened with awe. "You command birds!" he stammered. "Are you a goddess?"

She threw back her head and laughed, a sound that rolled far out over the waves. Turning, laughing, she left the child, his childish question unanswered.

The streets twisted and curved like a krrf-hungry serpent. The moonlight fell weakly here, lending little light to show the way. Men walked more openly in these streets, but always in twos or threes. The blackened doorways and recesses were full of watchful, furtive eyes.

She began to relax as the awesome dread of speaking with her god passed from her. She stroked Reyk's feathers and took note of her surroundings.

She had not come this far on her morning tour. The air stank of refuse and slop. Invisible life teemed: a muffled footfall, the opening and shutting of a door with no light to spill through, a choked grunt from the impenetrable depths of an alley, mumblings, murmurings.

She smacked her lips at Reyk. If a man glanced her way when she passed, he quickly found another place to turn his gaze when he spied the falcon.

She slipped in something, muttered a curse at the foul smell that rose from beneath her boot. Close by, someone tittered in a high-pitched voice. Purposefully, she exposed half the length of her blade and slammed it back into the scabbard. The rasp of metal on leather gave sufficient warning to any too blind to see her pet. The titter ceased abruptly, and it was her turn to laugh a low husky laugh that scraped in her throat.

She was going to like Sanctuary. She recalled the sundrenched arenas ofRanke, the glistening sands and cheering throngs, the slaughter of men who held no true hope against her. There had been good men, some excellent; she bore scars that proved their quality. But they could not defeat her. She gave the spectators a show, made an artful kill, and collected her purse.

The game had grown dull.

Here, things would be different, a new kind of game. Sanctuary was an arena of night and shadows. No cheering crowds, no burnished armor, no fanfare of trumpets, no arbitrators. She smiled at that. No appeals.

"Home, Reyk," she whispered to the falcon. "Do you feel it? We have come home."

She prowled the dark streets of the Maze, speaking to none, but studying those she passed, measuring their bearing, meeting their eyes. Truth could be read in a man's eyes, she knew, and all the lies ever told by tongue. The soul resided in the eyes.

"Psst... a few coppers, sir, will buy you the delights of Heaven." A young girl stepped from the gloom, exposing dubious charms through a gaping cloak.

Chenaya pushed back her hood enough to show her own blonde locks. "Stuff yourself, whore." But she reached into the purse she wore on a thong about her neck and tossed a few coins in the dust. "Now, tell me where a drink can be had, and maybe some information."

The little prostitute scurried in the shadows, feeling about for the coins. "The blessing of Ils on you. Lady," she answered in excitement. "Drink? But four doors down. See the lamp?"

As Chenaya walked toward the faint light, a door beneath it opened and slammed. Two burly, cloaked figures retreated up the street to be swallowed by the night.

Above the entrance the lamplight illumined a sign. She cocked an eyebrow. However mythical the beast emblazoned there, she was sure it never did that to itself. She listened to the voices that drifted out to her and nodded to herself. This was not a place for nobles and gentlemen. Or ladies either, her father would warn her.

"Up," she said softly to Reyk. The falcon's wings beat a steady tattoo on the air as it rose, made a slow circle, and took a new perch on the tavern's sign. She folded the jess and stuck it through her belt, then pushed open the door.

Conversation stopped. Every eye turned her way. She peered down through the dingy smoke that wafted from lamp wicks in need of trimming, from tallow candles placed high about. She studied hardened, suspicious faces. The smells of wine and beer and dirty bodies tainted the air.

"It's a door, not a damn viewing gallery!" the barkeeper bellowed, shaking a meaty fist. "Come in or get out!"

She stepped inside, swept back her hood. The light shone on her hair as she shook it free.

A grizzled face suddenly blocked her view; fingers brushed her shoulder. "Welcomest sight I seen in a month," the man said, breathing stale brew. He winked. "You come looking for me, pretty?"

She smiled her sweetest smile, slipped her arms about his neck, smashed her knee into his unprotected groin. He doubled over with an explosive grunt, clutching himself. She drove a gloved fist against his jaw, sending him to the floor, and stepped away. When he made the effort to rise she seized his belt and collar, ran him headfirst into the wall. He sagged in a heap and stayed down.

"Happens every time," she said to anyone listening. She tossed her hair back dramatically, put a wistful note in her voice. "A lady can't get a peaceful drink anymore." She flung off her cloak then, making sure they saw the sword and daggers. But they no longer seemed interested. She frowned and made her way to the bar.

"A mug of your best," she ordered, slapping a coin down before the barkeep. He grumbled, swept up her money, brought the drink. As he set it down she noticed the thumb of his right hand was missing. Sipping the beer, she turned to survey the other patrons over the rim.

Three men caught her attention at once, and she stiffened; 3rd Commandos, she knew the uniform. These or their comrades had murdered the Emperor and set Theron on the throne-curse his name! They were scum that made even this refuse heap of humanity shine and smell sweet by comparison.

She set down her mug and her cloak. One hand drifted to her sword's hilt as she judged the distance to the three. Then a hand caught her arm. "Stay," a voice murmured in her ear. "They have friends; you never know where a knife might come from." She turned and met the deepest, blackest eyes she had ever seen. The lashes looked kohlled, almost feminine, beneath brows so thick they nearly met over his nose. The effect was ruggedly mesmeric. "What makes it your business?" she said under her breath, noting that the barkeep had moved within earshot.

That dark gaze ran up and down her body. "Business, is it?" he replied. "Well, let business wait a little. I'd like to buy you a drink."

She indicated her mug. "I've already bought one."

He grinned. "Then join me at my table and I'll buy your next one."

Her turn to look him over. He seemed her own age, and they were a similar height. She might even have a pound or two on him. Yet, there was a kind of rangy strength about him that his shabby tunic could not hide.

"You must be good with knives," she commented, pointing to the several he wore strapped about his person. His only response was a modest shrug. She went on, "I'll buy the drinks; you tell me something about those three in the comer."

His thin lips parted in a brief smile. "You must be new around here," he said. "The price of information is more than a drink or two in this town."

She drew a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye. "I've got a lot mpre to offer."

He appeared to think about it. "My table, then?" He made a mock bow.

The buzz of conversations had resumed. No one gave her or her young bravo a glance as he pulled out a chair and made a show of wiping the seat. A good table, she decided, positioned to give a view of the entire tavern and its entrance. She set her mug down, draped her cloak on the chair. They sat side by side.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly, leaning over her beer.

He began playing with a small pair of dice that had lain by his own mug. "Hanse," he answered simply. "I never liked that loud-mouthed braggart." He nodded toward the man she'd beaten; the barkeep had him under the arms and was dragging his limp form toward the door.

Chenaya took another drink. "No one else seemed impressed."

Hanse shrugged. The dice skittered over the table; he gathered them up again. "You're Lowan Vigeles's daughter, aren't you?" He rolled the dice between his palms.

She sat back, hiding her surprise. "How did you know?"

He tossed the dice: snake eyes. "Word travels fast in Sanctuary. That's your first lesson."

"Is there a second?" she said, feigning nonchalance.

A barely perceptible nod toward the 3rd Commandos. "People to avoid in Sanctuary." He changed the subject. "Is it true you fought in the Rankan arenas?"

She leaned close so that her shoulder touched his. "When the purse was large enough to interest me." She batted her lashes playfully. "Why should I avoid those dung-balls?"

The dice clattered on the rough surface. "They've got comrades. Lots of comrades."

The barkeep passed them, bearing drinks for another table. Chenaya waited. "How many?" she asked finally.

"Lots. They rode into town some days ago. Already act like they own it, too, though I wager the Fish-Eyes might dispute their claim." He looked up as the barkeep passed again. "One-Thumb, two more beers here. She's buying." He smiled at her and drained his mug. "They always go about in twos and threes. You tangle with one, you tangle with them all."

She tilted back until her head rested on the wall, and cursed silently. It couldn't be coincidence that the 3rd Commandos were here. They must be plotting against the Prince. Of course, that meant danger for her father and herself, too. And Molin. Theron had spared no energy hunting any who might claim the crown.

Hanse tapped her arm, and she started. "He wants to be paid," he told her. One Thumb loomed over her, looking surly. Two new mugs had appeared on the table.

Hanse's eyes followed her hand as it dipped into the purse about her neck and extracted a coin. "You must do well in the Games," he said.

"Well enough," she answered, dismissing One-Thumb. "I'm still alive."

"To being alive," he whispered, raising his beer in a toast. A bit of froth snowed his black mustache. "And if you want to stay that way, leam to carry a thinner purse and a plainer sword." He glanced up at her brow. "There are men here who would slit your throat for that trinket alone and only afterward worry if the gold was real."

She inclined her chin into one palm and met his gaze. She liked his eyes, so black and deep. "Since word travels so fast in Sanctuary, Hanse, you'd best spread this one. It's a new lesson to leam: don't play with Chenaya. The stakes are too high."

He regarded her over the rim of his mug. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She put on that sweet smile again. "It means I never lose, Hanse. Not at anything." She indicated the dice as he set his beer down. "How do you play those?"

He picked them up, shook them in a closed fist. "High number wins," he explained simply. He cast them: six and four.

She picked them up, dropped them without looking. A frown creased his forehead. "Two sixes," he muttered and gathered them to throw again.

She caught his hand. "Do you have a taste for Vuksibah?"

His eyes widened. "That's an expensive taste."

She produced two more coins, solid gold stamped with the seal of the imperial mint. She slid them toward Hanse. "I'll bet you can buy anything in this dump. See if old Sour-Face has a couple of bottles stashed away. Do you live nearby?"

He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, cocked an eyebrow. His head bobbed slowly.

She made a wry face. "The stench in here is overpowering." Her face moved close to his. "I'll bet there are lots of lessons we could teach each other." Her hand slipped under the table, fell to his thigh, encountering quite a surprise.

He caught her look and shrugged. "Another knife," he explained.

Chenaya grinned. "If you say so."

"Really," he insisted, collecting her coins, pushing back his chair. His toe caught the table leg as he rose, sloshing beer from her mug. "Sony," he mumbled. He shoved through the crowd to the bar, began an urgent conversation with One Thumb.

Chenaya looked back at the dice, picked them up, dropped them. Two sixes. She cast them again: two sixes. Once more she collected them, then with a sigh she dropped them in the beer.

The night, her seventh in the city, was still. Chenaya paced around her apartment, stared out each of the windows over the broad expanse of her land to the silvery ribbon that was the Red Foal River. It ran to the sea, that river. She could almost hear the sound of it.

She paced and debated if it was worthwhile going into the streets again tonight. All the officers and officials she had bribed the past few days, all the little men she had threatened, all her questioning and seeking had proven fruit less. If there was a plot against the Prince, no word of it had leaked carelessly.

Yet Savankala himself had come to her, told her it would happen when the splintered moon lies in the dust. But what did that mean? Thinking that a splintered moon was, perhaps, some astrological reference, she had approached Molin and wound up in a terrible argument. She left her uncle with a string of curses and no more understanding.

She kicked at a stool and threw herself across her bed. Her nails dug into the sheets. When her god was granting wishes, why. hadn't she asked for brains?

She rolled over on her side and let go a sigh. Despite her mood a small grin stole over her features as her gaze fell on a table across the room. On it stood a bottle of Vuksibah.

There was a gamble she certainly hadn't lost, she smiled to herself. That handsome little thief taught her a lot, and only a little of it about Sanctuary. After the first bottle of Vuksibah anything he said was merest accompaniment to what he did. Fortunately, she woke with a clear head able to recall every word. She doubted he could claim the same. She took the remaining bottle, reclaimed her circlet which he had slipped from her brow and secreted beneath a pillow, and left him asleep.

It would be good to see Hanse again, she thought. Why not? Not even her workouts with Dayme had been able to turn her mind from the danger to her cousin. Yet it served no purpose to continually worry. Perhaps Hanse could find a way to divert her.

She rose, slipped off her gown, and pulled on new leather garments from the chest at the foot of her bed. There, also, were her weapons. She strapped on her fancy sword. As an afterthought, she took up the two daggers. Hanse considered himself good with throwing-knives. It might make exciting play to challenge him.

Dressed, she tucked the bottle of Vuksibah under her arm and left her room. Her father was asleep or reading in his own chambers, and she did not disturb him. He worried when she went out, but never tried to stop her. She loved him most for that.

She descended stairs to the main floor, her boot heels clicking on the stone. Dayme must have heard her, for he was waiting at the bottom. Two more of her eight gladiators would be prowling about somewhere nearby as well. Ka-dakithis was not alone on Theron's list; her father had been friend as well as relative to the late Emperor.

"Bring Reyk," she instructed her dark-haired giant. "Then get someone else to stand your watch. You've walked the streets with me these past five nights, and the lack of sleep showed in our workout today."

Dayme frowned, then quickly hid it. "Let me go with you. Lady. The night is treacherous...."

She shook her head. "Not tonight, my friend." She indicated the liquor she carried. "Tonight, it's a little pleasure I seek."

He seemed about to speak, then thought better of it, turned, and left her alone. The falcons were caged at the rear of the estate, but Dayme returned promptly with her pet.

Chenaya wrapped the jess around her fingers, then removed Reyk's hood and gave it back to Dayrne. She did not need it to handle her favorite bird; it was a different story for others.

"Now to bed with you." She squeezed playfully at his huge bicep. "And in the morning be prepared for the hardest workout of your life!"

She passed into the warm night, feeling better now that she was free of the confines of her room. She would look for Hanse at his apartment first, at the Vulgar Unicorn if he wasn't home. It might take a little time, but she'd find him. He was worth the effort.

As she crossed the Avenue of Temples a young girl stepped out of the shadows and blocked her path. A small hand brushed back the concealing hood of a worn cloak, exposing dark curls and wide, frightened eyes. "Please, Mistress," she said timidly, "a coin for a luckless unfortunate?"

Chenaya realized she had forgotten her own cloak. No matter, the street people knew her well by now. She made to pass the girl by. .

The girl stepped closer, saw Reyk, and stopped. She chewed the tip of a finger, then said again, "Please, Mistress, whatever you can spare. Otherwise. I must sell myself in the Promise of Heaven to feed my little brother."

Chenaya peered closely at the thin face emaciated from hunger. Those large imploring eyes locked with hers, full of fear and full of hope. Beggars had approached her other nights, and she had kept her coins. Something about this one, however, loosened her heart and her purse strings. Several pieces of Rankan gold fell into the outstretched hand.

It was more wealth than the child had ever seen. She stared, disbelieving, at the gleams in her palm. Tears sprang into her eyes. She hurled herself to the ground, flung her arms around her benefactor's legs, and cried.

Reyk screeched and sprang to defend his handler. Only the jess held him away from the sobbing child. Chenaya fought to control him and to keep her balance as those arms entwined her. The bottle of Vuksibah slipped from under her arm and broke; the precious liquor splattered her boots. She let go a savage curse and pushed the silly beggar girl away.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," she wailed, scrambling to her feet, backing away. "So sorry, so sorry!" She whirled and fled into the darkness.

Bits of glass shone around her feet as Vuksibah seeped into the dust. She sighed, stirred the shards with a toe. Well, another could be gotten at the Unicorn.

Then a tingle crawled up her spine. She kneeled to see better, then cast a glance over her shoulder at the sky. The moon carved a fine, bright crescent in the night, and every piece of glass mirrored its silveriness.

The voice of her god screamed suddenly inside her head. When the splintered moon lies in the dust.

She released the falcon's jess. "Up!" she cried, and Reyk took to the air. She ran through the streets, her brain ringing with Savankala's warning, until she reached her father's estate. She burst through the doors, breathless.

"Dayme!" she called out. He had not obeyed her; he came running from a side room still dressed and armed. It was not the time to scold him. "Dayme, it's now!"

More words were unnecessary. He disappeared and returned with a pack on his shoulders. Four of his comrades followed him, strapping on swords. "Stay and see to my father!" she ordered them.

"Where is Reyk?" Dayrne interrupted.

She raised a finger. "Always close by. I can't run and carry him too."

Together they ran back into the dark and up shadowed streets. The tall silhouettes of temples loomed on their left, and the voices of gods called from the gloom-filled entrances, urging them to hurry. Or, perhaps, it was the wind that rose mysteriously from nowhere, wailed down the alleyways, and pushed at their backs. The moon floated before them, beckoning.

They reached the granaries and stopped. The rear wall of the Governor's grounds rose up on the opposite side of the street, impossibly high and challenging. "The west side," Chenaya ordered.

They had planned this carefully. The gates to the palace were barred at night; only a handful of guards bothered to patrol the grounds. No one was admitted at night except with the Prince's permission. But she and Dayme had found away.

Another wall rose around the granaries themselves. It was to the west side of this wall that they ran. Dayme* unslung the pack, removed a grapple and rope. Here the wall was lowest and easy to scale. In no time they were atop it, racing along its narrow surface. Gradually, the wall angled upward to reach its highest point above the granary gate opposite the palace wall. Dayme prepared the second grapple.

Hanse had bragged how he had broken into the palace. No man was strong enough to hurl a grapple the height of the palace's wall, he claimed. Probably he was right. But the Street of Plenty which separated the granary and the palace was not as wide as the wall was high. Still, for an ordinary man even that was an impossible throw; but not for one possessed of Dayme's skill and rippling strength.

The night hummed as he whirled the grapple in ever-widening circles. She lay flat to avoid being knocked over the edge. Finally he let fly. Grapple and line sailed outward, disappeared. Then metal scraped on stone. Dayme tugged the line taut.

They had not rehearsed this part, but she trusted her friend Feet wide apart, he braced himself; his muscles bulged, and he nodded. She took hold of the rope, stepped into space. Dayme grunted, but held the line fast. Hand over hand, she made her way to the far wall and over its edge. The line went slack; she could almost see the bums she knew would mark Dayme's hands and forearms.

Her bribes had paid off in some respects, at least. Directly below her was a rooftop, the servants' quarters. She gathered the line and let it down on the inside, then slipped along its length. She was inside.

But where were the guards? There was no sign of them. Nothing moved within the grounds that she could see. She dropped to the ground, paused in a crouch, began to move from shadow to shadow.

What now? She hadn't planned beyond this moment. Here and there puddles of pallid light leaked from the windows of the palace. Atop the highest minaret, a pennon flapped hysterically in the wind. Far to her right was the Headman's Gate. On impulse, she ran to check it.

A huge, metal-reinforced bar spanned the gate, sealing it. She frowned, turned away, and tripped. She hit the ground hard; the pommel of her sword gouged into her ribs. With a silent curse, she rolled over and found one of the guards. Wide eyes stared vacantly at the moon from under a helmet rim. His flesh was still warm.

Every dark place was suddenly more menacing. No sign of the killer; nothing moved in the darkness. She felt around the guard's body. No blood, no broken bones, no clue to how he was murdered. She shivered. Sorcery?

A low whistle. Soundlessly, Reyk took his perch on her high-gloved arm.

Two more guards lay dead near the Processional Gates. Like the first, there was no trace of a cause. She thought of calling out, of alerting the garrison and the palace residents. Then she remembered the Beysib. One of the dead men was fish-eyed. If the killer heard her shout and made a good escape, if the Beysib found only her with the murdered guardsmen, if they found the grapples by which she broke into the grounds?... Who could blame them for jumping to conclusions?

A sound, metal rasping on stone. She froze, listening, peering uselessly into the blackness. There were only two more gates, both in the eastern wall. She started across the lawn, moving swiftly, noiselessly.

The last gate was the smallest, a private entrance and exit for the governor's staff. There she saw a figure revealed in the small pool of light from an upper residential window. The sound she had heard was a bar of iron that sealed the gate at night. She could not see him well; a cloak disguised his features and his movements.

A gardened walkway led from the gate to a door into the palace itself. He hadn't spotted her yet. Wraithlike, she moved, took a position at the midway point, and waited.

The killer eased back the gate. Five figures slipped inside, indistinguishable, but bared weapons gleamed. The gate closed behind. They started up the walk.

"Still time to place your bets, gentlemen," she said, a grim smile parting her lips, "before the event begins."

In the forefront, the cloaked one who had opened the gate raised something to his mouth. A bare glint of palest ivory, and he puffed his cheeks. That was how the guards died, she realized. Her inspections of the bodies were too quick and cursory to discover the venomed darts from the assassin's blowpipe.

"Kill!" she whispered to Reyk. The falcon sprang from her arm, and she threw herself aside as something rushed by her ear. Reyk's pinions beat the air three times, then his talons found the eyes within that dark hood. A chilling scream broke from the man's throat before one of his own comrades cut him down. Reyk returned to her arm. "Up," she told him. "These are mine!"

She laughed softly and drew her sword. She had fought four men once in the arena. Now there were five. The result would be the same, but the game might be more interesting. "Try to make it a good contest," she taunted them, beckoning.

The nearest man rushed, stabbed at her belly. Chenaya sidestepped, kicked him in the groin as her sword came up to deflect the blow another man aimed at her head. She turned it aside and cut deep between that one's ribs. She caught him before he collapsed and hurled him into the way of a third.

She dodged without a hairbreadth to spare as another sword sang by her head. The one she kicked was on his feet again. Four men closed with her, wordlessly, professionally. The ringing of steel, the rasp of hard and rhythmic breathing became the night's only sounds.

Chenaya threw herself into the fight. The force of blows and blocks shivered up her arm. She filled her other fist with one of her daggers; when one of her foes ventured too close, she shoved it through his sternum. It came free with a slick, sucking noise as she kicked him away.

Sweat ran down her face; blood slicked the palm of her right glove. She whirled into the midst of the three remaining attackers, raking the edge of her sword through the eye and cheek of one, planting the smaller blade deep in his throat.

Death hurtled down at her in two glittering arcs. Grasping her hilt in both hands, she caught the blades, intercepting them with her own forceful swing, turning them aside. One lost his grip, and when he dived for his weapon her knee slammed into his face.

The last man on his feet hesitated, finding himself alone, turned and fled for the gate and the streets beyond. Chenaya cursed him savagely, drew the second dagger from its place on her thigh, and hurled. The coward's arms flew up, his sword clattered on the walk, and he fell. One hand flopped, grasping uselessly for the weapon, then was still.

The last man rose slowly, painfully to his feet; blood poured from his broken nose. His eyes were glazed, and the recovered sword was balanced loosely in his weak grip. He stumbled for her.

"You, at least, are no craven," she granted. The edge of her sword cut a swift crimson line beneath his chin, and he tumbled backward.

Chenaya filled her lungs with a deep breath and whistled for Reyk. Together, woman and falcon looked down on the six bodies. They did not wear the uniforms of the 3rd Commandos, she noted with some disappointment. It would have been easy to hang the whole lot of them with such proof, or at least to run them out of Sanctuary.

"That was well done. Lady of Ranke."

She knew the voice at once and whirled. Shupansea herself and a score of Beysib guards blocked the doorway to the palace. Apparently, they had slipped outside while the fight went on. A torch flared to life, then another.

"Don't look so surprised," Shupansea said. She pointed to the body of the cloaked man. "That one entered with the local servants this morning, but did not leave with them, having secreted himself in the stables. My men spotted him, but we wanted to wait and leam his purpose."

Chenaya made no answer, but held her sword and waited to see if the Beysa meant her harm.

"Molin explained your purpose to us. Lady," Shupansea continued. "You need not fear."

Chenaya smirked at that. "My uncle presumes a great deal."

The Beysa finally shrugged. "Perhaps it is just your nature to be rude," she sighed. "Perhaps that will change as we come to know each other. Kadakithis told me he promised you a party when you came to see him. In half a fortnight I, myself, will host an event to welcome you and Lowan Vigeles to our city."

Chenaya forced a tight smile, then kneeled to wipe her blade on the nearest assassin, rose, and sheathed it. "My father and I will of course accept the Prince's invitation." She stroked Reyk's feathers. "I love parties."

The two women locked gazes, and their eyes betrayed their mutual hostility and distrust. However, this night was Chenaya's. Shupansea might have learned about the threat to the Prince, but it was she, a Rankan, who prevented its success. The fish-eyed warriors at the Beysa's back were just so many spectators to admire her kills.

"My thanks and those of your cousin for your exertions on his behalf," Shupansea said stiffly. She waved a hand, and half her guards began to carry the bodies away. "Now, it is a little late to entertain visitors, don't you think? I believe you can find your way out." The Beysa turned away and reentered the palace.

"Keep the grapples," Chenaya said lightly to the guards as she headed down the walkway. "I shouldn't need them again."