Scanned by Highroller. Proofed more or less by Highroller.

PART ONE

Thief

CHAPTER 1

The house was magnificent, its dozen gables high and ornate, the cornerposts
elaborately carved and painted, the many panes of the broad windows neatly
beveled and arranged in intricate patterns. Some of the window glass was
colored, but most was clear and of the highest quality; through the
crystalline casements Tabaea could see only tightly drawn curtains and drapes—
draperies of velvet and silk and other fine fabrics, no simple cotton shades
or wooden shutters here.

The house faced onto both Grand Street and Wizard Street, its front door at
the corner, angled to face northeast into the intersection. Small shrines were
carved into the stone archway on either side of this door, each shrine
equipped with both a fountain and an eternal flame. The substance of the door
itself was unidentifiable under its thick coat of glossy black enamel, but it
was bound and trimmed with polished brass, with gleaming bolt heads forming a
complex spiral pattern.

Despite its prominent location, there were no shop windows, no signboards—it
was obviously a residence, rather than a business. Curious, that anyone would
build so fine a house here in the Grandgate district, Tabaea thought—and
worthy of further investigation. She had walked past it many times, of course,
but had never paid much attention before.

She admired the shrines, then wandered on down Grand Street as if she were
just another ordinary young citizen out for a late stroll on a summer evening,
or perhaps an apprentice returning from an errand. She paused at the rear
corner of the house and glanced back, as if trying to remember something; what
she was actually doing, however, was studying the street to see whether anyone
was watching her.

About a dozen people were scattered along the four long blocks between herself
and Grandgate Market, but none of them seemed to be looking in her direction,
or paying any attention to her. No one was leaning out any of the windows or
shop doors. The market itself was crowded, but at this distance that hardly
mattered; even in the bright torchlight, the people there were little more
than faceless blobs. None of them would be able to identify her later.

Thus reassured, she turned and ducked into the narrow alley behind the great
house.

Grand Street was reasonably well lit, thanks to the torches and lanterns
illuminating the various shops and taverns, but there were no torches in the
alley, and no light came from either the house on her left or the shuttered
tea house on her right.

That meant that the only light in the alley came from the cold and distant
gleam of the stars overhead, and the firelight of Grand Street behind her.
Such limited illumination was not enough; the alley appeared utterly black.

She hesitated, hoping her eyes would adjust, but the longer she lingered this
close to Grand Street, the more likely, even with the tea house closed, that
she would be spotted and questioned. She crept forward into the darkness,
moving by feel, as if blind.
The wall of the house felt solid and smooth and unbroken, and as she advanced
into the darkness she began to worry that she might have made a mistake. There
might not be any entrance back here.

She set her jaw. The whole point of an alley, she reminded herself, was to let
people in the back of a house. And even if this particular alley wasn't here
to let people into the back of the big comer house, there must be
windows—houses need ventilation, and the larger the house the more windows it
would need.

Of course, her pessimistic side reminded her, those windows needn't be within
reach of the ground, especially for a girl her size.

Maybe she should have planned this out more carefully, she thought, taken a
look at the house by daylight, maybe found out whose house it was, instead of
just yielding to a whim like this.

But she was here now, and it would be cowardly to turn back.

All the same, she thought, if she didn't find an entrance soon she might do
best to just head home and try again another day.

Then, finally, her hand struck a doorframe, and a smile crept unseen across
her face.

She stood and waited, and at last her vision began to adjust.

Yes, it was a door, though she could just barely make out the outline and
could see no details at all. She tried the handle.

It was locked, naturally.

She grinned, drew her belt knife, and fished the lockpick from her hair. The
darkness didn't matter for this; picking a lock was all done by feel anyway.
This was her chance to put her lessons with old Cluros and all her practice at
home to the test.

Five minutes later she had the door open and had slipped carefully inside,
moving as quietly as she could. The lock had been a simple one; only
inexperience, the weight of the bolt, and Tabaea's natural caution had kept
her from springing it within seconds. Whoever owned this house had not wasted
money on fancy locks and bars.

That was not necessarily a good thing, of course; sometimes a simple lock
meant other precautions had been taken—spells, guards, any number of
possibilities existed.

Tabaea saw no sign of any of them. Of course, she wasn't at all sure what to
look for to spot protective spells; nobody had taught her any of that yet.
Still, she didn't see anything unusual.

In truth, she didn't see much of anything at all. The mudroom behind the door
was even darker than the alley. She felt her way across the little room,
almost tripping over a boot scraper, and found an inner door.

That was unlocked, and the chamber beyond just as dark as the mudroom.
Reluctantly, Tabaea decided it was time to risk a little light.

She had tinder and flint and steel in her pouch, but it was dark and she was
wary of making too much sound—the house might be deserted, or it might not. It
took several tries before she had a good steady light.

When she had the tinder burning, she looked around by its flickering light for
something more permanent, and spotted a candle by the alley door. She lit
that, then blew out the tinder and tucked it away.

Candle in hand, she looked around the mudroom.

As one might expect, there was nothing of any interest. Half a dozen assorted
pairs of boots were ranged against one wall; below there was a line of hooks,
about half of which held cloaks or jackets; at the other end of the room three
heavy wooden chests took up most of the available space, but a quick glance in
each showed that they held only scarves, gloves, and other appurtenances.
She was not disappointed; this was just the mudroom, and there was plenty more
house to explore. Besides, there were plenty of people in Ethshar of the Sands
who couldn't afford gloves and scarves and coats. In any case, it wasn't as if
the winters here were so long or cold, as they were said to be in Sardiron or
the other Ethshars, that they were truly necessary. A house so rich in winter
wear would surely be rich in more marketable goods, as well.

Cautiously, moving as stealthily as she could, Tabaea opened the interior door
and peered through, candle in hand.

A smile spread across her face as she saw what lay beyond. This was more like
it.

The next room was a dining salon, and the light of her candle sparkled from
brass and gold and crystal and fine polished woods. Catlike and silent, she
slipped around the door and into the room.

The table was heavy and dark, gleaming almost black in the candlelight, its
edges carved with intertwined serpents and the corners with songbirds, wings
spread; above it hung an ornate brass and crystal chandelier. The six
surrounding chairs were of the same dark wood, carved with serpents and
eagles, seats and backs upholstered in wine velvet.

Cherry wood cabinets stood against every wall, and the image of Tabaea's
candle was reflected back at her by a hundred panes of leaded glass set in the
cabinet doors. Behind the glass panels glittered cut-crystal goblets and fine
bone china.

Something moved in the corner of her vision, and for a moment Tabaea froze.
Then she realized that the movement came from inside one of the cabinets.
Warily, she crept closer, and peered through the glass of the cabinet door.

The cabinet held an elaborate silver tea service, and the teapot was moving,
walking about on three long, birdlike legs. Tiny metal toes tapped gently on
the shelf as it strolled. Then, as Tabaea watched, it sank down, folding its
legs beneath it, and settled into motionlessness.

Tabaea smiled and tugged at the empty sack under her belt, but did not yet
remove it from concealment. A magic animated teapot was a very pretty prize
indeed; such things cost a fortune. Unfortunately, since they were so rare and
expensive, and each was a unique piece, they were almost impossible to fence.

The crystal would be worth plenty—but this was merely the beginning. There was
plenty more of the house yet to explore.

Three other doors opened into the dining salon, one on each side. For no
particular reason, Tabaea chose the door on the left, heading more or less
toward the front of the house—as much as this curiously angled corner house
had a front, at any rate.

This brought her into a parlor or drawing room, just as dark and deserted as
the dining salon; the fireplace was empty even of ash, the windows at the far
end shuttered and heavily curtained. Chairs and settees stood here and there;
a potted palm was waving in the breeze.

Except, Tabaea realized, there was no breeze. She froze again, watching.

The palm continued to wave, swaying steadily back and forth; Tabaea noticed
that it seemed to be fanning a particular armchair.

Well, of course—it was fanning the armchair! More magic, clearly—a little
something to help stay cool on a hot summer day, that was all. Another wizard-
or sorcerer-created domestic amenity, like the teapot.

Whoever owned this house was clearly very, very rich, to own two such animated
household objects, both devoted to ordinary tasks. Tabaea lifted her candle
and looked around again.

Something on the mantelpiece was staring at her.

She stared back for a second, startled, and then realized it was probably a
small idol of some sort. It was vaguely human-oid, vaguely froglike, roughly
the size of a small cat, greenish brown, with great big pointed ears. She
crept toward it for a closer look—maybe it had jewels or gold on it somewhere.

It squealed, bounded to its feet, sprang to the floor, and ran off, squeaking
noises that might have been words.

Tabaea almost yelped in surprise, then caught herself and looked around
guiltily.

That was how Telleth the Housebreaker had gotten himself caught, flogged, and
exiled from the city last year, she remembered; he had dropped a statuette on
his foot and sworn at it, and someone asleep upstairs had heard and awoken and
come to investigate, with a sword in hand. She knew better than that.

Well, she had caught herself, she hadn't made a sound beyond a sort of
strangled gasp. Now, if only that weird little creature didn't raise the alarm
...

What was that thing, anyway? She frowned.

It must be some sort of magical creature, she decided. Tabaea glanced at the
waving palm. Well, this house had more than its share of magic, certainly.

She wouldn't mind having a little magic. Like every child in Ethshar, she'd
dreamed sometimes of becoming a wizard or warlock, wearing fancy robes, and
having people step out of her way in the streets.

It hadn't happened, of course.

Maybe someday, if she got rich enough, she would buy herself magical things,
the way whoever owned this house had.

She decided to take a look at the next room, and stepped through an arch into
a broad hallway, paneled in dark rich woods. Stairs led to the upper
floors—the house was an ostentatious three stories in all, though she
suspected the uppermost might be a mere attic—but she was not yet ready to
ascend; if anyone was home, he or she was most likely asleep upstairs, and
poking around up there was best left until last.

As she stood at the foot of the stairs, a door to her right caught her eye; it
was half-closed, whereas the others were all either wide open or tightly shut.
That was intriguing; shading the candle with her other hand, she crept over
and peered in.

The dining salon and the parlor and the hallway were spacious and elegant,
richly furnished, uncluttered, and, so far as she could see by candlelight,
spotlessly clean; the room behind the half-closed door was the utter opposite.
It was large enough, but it was jammed to overflowing with books, papers,
boxes, jars, bottles, and paraphernalia of every kind. The walls were almost
completely hidden by shelves and drawers and pinned-up charts. Spills and
stains, old and new, adorned the floor and various other surfaces.

Somebody's workroom, clearly—this would be where the household accounts were
kept, and all the little things that go into running whatever business the
house's owner was in. Those jars were probably old preserves, spare pins, and
other such things.

There was sawdust, or some other powder, on the floor, she noticed, and tiny
web-toed footprints making a beeline through it. That was probably where that
creature had gone when she startled it. She raised the candle higher, to see
if the little beast might be lurking somewhere amid the clutter.

For the first time she noticed what hung from the ceiling and paused to stare
at it in wonder.

Why would someone have a dried bat hanging in his workroom?

She looked a bit more closely at the contents of the room, and saw an
assortment of bones on one shelf, from tiny little bits that could have been
from a mouse or shrew, up to what was surely the jawbone of a good-sized
dragon. A large jar nearby, she now realized, held not pickles or preserves,
but mummified spiders the size of her hand. The red stuff that she had taken
for jellies and jams was an assortment of blood—she could read the labels. The
biggest jar was dragon's blood, the next one was virgin's blood ...

She shuddered in sudden realization. No wonder this place had that magical
teapot, and the waving palm, and the little web-toed creature.

She was in a wizard's house.

CHAPTER 2

Tabaea crept silently toward the door at the far end of the workshop.

The sensible thing to do would be to flee, of course. Messing with magicians
was dangerous. Everyone knew that, and Tabaea was no exception. A tempting but
slightly riskier alternative would be to snatch a few nonmagical treasures,
and then flee.

But she was unable to resist. She was not going to be sensible at all.
Wizardry had always fascinated her, and here she was in a wizard's house. She
couldn 't leave without exploring further!

She would never have dared enter if she had known it was a wizard's house.
Since she had noticed the house on her way to and from Grandgate Market, where
she had gone in hopes of picking up a few valuables, she had thought of the
house as being on Grand Street, and had forgotten that it was also on another
major thoroughfare—Wizard Street. Ordinary people didn't antagonize magicians;
that was very probably why there weren't better locks and other safeguards.
Shops and houses on Wizard Street didn't need them.

She would never have broken in if she had known—but now that she was inside,
she just had to see more.

There was light coming from beneath that door—not very much, just a little—and
she wanted to see what was causing it. Very slowly, very carefully, very
silently, she knelt and lowered her eye to the crack.

Behind the door were stairs going down, stone stairs between gray stone walls.
She blinked and looked again.

Stairs going down?

Most buildings in Ethshar of the Sands did not have cellars; the sands on
which the city was built, and for which it was named, made digging difficult.
Excavations had a tendency to fall in on themselves. That was also why
structures were almost never more than three stories in height: anything
taller than that tended to sink or fall over. Some people had cellars dug for
cold storage—root cellars, wine cellars, and the like—but such extravagances
were generally small, and reached by ladders rather than by stairs.

Tabaea had heard about cellars and basements all her life, in tales of faraway
places, but had never been in one, unless you counted crawlspaces or the gaps
between pilings. The whole idea of cellars tended to put her in mind of the
overlord's dungeons—she had heard about those all her life, too, or at any
rate as long as she could remember—and of secrets and exotic places. She
stared at the stone step and wished she could see more; from her vantage point
at floor level she could see the iron rail, the walls, the sloping roof, but
nothing below the topmost stair.

However, she could, she realized abruptly, hear something.

She held her breath and listened intently, trying to ignore her own heartbeat.
An older man's voice, speaJdng quietly and intently—she couldn't make out the
words.

Could it be the wizard in whose workshop she was?

Of course; who else would it be?

Could he be working a spell? Was that an incantation she heard, the invocation
of some spirit, the summoning of some supernatural being? She could only hear
the one person, no answering voice, but he seemed to be addressing someone,
not just muttering to himself.

A shiver of excitement ran through her.

He had to be doing something secret, down there in the cellars. He couldn't
just be fetching a bottle; he wouldn't be talking like that, and she'd be able
to hear him moving around. His voice was steady, as if he were standing or
sitting in one place. And he wouldn't be doing his regular work, or just
passing the time, in the cellars—cellars were for secrets and mysteries, for
concealment, and protection.
Something rustled, and she leaped away from the door, sprang to her feet, the
candle in her hand almost, but not quite, blown out by her sudden motion.

That little greenish creature was watching her from atop a stack of papers. It
squeaked and scurried away into the darkness, scattering papers as it went.

She watched it go in the dimness and made no attempt to follow. All around
her, the shadows were flaring and wavering crazily as her candle flickered;
she feared that if she moved anywhere she might trip over something unseen, or
bump into something, in that tangle of black and shifting shapes.

Worse, her candle might go out, and the wizard emerge from the cellars before
she could relight it. She stood by the cellar door, shielding the candle with
her hand, until the flame was strong and steady once more, and the animal, or
imp, or whatever it was, was long gone.

At last she turned back to the door, intending to listen again, and caught her
breath.

The line of light across the bottom had become an L She had bumped the door
when she sprang up, and it wasn't latched; it had come open, very slightly.

She knew she shouldn't touch it. She knew she should just go, get out of the
house while she could—but a chance to watch a wizard at work was too much to
give up.

Who knows, she thought. Maybe if things had gone a little differently for her,
she might have been a wizard. She might have had the talent for it; who could
say?

Well, she supposed a master wizard could say, but she'd never had the chance
to ask one.

Or maybe she'd just never had the nerve to ask one.

She snorted,   very slightly, at that. She was Tabaea the Thief, she'd taken the
cognomen for   herself just last year, she was a promising young cutpurse,
burglar, and   housebreaker, and she was here in a wizard's house planning to
rob him, but   she'd never had the nerve to talk to one.

Of course, it was too late now, anyway. She was fifteen, and nobody would take
on an apprentice who was past her thirteenth birthday.

If her family had been willing to help out when she was twelve, if her
stepfather had offered to talk to someone for her ...

But he hadn't. And when she'd asked he was always too busy, or too drunk. He
promised a dozen times that he'd get around to it later, that he'd do
something to set her up, but he never had. And her mother hadn't been any
better, always busy with the twins, and on those rare and precious occasions
when both the babies had been asleep she'd been too tired to go anywhere or do
anything, and it wasn't an emergency, Tabaea was a big girl and could take
care of herself. She could help Tabaea's sisters and half-brothers with their
reading and numbers, but she couldn't leave the house, what if the twins woke
up?

And then Tabaea's thirteenth birthday had come and it was too late, and old
Cluros was the only one who'd been interested in her, and maybe it wasn't an
official apprenticeship, maybe there wasn't any guild for burglars and
lockbreakers, but it was better than nothing.
And better than a bed in the brothels in Soldiertown.

Besides, she wasn't sure she even had the looks or personality for a brothel;
she was always nervous around other people. She might have wound up walking
the streets instead and sleeping in the Wall Street Field when she couldn't
find a customer who would keep her for the night. Maybe she should have run
away, like her big brother Tand, but she never had.

So now she was a sneak thief. Which suited her just fine; she was good at not
being noticed. She'd had plenty of practice, all those years staying out of
her mother's way and avoiding her stepfather's temper when he was drinking.

At least she hadn't disappeared completely, like land, or their father. And
her thieving had kept her fed when her stepfather wouldn't anymore. Thennis
had taken to begging in Grandgate Market, and Tessa was spending a suspicious
amount of time in Soldiertown, but Tabaea was taking care of herself just
fine. Being a wizard or something else respectable and exciting would have
been much better, certainly, but Tabaea wasn't going to complain. Her career
in burglary had gotten her plenty of nice little things over the past two
years.

For one thing, it had gotten her here, with a chance to spy on a wizard at
some secret business in his cellar. Carefully, inch by inch, holding the knob
so the hinges wouldn't creak, she opened the door.

Yes, there were stone steps going down, between gray stone walls. The glow of
a distant lamp spilled in through an archway at the bottom, and threw Tabaea's
shadow down the full length of the room behind her.

Cautiously, she descended the stairs, pausing on each step, watching and
listening. The man's voice—the wizard's voice, she was sure—grew louder with
each advance, droning on and on. And with each step she could see a little
more of what lay beyond that arch.

There was a small square of stone floor and then steps to either side and a
black iron railing straight ahead—the cellar went down even further into the
ground!

At the bottom she hesitated. Straight ahead she could see through the archway
into an immense chamber, lit by a great three-tiered chandelier. That
chandelier was directly ahead of her, beyond the archway and the landing and
the iron railing. She couldn't really see much of the space below.

But if she advanced any farther, out onto the landing, she would be terribly
exposed.

She paused, listening, and realized she could make out words now.

". . . it's a part of you," the wizard was saying. "A part of your soul, your
essence. It's not just some random energy, something mat anybody could
provide, or that you could get from somewhere else."

For the first time Tabaea heard a second voice answering, a higher-pitched
voice, a woman or a child. She didn't catch the words.

That was simply too fascinating to miss. She crept forward, crouching lower
with each step. By the time she passed through the arch she was on her knees,
and by the time she peered through the railing she was lying flat on her
belly, hands braced to either side, ready to spring up if she was spotted.
The cellar, or crypt, or whatever it was lay before her, a single huge space.
The stone-ribbed ceiling arched a dozen feet above her, and the floor twenty
feet below—she realized that that floor must be thirty feet below ground, and
marveled that the sea had not flooded it.

But then, the walls were massive stone barriers, sloped and buttressed to hold
back the sand and water. Those great braced
walls enclosed a square thirty or forty feet on a side—the room was almost a
cube, she decided. In the center of the far wall was a broad slate hearth
below a fine smooth stone chimney; there were, of course, no windows. Heavy
trestle tables were pushed against the walls, four of them in all.

The floor was more stone, and in the center a thick carpet was spread, and
seated cross-legged on that carpet, facing each other, were two people—a man
perhaps half a century in age, and a girl two or three years younger than
Tabaea herself. The man wore a red silk robe and held a silver dagger; another
dagger and a leather sheath lay on the carpet by his knee, and several other
small objects were in a clutter to one side. The girl wore a simple white robe
and sat with her hands empty, listening intently; the man was speaking.

"The edge will never dull, as long as you remain whole and strong," he said.
"And the finish will stay bright as long as your spirits do." The girl nodded.

Tabaea stared. This was a wizard, beyond question—and his apprentice.

"If you can so much as touch it, it will cut any bonds put upon you, even
heavy chains," the wizard continued."Physical bonds, at any rate—while it can
dispel a minor geas, or ward off many spells, there are many others it will
not affect."

Tabaea let the muscles of her arms ease a little. The two were intent on their
conversation and would only notice her if she were to somehow draw their
attention.

"Those are just side effects, of course," the wizard said. "Incidentals. I'm
sure, after these past four months, you understand that."

"Yes," the girl said, in a hushed voice. "So, if you understand what an athame
is, and why a true wizard must have one, it's time you learned how to make
yours, is it not?"

The girl looked up at the wizard's face and said again,"Yes." "It will take
several days to teach you, but we can at least make a start tonight."

The apprentice nodded. Tabaea folded her hands beneath her

chin and settled down to listen, her heart fluttering in her chest.

She had never heard that word the wizard used, but if it was

something every wizard needed—well, she had never heard of

such a thing. It must be one of the secrets of the Wizards' Guild, something
only wizards were permitted to know— probably one of the most important of
their secrets.

Knowing such a secret could be very, very useful. Blackmailing a wizard would
be impossibly risky, but it might be possible to sell the information
somewhere.
Or just possibly, if she could learn the trick, she could make one of these
things for herself.

Perhaps she could even become a wizard herself, without a master, without
anyone knowing it. If she could learn how to work magic ...

She listened intently.

CHAPTER 3

Sarai, a little nervous, looked around the justice chamber.

She was seated at her father's left hand, just off the dais, a foot or two in
front of the red velvet drapery that bore the overlord's seal worked into it
in thick gold braid. The chamber was long and narrow, deliberately built with
a slight slope to the floor, so that prisoners and petitioners would be
looking up at the Minister of Justice as if from a pit, or as if they dared to
look up at a god descending from the heavens—but would probably not
consciously notice the slope at all.

The overlord's palace was full of tricks like that. The Great Council Chamber,
under the overlord's Great Hall, was arranged so that all the doors were
partially hidden, to make it easier for people to believe that what they said
there was secret, when in fact there were spy-holes in several places; the
Great Hall itself was open to the huge central dome to overawe petitioners;
there were any number of clever constructs. The justice chamber hadn't been
singled out.

What the architects had never considered, however, was that this slope left
the minister, her father—and herself, at the moment—looking down. Or perhaps
they considered it and dismissed it as unimportant, or thought it would
enhance the minister's self-confidence.

She couldn't speak for her father, but the effect on her was to be constantly
worried about falling. She felt as if at any moment she might slip from her
chair and tumble down that hard gray marble floor into that motley collection
of brigands, thieves, and scoundrels waiting at the far end of the room. She
clutched the gilded arms of her seat a little harder. This was the first time
she had ever been allowed in here when her father was working, and she didn't
want to do or say anything that would embarrass him or interfere in any way,
and, she told herself, that was why she was nervous. She knew that she was
being silly, that the slope was really insignificant, that she was in no
danger of falling from her chair. After all, she had been in this room dozens
of times when it was empty, starting when she was a very little girl, little
more than a toddler, and she had never so much as stumbled on that subtle
slope—but still, the nervousness persisted.

Maybe, she thought, if she paid more attention to what was going on in the
room, and less to the room itself, she'd forget about such foolishness.

"... and really, Lord Kalthon, how you can take the word of this . . . this
peasant, over the word of your own third cousin, is utterly beyond me!" said
Bardec, the younger son of Bellren, Lord of the Games, in a fairly good
imitation of injured dignity. "It is not, however, beyond me," Lord Kalthon
replied dryly, "since I have the word of our theurgist that you did exactly
what this good woman accuses you of."

Bardec threw a quick, angry look at old Okko; the magician stared
expressionlessly back, his long forefinger tracing a slow circle on the
evidence table beside him. His white velvet robe hung loosely on him, his
forearm was thin and bony, but dkko somehow looked far more dangerous sitting
there at Lord Kalthon's right hand than the young and brawny Bardec did
standing before them.

"I take it," Sarai's father said, "that you do not choose to plead any
mitigating circumstances? You do not ask for the overlord's mercy?"

"No, Lord Kalthon, I most certainly do not, because I am not guilty!" Bardec
persisted. "I am completely innocent and can only assume that some enemy of
mine has somehow cozened this woman into making this absurd charge and that
some sort of malign magic has fooled our esteemed Lord Okko into believing it.
. ."

"I am no lord," Okko said, cutting Bardec off with a voice like imminent
death.

"I wish I could say the same for our young friend," Lord Kalthon said loudly.
"He is, alas, a true noble of the city, born of our overlord's chosen
representatives. He is also a fool, compounding his original crime with
perjury and false accusations. Stupid ones, at that." He sighed, and glanced
at his daughter. She was watching the proceedings closely, saying nothing.

Well, he had wanted her to see how the job was done.

"Very well, then," he said. "Since you show no remorse, or even comprehension,
I hereby require, in the overlord's name, that this woman's losses be restored
threefold from your own possessions and estates—that would be. . ." He lifted
the notes dangling from his left hand to where he could read them, and
continued, "Three sound hens, three dozen eggs of the first quality, three
oxcarts, and six oxen, or the equivalent value in silver. I further command
that you receive ten lashes from a guardsman's whip, as a reminder that the
nobility of the city are not, as you seem to think, the rulers of the people
but only the servants of our beloved overlord, and that by insisting on
bringing this case this far you have wasted the time of everyone in this room.
In the name of Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of
the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies, and Defender
of the Gods, let it be done."

Bardec began to protest, but the guardsmen at either side did not let that
interfere as they dragged him away, kicking and struggling.

"Young idiot," Lord Kalthon muttered, leaning toward Sarai. "If he'd had the
sense to pass it off as a boyish prank, he'd have got off with simple
restitution and a small fine."

She glanced up at her father, startled.

"But that isn't fair—that means the woman's benefiting from Bardec's stupidity
..." Sarai whispered.

"True enough—but that's not what's important. This isn't the place; we'll
discuss it later." He sat up straight and called, "Next case."

The next case was a property dispute; such things were generally handled by a
local magistrate or a guard captain, but in
this case one of the parties was a guard captain, so the affair had

been kicked up the hierarchy to the Minister of Justice.
Nobody questioned the facts of the case, so no magician had been called in,
though old Okko remained in his place at the minister's right; Lord Kalthon
was called upon to determine not what was true, but what was just.

Sarai listened to the tedious details, involving an unclear will, a broken
business partnership, a drunken surveyor, and a temporarily dry well, with
half an ear or so, while thinking about other concerns.

Bardec was suffering for his stupidity, and that was fair and just. If he had
the wit to leam from his mistake, to change his attitudes, this might be the
lesson he needed. If he had not, then at least this punishment might
discourage him from gallivanting off with someone else's cart from Grandgate
Market next time he got drunk. The money was nothing to him, or at least to
his family, but a flogging would register on anybody.

But the woman with the cart was coming out ahead. Perhaps she deserved some
compensation for the inconvenience—but why should it be higher when Bardec
behaved stupidly in court than if he had been contrite?

Well, it was undoubtedly more annoying for the victim to have Bardec calling
her a liar—and perhaps the greater satisfaction was therefore just.

But just the flogging would have been equally satisfying, Sarai was sure.

She listened as the explanation of the property dispute wound up, and her
father began asking questions.

It seemed to her that the basic uncertainty in the case derived from the lost
contract between the long-dead partners, but Lord Kalthon was not asking about
that, nor was he asking Okko to use his magic to determine the contents of the
contract; instead he was looking at the diagram one party had provided and
asking, "Your family has used the well these past twenty years, then?"

The guard captain nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, standing stiffly

at attention.

"And you never had any doubt of your right to it?"

"No, sir."

"But the new survey—do you doubt its accuracy?"

Unhappily, the soldier said, "No, sir."

The merchant began to smile; Lord Kalthon turned to him and demanded, "Did you
ever object to Captain Aldran claiming the well before this year?"

The smile vanished. "No, my lord. But my father's will. . ."

"Yes, I know." Lord Kalthon waved that away and looked at the diagram again.
"Okko, lend me a pen, would you?"

Sarai watched as her father drew a line on the diagram and showed it to the
two claimants. "As Minister of Justice to the city's overlord, I hereby claim
this parcel here . . ." He pointed with the borrowed quill. ". . .as city
property, to be compensated for according to law and custom at the value of
its last transfer of ownership, which I hereby determine to be five rounds of
silver, payable in full from the city's treasury. I also hereby direct that
the city shall sell this property to Captain Aldran, in compensation for his
years of faithful service to his overlord, at a price of five rounds of
silver, to be paid by deduction from his salary. All interest and carrying
charges are hereby waived, by order of the Minister of Justice."

"But that well's worth more than that!" the merchant objected.

Lord Kalthon asked him wearily, "And the rest of that land isn't?"

"Uh. . ."

"In the name of Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir
of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies, and
Defender of the Gods," Lord Kalthon said, "let it be done."

Sarai admired the decision.

If she had been in her father's place, she would have had Okko determine the
contents of that original contract; then either the captain or the merchant
would presumably have won outright. Either the captain's family would be left
without the water source they had relied on for decades, or the merchant would
be deprived of the inheritance he had depended upon and had borrowed money
against. One man would have had more than he needed, the other nothing.

And making a compromise—well, neither man had been particularly interested in
a compromise, surely, or the question wouldn't have reached her father. By
invoking his power as the overlord's agent he had removed any possibility of
arguing with the results or renegotiating the agreement later. Quite possibly
neither man was happy—the merchant had less than he hoped, and the soldier
would be paying for what he had thought he already owned—but the matter was
settled, and both had come away with what they needed, if not what they
wanted.

It wasn't necessarily exactly what the law demanded, but it settled the
matter.

And, it occurred to her, Bardec's case had done the same thing. Giving the
woman the extra money had helped to settle the matter. It might, perhaps, have
been fairer if the overlord's court had taken the additional payment as a fine
and kept it, since in fact it was a penalty for perjury and for accusing the
court, in the person of Okko, of incompetence—but that might have looked
greedy.

The important thing, Sarai saw, was to settle the question, one way or
another, and without leaving anyone any more angry about it than necessary. If
Bardec's money had gone to the city treasury, he could have accused Lord
Kalthon of greed, of being more concerned with money than with justice; if the
merchant had simply been required to sell the well to the captain, there could
have been any number of delays and complications, arguments about price and
interest, and so forth. Her father was avoiding all that.

She remembered something that had been said at the dinner table once, when
they had had Lord Torrut, commander of the city guard, as their guest. Her
father had joked about how Lord Torrut might as well be called the Minister of
War, since that's what soldiers do, they make war—but men everyone would want
to get rid of him, since there hadn't been a war for two hundred years. Lord
Torrut had countered that perhaps Kalthon should be called Minister of Peace,
since his job was to make peace— but there hadn't been all that much peace in
the past two hundred years, either.

Both men had laughed, and Lord Kalthon had said, "We both keep the peace,
Torrut, and well you know it."

It was true, Sarai saw—they both kept the peace. The city guard was the whip
to threaten the horse, and the city courts the apple to reward it. People had
to be reasonably satisfied with the results, when they took their disputes to
the overlord's courts; they didn't really care what the laws said, only
whether the disputes went away and the results looked fair.

Looked fair.

That was something she really hadn't thought about before.

And she'd completely forgotten about the sloping floor until she looked down
at the next pair, defendant and plaintiff.

Her mouth fell open in a way most unbecoming a young noblewoman as the case
was described. Kallia of the Broken Hand, a demonologist, accused Heremon the
Mage of stealing certain esoteric substances from her workshop; Heremon denied
the charge.

A wizard, accused of theft? And no mere apprentice, but a mage?

"Very well, Okko," Lord Kalthon said, turning to his the-urgist, "what
actually happened here?"

Okko frowned, and his nervous fingers finally stopped moving.

"My lord," he said, "I have no idea."

Lord Kalthon stared at the theurgist.

"I'm sorry, Lord Kalthon," Okko said, "but the differing magical auras
surrounding the alleged crime are sufficient to confuse even the gods. I
cannot get a plain and trustworthy answer to even the simplest question."

"I hate these cases," Kalthon muttered; Sarai didn't think anyone heard him
save herself and perhaps Okko. Then he sat up straighter and announced, "Let
the accuser stand forth."

Kallia of the Broken Hand strode up the long room, her long black cloak
swirling behind her, her face hidden by a deep hood and her hands concealed in
black suede gloves. She stopped, gathered her cloak, and stood before the
Minister of Justice.

"Show your face in the overlord's palace, magician," Kalthon said, irritation
in his tone.

Kallia flung back the hood; her face was thin and pale, her straight hair was
black and worn long and unadorned. The three vivid red scratches that ran down
one side of her face, from temple to jaw, stood out in shocking contrast to
her colorless features. She glared defiantly at Lord Kalthon.

"Speak," Kalthon told her.

"What would you have me say?" Kallia demanded. "'I've told my story and been
called a liar. I know what you people all think of demonologists, and it's
true we deal with creatures even worse than humans, but that doesn't make us
all murderers and thieves."

"Nobody here said it did," Kalthon said mildly. "If the overlords of the
Hegemony believed demonology to be inherently evil they would have outlawed
it. We accept that your occupation does not condemn you—and at any rate,
you're here as the accuser. I've been given a summary of your claim, but I'd
like to hear it all from your own mouth."

"It's simple enough," Kallia said, slightly mollified. "Her-emon robbed my
shop—I woke up when I heard the noise, and I looked down the stairs and saw
him leaving with his arms full. He didn't see me, and I didn't say anything,
because I was unarmed and defenseless, and he's a powerful wizard. When I came
downstairs I found that several of my belongings were missing."

"What sort of belongings?"

Kallia hesitated, and Kalthon allowed his expression to grow impatient.

"Blood," Kallia said, "jars of different kinds of blood. And gold, and a few
small gems, and some small animals—a ferret, some mice, certain rare insects."

"These are things you need in your, um, in your business?" Kalthon asked,
stroking his beard.

"Does it matter?" Kallia asked wearily. "It might."

Kallia frowned. "Then yes, I need them in my work. Demons often demand payment
for their services—blood, or gold, or lives, usually." She turned and shouted
at the observers at the room's lower end, "Not always human lives!"

Sarai, perversely, found herself grinning at the woman's defiance and forced
herself to stop.

Kalthon nodded. "And you believe the thief to have been this Heremon the
Mage?"

"I know it was he, my lord!" Kallia insisted. "I saw his face plainly and his
robe, the same one he wears now! I see him almost every day; there could be no
mistake. And who but a wizard would want things like virgin's blood?"

"Anyone who thought to sell them," Kalthon said calmly. "Particularly when
there's gold, as well. So you know Heremon?"

"Of course! Our shops are across the street from one another, on Wizard Street
in Eastside."

Kalthon stroked his beard again. "And you are rivals, perhaps?"

Kallia looked perplexed. "I had not thought so, Lord Kalthon, but why else
would he choose to rob me?"

Sarai watched as the interrogation continued. The question of how the thief
had gotten into the shop came up; the door had
been broken. Kallia was asked why she had had no magical protections for her
gold and gems, and she explained that she did have protection: a minor demon,
a nameless imp, really, served as her nightwatch. The creature had been found
dead— further proof, if any beyond the sight of Kallia's own eyes was needed,
that the thief was a magician of some power.

Several of the observers were growing visibly bored;   most trials were much
briefer, with Okko settling matters of fact in short   order, allowing Lord
Kalthon to get directly to the matter of setting the   penalty. This case, on
the heels of the boundary dispute over the soldier's   well, was dragging things
out unbearably.

The next area of questioning was a little more delicate. Given that Kallia was
a demonologist, with many of the resources of Hell at her beck and call, why
had she resorted to the courts for justice, instead of simply sending a demon
after Heremon?

It took some coaxing before she would admit that she was afraid. Heremon was
not some mere apprentice; he was a mage and was reputed to be high in the
local hierarchy of the Wizards' Guild, a Guildmaster perhaps—though of course,
no outsider could ever know for sure anything that went on in that Guild.
Kallia feared that if she took personal vengeance upon Heremon, the Guild
would retaliate—if, indeed, whatever demon she sent succeeded in the first
place; there was no telling what magical defenses the mage might have,
particularly since he would surely be expecting some sort of reaction.

She had not cared to risk the enmity of the Wizards' Guild. People who angered
individual wizards might live; people who angered the Wizards' Guild did not.
So she had resorted to the overlord's government and appealed to the Lord
Magistrate of Eastside, who had passed the whole affair on to the palace.

And here she was, and what was Lord Kalthon going to do about it?

Lord Kalthon sighed, thanked her for her testimony, and dismissed her. Heremon
the Mage was called forward.

"My lord," he said, "I am at a loss to explain this. Kallia is my neighbor,
and I had thought that we were friends, after a fashion, and there can be no
doubt that her shop was robbed, for I saw the broken door and the dead demon
myself, but why she should accuse me I cannot guess. I swear, by all the gods
and unseen powers, that I have never set foot in her shop without her
invitation and that I did not break her door, nor slay the demon, nor take
anything from her shop."

"Yet she says she saw you there," Kalthon pointed out. "She lies," Heremon
said. "What else can it be?" The questioning continued, but nothing else of
any use came out. Heremon would not speak of the Wizards' Guild, insisting
that he had sworn an oath to reveal nothing about it and that it was not
relevant.

Lord Kalthon sighed again, more deeply this time, and waved the wizard away.
When the participants were out of earshot he leaned over and asked Okko, "Who
lied?"

The theurgist looked up at him and turned up an empty palm. "My lord," he
said, "I don't know. By my divinations, the wizard spoke nothing but truth—but
there are spells that would conceal lies from me, simple spells that even an
apprentice might use, and that a mage of Heremon's ability . . ."He didn't
bother finishing the sentence.

"What of the woman?" the Minister of Justice asked. Okko shook his head. "Lord
Kalthon, she is so tainted with demon scent that the gods I confer with will
not admit she exists at all, and can say nothing about whether she lies."

"Damn." He considered. "Okko, you know something about the other schools of
magic, don't you?"

Okko eyed the minister warily and hesitated before replying, "A little."

"Who can tell if a demonologist is lying? Who can't a wizard fool?"
Okko thought that over very carefully, then shrugged. "I would guess," he
said, "that one demonologist could tell if another were engaged in trickery.
And I'm sure that one wizard, properly trained, can detect another's spells."

"Then can you find me a demonologist we can trust? One who has no prior
connection with this Kallia? And we'll need a wizard, one who's not in the
Wizards' Guild ..."

Okko held up a hand. "No, my lord," he said. "All wizards are members of the
Guild. For anyone not in the Guild, to practice wizardry is to commit
suicide." "Well... do your best, then." "As you wish." Okko bowed his head.
Lord Kalthon straightened in his chair and announced, "This case cannot be
decided today. All parties hereto will return here tomorrow at this same time.
Failure to appear will be accounted an admission of guilt and a crime against
the Hegemony, punishable at the overlord's pleasure; if there is anyone who
has a problem with that, tell my clerk. Next case."

Sarai sat, only half listening, as the next case, a local magistrate's son
accused of rape, was presented. She was thinking over the two magicians'
statements.

If Heremon was lying, then why had he robbed Kallia? A successful wizard
didn't need to resort to theft, not for the sort of things taken from Kallia.
Even dragon's blood was not so rare or precious as all that. There were
supposed to be substances wizards used that would be almost impossible to
obtain, but they weren't anything a demonologist would have.

But then, if Heremon had not robbed Kallia, why would she say that he had?
What could she hope to gain by making false accusations? Could she perhaps
have some use for Heremon? Might she need a wizard's soul to appease some
demon?

Sarai shook her head. Nobody knew what demonologists might need except other
demonologists. That might be the explanation, but she wasn't going to figure
it out; she didn't know enough about the so-called black arts.

Could there perhaps be something else at work?

The case before her father impinged slightly upon her thoughts, and she
considered the fact that Kallia, while not young and of no remarkable beauty,
was a reasonably attractive woman, while Heremon was a dignified and
personable man of late middle age. Could there be some sort of romantic, or at
any rate sexual, situation involved here? Nobody had mentioned spouses on
either side of the dispute.

But both Kallia and Heremon had plenty of resources at their disposal; why
would either of them resort to robbery, or false accusations of robbery?

If Heremon were, in fact, the thief, why did he break in through the front
door and generally make such a mess of the job? He might not have any
experience at burglary, but he wasn't stupid, to have attained his present
status—the title "mage" was only given to a wizard of proven ability, one who
had trained apprentices and who had demonstrated mastery of many spells.

And if Heremon was not the thief, who was? Had Kallia broken her own door and
killed her own demon, to fake the theft? Killing a demon did not seem like a
trivial matter, especially not for a demonologist, who would need to deal with
other demons on a fairly regular basis.
Sarai mulled the whole thing over carefully.

When court was finally adjourned, she and her father returned to their
apartments for a late supper. Kalthon the Younger and his nurse had waited for
them, so the meal was hurried, and afterward Lord Kalthon settled at little
Kalthon's side to tell him a bedtime story.

Sarai might ordinarily have stayed to listen—she loved a good story, and her
father's were sometimes excellent—but tonight she had other plans. Instead,
she put on her traveling cloak and headed for the door.

Her father looked up, startled. "Where are you going?"

"I just want to check on something," she said.

Kalthon the Younger coughed; he was a   sickly child, always down with one
illness or another, while Sarai was a   healthy young woman, able to take care
of herself. "All right," Lord Kalthon   said, "be careful." He turned back to
his son and continued, "So Valder the   king's son took the enchanted sword ..."

Sarai closed the door quietly on her way out, and a few minutes later she was
riding one of the overlord's horses down Smallgate Street toward Eastside,
toward Wizard Street.

CHAPTER 4

Lord Kalthon drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"Let's go through it once more," he said angrily. "You, the demonologist—what
happened here?"

"Rander of Southbeach, my lord," the demonologist said, with a tight little
bow and a twitch of the black-embroidered skirts of his black robes.

"I didn't ask your bloody name" Lord Kalthon shouted. "I asked what happened!
Did Heremon the Mage rob Kallia of the Broken Hand or not?"

Rander's attempt at an ingratiating smile vanished. He glanced hesitantly at
the others, then said, "My lord, my arts show that Kallia has spoken the truth
as she knows it."

Lord Kalthon glared at him. "And?" he said.

"And so has Heremon the Mage," the demonologist admitted reluctantly.

"And you can't resolve this contradiction?"

"No."

Lord Kalthon snorted and turned to the plump woman in the green robe. "I know
you; you've testified before me before. Mereth of the Golden Door, isn't it?"
"Yes, my lord." She bobbed politely. "Well?"

"My lord," she said, in a pleasant contralto that Sarai envied, "like the
demonologist, my spells have achieved confusing and contradictory results. I,
too, find that both Kallia and Heremon speak the truth as they know it.
Further, I can detect no distortion of memory in either of them. I used a
scrying spell to see the crime with my own eyes, and I saw what Kallia
described— Heremon taking the gold and other things; but when I used another
divination, I was told that Heremon did not. I fear that some very powerful
magic is responsible." Kalthon turned to Okko and said, "Now what?" Okko
hesitated, and looked very unhappy indeed. "Perhaps a witch ..." he began.
Sarai cleared her throat.

Kalthon turned an inquisitive eye toward his daughter. "Sarai," he asked, "was
there something you wanted to say?" "My lord," she said, secretly enjoying her
father's startled reaction to this formal address from his daughter, "I have
undertaken a little study of my own involving this case, and perhaps I can
save everyone some time and further aggravation by explaining just what I
believe to have happened."

Lord Kalthon stared at her, smiling slightly. "Speak, then," he said.

"Really, it's not as difficult as all that," Sarai said, stalling for time as
her nerve suddenly failed her for a moment. What if she was wrong? Her
father's smile had vanished, she saw, replaced with a puzzled frown.

She took a deep breath and continued. "Kallia swears that she saw Heremon
commit the crime, and every indication is that she speaks the truth, that
that's exactly what she saw. Furthermore, Heremon swears that he did not
commit the crime, and
chamber, and then ran for it. One of the warlocks burst his heart." He glanced
at Kalthon the Younger, who was listening intently, and then added, "I told
her to."

"What happened to the demon?" little Kalthon asked. "The one he conjured in
the chamber."

"The guards killed it," the Minister of Justice replied. "Cut it to pieces
with their swords, and eventually it stopped struggling." He sighed. "I'm
afraid that Irith isn't very happy about it."

"Who's Irith?" Sarai asked.

"She's the servant who cleans the justice chamber every night," Lord Kalthon
explained. "I told her that if she couldn't get the stain out, not to worry,
we'd hire a magician to do it."

"Will you really?"

"Maybe," Kalthon said. "We've certainly used plenty of magic already on this
case." He sighed. "More than I like. There are too damn many magicians in this
city."

Sarai nodded.

"And that reminds me, Sarai," her father said, picking up the last drumstick.
"Have you been dabbling in magic, perhaps?"

Sarai blinked, astonished. "No, sir," she said. "Of course

not."

"So you really figured out that it was this Katherian all by yourself, then?
Just using your own good sense?"

Sarai nodded. "Yes, Father," she said.

Kalthon bit into the drumstick, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "That was
good thinking, then," he said at last. "Very good."
"Thank you," Sarai said, looking down at her plate.

"You know," her father continued, "we use Okko and the other magicians to
solve most of the puzzles we get. I mean, the cases where it's a question of
what the facts are, rather than just settling an argument where the facts are
known."

"Yes, sir," Sarai said, "I'd noticed that."

"Every so often, though, we do get cases like this one, with Kallia and
Heremon and Katherian, and sometimes they're real tangles. They usually seem
to involve magicians, which doesn't help any—such as the one where a man who'd
been turned to stone a hundred years ago was brought back to life, and we had
to find out who enchanted him, and then decide who owned his old house, and
whether he could prosecute the heirs of the wizard who enchanted him, and for
that matter we couldn't be sure the wizard himself was really dead . . ."He
shook his head. "Or all the mess after the Night of Madness, before you were
bom—your grandfather handled most of that, but I helped out." He gestured at
Kalthon the Younger. "Yjur brother will probably be the next Minister of
Justice, you know—it's traditional for the heir to be the eldest son, skipping
daughters, and I don't think Ederd's going to change that. But I think we
could use you—after today, I think it would be a shame not to use wits like
yours."

"Use me how?" Sarai asked warily.

"As an investigator," her father said. "Someone who goes out and finds out
what's going on in the difficult cases. Someone who knows about different
kinds of magic, but isn't a magician herself. I'd like to ask the overlord to
name you as the first Lord—or rather, the first Lady of Investigation for
Ethshar of the Sands. With a salary and an office here in the palace."

Sarai thought it over for a moment, then asked, "But what would I actually
do?"

"Usually, nothing," the Minister of Justice replied.   "Like the Lord
Executioner. But if there's ever anything that needs   to be studied and
explained, something where we can't just ask Okko or   some other magician, it
would be your job to study it and then explain it to   the rest of us."

Sarai frowned. "But I can't know everything," she said.

"Of course not," her father agreed. "But you can learn as much as you can. The
overlord doesn't expect his officers to be perfect."

Sarai, remembering what she had heard of Ederd IV, overlord of Ethshar of the
Sands, wasn't any too sure of that. "What would I do when I can't..."

"You would do the best you can," her father interrupted. "Like any of the
city's officials." "I'd need help sometimes," Sarai said. "You'd be given the
authority to call on the guard for help— I'll ask Lord Torrut to assign you a
regular assistant. And you could hire others."

"Father, if we need someone to figure out these things, why hasn't anyone
already been given the job?"

Lord Kalthon smiled wryly. "Because we never thought of it. We've always
improvised, done it all new every time."
"Have you talked to the overlord yet?"

"No," Lord Kalthon admitted. "I wanted to see whether you wanted the job
first."

"I don't know," Sarai admitted.

There they left the matter for a sixnight; then one evening Lord Kalthon
mentioned, "I spoke to the overlord today."

"Oh?" Sarai asked, nervously.

Her father nodded. "He wants you to be his investigator, as I suggested. And I
think he'd like the job to include more than I originally intended—he was
talking about gathering information from other lands, as well, to help him
keep up with events. He doesn't like surprises, you know; he wasn't at all
happy that he had no warning about the rise of the Empire of Vond, in the
Small Kingdoms, two years ago."

"But I don't know anything about..." Sarai began.

"You could learn," Kalthon replied.

"I don't know," Sarai said. "I don't like it. I need time to think about it."

"So think about it," her father answered.

In truth, she found the idea of being paid to study foreign lands
fascinating—but the responsibilities and the fact that she would be reporting
to the overlord himself were frightening.

Still, a sixnight later, she agreed to take the job.

CHAPTER 5

"We'll go on to the next step tomorrow," the wizard said, putting the dagger
aside. The apprentice nodded, and Tabaea, watching from the landing, got
quickly and silently to her feet and padded swiftly up the stairs. Her candle
had gone out, and she dared not light another, so she moved by feel and
memory. She knew she had to be out of the house before the two came upstairs
and found her, so she wasted no time in the thefts she had originally planned.
Her sack still hung empty at her belt as she made her way back through the
workshop, the hallway, and the parlor.

It was in the parlor that she stumbled over something in the dark and almost
fell. Light glinted from the hallway; the wizard and his apprentice were in
the workroom. Frightened, Tabaea dropped to her knees and crept on all fours
through the dining salon, and finally out to the mudroom. There she got to her
feet and escaped into the darkness of the alley beyond.

It was later than she had realized; most of the torches and lanterns over the
doors had been allowed to burn out for the night, and Grandgate Market's glow
and murmur had faded to almost nothing. Grand Street was empty.

She hesitated. She had come down to Grandgate Market in unfulfilled hopes of
filching a few choice items from the buyers and sellers there; the wizard's
house had caught her eye as she passed on her way to the square, and she had
turned down the alley on her way home. All she should do now was to go on the
rest of the way, north and west, back to her family's house in Northangle.
But it was so very dark in that direction, and the streets of Ethshar weren't
safe at night. There were robbers and slavers and, she thought with a glance
eastward at Wizard Street, quite possibly other, less natural, dangers. But
what choice did she have?

Life didn't give her very many choices, she thought bitterly. It was no more
than a mile to her home, and most of it would be along two major avenues,
Grand Street and Midway Street; it would only be the last two blocks that
would take her into the real depths of the city. One of those blocks was along
Wall Street, beside Wall Street Field, where all the thieves and beggars
lived. That was not safe at night. But what choice did she have?

She shuddered and set out on her way, thinking as she walked how pleasant it
would be to be a wizard, and to be able to go fearlessly wherever one pleased,
always knowing that magic protected one. Or to be rich or powerful and have
guards—but that had its drawbacks, of course; the guards would find out your
secrets, would always know where you had been, and when.

No, magic was better. If she were a wizard, like the one whose house she had
been in ...

She frowned. Would he know someone had been in the house? She hadn't taken
anything, hadn't even broken anything—the lock on the alley door had a few
scratches, and a few things might be out of place, but she hadn't taken
anything, and really,
it had been that weird little green creature that had disturbed the papers and
so forth.

Even if the wizard knew she had been there, he probably wouldn't bother to do
anything about it.

As long, that is, as he didn't realize she'd been spying on him while he
taught his apprentice about the athame thing. That was obviously a deep, dark
Wizards' Guild secret; if anyone found out she had heard so much about it she
was probably as good as dead.

Which meant that so far, no one had found out. And even with his magic, how
could the wizard find out? She hadn't left any evidence, and he wouldn't know
what questions to ask.

She wished she had heard even more, of course; she had heard a little about
what an athame could do and the instructions for preparing to perform the
ritual to work the spell to create an athame, but not much more than that. It
was obviously a long, complicated procedure to make an athame, and she didn't
really know just what one was.

It had to be a magic   knife of some kind, obviously a powerful and important
one, but beyond that   she really wasn't very clear on what it was for. The
wizard had described   several side effects, little extras, but she'd come in
too late to hear the   more basic parts.

If she had one with her, though, she was sure she would feel much, much safer
on Wall Street. It was a shame she hadn't heard all of the instructions for
making one. She had only heard the beginning. To get the rest she would have
to go back the next night.

She stopped abruptly and stood motionless for a long moment, there in the
middle of Grand Street, about four blocks west of Wizard Street. The new-risen
lesser moon glowed pink above her, tinting the shadows, while a few late
torches and lit windows spilled a brighter light across her path, but nothing
moved, and the night was eerily silent.

If she went back the next night, she could hear the rest.

And if she learned the procedure, or ceremony, or spell, or whatever it was,
she could make herself an athame.

And why not go back?

Oh, certainly there was some risk involved; she might be spotted at any time.
But the reward would be worth the risk, wouldn't it?

She threw a glance back over her shoulder, then started running onward, back
toward home.

She made it without incident, other than dodging around drunkards and cripples
on Wall Street and briefly glimpsing a party of slavers in the distance, their
nets held loose and ready.

She got home safely. And all the way, she was planning.

And the next night, when darkness had fallen, she again crept into the alley
behind the wizard's house, listening intently, waiting for her eyes to adjust
to the darkness. This time, though, she carried a small shuttered lantern that
she had appropriated from a neighbor in Northangle. Entering on a whim was all
very well, but it was better to be prepared.

If she found any sign at all that her earlier visit had been detected, she
promised herself that she would turn and flee.

The lock was just as she remembered; she opened one lantern-shutter enough to
get a look at it and saw no scratches or other marks from her previous entry.
Unlocking it again took only a moment.

The mudroom beyond was just as she remembered, and, as she glanced around, she
realized that she had, in fact, stolen something—the candle she had burned for
light. In a household as rich as this, though, she was reasonably confident
that the loss of a single candle would go unnoticed.

The dining salon was also undisturbed; when she shined her lantern about,
however, the teapot raided in its cabinet and turned away in annoyance.

The plant in the parlor was still waving; the mantel where the little creature
had sat was empty.

A few things had been moved around in the workroom, but she assumed that was
just a result of normal use. Nothing seemed to be any more seriously
disarrayed than before.

At the entrance to the cellars she encountered her first real obstacle: the
door was locked.

She put her ear to it and listened intently and heard the wizard's voice. He
was beginning the night's lesson—his voice had that droning, lecturing tone to
it.

Frantically, she set to work on the lock, and discovered, to her relief, that
it was no better than the one on the alley door. Really, it was disgraceful
the way the wizard was so careless about these things! If she ever became a
rich and powerful wizard, she would make sure that she had better locks than
these. Relying entirely on magic couldn't be wise.

And she hadn't even seen any sign of magic; really, the wizard appeared to be
relying entirely on his reputation, and that was just plain foolish.

The door swung open, and she slipped through, closing it carefully behind her,
making sure it neither latched nor locked. With the lantern shuttered tight
she crept down, step by step, to the landing.

And just as the night before, there sat the wizard and his apprentice, facing
each other across the center of that rug. The wizard was holding a silver
dagger and discussing the qualities important in a knife—not magical
qualities, but basics like balance, sharpening, and what metals would hold an
edge. Tabaea placed her lantern to one side and settled down, stretched out on
her belly with her chin on her hands, to listen.

It was scarcely ten minutes later that the wizard finished his disquisition on
blades and began explaining the purification rituals that would prepare a
knife for athamezation. Tabaea watched, fascinated. Night after night, she
crept in and watched. Until finally, there came the night, after studying this
one ritual, this one spell, for over a month, when the apprentice— her name,
Tabaea had learned, was Lirrin—at last attempted to perform it herself.

Tabaea returned for the conclusion of the ceremony, the grand finale in which
the apprentice would trap a part of her own soul in the enchanted dagger that
the wizards called an athame. She settled down, once again, on her belly and
lay on the stone landing, staring down at the two figures below.

Lirrin had been at it for more than twenty-three hours, Tabaea knew, without
food or rest. Her master, Serem the Wise, had sat by her side, watching and
calling what advice he could the entire time.

Tabaea, the uninvited observer, had not done anything of the sort. She had
watched the beginning of the spell, then slipped away and gone about her
business. Throughout the day she had sometimes paused and thought, "Now she's
raising the blade over her head for the long chant," or "It must be time for
the third ritual cleaning," but she had not let it distract her from the more
urgent matter of finding food and appropriating any money left sufficiently
unguarded. When she at last returned, the silver knife was glittering white,
and Tabaea really didn't think it was just a trick of the light. The spell was
doing something, certainly.

She could hear fatigue in the master's voice as he murmured encouragement; the
apprentice was far too busy concentrating on the spell to say anything, but
surely she, too, must be exhausted.

Perhaps it was the certainty that the objects of her scrutiny were tired, or
fascination with this climax, or just overconfi-dence acquired in her many
undetected visits, but Tabaea had crept further forward than ever before, her
face pressed right against the iron railing. The black metal was cool against
her cheek as she stared.

Lirrin finished her chant and placed her bloody hands on the shining dagger's
hilt; blood was smeared on her face, as well, her own blood mixed with ash and
sweat and other things. It seemed to Tabaea that the girl had to force her
hands down, as if something were trying to push them back, away from the
weapon.

Then Lirrin's hands closed on the leather-wrapped grip, and her entire body
spasmed suddenly. She made a thick grunting noise; the dagger leaped up, not
as if she were lifting it, but as if it were pulling her hands upward.

Something flashed; Tabaea could not say what it was, or just where, or what
color it was. She was not sure it was actually light at all, but "flash" was
the only word that seemed to fit. For an instant she couldn't see.

She blinked. Her vision cleared, and she saw Lirrin rising to her feet, the
new-made athame in her right hand, any unnatural glow vanished. The dagger
looked like an ordinary belt knife— of better quality than most, perhaps, but
nothing unreasonable. The girl's face was still smeared with black and red,
her hair was a tangled mess, her apprentice's robe was wrinkled, stained, and
dusty, but she was no longer transfigured or trembling; she was just a dirty
young girl holding a knife. She looked up, straight at Tabaea. Tabaea froze.

"Master," Lirrin said, tired and puzzled, "who's that?" She pointed.

Serem turned to look, startled.

When the wizard's eyes met her own, Tabaea unfroze. She leaped to her feet and
spun on her heel, then dashed up the short flight of steps. She ran out
through the wizard's workroom as fast as she could and careened out into the
utter darkness of the hallway. Moving by feel, no longer worrying about making
noise or knocking things over, she charged down the hall, through the parlor
and dining salon, banging a shin against the animated fanning plant's pot in
the parlor, sending one of the ornately carved dining chairs to the floor.

The door to the mudroom was open; she tumbled through it, tripping over
somebody's boots, and groped for the door to the alley before she even
regained her feet.

Then she was out and stumbling along the hard-packed dirt toward the light of
Grand Street. She was breathing too hard to seriously listen for pursuit, but
at any rate she heard no shouting, no threats, none of the unnatural sounds
that accompanied some spells.

At the comer she hesitated not an instant in turning toward Grandgate Market,
even though that meant passing in front of the house. The marketplace crowds
were unquestionably the best place to lose herself. She hoped that Serem and
Lirrin hadn't gotten a good look at her and that Serem had no magic that could
ferret her out once she was lost.

By the time she had gone three blocks she felt she could risk a look back over
her shoulder. She saw no sign of Serem or Lirrin and slowed to a walk.

If they spotted her now, she would just plead innocent, claim they had
mistaken her for someone else.

Of course, if they insisted on taking her anyway, and if they had some magical
means of discovering the truth, or if they had none themselves but took her to
the overlord's Minister of Justice, who reportedly kept several magicians
around for just such matters . . . well, if anything like that happened, she
would just have to throw herself on somebody's mercy and hope that the penalty
wasn't too harsh. After all, she hadn't actually stolen anything.

She glanced back again and saw lights in the windows of Serem's house; the
shutters had been opened, and light was pouring out into the streets.

Maybe they thought she was still inside somewhere—but that was silly. She
hadn't even taken the time to close the alleyway door behind her.
Well, whatever they thought, they weren't coming after her, as far as she
could see. She let out a small gasp of relief. And the market square—which was
called that even though it was six-sided and not square at all—was just ahead.
In only seconds she would be safe.

Then the arched door at the corner of Grand and Wizard opened, spilling light,
and even from four blocks away Tabaea could see that Serem stood silhouetted
against it, peering out. Tabaea shuddered and forced herself not to run, and
then she was in Grandgate Market, in the milling crowds.

Even so, even after she had seen Serem march out into the street, glare in all
directions, and then go back inside, it was hours before she felt at all safe.
It was two days before she dared go home, and two sixnights before she dared
pass within a block of Serem's house.

CHAPTER 6

During the days following Lirrin's athamezation, Tabaea reviewed the ritual
repeatedly, both silently and aloud. Tessa and Thennis heard her mumbling the
incantations and mocked her when she refused to explain—but that was normal
enough.

The whole question of how to use what she had learned was a baffling one. The
secret of the athame was clearly one of the most important mysteries of the
Wizards' Guild, and therefore tremendously valuable—but how could she cash in
on it? There was a word that described people who crossed the Wizards' Guild,
by stealing from them, or attempting to blackmail them— the word was "dead."

So she couldn't do anything at all that would bring her to the attention of
the Guild. That left two other options: sell the secret elsewhere, or use it
herself.

And where else could she sell it?

Wizards and sorcerers were traditional enemies, so one afternoon in Summerheat
she strolled over to Magician Street, in Northside, and wandered into a
sorcerer's shop. The proprietor didn't notice her for several minutes, which
gave her a chance to look around.

The place didn't look very magical; there were no animated plants, no strange
skulls or glowing tapestries or peculiar bottles. There were some tools, but
they looked as appropriate for a tinker or a jeweler as for a magician—pliers
and hammers and so forth. Assorted colored wires hung on one wall, and
crystals were displayed on another, but Tabaea, who had a competent thief's
working knowledge of precious stones and metals, quickly concluded that none
of these were particularly valuable.

The sorcerer finally realized she was there; he took in her youth and ragged
appearance in an instant, and said, "I'm not looking for an apprentice just
now, young lady." "I'm fifteen," Tabaea replied, annoyed. "My apologies, then.
What can I do for you?" Tabaea hesitated; she had thought over a dozen
possible openings without definitely choosing one, but now she could put it
off no longer.

Might as well be direct, she thought. "I think I might have something to sell
you," she said. "Oh?" The sorcerer was a black-haired man in his thirties,
with thick, bushy eyebrows that looked out of place on his rather pale and
narrow face. Those eyebrows now rose questioningly. "What might that be? Have
you found an interesting artifact, perhaps? Some relic of the Northern
Empire?"
"No," Tabaea said, startled. "There were never any Northerners around here."

"True enough. Then it was around here that you found whatever it is? "

"Yes. It's not an artifact—it's a piece of information." The sorcerer frowned,
his eyebrows descending. "I am not usually in the business of buying
information," he said.

"It's about wizards," Tabaea said, a note of desperation creeping into her
voice.

The sorcerer blinked. "I am a sorcerer, young lady, not a wizard. You do know
the difference, don't you?"

"Yes, of course, I do!" Tabaea replied angrily. Then, calming, she corrected
herself. "Or at least, I know there is a difference. And I know that you
people don't like wizards, so I thought maybe . . . well, I found out a secret
about wizards." "And you thought that it might be of interest to sorcerers?"
Tabaea nodded. "That's right," she said.

The sorcerer studied her for a moment, then asked, "And what price were you
asking for this secret?"

Tabaea had given that some thought and had decided that a hundred pounds of
gold would be about right—a thousand rounds, that would be, equal to eight
hundred thousand copper bits. That was most of a million. She would be rich,
she wouldn't need to ever steal again. Magicians were all rich—well, the good
ones, anyway, most of them; surely, they could afford to pay her even so
fabulous a sum as that.

But now she found she couldn't bring herself to speak the numbers aloud. Eight
hundred thousand bits—it was just too fantastic.

"I hadn't decided," she lied.

The sorcerer clicked his tongue sympathetically and shook his head in dismay.
"Really, child," he said, "you need to learn more about business. Let me ask,
then—would this secret help me in my own business? Would it let me take
customers away from the wizards?"

Tabaea hadn't thought about that. "I don't know," she admitted. Attempting a
recovery, she added, "But the wizards really don't want anyone to know about
it!"

The sorcerer frowned again. "In that case, isn't this a dangerous bit of
knowledge to have? How did you come by it?" "I can't say," Tabaea said, a
trifle desperately. "Well, all right, then," the sorcerer said. "I'm not
usually one to buy a closed casket, but you've caught my interest." Tabaea
caught her breath.

"I'll pay you four bits in silver for your secret," the sorcerer said.

Tabaea blinked. "Four bits?" she squeaked. "Half a round of silver," the
sorcerer confirmed. Tabaea stared for a moment, then turned and ran out of the
shop without another word.

Later, when she could think about it clearly, she realized that the sorcerer
had really been making a generous oifer. Tabaea had given him no hint of what
her secret was, no reason to think it would be profitable for him to know
it—and in fact, she saw now that it would probably not be profitable.

Wizards and sorcerers were traditional rivals, but they weren't blood enemies.
Sorcerers weren't about to wage a full-scale war against wizards—for one
thing, there were far more wizards in the World than sorcerers. And what
possible use would knowledge of athamezation be to any magician who was not
prepared to use it against wizards?

Selling her information, she saw, simply wasn't going to work. That left using
it herself as the only way to exploit it. And the only way to use it was to
make herself an athame. That certainly had its appeal; she would be a true
wizard, then, according to what Serem the Wise had said, even if she didn't
know any spells. And if she ever did learn any spells, the athame would make
them easier to use, if she had understood correctly. The knife would be able
to free her from any bonds, if she could touch it. It would mark her as a
wizard to other wizards, but not to anyone else—and yet she would not be a
member of the Guild.

And she had the impression that there was far more to it than she knew. She
hadn't heard all of Serem's teachings to Lirrin. She had learned the entire
twenty-four-hour ceremony, but had missed a fair amount of the other
discussion about the athame. So, one bright day early in Summersend, two
months after Lirrin completed her own athame, Tabaea slipped out of a shop on
Armorer Street with a fine dagger tucked under her tunic, one that she had not
paid for.

The next problem, now that she had the knife, was to find a place where she
could perform the spell. Her home was out of the question, with her sisters
and her mother and her stepfather around—if her stepfather had turned up
again, that is.

The people of the Wall Street Field had a reputation for minding their own
business, but there were surely limits, and the all-day ritual with its blood
and chanting and so forth would draw attention anywhere. And what if it
rained? Right now the summer sun was pouring down like hot yellow honey, but
the summer rains could come up suddenly.

She needed someplace indoors and private, where she could be sure of an entire
day undisturbed, and such places were not easy for a poor young woman to find
in the crowded streets and squares of Ethshar of the Sands. Maybe, she
thought, if she left the city . . . But no, that was crazy. She wasn't going
to leave the city. There wasn't anything out there but peasants and barbarians
and wilderness, except maybe in the other two Ethshars, and those would be
just as unhelpful as Ethshar of the Sands. There were places that most people
never went, such as the gate towers and the Great Lighthouse and all the
towers that guarded the harbor, but those were manned by the overlord's
soldiers.

She wandered along Armorer Street, vaguely thinking of the South Beaches, but
with no very clear plan in mind; she squinted against the sun and dust as she
walked, not really looking where she was going.

She heard a man call something obscene, and a woman giggled. Tabaea looked up.

She was at the corner of Whore Street, and a man in the yellow tunic and red
kilt of a soldier was shouting lewd promises to a red-clad woman on a balcony.

Those two would have no trouble finding a few minutes' privacy, she was
sure—though of course they'd have to pay for it.
That was a thought—she could pay for it. She could rent a room—not here in
Soldiertown, of course, but at a respectable inn somewhere. She was so
accustomed to stealing everything she needed that the idea of paying hadn't
occurred to her at first.

But she could, if she wanted. She had stashed away a goodly sum of money in
her three years of thievery and had never spent more than a few bits. Maybe
making herself an athame would be worth the expense.

It took two more days before she worked up the nerve, but at last she found
herself in a small attic room at the Inn of the Blue Crab, with the
proprietor's promise not to allow anyone near for a day and a half.

She had tried to convince him, without actually stating it, that she was a
wizard's apprentice and that her master had assigned her some spell that
required privacy; fear of wild magic was about the only thing she could think
of that would reliably restrain the man's natural curiosity. She wasn't at all
sure it had worked.

She had laid in a good supply of candles for light, and a jug of reasonably
pure water—the inn's well, the innkeeper boasted, had a permanent purification
spell on it, but Tabaea suspected it was just not particularly polluted. She
couldn't have any food, she knew, but she was fairly sure that water was
permissible. She had brought a change of clothing, for afterward. She had fire
and water and blood, and of course, she had her dagger. She had rested well
and was as ready as she knew how to be.

Still, she trembled as she began the first chant, the dagger held out before
her.

The incantations, the gestures, the eerie little dance, she remembered them
all. She had no master or teacher in attendance urging her on, nor any other
helper to light candles for her, so parts of the spell had to be performed in
darkness, but she continued, undaunted.

The attic room was warm and close, and as the candles burned down it grew
hotter and stuffier. When the candles died, it was almost a relief—but then
the sun came up, and by midmorning the heat was worse than ever. She would
have opened the window, but to do so would have meant stepping outside the
pattern of the ceremony. The innkeeper would have come up and opened the
window for an ordinary customer, if only to help cool the inn as a whole, but
she had forbidden him entrance.

If she had thought ahead, she realized, she would have had the window open all
along. She hadn't, and she had to make the best of it; she couldn't stop now.

In fact, she was unsure whether it was literally possible to stop; she could
sense the magical energies working around her, a strange, new, but
unmistakable sensation. She was afraid that the magic would turn against her
if she stopped, so she ignored her thirst, ignored the heat, ignored her
fatigue, and continued with the spell, sweating heavily.

Worst of all, she could see her jug of water, and she had the bowl of water
used in purifying the metal of the knife, but this part of the ritual did not
allow her a chance to drink so much as a drop.

Her voice gave out by midday; she hoped that didn't matter. By that time
exhaustion, dehydration, and heat had driven her into a state of dazed
semiconsciousness, and she continued with the spell more out of inertia than
anything else.
Around midaftemoon she came to a part that she could not do without conscious
effort. The spell called for her to draw her own blood, pricking her right
hand, her throat, and the skin over her heart with the dagger.

Hands trembling, she drew the necessary blood, and used it to paint the
required three symbols on the blade, marking the weapon as eternally hers.

The worst was yet to come, though; for the final section of the spell she
would need to slash open her forehead and use the point of the knife to smear
the blood across her face, mixing it with the sweat and ash. That would mark
her as belonging to the knife, just as the three runes marked the knife as
belonging to her. She dreaded that part; she had an irrational fear that in
her weakness, she would lose control and cut her own skull open.

Still, she struggled on.

The moment came; the blade shook as she raised the dagger to her brow, which
terrified her still more. Even if she didn't cut too deep, what if she slipped
and cut an eye?

She closed her eyes as she drew the blade across the tight skin.

At first she thought she had somehow missed, and she reached up with her free
hand. It came away red.

Quickly, she continued with the ceremony.

She could feel the magic around her—but somehow, even in her unthinking state,
she began to sense that something had gone wrong.

Hadn't Lirrin's knife been glowing at this point?

Tabaea's wasn't. In fact, though it was hard to be certain in the deepening
twilight, the knife seemed to have gone dark, as if blackened by smoke. But
she hadn't managed to light a candle or other fire in hours; there was no
smoke in the room.

She placed the knife before her, as the spell required, and it seemed almost
to disappear in the gloom.

She had no choice   but to continue, though. She had the final chant to get
through, and then   she would pick up the knife and the spell would be over—if
she could pick up   the knife. She remembered Lirrin forcing her hands down as
if against strong   resistance.

She hurried through the chant as quickly as she could in her weakened,
frightened, and voiceless condition, thinking all the while that this had been
an incredibly stupid thing to try all on her own, that it was fantastically
dangerous, that it couldn't possibly work, that the knife might kill her when
she picked it up—and at the same time, underneath her terror, she exulted in
the knowledge that she was working magic, that if she came through this she
would be a wizard, that the dagger would be her athame, and she would be the
World's only Guildless wizard.

She spoke the final word and pressed her hands down toward the dagger. They
met no resistance at all.


She closed her eyes against the flash as her fingers closed on the hilt.
There was no flash. The eerie sensation of magic at work faded quickly away,
and she was just a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor of a hot, airless
attic room, holding an ordinary dagger.

But that couldn't be true, she told herself, it wasn't possible. She blinked
in the darkness, trying to see the knife, but the daylight was gone, and the
light from the window, compounded of lanterns and torches and the lesser
moon's pink glow, wasn't enough.

She dropped the dagger and groped for the candles and her tinderbox. In a
moment she had a light going, and looked down at the knife that lay on the
bare planks.

It was blackened all over, a smooth, even black; the silver blade still
gleamed, but with the dark shimmer of volcanic glass.

Tabaea felt it. It wasn't glass; it was still metal.

But it was black.

Hilt and guard were black, as well.

The entire dagger was utterly, completely black, totally colorless.

That wasn't   right. Tabaea didn't know much about wizards, but she had seen
them in the   streets, she had seen the athame that Serem carried and the athame
that Lirrin   had made. All those athames were perfectly ordinary and natural in
appearance,   not this unearthly black.

Something had gone wrong.

She remembered the tests that Serem had described, but which she had not seen
Lirrin attempt because of her need to flee. She couldn't try any of the ones
that involved other people or other athames, but...

She wrapped a leather thong from her belt around one arm, tied it off with a
simple knot, then touched the black dagger to it.

Nothing happened.

The cord was supposed to untie and fall away, but nothing happened.

She touched the blade of the dagger to her forehead, gently; it came away
bloody, but there was no glow, not so much as a flicker of color. The gash on
her brow did not heal.

She held the dagger out by the blade, on the flat of her palm; it did not
tremble, did not turn its hilt to her, did not prepare to defend her.

It did nothing that an athame was supposed to do.

It was not an athame.

It was nothing.

Staring at the worthless black dagger, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, Tabaea felt
her eyes fill with tears. She fought back the first sob, but then gave in and
wept.
PART TWO

Killer

CHAPTER 7

Lady Sarai rubbed her temple wearily and tried to listen to what was being
said. It had been four years since she had first sat at her father's left hand
and watched him work; now, for the first time, she was in his throne and doing
his work herself. She had put it off as long as she could, but someone had to
do it, and her father no longer had the strength.

And, she feared, she wasn't doing it very well. How had her father ever stood
up under this constant stream of venality and stupidity?

". . .she told me it was her father's—what am I supposed to do, call in a
soothsayer of some kind every time I buy a trinket? How was I supposed to know
it was stolen?"

"A trinket?" the gem's rightful owner burst out angrily. "You call that stone
a trinket? My grandfather went all the way to Tazmor to find a diamond that
size for my grandmother! You ..."

Sarai raised her right hand while the left still massaged her forehead. At the
gesture, a guard lowered his spear in the general direction of the victim.

The victim's shouting stopped abruptly.

For a long moment, the three principals stood in uneasy silence, watching Lady
Sarai as she sat in her father's throne, trying to think.

"All right," she said, pointing, "you get your diamond back. Right now. Give
it to him, somebody. No further compensation, though, because you were stupid
to let her near it in the first place. Now, get out of here."

Another guard handed the robbery victim the pendant; he took it, essayed a
quick, unhappy bow in Lady Sarai's direction, then fled the room, the jewel
clutched tight in his hand.

The jeweler began to protest, and even before Sarai raised her hand, the
lowered spear moved slightly in his direction.

The thief grinned; her head was down, but Sarai saw the smile all the same. A
hot, rough knot of anger grew in her own chest at the sight.

"Straighten her up," Sarai snapped.

A soldier grabbed the thief's long braid and yanked her head back; the smile
vanished, and she glared at Sarai. Sarai could see her arms flexing, as if she
were trying to slip free of the ropes around her wrists.

"Sansha of Smallgate, you said your name was?" Sarai demanded.

The thief couldn't nod, with her hair pulled back; she struggled for a moment,
then said, "That's right."

"You spent all the money?"

"That's right, too."
"It's hard to believe you could use up that much that fast— eight rounds of
gold, was it?"

"I had debts," Sansha said, tilting her head in a vain attempt to loosen the
guard's grip.

"That's too bad," Sarai said, "because now you've got another one. You owe
this man eight rounds of gold." She pointed to the jeweler.

"Eleven," the jeweler protested. "The stone was worth at least eleven!"

"You paid her eight," Sarai told him. "The stone never belonged to you, only
the money you paid her."

The jeweler subsided unhappily, and Sarai turned her attention back to Sansha.

"You owe him eight rounds," she said.

Sansha didn't answer. Sarai had the impression that she would have shrugged,
had her hands been free.

"I'm going to buy that debt from him," Sarai said. "So now you owe me eight
rounds of gold."

"I can't pay you, either," Sansha retorted.

"I know," Sarai said. "So I'll settle for the five or six bits   on the piece
that I'll get by selling you at auction. Somebody give him his   money, and then
take her down to the dungeon until we can get a slaver to take   a look at her."
She waved in dismissal as Sansha's expression shifted abruptly   from defiance
to shock.

She watched as the jeweler was led out in the direction of the treasury, and
the thief was dragged, struggling and crying, toward the stairs leading down.
Then she let out a sigh, and leaned over toward Okko.

"How did I do?" she asked.

He considered that for a moment.

"I think," he said, "that your father would have lectured the jeweler briefly
on his carelessness and might have only promised him the auction proceeds,
rather than the full amount of the debt."

"You're right," Sarai admitted. "That's what I should have done." She glanced
at the door. "It's too late now, isn't it? It wouldn't look right."

"I'm afraid so," Okko agreed.

"I wish my father was doing this," Sarai said. "I hate it."

Okko didn't reply, but was clearly thinking that he, too, wished Lord Kalthon
were there.

"I hope he'll be better soon," Sarai added.

Again, Okko said nothing; again, Sarai knew quite well what he was thinking.
He was thinking that Lord Kalthon wasn't going to get better.

Sarai feared that Okko might be right. She was doing everything she could to
prevent it, but still, her father's illness was growing steadily worse. It
really wasn't fair.

And her brother wasn't any help—his sickliness was worse lately, too; he
coughed all the time, bringing up thick fluid and sometimes blood. And he was
too young to serve as Minister of Justice anyway, even if he were healthy;
their father should have been around for another twenty years.

She wasn't supposed to be her father's heir, though; she was Minister of
Investigation, not Minister of Justice! It was completely unfair that she
should be stuck here, settling all these stupid arguments, instead of finding
some way to cure her father's illness. Why couldn't some local magistrate have
dealt with Sansha of Smallgate, and all the others like her? So what if the
jeweler lived in a different jurisdiction from the gem's owner?

Okko looked steadily back at her, and she realized she was staring quite
rudely at him. She straightened up, then slumped back in the big chair.

For four years now, she had been learning the arts of investigation—with very
little guidance, since there were no older, more experienced investigation
specialists to aid her. Her assistant, Captain Tikri, was useful in a variety
of ways, especially in her attempts to recruit spies, but he knew even less
than she did about finding criminals or determining the facts of a puzzling
case. Her father had taught her his own methods, but they were very
limited—mostly a matter of which magicians to talk to.

Because magic could do so much in answering riddles and untangling puzzles,
she had spent most of her time studying magic—in theory, never in practice.
She knew the names of a hundred spells, but had never worked a one; she knew
the names of a score of gods and as many demons, and had never summoned any of
them; she knew the nature of a warlock's talents, but had not a trace of them
herself.

She had studied the working of the various spells of contagion and
clairvoyance and whatever else had been used in the solving of crimes and
mysteries. She knew how, with the appropriate spells, the merest traces of
blood or hair could be linked to their owners; she knew which questions the
gods would answer when summoned, and what the souls of the dead were likely to
know-it was really rather surprising how many murder victims had no idea how
they had died. She knew how warding spells worked, how locks both magical and
mundane operated, and how gems could be appraised and identified.

And with all this knowledge, she couldn't do a thing for her father or
brother.

It was, of course, the fault of the Wizards' Guild.

"Shall we bring in the next case, my lady?" Chanden, the bailiff, asked
quietly.

Sarai blinked. She hadn't even noticed him approaching the throne. "The next?"

"Yes, my lady. Tenneth Tolnor's son claims he was cheated by the wizard Dagon
of Aldagmor."

Cheated by wizards. Her mouth twisted. "No," she said. "I'm sorry. That's all
for today."

"My lady?"
Sarai knew the polite question was a protest, that she was shirking her
duties—no, shirking her father's duties, not her own—but she didn't care. She
needed to stop. She set her jaw.

"Perhaps a short recess, my lady?"

"All right," she said, giving in. "Half an hour, at least. T need that long. I
need it, Chanden."

"Yes, my lady." He straightened and turned to face the little knot of people
waiting at the lower end of the room—the crooked room, Sarai realized, and a
crooked grin twisted her lip. The justice chamber itself was crooked—why
hadn't she realized that years ago?

It all depended on magic, after all. They used magicians to tell who was
telling the truth and who was lying, to determine what had actually happened
when claims conflicted. But who could tell them if the magicians were lying?
"Lady Sarai, Acting Minister of Justice for Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of
Ethshar of the Sands, hereby declares that further judgments shall be
postponed one half hour," Chanden announced loudly. "Clear the room, please."

Sarai ignored the murmurs and did not wait for the room to empty; she slipped
out the back door as quickly as she could and headed down the passageway
toward the southeast wing, where her family's rooms were.

It was all those wizards, she thought, the Guild and its stupid rules. If her
father were a wealthy commoner, they could buy a healing spell—but because he
was a member of the nobility, because he held a post in the government, the
Wizards' Guild forbade the use of magic to prolong his life.

And it didn't matter whether the spell was a simple disinfectant or perfect
immortality—anything that prolonged life, in any degree, was forbidden to the
nobility, as far as wizards were concerned.

What's more, the Wizards' Guild actively discouraged other magicians from
healing the nobility, as well. Sarai had had to argue to get other magicians
even to look at her father.

Not that it had done much good.

In fact, it was really quite startling how little worthwhile healing magic was
out there. As she reached the first flight of steps up, Sarai began counting
off the different schools of magic and how they had failed her.

Demonology was inherently destructive; it was no great surprise that demons
couldn't heal. The demonologists had all agreed on that.

The sorcerers swore that with the right artifacts, they could heal diseases,
even the sort of slow, lingering weakness mat was gradually killing Lord
Kalthon, or the illness of the lungs that was crippling his son—but the right
artifacts could no longer be found. None existed in Ethshar of the Sands.

Sarai had paid a large fee to have a search begun throughout all the World,
from the wastes of Kerroa to the Empire of Vond, but so far nothing had come
of it, and she doubted anything ever would.

The warlocks were apologetic, but couldn't work on anything that small.
Patching up an opened vein, repairing a ruptured heart, welding a broken
bone—those warlockry could at least attempt, though success was not always
certain. But whatever was wrong with her father, they said, attacked the
individual nerves, operating on a scale they could not perceive, and therefore
could not affect.

Witchcraft held out some promise at first; the half-dozen witches Sarai had
summoned to the palace had tried, at least. They had fed father and son
strength, drawing it from their own bodies—but to no avail. When the spell was
broken, the weakness returned within hours. Witchcraft could, at great cost to
the witch, put the elder Kalthon back on his feet for a day or two, but could
do nothing permanent.

"His own body has given up," the eldest, Shirith of Ethshar, explained. "We
can't heal it without its help."

But all of those Sarai had tried only when she became desperate. She had begun
with the theurgists—after all, didn't everyone pray to the gods for good
health? She reached the second floor and started up the next flight. Okko had
refused to handle the job—although he acknowledged that he was a top-ranked
theurgist, a high priest, in fact; his specialties were truth and information.
Healing was not his province. He had instead recommended her to Anna the
Elder. Anna had summoned gods, had spoken with them, and had reported back to
Kalthon and Sarai.

"We know of three gods of health and healing," Anna had explained. "There are
the siblings Blusheld and Blukros and their father, Mekdor. Blusheld involves
herself only with the maintenance of health and thus will not concern herself
with this case—it's too late to ask her aid. Mekdor concerns himself with
great wounds and catastrophes, with plagues and epidemics; anything as slow as
this wasting disease, attacking only one or two people, is beneath his notice.
Thus, this is clearly the province of Blukros."

At that point Anna had hesitated, and Lord Kalthon had tried to save him the
embarrassment of explaining, saying that he understood.

Sarai would have none of it; she had demanded that Anna summon Blukros and
beseech him to heal her father.

"No," Kalthon had said, "he can't. Not on my behalf." "Why nor?" Sarai had
demanded.

"Because seven years ago, after having summoned him to help your mother, I
offended the god Blukros," Kalthon had explained. "I refused him a silver coin
I had promised, and he forever withdrew his protection from me, and from my
family." Sarai had stared at her father and demanded, "But why?" "Because I
was angry—your mother had died." And so, because of her father's long-ago
pique, there was no help to be had from the gods. Anna had tried, and he had
promised to attempt to call upon Luzro, god of the dead, to see if, once dead,
Kalthon could be restored to life—but nothing had come of it.

So theurgy was no help. And that left wizardry.

And the wizards had healing spells and youth spells and strength spells; they
had transformation spells, and if all else failed they could transform Kalthon
to some other, healthier form.

But they wouldn't.

She reached the top of the stairs and stamped down the corridor. They
wouldn't, because the Wizards' Guild forbade it, and to oppose the will of the
Guild was to die.
And the Guild forbade it because they refused to meddle in politics. It was
strictly forbidden for any wizard to be a member of the nobility in his or her
own right; a century ago, they had even been forbidden to marry into the
nobility, but that rule had been relaxed. They could hold office only if the
office was one that required a magician—a post such as Okko's, for example. No
wizard could kill a king in the Small Kingdoms, or a baron in Sardiron, or an
overlord or a minister or any other high official of the Hegemony, save in
self-defense or to enforce Guild rules; the direct heirs of the nobility were
similarly off-limits. Wizards were forbidden to use any magical compulsion on
any official above the rank of lieutenant in the city guard without written
consent from three Guildniasters. And anyone they could not kill, they were
forbidden to heal, as well. "That's stupid," Sarai had said.

Algarin of Longwall, her father's chief wizardry consultant, had turned up an
empty palm. "It's the Guild law," he said. "Why?" Algarin had had no answer,
and Sarai had demanded to see a more highly placed wizard, so it was the
city's senior Guild-master, Serem the Wise, who finally explained it.

"Magic, Lady Sarai," the old man had said, "is power, but of a different sort
than the power you and your father wield."

"I can see that for myself," Sarai had snapped in reply.

"And power," Serem had continued, untroubled by her interruption, "must be
kept in balance. If it is not, the World will be plunged into chaos."

"Says who?"

"It's self-evident," Serem had replied, with mild surprise. "Imagine, if you
will, that a wizard were to become overlord of Ethshar of the Sands."

Sarai had glowered at him, and Serem had revised his suggestion. "Suppose," he
said, "that Lord Ederd the Heir had apprenticed to a wizard in his youth.
Suppose that he decided he was tired of waiting for his father to die and cast
a spell that slew the overlord."

"Then he'd be guilty of treason, and he would be executed," Sarai had replied.
"That's easy enough. My father would see to it."

"But how?" Serem had asked. "Suppose this evil wizard were to use his spells
to guard himself, and you could not appeal to the Wizards' Guild, because
there are, in our hypothetical case, no Guild rules forbidding his actions, no
matter what other laws he may have broken."

"There aren't any Guild rules requiring that you wizards obey the laws?"

Serem had hesitated before answering, his first hesitation, but then admitted
that there were no such rules.

Sarai had insisted that a rule requiring wizards to obey the same laws as
ordinary people would serve just as well as this stupid rule about keeping out
of polities, and Serem had then tried to convince her that allowing kings and
ministers to live for centuries, as would inevitably happen if the rules were
changed, would be a bad thing.

Sarai had not accepted that.

The argument had dragged on for days—sixnights, in fact. In the end, when
Sarai refused to be convinced, Serem had simply turned up a palm and said, "My
lady, those are the Guild rules, and I have no power to change them."
They were stupid rules, Sarai thought as she opened the door of her father's
bedchamber, and she wanted them changed.

CHAPTER 8

The Drunken Dragon was probably not the most dangerous tavern in the city,
Tabaea thought as she gulped down the watery stuff that passed for ale in that
establishment, but it was the most dangerous she ever cared to see. Coming
here had been a serious mistake.

She had been making a lot of serious mistakes lately.

Oh, not as bad as some, certainly. She hadn't wound up in front of a
magistrate, or tied to a post somewhere for a flogging, or in the hands of the
Minister of Justice or his crazy daughter, like poor Sansha. Tabaea had
watched the auction that morning, had seen Sansha sold to the proprietor of
one of the "specialty" brothels—not the ones in Soldiertown, which generally
employed free women and treated them reasonably well, but one of the secretive
establishments in Nightside that catered to the more debauched members of the
nobility.

Tabaea shuddered. She had heard stories about what went on in places like
that. They had to use slaves—free women wouldn't work there. Tabaea wouldn't
have changed places with Sansha for all the gold in Ethshar.

And it was all because Sansha had stolen the wrong jewel, a diamond pendant
that the owner thought was worth enough to justify hiring magicians to recover
it.

Tabaea had stolen plenty of wrong jewels in the past few years—but all hers
had been wrong in the other direction, had turned out to be worthless chunks
of glass or paste, or at best some semiprecious bauble. And even with the best
of them, she'd been cheated by the fences and pawnbrokers.

Mistakes, nothing but mistakes.

She had been making mistakes all her life, it seemed. She hadn't run away as a
child, like her brother Tand—and she had
heard a rumor that Tand was a pilot on a Small Kingdoms trader now, with a
wife and a daughter, successful and respected.

Of course, the rumor might not be true; land might be starving somewhere in
the Wall Street Field, or he might be a slave in the dredging crews, or he
might be long dead in an alley brawl, or he might be almost anywhere.

But if she had run away . . .

Well, she hadn't. She stared into the remaining ale, which was flat and
lifeless.

She hadn't found an apprenticeship, either. She hadn't even tried. That seemed
so stupid, in retrospect.

She had never taken opportunities when they presented themselves. She hadn't
married Wulran of the Gray Eyes when he offered, two years ago, and now he was
happily settled down with that silly Lara of Northside and her insipid giggle.

She hadn't signed up for the city guard when she was sixteen—though they might
not have taken her anyway; they took very few women, and she wasn't really
anywhere near big enough.

She hadn't stolen much of anything from her family, and now her drunken
stepfather had spent everything.

She hadn't stolen anything from Serem the Wise, when she broke into his house
all those nights four years ago without getting caught—she had just kept
spying on him until he spotted her.

All she had come away with there was the secret of athame-zation, and she
hadn't even done that right! Here she had this wonderful secret that the
Wizards' Guild had guarded for centuries, and all she had to show for it was a
stupid black dagger that didn't do anything an ordinary knife wouldn't do just
as well.

She pulled the dagger from her belt and looked at it. It was black, from
pommel to point, and it seemed to stay sharp without sharpening, but
otherwise, as far as she could tell, it was completely ordinary.

She knew, had known for years, that she must have made a mistake in the
athamezation ritual—another mistake in the long list. She had no idea what the
mistake might have been, but something had gone wrong. And when she had tried
again, nothing had happened at all. The magic she had felt the first time
wasn't there; she was just going through a bunch of meaningless motions.

Well, Serem had said that a wizard could only perform the spell once.
Apparently that applied even when the spell was botched.

She put the knife back in its sheath and gulped down the last of her ale. Then
she put the mug down and looked around the taproom again.

The place was definitely unsavory. She had come here because it was cheap, and
she was, as usual, down on her luck. She had hoped to find a purse to pick, or
a man she wouldn't mind going home with, but neither one had turned up. The
men here were mostly drunkards, or disgusting, or both, and none of them
seemed to have fat purses—after all, why would anyone with significant amounts
of money be in the Drunken Dragon? And what little cash its patrons did have
they watched carefully.

She wasn't going to find anything useful here.

And that meant that after years of avoiding it, she was going to yield to the
inevitable. She would spend the night in Wall Street Field.

There wasn't anywhere else left. The little stash of stolen money she had
accumulated in better days was gone, down to the last iron bit. She couldn't
go back to her mother's home, not after that last fight, and she had exhausted
her credit at every inn in Ethshar. Sleeping in the streets or courtyards
would make her fair game for slavers—and she had just seen what had happened
to Sansha, so any notion she might have had that slavery could be an
acceptable life was gone.

That left the Field.

She sighed and looked out the narrow front window.

The Drunken Dragon stood on Wall Street, facing the Field; a good many of the
customers there looked like permanent inhabitants of the Field, in fact.
Tabaea guessed that when they could scrape together enough for a drink or a
meal, the beggars and runaways and thieves who lived in the Field would come
here just because it was close and cheap. They wouldn't care that the drinks
were watered and the food foul, that the floors and walls were filthy, or that
the whole place stank; they were used to that.

No one else looked out the window; Tabaea had the view all to herself.

Wall Street itself was about thirty feet wide; the dismal drizzle that had
fallen all day had left the hard dirt slick with a thin layer of mud, and a
thousand feet had left their marks in that mire, but still, it was mostly
clear and unquestionably a street.

On the far side, though, the Field was a maze of ramshackle shelters—huts and
lean-tos and tents, most of them brown with mud. Cooking fires and the lights
from Wall Street provided patchy illumination, but most of the details were
lost in the gloom of night and rain.

The Wall itself provided a black backdrop, about a hundred and fifty feet away
at this particular spot. Tabaea knew that when the stone was dry and the sun
was high the Wall was a rather pleasant shade of gray, but just now it looked
utterly black and featureless and depressing, considerably darker than the
night sky above. The sky, after all, was covered in cloud, and the clouds
caught some of the city's glow. The Wall did not.

Sleeping in the Wall's shadow was not an appealing prospect, but Tabaea knew
she had to sleep somewhere. And she didn't have so much as a tattered blanket;
those inhabitants of the Field with huts and tents were the lucky ones.

But she had nowhere else to go.

She pulled her last copper bit from her pocket and put it on the table to pay
her bill; the serving wench spotted it from two tables away and hurried over
to collect it. Tabaea rose, nodded in acknowledgment as the coin was claimed,
and started toward the door.

Something caught her attention, she wasn't sure what; had the server gestured,
perhaps? She glanced around.

A man was staring at her, a big man in a grubby brown tunic and a kilt that
had been red once. The look he was giving her was not one she cared to
encourage. As she looked back, he got ponderously to his feet; he was
obviously drunk.

Quickly, she turned away and left the tavern.

She didn't pause in the doorway. The rain was little more than mist now, and
she had sold her cloak a sixnight ago, in any case; she had no hood or collar
to raise. Besides, any hesitation might have been taken as an invitation by
the man in the kilt. She walked directly out the door and down the single
step.

The mud was more slippery than she had realized; she had to reach out and
catch herself against the wall of the inn, turning half around. Above her the
signboard creaked; she glanced up at it, at the faded depiction of a green
dragon dancing clumsily on its hind feet, long pointed tongue lolling to one
side, a goblet that had once been gold but was now almost black clutched in
one foreclaw. The torches that lit it from either side flickered and hissed in
the drifting mist.

At least it wasn't cold, she thought. Setting each foot carefully, she set out
across the street.
"Hoi, " someone called when she was nearing the far side.

Tabaea turned, not sure whether the voice was addressed to her or to someone
else.

"Hoi, young lady," the voice continued, slurring the words, "are you headed
for the Field?"

"You mean me?" Tabaea asked, still not sure who was speaking.

"Yes, I mean you," the voice said, and now she located the speaker. It was the
drunken man in the kilt, speaking from the mouth of the alley beside the bin.

"What business is it of yours?" Tabaea answered.

"Now, come on, don't be ... don't be like that." His consonants were blurred
by liquor, but Tabaea had had long practice in understanding the speech of
drunkards. "A pretty thing like you can do better than the Wall Street Field!"

"Oh, really?" she demanded. "How?"

"Come with me, and I'll show you," he said.

She turned away, her muscles tensing, her hand sliding down to the hilt of the
black dagger. She took another step toward the Field.

Then she looked where she was going and stopped.

Before her was a hut built out of an old table propped up on piles of bricks,
the sides partially boarded over with broken doors and other scrap, leaving an
opening where the tattered remains of a sheet hung. Leaning out of this
aperture was an old woman, who was listening with interest to the conversation
between Tabaea and the kilted man. The woman's hair was a rat's nest of gray;
her open mouth displayed no more than half a dozen teeth, and those were
black. Her face was as withered and wrinkled as an apple in spring.

Beside the hut was a tent, made of the remnants of a merchant's awning;
stripes that had once been red were now a pale pink, where they weren't hidden
by greenish black mildew. A one-eyed boy of ten or so was watching Tabaea from
the open end of the tent. His black hair was so greasy that it stood up in
spikes, and Tabaea imagined she could see things crawling in it. In the muddy
waste beyond, in the flickering and scattered light, Tabaea could see a dozen
other faces, young and old, male and female—and all of them hungry and tired,
none of them smiling.

She turned back toward the alley. "What did you have in mind?" she asked.

The man in the kilt smiled. "I have . . . have a room," he said, "but it's a
bit lonely, for just me. Care to come take a look?"

Tabaea still hesitated.

There could be little doubt what the man had in mind. If she accepted, she
would be whoring, really—and at a terribly low price, at that; she would be
exchanging her favors for a room for the night, without even a meal, let alone
cash, to accompany it.

But if the alternative was the Wall Street Field—well, she could at least take
a look at the room. And maybe she could demand additional payment, or simply
take it when the man was asleep. He was bound to sleep heavily after drinking
so much.

In fact, he might be too drunk to really bother her, once they got to his
room. She marched back across the muddy street, moving as quickly as she could
without slipping.

She slowed as she neared the alley and saw the big man's face again. There
wasn't anything she could point to that was obviously wrong with it, beyond
drunkenness—he wasn't deformed or even particularly ugly, he appeared to still
have both eyes and all his teeth—but still, there was something about him that
made her very uneasy. His nose was very red, and his eyes very dark.

She brushed at her skirt, as if trying to knock away the mud on the hem, and
her hand came away with the black dagger tucked in her sleeve. One advantage
of that weapon, she reminded herself, was that it didn't sparkle in the
torchlight.

Then, with a false smile pasted across her lips, she stepped up to the man in
the alleyway. "Where's mis room of yours?" she asked. "I'll be glad to get in
out of this mist."

"This way," he said, beckoning her into the alley. She smelled cheap oushka on
his breath—lots of cheap oushka. Warily, she followed him into the shadows.

"How far is it?" she asked.

He turned abruptly and caught her in his arms. "Right here," he said. He drew
her to his chest, breathing great clouds of alcohol and decay in her face, and
the grease on his tunic stained her own. His hands slid down, trapping her
arms against him.

"Let me go!" she demanded.

"Oh, pretty, now, you were . . . you were happy enough to come with me when
you thought I could put a roof over your head," he said, in a tone that was
probably intended as wheedling. "You'll have just as good a time here in the
alley." "Let go!" she shouted.

"Oh, come on," he said. "I live in the Field with the others, and over there
we'd have shared ..."

She didn't wait to hear any more. He was holding her arms down, so that she
couldn't reach up far enough to pull anything from her belt, but she didn't
need to; she yanked the dagger down out of her sleeve and slashed.

The knife was really amazingly sharp. She wasn't able to put any real strength
into the blow, with her arms almost pinned, but the black blade sliced neatly
through the red kilt and into the leg beneath, leaving a dark red line, almost
as black in the shadows as the blade that had made it, a line no wider than a
hair across the outside of her captor's thigh.

Tabaea felt an odd tingling as the knife cut flesh; her head seemed to swim,
as if the alcohol on the man's breath were suddenly affecting her, while at
the same time she felt a surge of strength and well-being.

The excitement, she told herself. It was the excitement and fear getting to
her. She had never been in a serious fight, nor had she ever cut anyone
before.
Even as she thought that, the drunk reacted instinctively, flinging his arms
wide and stumbling backward the instant he felt the first cut; that allowed
her arm more freedom, and with that odd feeling of strength flooding through
her, with that strange light-headedness giving her irrational courage, she
thrust with the dagger, plunging the blade deep into the meat of her
attacker's thigh.

He gasped, and a sensation of power overwhelmed her as he fell back against
the bricks of the Drunken Dragon's wall.

Then she realized she was free, and habit took over; she whirled, clutching
the knife, and ran out onto Wall Street, her feet sliding in the muck as she
turned the corner. She caught herself with one hand and got upright again,
then headed for Grandgate Market at full speed.

Behind her, the man in the red kilt looked down at his leg, at his ruined
kilt; the thin line of the initial slash was slowly widening as blood oozed
out, but he ignored that.

The stab wound was spilling blood as a burst barrel spills beer. He took a few
steps, out to where torchlight turned his tunic from black to brown, his skin
from gray to orange, and his entire left leg redder than his veteran's kilt.
Drunk as he was, the pain cut through the alcohol.

He tried futilely to wipe away the blood and only opened the gash wider; blood
spilled out in a thickening sheet, and the dim knowledge that he was badly,
perhaps fatally hurt finally penetrated.

He let out a gurgling squawk and fainted, facedown in the mud.

Tabaea saw none of that as she ran, slipping and stumbling, along Wall Street.
She rounded the S-curve where the Field wrapped around the north barracks
tower, and from there it was a straight three blocks to the market. The
torches of the gate watch glowed before her.

With safety in sight, she allowed herself to slow. She caught her breath and
tried to compose herself—and to her own surprise, succeeded quite well.

She was, she realized, completely awake and alert—and at the same time, she
felt light-headed, as if she were drunk.

But she had only had the one pint of ale. And she had been exhausted—why else
would she have ever considered sleeping in Wall Street Field?

She wasn't exhausted now. She felt fine.

She felt better than fine; she felt strong.

With wonder in her eyes, she looked down at the bloody knife she held.

CHAPTER 9

In the opinion of his fellow guardsmen, Deran Wuller's son was prone to work
too hard. He had been known deliberately to volunteer for various duties; he
kept his boots polished even when no inspections were anticipated. And when a
citizen asked for help—well, any guardsman was required to provide aid, but
Deran would do it cheerfully, without griping or delaying or trying to pass
the job on to someone else.

If he hadn't been just as eager and cheerful when losing at three-bone, or
when helping one   of his mates back to barracks after a brawl or a binge, or
when dodging the   officer of the watch to illicitly collect a few oranges from
the groves north   of the city, he would have been insufferable. And he had
never been known   to betray a trust or let down a comrade.

Thus he got along well enough, but got more than his share of odd and
unpleasant duties—such as escorting Lieutenant Sen-den's sister home after she
was found drunk and naked in the Wall Street Field.

She had been safely delivered and had even showed signs of sobering up when
Deran had departed and headed back toward the north barracks tower. It was
well past midnight, perhaps as much as two hours past, when Deran passed the
Drunken Dragon and noticed the footprints in the muddy surface of Wall Street.

He did not ordinarily go about staring at the ground, but the mist had turned
back to rain, and he had not bothered with a hat or helmet or cloak, so he was
hunched forward a little, and so he noticed with mild interest the patterns of
footsteps. There were several lines that ran along the middle of the street;
that made sense. There were lines running in and out of the Drunken
Dragon—mostly out; that, too, made sense, as the Dragon was still open,
despite the hour. There were a few lines in and out of the Wall Street Field,
each one alone—the Field never slept, as the saying had it, but most of its
inhabitants did, so traffic in and out was light and scattered at this time of
night.

And there were steps leading in and out of the alley beside the Drunken
Dragon. The line coming out was widely spaced and smeared, as if whoever made
those marks had been running and slipping.

That was odd.

Most guardsmen, and virtually all citizens, would have shrugged and kept
walking. Deran, though, was Deran. He stopped and peered into the shadows of
the alley.

Something was lying on the ground in there, and it didn't look like garbage.

If it was someone sleeping there, then whoever it was was fair game for
slavers, and Deran should either wake that person up and shoo him across the
street to safety, or he should go fetch a slaver and collect a finder's fee,
depending on whether he wanted to be benevolent, or to be paid.

If it was anything else . . .

Well, it bore further investigation, and the light in the alley was terrible.
Deran turned back a few steps to the door of the inn and took one of the
signboard torches from its bracket.

Being in the city guard did have its little privileges, he thought as he
carried the hissing brand over to the mouth of the alley. If an ordinary
citizen took down a torch from an open place of business it would be theft and
good for a flogging.

Dim as it was in the damp weather, the torch made the scene in the alley much
clearer. Deran stared down at the man lying there in a spreading pool of
blood, blood that had mixed with the muck so that it was hard to tell where
the edge of the pool actually was.

There wasn't as much blood as he had first feared, actually; much of the red
was the man's kilt.
A red kilt usually meant a soldier or a veteran; if there had been any
question about leaving the man where he was—and for Deran, there really
wasn't—that put an end to it. The man in the alley was not anyone Deran
recognized, but soldiers looked out for their own.

Whoever the unconscious person was, he was a big man, and Deran was not large
for a guardsman, and it was late and he was tired and the mud was slippery. He
sighed and headed for the door of the Dragon, torch in hand.

A tavern crowd, Deran knew, generally had a distinctive sound of its own. It
chattered, or hummed, or buzzed, or even shouted. The patrons of the Drunken
Dragon muttered, a sullen, low-pitched sound that quickly faded when a
guardsman in uniform stepped in, holding up a torch.

"I need a hand here," Deran announced. "We've got a wounded man just around
the corner."

The half-dozen customers who still lingered stared silently at him. Nobody
volunteered anything, by word or motion.

That didn't trouble Deran. "You," he said, pointing at the individual who
looked least drunk of those present. "And you," indicating another.

"Oh, now . . ."the second man said, beginning a protest. "Five minutes, at
most," Deran snapped, cutting him off, "and if you don't. . . well, we don't
need to worry about what would happen then, do we? Because you're going to
cooperate."

Grumbling, the two men got to their feet.

Deran wasn't stupid enough to walk in front of them; he had never been in the
Drunken Dragon before, but he knew its reputation. He directed the two
"volunteers" out the door and followed them as they slogged around the corner.

The wounded man was so much dead weight; he showed no sign of life at all as
the three men—one taking his feet and the others a shoulder apiece—hauled him
into the tavern and dumped him on a table.

That done, Deran dismissed his two assistants, paying them for their trouble
by telling them, "I owe you a favor—a small one. If you ever get in trouble
with the guards—small trouble— you tell them Deran Wuller's son will speak for
you."

The two men grumbled and drifted away, leaving Deran and his prize alone.
Deran turned his attention to the bloody figure before him.

There were only two wounds that he could find, both in the fleshy part of the
man's thigh—a long, shallow slash and then a deep stab wound that had missed
the artery, Deran judged, by no more than an inch. Most of the blood came from
the stab; the slash had already started to scab over.

"Are you going to leave him there dripping all over my floor?" demanded a
voice from behind Deran. The guardsman turned and found himself facing an
aproned figure a bit shorter than himself.

It was the innkeeper, of course—or rather, Deran corrected himself, the
innkeeper's night man; Deran doubted that the broad-shouldered fellow with the
ferocious mustache was actually the proprietor.
"Until you find me a bandage, that's exactly what I intend," Deran answered.
"And a clean rag to wipe the wound first would be a good idea, too."

Grumbling, the night man retreated, while Deran checked the stabbing victim
over.

There were no other recent wounds; his heartbeat was strong and regular, his
breath steady and reeking of oushka. He was, Deran concluded, unconscious as a
result of his drinking, not from the wound. While bloody, the injury just
wasn't that serious.

The innkeeper's man returned then with a handful of reasonably clean rags, and
Deran set about cleaning the man up a little. As he worked, he questioned the
night man and the remaining customers.

Nobody knew the man's name. Nobody knew what had happened to him. He wasn't
exactly a regular, but he had been there before. He might have been seen with
a girl, a black-haired girl wearing dark clothes.

And that was all anyone would tell him.

When Deran pulled the bandage tight, the drunk opened his eyes.

"Am I dead?" he asked blearily. "Am I going to die?"

"You're fine," Deran said. "You might limp for a while."

The drunk tried to raise his head from the table to look at himself, but
couldn't manage it. He moaned.

"What happened?" Deran demanded. "Who stabbed you?"

"Nobody," the wounded man muttered. "Was an accident."

Deran shrugged. "Fine. You owe the Dragon two bits for the bandages and the
use of their table. If you change your mind about who stabbed you, tell the
magistrate . . ."He hesitated, turning to the night man. "This is Northangle,
right?"

"Grandgate. Northangle starts at the comer."

"All right, tell the magistrate for Grandgate, then. And if you need me to
testify, I'm Deran Wuller's son, Third Company, North Barracks." He yawned.
"And that's where I'm headed— I need to get some sleep." He waved and
departed.

By the time Deran was out the door the night man was trying to get his wounded
customer off the table and back on his own feet.

At the north tower he almost headed straight for his bed, but his sense of
duty stopped him. He checked the lieutenant's room first.

Sure enough, Lieutenant Senden was waiting up for him.

"Is she all right?" the lieutenant asked anxiously.

"She's fine," Deran said. "No problem at all."

"Then what took so long?"
"When I was on my way back I practically tripped over this boozer lying in an
alleyway."

The lieutenant grimaced. "You called the slavers?"

Deran shook his head. "No," he said. "It wasn't entirely his fault. He'd been
stabbed. So I hauled him into the nearest tavern and got him bandaged up.
Wasn't anything serious, just a flesh wound in the leg."

"Did he say who did it?"

"No. Might've been a girl he was bothering."

"All right. Goodnight, then, Deran—and thanks."

"My pleasure, Lieutenant."

Deran judged that he had no more than three hours until dawn when he finally
fell into his bunk.

Senden, too, was quickly asleep.

The following day he was somewhat irritable, as a result of a late night
largely spent in worrying, and carried out his duties in perfunctory fashion;
his monthly report to Captain Tikri, a recently added requirement that Senden
did not care for, was brief and sketchy. He did note down, "Guardsman Deran
reports tending to stabbing victim in tavern. No accusations or arrests made."

Late that afternoon, at the overlord's palace, Captain Tikri had just finished
going through the reports from all the guard lieutenants when Lady Sarai
stepped into his office. The captain leapt up and saluted, hand on chest.

Lady Sarai waved an acknowledgment, and Tikri relaxed somewhat. "Is something
wrong, my lady?" he asked.

"No, no; I just wanted to get out of that room for a few minutes," Sarai
explained, "so I came myself instead of sending a messenger. I'm here in both
my official roles today, Captain, as Minister of Investigation and as Acting
Minister of Justice. Is there anything I should know about?"

Captain Tikri looked down at the reports he had just read. He turned up a
palm.

"Nothing, my lady," he said. "Nothing of any interest at all."

CHAPTER 10

Tabaea had expected the feeling of strength and power to wear off within a few
minutes, like the excitement after a narrow escape.

It didn't.

Instead, the strength stayed with her. The light-headedness faded fairly
quickly, but the added strength stayed. If anything, it increased, at least at
first.

She had hidden behind a merchant's stall in Grandgate Market, crouched down
between a splintery crate and the brick wall of a granary—not a place for long
concealment, by any means, but she was out of sight, able to think and plan,
until the merchant arrived for the day's business. For the first several
minutes, she had just sat, waiting for the weird reeling to pass.

Eventually, though, she had realized that this was not working. She began
thinking about it.

She felt strong. Most especially, her left leg seemed to be almost bursting
with vitality. She knew she had stabbed the kilted drunk in his left leg, so
the connection was obvious. Was it an illusion, though, or was she really,
truly stronger than before?

Measuring strength, especially in a leg, was not something that Tabaea had any
easy method for doing; she tried out a few kicks at the crate beside her, and
then tried hopping, first on her almost-normal right leg, then on her
empowered left for comparison.

It was hard to be sure; she knew, from her work as a thief, how people could
fool themselves without meaning to. All the same, she concluded at last that
yes, the feeling of strength was genuine; somehow, she had become stronger.

And it was fairly obvious how—when she had stabbed that man in the left leg
with her dagger, her left leg had become stronger. The connection could hardly
be coincidence.

The black dagger, which she had known for four years to be enchanted, had
somehow given her that strength because she had stabbed the drunk.

This was serious magic.

Unfortunately, she didn't yet know the details. Was this added strength
permanent? Would the magic work again, or had she used it up? Where had the
strength come from—the dagger's magic, or the drunk? Had the dagger created
it, or only transferred it? And what else did the dagger do? How dangerous was
it? Had it stolen the man's soul? Would it eat her soul? She could think of
three ways to find out more about it. One was to ask a magician—but that was
out. How could she do that without revealing that she had stolen the secret of
atha-mezation? Even if she claimed to have found the dagger, many magicians
could tell lies from truth.

No, asking anyone was out of the question.

The second possible method was to stab someone or something else and see what
happened.

She supposed she would have to do that sooner or later, but she wasn't about
to just go out and stab some stranger chosen at random.

And the third way to learn more would be to find the man she had stabbed and
see what had happened to him. Had the dagger killed him? Had it devoured his
soul? Had something horrible happened to him?

She didn't know his name, but she knew where she had last seen him. That was,
she decided, where she should start—but not until dawn. She sat back, resolved
to wait until first light.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up because someone was pulling her to
her feet. "Hoi!" she said, "wait a minute!" "The sleeping blossom awakens,
then," someone said.

"You call her a blossom? An insult to flowers everywhere."
"Oh, she's not as bad as that," a third voice said. "Clean her up and comb
that hair, and she'd be fit company."

Blinking, Tabaea saw blue sky over the shoulder of the man who held her and
realized that it was well past first light and that she had fallen asleep
behind the crate and been discovered by the merchant and his—or her—family.
The man was not alone; a woman stood behind him, and two boys to the side.

"I'm sorry," Tabaea said, a little blearily. "I was hiding."

The man and woman looked at each other, concerned; the older boy, who looked
about fourteen, was more direct. "Hiding from what?" he demanded.

Tabaea recognized the boy's voice as the one that had called her an insult to
flowers everywhere. "From a drunkard who apparently liked my looks better than
you do," she retorted.

The woman glanced uneasily over her shoulder.

Tabaea waved her worry away. "That was hours ago," she said. "I must have
dozed off."

"Oh." The woman's relief was palpable.

Tabaea found the woman's behavior unreasonably annoying; what was she worrying
about, when she had her husband and sons to protect her? But there was no
point in arguing with these people. "I'll go now," Tabaea mumbled.

The man released her, and she walked away across the market square. The sun
was peering over the wall to the east, its light blazing across the gate
towers, while most of the market was still in shadow. Steam curled out from
the tower walls where hot sun hit cold, damp stone, but otherwise the clouds
and mists of the night had vanished, leaving shrinking puddles and drying mud.
Merchants and fanners were setting up for the day, and a few early customers
were drifting in, but on a day like this, Tabaea knew, most Ethsharites
preferred to wait until the streets had dried before venturing out.

She wished she could have done the same.

She noticed, as she neared the northern edge of the square, that she was
limping—but it was a very peculiar limp. She was not favoring an injured leg;
instead, the limp came about because her left leg was now noticeably stronger
than her sound but less-altered right.

If she tried, she found she could eliminate the limp, but it took an effort.

This strange phenomenon reminded her of what she had temporarily forgotten
while she slept; she paused, leaning against a canopy pole at the corner of a
display of melons, and considered.

She still felt strong, particularly in the left leg, but less so, she thought,
than when she had fallen asleep. It was really very hard to judge, but she
thought it was less—or maybe she was adjusting to the change.

That feeling of added vitality was far less, and the light-headedness was gone
entirely, but she knew she was still stronger than before.

Did that mean the drunkard was dying, so that less of his strength was
reaching her? Or that the magic was fading? Or something else entirely?
She wouldn't find out here, she decided. She straightened up and marched on up
Wall Street toward the Drunken Dragon, fighting the tendency to limp. By the
time she had gone a block, she had promised herself that if this spell could
be used again, and she ever got up her nerve to do it, she would make sure
that she stabbed whoever she stabbed in the center, or at least symmetrically.

She found the alley easily enough. The morning sun was almost clear of the
city wall, but still low in the east, and the narrow passage was still
shadowy; even so, Tabaea had no more trouble finding the remains of blood than
she had had finding the alley.

The man himself was gone—but what that meant, she couldn't be sure. If he was
dead, the corpse might have already been removed by the guard, or by thieves
intent on selling the component parts to wizards; if he was alive, he might
have left under his own power, or been dragged or carried.

The blood didn't look like enough for him to have bled to death, and Tabaea
knew that was the only way anyone would die of a thigh wound in a single
night; infections generally took at least a sixnight. So he was probably
alive, in which case the most likely place to find him was either right next
door, in the Drunken Dragon, or across the street in the Wall Street Field.

She stood nervously in the inn door for several minutes, looking over the
breakfast patrons; she didn't dare enter, for fear of being trapped in there
if he should show up unexpectedly. Besides, the proprietor probably wouldn't
appreciate her presence; she had no money to spend, and was, to at least some
people, a known thief.

She didn't see her assailant anywhere among the surly and largely hung-over
patrons; she turned away, almost stumbling as she momentarily forgot the
strength of her own left leg. Standing on the single step, she looked out at
the Wall Street Field.

By daylight it looked less threatening, but even dirtier and less appealing.
The table-hut and the awning-tent were still there, but their occupants were
not in sight—probably asleep inside, Tabaea judged. A few ragged figures were
moving about in the mud, and someone was tending a cooking fire.

The man who had attacked her, the one she had stabbed, was probably out there
somewhere, in that mud and filth.

But the city wall was easily five miles long, which meant that Wall Street was
just as long, and the Field ran beside it for every inch of that way. And that
strip of land, five miles long by at least a hundred feet wide, was all
occupied. Not all was as thickly settled as here in Grandgate, of course—the
marketplace and the guard barracks gave this district by far the most beggars
and thieves of any part of Ethshar of the Sands—but all of it was inhabited.

Finding one man in all that would be a long, slow job—and an extremely
dangerous one. Tabaea didn't care to try it.

She turned and headed back toward Grandgate Market, fighting her new limp and
hoping to find a fat purse to steal. She would figure the dagger's magic out
later; right now, she wanted to insure that she could pay for a room for the
night.

Patrolling the top of the city wall was not really a military necessity
anymore, if it ever had been; the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars had been at
peace since the destruction of the Northern Empire and the end of the Great
War, over two centuries earlier, and Ethshar of the Sands was forty leagues
from either the nearest Small Kingdoms or the Sardironese border. True, the
Pirate Towns were a mere dozen or so leagues to the west, but no army could
cross that thirty-some miles without advance warning reaching the city.
Besides, the Pirate Towns, or any other enemies, were far more likely to
attack by sea than by land.

Furthermore, the watchers atop the towers could see farther than a soldier on
the ramparts.

But walking the wall was a tradition, and it did serve a purpose both for
discipline and for maintenance—it was an active but not unpleasant duty,
useful for keeping bored soldiers busy, and those soldiers had strict orders
to report any signs of wear and damage along the route.

Deran hadn't been particularly bored, but he'd been assigned the duty and
accepted it without complaint. He strolled along the wall, whistling softly,
taking his time on the long walk out to the Beachgate tower and back. He
studied the stonework as he walked, peered out over the surrounding
countryside, and paused every so often to look down at the city itself, at the
ragged inhabitants of the Wall Street Field, the tawdry homes and shops on
Wall Street, and the rooftops and streets beyond.

By the time he neared the line between Northangle and Grandgate on his return
trip, the sun was well down in the west and the shadows were lengthening
dramatically. Deran paused and leaned on a merlon, looking down at the Field.

Since it was still daylight,   almost all the huts and tents were unoccupied,
and the broad patches of mud   where blankets were spread at night were bare.
Most of the people who slept   in the Field were elsewhere in the city, working
or begging or doing whatever   they did to sustain themselves.

A few people lingered, though. Four ragged young women were fighting over
something; a fifth was standing back and shouting at the others. A line of
children was running through the maze of huts and tents, intent on some sort
of following game. Half a dozen old people, men and women, were huddled
together on a faded red blanket, dickering over a pile of vegetables.

Off by himself, a big man in a brown tunic was sitting on the mud, leaning
against the side of a shack, watching the others. A bandage heavily stained
with dried blood was wrapped around his left thigh, and Deran realized that
was the man he had found in the alley the night before.

That was interesting. A chat with him about just how he had come to be stabbed
might be a pleasant diversion, Deran thought. He looked about for the nearest
stairway—the city wall was theoretically equipped with a stairway every two
hundred feet, either down into the interior of the wall itself or on the
inward face, down into the Field, but not all the stairs actually existed.
Deran was unsure whether this was a result of neglect, or if some had never
been built.

There was a wooden stair down to the Field not far away; Deran used it,
putting his foot through the bottom step. He shook his head; the step was
rotten right through. He would have to report that.

Which meant he would have to explain why he had come down from the wall. He
sighed and headed for the man in the red kilt.

The man looked up as the soldier's shadow fell across him, but said nothing.

"Hoi," Deran said, "remember me?"
The man in the brown tunic frowned. "I don't think so," he said.

"I was the one who got you out of that alley last night," Deran explained.

"Oh," the man said. He glanced down at the bandage on his thigh and grudgingly
added, "Thank you."

"Are you a veteran?" Deran persisted, pointing a thumb at the man's red kilt.

"What business is it of yours?"

Deran's expression hardened—not because he was actually angry, but because it
was a useful trick. It worried people, made them more likely to cooperate.
Deran had needed more than a year to really get the hang of it.

"I needed to report why I was late getting back to barracks last night," he
said. "The lieutenant gave me a hard time because I didn't know your name or
who you were."

This was not true, but that bothered Deran not a whit.

"Oh," the man said again. He hesitated.

Deran glowered.

"My name's Tolthar of Smallgate," the man said. "And yes, I was in the guard,
but they kicked me out for being drunk while on duty. About five years back."

That was a year or so before Deran had signed up. " Were you drunk?" he asked.

"Oh, I guess I was," Tolthar admitted, "but it wasn't my feult. We were
walking the wall, and my buddy had a bottle with him, and that's so boring,
what else was there to do but drink?"

Deran nodded. Drunkards always had an excuse; he knew that. And he knew how
much weight to give it; just because the bottle was there didn't mean they had
to drink it.

And he noticed that Tolthar didn't say that his "buddy" had been kicked out of
the guard. From what Deran knew of the guard, he doubted that anyone would be
expelled for being drunk on duty once.

But there was no point in arguing about it. Other matters were more
interesting.

"So, who stabbed you?" he asked. "Pick the wrong girl, did you? Or did you
make a grab for someone's purse?"

Tolthar frowned. "I don't want to say," he said. "I'll take care of it
myself."

Deran frowned back. "You better not mean that the way it sounds," he warned.
"We don't like it when citizens stab each other."

"I won't stab anyone," Tolthar mumbled. "That's not what I meant." His rather
feeble wits recovered belatedly, and he added, "At least, I won't stab anyone
with a blade."

"Oh, it is a girl, then?" Deran's frown turned to a wry smile. "Just make sure
she says yes first, and means it."

Tolthar mumbled something Deran didn't catch.

They talked a few moments longer, saying nothing of any consequence; then
Deran turned back to the stairs.

At the barracks he reported to the lieutenant on duty, and gave a warning
about the rotten step. As he had expected, the lieutenant wanted to know why
he had used the stairs.

Deran explained, not trying to quote the entire conversation, but simply
describing the incident the night before and reporting Tblthar's name and that
he refused to say who had stabbed him.

"He wouldn't say?"

"No."

"Why in Hell not?" the lieutenant demanded.

Deran turned up an empty palm.

"You think he's planning to ambush whoever it was?"

Deran shook his head. "No," he said, "Tolthar wasn't going to hurt anyone. He
just didn't want to say who it was."

"Do you think there's anything odd going on?"

"No."

The lieutenant frowned, then shrugged. "Well, to Hell with him, then. I'll put
it in the report and if anyone higher up cares, they can worry about it." He
pulled a sheet of parchment from the box and began writing out his report.

CHAPTER 11

Tabaea watched the man in the red kilt with interest as he downed the ale
someone had bought him. She had been sure he would return to the tavern
eventually, and here he was, just two days later.

He hadn't seen her, she was sure; she was wearing her working clothes, which
is to say she had turned her black tunic and black skirt inside out, so the
gold and red embroidery didn't show. Her feet were bare, for better traction.

The man she watched, on the other hand, wore heavy boots— badly worn boots—and
the same greasy brown tunic and old red kilt he had worn when he attacked her.

He was walking better now—and so was she. His left leg looked stiff; hers felt
loose and limber, more so than usual.

She understood it now, at least partially. As the drunk got his strength back,
she lost hers.

At least, that was how it appeared. She was still stronger than normal, but
less than she had been, and the decline in her vitality seemed to correlate
with the healing process of the man's wounded leg.

So what would have happened if she had killed him? The dead never got their
strength back.

And what if she killed someone new? Was the dagger's magic still potent, or
had she wasted it on that minor flesh wound?

She was not about to go out and kill someone in cold blood to test out her
knife; she had never killed anyone and didn't particularly care to start. But
she might kill something. She thought that over carefully as she peered around
the doorframe at the man she had stabbed.

That feeling of increased strength had been pleasant, while it lasted. She
wanted it back.

She slipped away from the door of the Drunken Dragon and headed northwest on
Wall Street, into Northangle.

Probably the easiest nonhuman creature to find—other than bugs or worms, which
she didn't count—would be a rat, and she certainly wouldn't mind killing rats,
but for one, they were hard to catch, and two, they were vicious, and three, a
rat's strength added to her own wouldn't amount to very much—if that was, in
fact, what the dagger's magic did. She might not even be able to tell anything
had happened upon killing a rat.

She needed something bigger than that—a pig would do, or a goat, or a dog.

A dog ...

Dogs were not particularly common in Ethshar, but Tabaea had met a few;
watchdogs were an occupational hazard for burglars. Killing somebody's
watchdog would be a pleasure.

Of course, she couldn't do it legally, but she even knew which dog she wanted
to kill—a big black one that guarded a house in Momingside that she had once
tried to rob, one night a year or so back when she had been feeling unusually
ambitious. The damnable beast had waited until she was inside, then had
stalked her through the house and almost cornered her, all in utter silence.
It was only when she turned and fled that it had started barking and awakened
its master.

This time, she would be ready for it, and it wouldn't get a chance to bark.
She smiled unpleasantly to herself and stroked the hilt of the black dagger.

However, she was going in the wrong direction to reach Momingside. The
district took its name from its location, just east of the overlord's palace,
near the center of the city, while Northangle was against the city wall.
Tabaea turned left at the next corner and headed south.

When she reached Momingside she found her way into the quiet residential
neighborhood she sought, where fine houses lined either side of the street.
Lintels and cornerposts were carved and painted; polished brass fittings
gleamed on doors, shutters, and windows; walls were brick or stone, not
plaster.

But there were still alleyways to the courtyards in the rear. Gates closed off
the alleys, but Tabaea could sometimes climb gates, or squeeze between the
bars.

This one, she remembered, was one she could climb.

The walk from the Drunken Dragon had taken almost an hour, getting through the
gate and onto the roof of the kitchen took five minutes.

Tabaea knew that she had to hurry with this part; she was exposed as long as
she was on the roof, and despite her black tunic and skirt, anyone staying up
late who came out to the courtyard and glanced in the right direction might
see her. She scampered up the slope, her bare toes hooking over the joints
between tiles to keep her from slipping.

At the top she worked her way carefully along the wall, checking each of the
three windows. All three were shuttered for the night; in the first, faint
golden light shone between the slats, while the other two were dark.

Peering through the glass of the third window, she was pleased to discover
that she could see cobwebs in the corners—the shutters had not been opened
recently.

That was good. This was how she had entered previously, so she knew it to be a
little-used storeroom; the cobwebs indicated that the occupants had not
rearranged the household, or taken to checking the room. Quite probably, they
didn't even know that a burglar had broken in before.

The window was locked, but she had brought her shun; she had the latch open in
seconds. The hinges were stiff, and they creaked, but she swung the casement
wide, ignoring the sound.

The latch on the shutters was even easier than the one on the casement; she
flipped it up effortlessly and slid into the darkness of the house's interior.

The storeroom was just as she remembered it—linens and blankets stacked on
painted shelves, a row of closed trunks along the wall on either side. The
trunks were locked, but she had picked one when she was here before and found
nothing but old clothing, broken toys, and the like. She hadn't bothered with
the others, and she didn't bother with them now; instead she opened the door
slowly and carefully until she had a crack a few inches wide. She squeezed out
through the narrow opening and emerged into the upstairs hallway, alert for
any sign of danger.

Light leaked out from under one of the other doors; she could hear voices, as
well. No one was in sight, though, and she heard no footsteps, no clicking
latches, no squeaking hinges.

Prowling a house while the residents were still awake was not part of her
ordinary routine, but the voices gave her the distinct impression that those
residents wouldn't be emerging right away. Besides, she was here, and she
wanted to get it over with, before her nerve gave out.

Remember that strength, she told herself, and she crept to the top of the
stairs.

Last time, she remembered, the dog had been hiding under the stairs. She had
gone down to the dining salon, looking for silver or other valuables, and it
had come out behind. Looking down toward the front room now she didn't see
it—it was probably lurking under the stairs again. She smiled, drew the black
dagger, and started down the stairs, moving step by step, slowly and
carefully, her eyes constantly shifting.

When she got to the bottom, the dog still hadn't emerged; she took three steps
toward the dining salon—and then whirled, knife raised.

The dog was there, halfway out from its hiding place. It growled menacingly,
and bared its teeth.

Tabaea didn't wait for it to attack, or to start barking; she jumped on it,
knocking the animal to the floor.

The dog tried to get away, but she flung her left arm around its neck and
hauled it closer. Without hesitating, she yanked its head back with her left
arm and slashed its throat with her right.

Strength flowed into her like sudden fire; she slashed again, to be sure, and
almost removed the dog's head—her arm was already stronger, much stronger.

And that wasn't all. The creature's vitality burned through her with a force
that made the strongest oushka seem like a pale shadow, and when it reached
her head the whole world seemed to change around her. For a moment all the
color drained away, and then it was back, but washed out, like an old, faded
tapestry. Meanwhile, outlines sharpened, and the darkness that filled the room
seemed suddenly less. The last twitch of the dog's hind leg caught her
attention far more sharply than motion ever had before; she almost started at
the intensity of it.

And then the smells hit—the hot red stink of the dog's blood, the pungency of
its fur, the oily reek of the polish on the wooden floor, the smoky odor of
the lamp that was burning upstairs, a hundred, a thousand, a million other
scents were spilling through her nose, so clear and sharp and distinct that
they were like a painting of the house. It was like a banquet spread before
her, each odor unique.

Her hearing was suddenly sharper, too—at any rate, she could hear the woman's
voice upstairs say, "Did you hear something?"

The sound was distorted, though; she was unsure whether that was because of
the distance and intervening corners and doors, or because something had
changed about her hearing.

Whatever had happened, there could be no question that the Black Dagger's
magic was not used up. Moving quickly, she rose and headed for the front door,
the quickest way out, leaving the dead dog lying on the floor in its own
blood.

She knew blood was all over her hands and tunic, as well, but she couldn't
afford the time to do anything about it until she was well away from the
house. She fumbled with the latch and bolt, then swung the door wide and
stepped out onto the stoop.

The smells of the city washed over her like a great storm-driven wave, and she
paused for a moment, drinking them in, sorting them out; then she remembered
herself and ran.

As she worked her way north through the city streets, staying out of the
better-lit areas where her bloodstained hands and clothes would show, she
thought through what had happened.

She had killed a dog, and its strength had flooded into her, as she had
hoped—but more than that had happened. She had gained the dog's senses, as
well—the sensitivity to motion and strong night vision, the incredible sense
of smell, and, she realized as she listened to the city around her, better
hearing, but only in high pitches.

This was amazing; she had a whole new way of perceiving the city. She could
smell things she had never smelled before— but she couldn't always identify
them. She knew the salt was the sea, and the smoke came from the lamps and
fires of the city; she knew the scents of men and women; but what was that
odor like rust, like . . . she had no words for it.

Would this fade away gradually, she wondered, or was this permanent? The dog
was dead, nothing could heal it, nothing could give it back its strength—but
could she really keep it forever? She flexed her arms, feeling the power
there—not, perhaps, any stronger than a big man, but far stronger than that of
the young woman she had been an hour earlier, probably stronger than any woman
she had ever known. She could feel it.

She could smell her own excitement, though it took her a moment to recognize
it for what it was.

Was that permanent? Would she be able to use her nose like this for the rest
of her life? She wasn't sure she would be able to sleep, with that flood of
sensory impressions pouring in on her.

And all this came just from killing a dog. Think how strong she would be if
she killed a man.

And think what she might be able to do if she killed a magician!

CHAPTER 12

The cat's death did little for Tabaea's strength, but it gave her incredibly
quick reflexes, even sharper night vision and movement perception than killing
the dog had provided, and perhaps some other abilities—she wasn't sure whether
or not those were real, or her imagination at wo±. She had never heard that
cats could speed up or slow down their perception of time and suspected it was
simply an illusion. The ability to balance was very hard to judge. And the
ability to catnap was probably there all along, just not used.

Still, she was satisfied with the results.

Killing a dove, on the other hand, was a serious disappointment; no matter
what she did, Tabaea still could not fly, nor see behind herself without
turning her head. Nor, it seemed, did birds have any abilities she hadn't
known about.

It was perfectly clear why she couldn't fly, of course—she had no wings.
Whatever magic the Black Dagger performed, it did not alter her physical
appearance. Her eyes were still on the front of her head, rather than the
sides; they had not become slitted like a cat's, either.

Only belatedly did she realize that this was a good thing-otherwise she might
have grown fur or feathers or claws and become a freak unable to live a normal
life among normal people.

Not, she admitted to herself, that her life was exactly normal. With her
improved sense of smell, she could now locate gold by scent alone, and with
her cat skills she could now prowl silently in near-total darkness, so her
thievery had become markedly more successful—but she still had no permanent
home, living instead in a succession of cheap inns; she had no real friends;
she saw nothing of her family.

Her new abilities showed no signs of fading, and they gave her the money for a
more comfortable existence, but as she sat at a table in yet another inn,
staring at yet another six-bit dinner of chicken stew and fried noodles, she
found herself profoundly dissatisfied.

She was becoming successful as a thief. But so what?

She had originally taken up a career in theft in order to survive and to put
food in her belly without her mother's and stepfather's reluctant help. She
had wanted to strike back at the family and the city that had ignored and
neglected her. She had wanted to become rich, to have all the things she had
been denied. She had wanted everyone to know who she was and to admire her
skill and courage and determination.

She had discovered years ago that it didn't work that way. Thieves did not
become rich or famous—at least, burglars and cutpurses didn't; there were
those who accused various lords and magicians of robbery, but that was an
entirely different sort of theft.

In fact, a thief couldn't afford to become rich or famous. Too great a success
put one in front of the Minister of Justice, and then on the gallows or in a
slaver's cells. Even the limited notoriety of being well known among other
thieves was dangerous; Tabaea had, over the past few years, seen virtually
every well-known thief arrested or beaten or killed. The world of thieves was
not closed; word could always leak out into the larger world of victims and
avengers. The less-successful criminals were always ready, willing, and even
eager, from jealousy or simple hunger, to sell news of their more prosperous
brethren.

So she dared not try for more than a reasonably comfortable existence—and even
that was risky.

As for paying back her family and the rest of Ethshar, that didn't work,
either. Her family had ignored her before, and they ignored her now. The city
had always had thieves and paid no mind to another.

Theft was nothing but a means of survival, a career with no room for
advancement. Now that she had the Black Dagger and knew how to use it, Tabaea
was not satisfied with that. She wanted more. But what?

She chewed idly on a noodle and thought about it. She still wanted to be rich
and famous and respected, to have everyone know who she was, and to pay
attention to her every wish. She couldn't get that as a thief, but now she had
the Black Dagger, so she could be more than a thief. The question was, what
could she be? She still had never served an apprenticeship, and at nineteen
she wasn't ever going to. She was even past normal recruiting age for the city
guard.

She was strong and fast enough to be a soldier now, she realized, and she gave
that possibility some serious thought. She was still small, but she knew she
could prove herself if she had to.

And then what? Speed and strength were useful in war, but Ethshar was not at
war, nor likely to be. Tabaea did not even have a very clear idea what war
was. In peacetime the city guard served mostly to guard the people of Ethshar
from each other, rather than from outside enemies; they guarded the gates,
guarded the palace, patrolled the wall and the marketplace, ran errands for
the nobility, escorted prisoners . . .

None of that sounded very exciting. And much of doing it well depended, she
realized, not on actual strength, but on the appearance of strength, on being
big and fearsome enough that people didn't start trouble in the first place.
She looked at the slender fingers holding her fork and grimaced. She didn't
look big and fearsome.

Did soldiering pay well? The guard spent freely enough in the brothels and
gambling dens of Soldiertown, but on the other
hand they lived in the barracks towers, not in big houses, and they owned no
fancy clothes, only uniforms and weapons.

And as far as fame went, Tabaea knew the names of half a dozen guardsmen, none
of them officers, and those few only because she had encountered them
personally. What sort of fame was that?

Soldiers carried swords, which was appealing, and they could rely on a warm
bed and filling meals and a modicum of respect—but it did not seem like a
really wonderful career, especially for a woman.

She scooped a greasy lump of chicken to her mouth and chewed.

She had food and a bed as a thief; those things were no incentive. And the
guard would have no special use that she could see for her animal-derived
talents.

Not the guard, then. What else?

Well, who was rich and famous?

The overlord was, of course, and the other nobles. But they had all been born
into the nobility, a path that was not open to her.

There were rich and famous merchants, but they had had money to start out
with, to buy their first cargos or finance their caravans, and most, if not
all, had served apprenticeships in their trades.

There were the performers in the Arena, the jugglers and acrobats and singers
and magicians.

There were the magicians, even those who did not perform— magicians of any
sort could be assured of respect.

Performers . . . could she use her feline reflexes to become a juggler or
acrobat? She knew that most learned their arts during apprenticeships, but if
she could learn the skills on her own, they could not stop her from
performing.

And as for magic—well, she was a magician already, wasn't she?

But she was not openly a magician.

She swallowed the chicken and started on a chunk of carrot, thinking.

She didn't know all that very much about magic, beyond the secret of
athamezation—and of course, she had gotten that spell wrong when she tried to
use it. Still, it seemed to her that magic had real possibilities. There were
all those different kinds of magicians, for one thing—wizards and warlocks and
witches, theurgists and demonologists and sorcerers, illusionists and
herbalists and scientists, and all the others.

And with The Black Dagger, she could kill one of each and steal all their
abilities!
Or could she? She frowned and swallowed the carrot. At least part of magic was
knowledge, rather than anything physical, and she didn't know whether the
Black Dagger stole knowledge. She certainly hadn't learned anything from the
minds of the dog or the cat or the dove—but perhaps beasts were too different.

She hadn't learned anything from the kilted drunk, either— but she hadn't
killed him, she had only stabbed him in the leg. She had only acquired the
strength he had lost, and even that had returned to him and departed from her
as he healed. Stabbing him hadn't robbed him of any of his memories or wits.

Killing a person would steal those memories away, wouldn't it? But would the
Black Dagger transfer them to her, or would they simply be lost?

Or was knowledge part of the soul, of the part of a person that did not die?
If the victim became a ghost, the ghost would still have its knowledge and
memories—the dagger couldn't give them to Tabaea, then. If the victim's soul
escaped into another realm, wouldn't it take the knowledge with it?

But then, it was said that certain magicks could even trap or destroy a
person's soul—what if the Black Dagger was one of them?

Tabaea had to admit that she had no idea whether her magic knife could steal
souls, or transfer knowledge. The only way to find out would be to kill a
person, preferably a magician.

She pushed a lump of potato around the plate with her fork as she thought
about that.

It would mean murder, cold-blooded murder. She had never killed a person.
Killing dogs and cats was one thing, killing a person was quite another.

But then, how else would she ever know what the Black Dagger could do? How
else would she ever become a magician, or anything more than a common thief?

She might make it as a performer just with the skills of animals—but then she
would never know. And performing might not work. And magic—she wanted more
magic.

And she could have it, if memories transferred, and maybe even if they didn't.
All she had to do was kill magicians with the Black Dagger.

Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to her that she had never
seriously thought about murdering people before; she had never killed anyone
in the course of her career as a thief. Cats, of course, were natural hunters
and killers; dogs, too, were predators. She had absorbed abilities from a dog
and a cat; might some of the predator's blood-lust come along? She dismissed
the idea.

So if she was going to kill magicians to steal their abilities, which
magicians should she kill?

Sorcerers and wizards seemed to depend on their tools and formulae—sorcerers,
in particular, seemed to need the talismans and artifacts. And wizardry might
bring her in contact with the Wizards' Guild, and besides, she already knew
that she could never make a proper athame—she had the Black Dagger instead.

So those were out.

That left demonologists and theurgists and witches and warlocks and herbalists
and scientists and illusionists and plenty of others, of course.
Demonology looked risky—Tabaea thought it was significant that she had never
seen an old demonologist.

Theurgists had to leam prayers and invocations and so forth to work their
magic; if knowledge didn't convey, then that wouldn't work; she wouldn't know
the rituals she needed.

Herbalists were so limited, with their plants, and like wizards and sorcerers,
they were powerless without their supplies.

Illusionists just did tricks—there was some doubt as to whether it was real
magic at all.

Scientists—Tabaea didn't understand scientists, and most of the scientific
magic she had seen wasn't very useful, just stunts like using a glass to break
sunlight into rainbows, or making those little chimes that spun around and
rang when you burned candles under them. And there were so few scientists
around, maybe a dozen in the entire city, that killing one seemed wasteful.

The various sorts of seers and soothsayers were a possibility, but telling the
real ones from the frauds wasn't easy. Tabaea considered carefully as she
finished her noodles, and decided in the end that prophecy could wait.

Ignoring the more obscure sorts of magician, that left witches and warlocks.
They didn't seem to need equipment or incantations or anything, and they
indisputably did real magic. One of them would do just fine.

How to find one, then?

She couldn't go entirely by appearance; while most varieties of magicians had
traditional costumes, there were no hard and fast rules about it. Telling
whether a black-robed figure was a demonologist or a warlock or a necromancer
or something else entirely was not easy. She had been mistaken for a warlock
once or twice herself, when wearing black—warlocks favored all-black clothes
even more than demonologists did.

She knew a couple of magicians, of course, and knew of several others. She
thought over all of them, trying to decide if there was one she wanted to
kill.

No, there wasn't, not really . . .

She stopped, fork raised.

There was that snotty little Inza of Northangle, Inza the Apprentice she
called herself now. She was two or three years younger than Tabaea, but she
and Tabaea had played together when they were young. Then Inza had gotten
herself apprenticed to a warlock, old Luris the Black, down on Wizard Street
in Eastside, and after that she never had time to so much as say hello to her
old friends. Inza claimed her master kept her too busy, but Tabaea knew it was
because she didn't want to associate with a bunch of thieves and street people
now that she was going to be a big important magician.

And Inza would be nearing the end of her apprenticeship now, she would be
changing her name to Inza the Warlock soon.

If she lived that long.

Tabaea smiled, and her hand dropped from the table to the hilt of the Black
Dagger.

CHAPTER 13

Lady Sarai leaned in the doorway and asked, "Anything interesting today?"

Captain Tikri looked up, startled; before he could do more than drop the
report he was reading, Sarai added, "Don't bother to get up."

"Yes, my lady." He settled back and looked up at her uneasily.

"So, is there anything interesting in your reports today?" Sarai insisted.

"Oh." Tikri looked down at the paper. "As a matter of fact, there is one odd
case. It's probably just a revenge killing, but . . . well, it's odd."

"Tell me about it." Sarai stepped into the office and found a chair, one with
a dragon carved on the back and the seat upholstered in brown velvet.

"A girl named Inza, an apprentice warlock," Tikri said. "Her throat was cut
last night while she slept, and then she was stabbed through the heart—to make
sure she was dead, I suppose."

Sarai grimaced. "Sounds nasty," she said.

Tikri nodded. "I would say so, yes. I didn't go myself, but the reports . . .
well, I'd say it was nasty."

Sarai frowned and leaned forward. "You said it was probably revenge? Who did
it?"

Tikri shrugged."We don't know who did it—not yet, anyway. Whoever it was came
in through a window—pried open the latch, very professional job, looked like
an experienced burglar—but then, nothing was stolen or disturbed, so it wasn't
a burglary at all."

"Unless the thief panicked," Sarai suggested.

Tikri shook his head. "Panicked? Cutting the throat and a thrust through the
heart doesn't look like anyone who would panic."

"So it was revenge—but you don't know who did it?"

"No." Tikri frowned. "Not yet, anyway. The girl's master swears she doesn't
know of any enemies, anyone who hated Inza or had a grudge against her.
Warlocks don't do divinations, of course, so she couldn't identify the killer
herself; we have a wizard checking on it instead."

"You don't think it was the master herself?"

Tikri turned up an empty palm. "Who knows? But we don't have any reason to
think it was her. And Luris is a skilled warlock; why cut the girl's throat
when she could have simply stopped her heart? Or if a warlock wanted to be
less obvious, she could have staged any number of plausible accidents."

"That's true." Sarai considered and tapped the arm of her chair as her feet
stretched out in front of her—signs that she was thinking. "It's very odd, you
know, that anyone would kill an apprentice warlock—isn't this Luris now
duty-bound to avenge the girl's death?"
Tikri nodded. "Just so. Whoever did this isn't afraid of warlocks, obviously."

"And how could an apprentice have an enemy who hated her enough to kill her?
Apprentices don't have time or freedom to make that sort of enemies, do they?"

"Not usually," Tikri agreed.

"How old was she?"

Tikri glanced at the report. "Seventeen," he said. "She would have made
journeyman next month."

"Seventeen." Sarai bit her lip. She had been worried about her father, but he
was almost sixty, he had had a long and full life. She had been worried about
her brother, but he probably wouldn't die of his illness. If he did, if either
of them died, it wouldn't be a shock. But a healthy seventeen-year-old girl,
five years younger than Sarai herself, had been killed, without warning,
apparently without any good reason.

"Has anyone talked to her family?" she asked.

Tikri shrugged. "I think someone sent a message," he said.

"I was also thinking of asking if anyone in her family knew if she had any
enemies," Sarai remarked.

Tikri blinked. "Why bother?" he asked. "The magicians will tell us who did
it."

Sarai nodded.

"Let me know what they find out," she said. She rose and turned away.

She had intended to stay and talk to Captain Tikri for a while. She didn't
have any specific questions or assignments for him; she just thought it was a
good idea to know what her subordinates were doing. She wanted to know
everything about how the city guard worked, how crimes were investigated, how
reports were written, what got included and what got left out— the real story,
not what she would be told if she asked. She wanted Tikri to talk to her
easily and not treat her as some lordly creature who couldn't be bothered with
everyday details. Chatting with him had seemed like the best way to work
toward that. The news of the murder bothered her, though, and she no longer
felt any interest in light conversation.

There were murders fairly often in Ethshar, of course—with hundreds of
thousands of people packed inside the city walls, killings were inevitable.
The annual total was often close to a hundred, even without counting the
deaths that might have been either natural or magical.

Most of them, however, involved open arguments, drunken brawls, attempted
robbery, or marital disputes. Someone breaking into a warlock's house to
butcher a sleeping apprentice was definitely not typical.

But there really didn't seem to be much she could do about it just now.

Then a thought struck her, and she turned back. "You said a wizard is doing
the divination for this one?" "That's right." Tikri nodded. "Who is it?"

"Mereth of the Golden Door. Do you . . ." "Oh, her! Yes, I know her. Is she
working at her home?" "I think so, yes . . ."
Before Tikri could finish whatever he was going to say, Sarai cut him off.
"Thanks," she said. Then she turned away and strode down the hallway.

She did not care to wait for an official report; she wanted to talk to Mereth
and find out just what had happened, why this poor Inza had been killed.
Mereth's home and shop were on Wizard Street, of course—at least three-fourths
of all the magicians for hire in Ethshar of the Sands located their businesses
on Wizard Street.

Wizard Street, however, was several miles long, winding its way across the
entire city, from Westbeach to Northangle; simply saying a house was on Wizard
Street didn't tell anyone much.

In Mereth's particular case, her shop was just three blocks from the palace in
the district of Nightside, where Wizard Street made its closest approach; that
was probably, Sarai knew, why Mereth got so much investigative work.

Or perhaps Mereth had chosen her home in order to be close to her preferred
customers; Sarai really didn't know which was the ox and which was the wagon.

The weather was cool, but not unpleasant, and Sarai didn't bother with a wrap.
She marched quickly across the bright stone pavement of the plaza surrounding
the palace, across Circle Street, and out North Street—which, with the usual
Ethsharitic disregard for unimportant details, ran west by northwest through
Nightside, and not north through Shadyside.

Like all the neighborhoods close around the palace, Nightside was largely
occupied by the mansions of successful merchants and the city's nobility; this
portion of North Street ran between tall iron fences that guarded gardens and
fountains. Sarai paid them no attention.

Harbor Street, being a major thoroughfare between the waterfront and
Grandgate, was crowded and bustling where North Street intersected it, and was
also far less aristocratic than its surroundings. As she crossed the avenue
Sarai was jostled by a heavy man who reeked of fish; her hand fell
automatically to her purse, but it was still there and seemed intact. If the
man had been a cutpurse or pickpocket he had missed his grab.

At the corner of North and Wizard she turned left, and there was Mereth's
shop, two doors down on the far side. The draperies were drawn and the windows
closed, but the trademark gilded door was ajar.

Sarai hesitated on the threshold, listening; she could hear voices somewhere
within, but could not make out the words. She knocked, and waited.

A moment later young Thar, Mereth's apprentice, appeared in the crack, peering
out at her. He swung the door wide, but held a finger to his lips for silence.

Sarai nodded.

"She's working, Lady Sarai," Thar whispered. "Do you want to wait?"

"That depends," Sarai replied. "What's she working on?"

"A murder," Thar answered, his voice low but intense.

"Then it's probably the very thing I came to ask her about," Sarai said.

Thar blinked. "Inza the Apprentice?" he asked.
Sarai nodded.

"Do you want to come in and wait, then?"

"How much longer do you think it will be?"

Thar frowned. "I don't really know," he said. "To tell the truth, I thought
she'd be done by now. I guess I misjudged, or maybe she's using a different
spell from the usual—I don't know that much about it. I haven't started
learning divinations yet myself. She says that if I keep on as well as I have
been, though, I'll start on them after Festival."

Sarai nodded again. "So you don't know how long?"

"No."

The young noblewoman considered for a moment, then said, "I'll wait."

Thar nodded. He stepped aside and admitted her to the consulting room, small
but cozy, where Sarai settled into a blue brocade armchair.

Thar hovered for a moment, making sure the important guest was comfortable,
then vanished through the archway that led to the rest of the building.

Sarai waited, looking over the room. She had seen it before, of course, but
she had little else to do.

There were three armchairs, blue, green, and gold, arranged around three sides
of a small square table, a table of carved wood inlaid with golden curlicues.
Eight little boxes stood on the table—gold, silver, brass, abalone, crystal,
and three kinds of wood, all intricately carved and finely polished. Ink
paintings hung on the walls, depicting rocky seashores, lonely towers, and
other fanciful locations unlike anything in Ethshar of the Sands; Mereth had
said once that these had been painted by her grandmother. An ornate wool rug
in gold and red covered most of the floor; the rest was oiled wood. A shelf
over the door held half a dozen mismatched statuettes, and a cork sculpture of
a dragon wrapping itself around a peasant's farmhouse stood on the windowsill.

It was really a rather pretentious and fussy little room, Sarai thought. For
lack of anything better to do, she turned her attention to a study of the ink
paintings.

She had just about exhausted all possible interest in that when Mereth finally
emerged, breathlessly hurrying through the archway, tunic awry and feet bare.

"Lady Sarai!" she said. "I didn't know you were coming! Sit down, sit down!"

"I've been sitting, thank you," Sarai said, as Thar stumbled after his
mistress into the room.

"Oh, yes, of course you have," Mereth agreed, flustered. "Well, whatever you
please, then. What can I do for you?"

"You were investigating the death of Inza, the apprentice warlock, I believe."

"Trying to, anyway," Mereth said.

Sarai waited.
Mereth sighed. "I can't see anything," she said. "Nothing works. Not the Spell
of Omniscient Vision, not Fendel's Divination—none of my spells worked."

Those two spells, Sarai knew, were among the most powerful and useful
information-gathering spells of all those known to wizardry; she suspected
that between the two of them they provided more than half Mereth's income. "Is
it because she was a warlock?" she asked. "I know different kinds of magic
..."

"No, that's not it, or at least. . ." Mereth paused, collecting her thoughts,
then explained, "The warlockry doesn't help, Lady Sarai, but I could get
around that, I'm sure, if that was all there were. It isn't. She was killed by
magic, strong magic—I can't tell what kind."

Sarai blinked. "She was killed with a knife, I thought—her throat was cut and
she was stabbed."

"It might have been a knife," Mereth said, "or something else, I can't even
tell that much. But I do know that whatever killed her was magical." Her tone
was definite. "There's no possible doubt."

"But why would a magician kill anyone that way?" Lady Sarai asked. "I mean,
aren't there spells . . . spells that leave no traces, or make it look like an
accident?"

The wizard looked decidedly uncomfortable and did not answer.

Lady Sarai frowned at her silence. "Mereth," Sarai said, "I'm no fool; I've
been the overlord's Minister of Investigation for four years now. I know that
people who seriously offend wizards or warlocks or demonologists tend to turn
up dead in fairly short order, even if, most of the time, we can never prove
anything. People who bother warlocks have heart attacks, or fall from heights,
or trip over their own feet and break their necks. People who fatally annoy
wizards, I mean more than just enough to wind up with a curse like the Dismal
Itch or Lugwiler's Haunting Phantasm, can have any number of strange
accidents, but they seem especially prone to mysterious fires and smothering
in their own blankets. People who are stupid enough to get demonologists angry
usually just disappear completely. Witches don't seem to kill people; either
that, or they're too subtle for us. Their enemies have plenty of bad luck,
though, even if it isn't fetal. I 'm not sure about sorcerers or theurgists or
the others. But everyone knows it's bad business to anger magicians, any kind
of magicians. I know that, my father knows that, the overlord himself knows
that." She swallowed, remembering that her father had not angered any
magicians, but had instead annoyed a god and was now dying as a result. Then
she forged on. "Every man in the city guard knows that you don't anger
magicians and expect to live. It's not our job to protect people when they cut
their own throats. We know magicians kill people sometimes—it's so easy for
you, after all. When the victims go asking for it, and the killers don't make
a show of it, we don't worry too much. But in this case . . . Mereth, the giii
was seventeen years old, never hurt anybody that we can see, and she got her
throat cut. We can't let this one pass."

"I know, Lady Sarai," Mereth said unhappily. "But honestly, I swear, on my
oath as a member of the Wizards' Guild, that I don't know what happened. I
don't know why anyone would do it this way; you're right, there are other,
easier, less-obvious spells. I don't know who did this, or why, or how; I only
know that it was magic."

Sarai studied the wizard for a moment, then sighed.
"A rogue magician," she said. "Wonderful."

CHAPTER 14

Tabaea stared at the mug and concentrated.

This would,   she was sure, be easier if she had an older, more experienced
warlock who   could help her, could tell her what to do, but of course she could
hardly tell   any warlocks what she had done. She had to guess what she was
supposed to   do.

She had seen warlocks, in the taverns, in their shops, and in the Arena, and
they had all been able to move things without touching them. That seemed to be
the most basic ability that warlocks had. Inza had surely had it.

But how did it work?

Tabaea had no idea how to make it happen; despite her optimistic expectations,
none of Inza's memories had transferred, none of what the apprentice had
learned in her five years of training. If there were tricks or secrets to the
warlock's arts, Tabaea didn't know them.

But Inza's raw magical ability should have transferred, the Black Dagger
should have stolen it away and given it to Tabaea, and the only way Tabaea
knew to test that was by trying. She hoped that warlockry worked just by
thinking, by concentrating hard enough.

She stared at the empty mug. She stared so hard that her head began to hurt.
Somewhere she thought she heard whispering, a muttering in some foreign
language; she tried to ignore it.

She shouldn't be able to hear any whispers, she thought, annoyed—not here in
this empty house in the middle of the night. She certainly couldn't have heard
anything if she were still an ordinary person; this whisper was somehow alien.
She supposed it was some trick of her newly enhanced senses, something that a
dog could hear when a person wouldn't, but she couldn't think what it might
be. Who would be speaking a strange tongue near here? She hadn't seen anyone
around the place who didn't look Ethsharitic. And this was a very strange
tongue, nothing she had ever heard before, she was sure.

Maybe it wasn't human at all. Still staring at the mug, she tried to make out
the words and where it was coming from.

There were no words, she realized, and the whisper wasn't coming from
anywhere. It seemed to be inside her own head.

Then, abruptly, as she focused on the whispering that wasn't really a sound at
all, she felt as if something had touched her, or perhaps she had touched
something, in a place that she could not locate, a part of her that didn't
correspond to anywhere on or in her body. The whispering ran through her, and
she could suddenly feel the mug, as well as see it, even though it was six
feet away.

She could feel it with the whisper.

That made no sense, but that was how it felt; she could touch the whisper, and
with it she could touch the mug.

She gripped it tentatively with her ... her whatever-it-was. She took a deep
breath, tightened her hold, and lifted.
The mug shot upward; startled, she threw her head back, eyes following its
trajectory. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened with surprise.

The mug whacked against the ceiling, and at the impact she lost her intangible
hold on it. It tumbled down and smashed against the table, shattering
spectacularly.

Tabaea stared at the spot on the ceiling where the mug had struck, and her
openmouthed astonishment slowly transformed itself into a broad grin. So that
was warlockry!

It had worked. And she had liked it; it had felt good, had made her feel
strong and awake, even stronger than she already was—and since killing Inza,
she had roughly twice her former strength, she was no longer just a weak
woman, but as strong as most grown men.

This was greatl She only wished it hadn't taken four years to find out what
the Black Dagger could do. She had a lot of lost time to make up for.

The dagger wouldn't teach her anything, apparently, wouldn't steal knowledge
or memories, but it would take power. Strength, talent, skill—she could take
any of those she wanted. All she had to do was kill the people who had them.
Her grin dimmed.

She had to kill them, if she wanted to keep what she stole. That was the nasty
part. She didn't like killing people, not really. It was true that Inza was a
stuck-up little beast who had thought Tabaea was just gutter trash, but even
so, killing her had probably been more than she deserved.

It had been a necessary experiment, of course, to prove the Black Dagger's
power, and it had gotten Tabaea her wonderful new talent for warlockry, but
still, it was nasty.

Well, Tabaea told herself, sometimes life was nasty. At least, from now on,
she would be on the dispensing end of the nastiness, rather than the
receiving.

She would pick and choose her victims carefully, though. There was no reason
to kill large numbers of people. In fact, for raw strength, there was no
reason to kill people at all—dogs and cats and other animals would serve just
as well, perhaps better, for that.

But skills—agility and dexterity, and of course all the different schools of
magic—those would come from people. Dogs and cats had no fingers and couldn't
do anything much with their toes, they couldn't transfer anything involving
tools, or that called for standing upright.

Scent and vision and hearing, yes—without those, she could hardly have located
this empty house and been certain it was deserted. She knew that she would
spot the owner's return before he suspected anything was wrong, or would hear
or smell him before he got near her, and with her faster reflexes and
increased speed she could be gone before he noticed her, and that was all due
to the animals.

But for human skills, she needed to kill humans.

She looked down at the dagger on her belt and shrugged.

Well, she told herself, people died every day in Ethshar. Men bragged in the
taverns about how many people they had slain. Magicians killed each other and
any other enemies they might have. Demonologists sacrificed children or
troublesome neighbors to their diabolic servants, and necromancers traded
souls for the wisdom of the dead. Everyone knew all that. Surely, no one would
notice a few more deaths.

It did occur to Tabaea, somewhere in the back of her mind, that while she
always heard about all these horrible deaths, she had never seen one, and very
few of the people she knew personally had died of anything other than natural
causes.

If they were natural causes and not vindictive magic.

Well, it was a big city, and even if she had been lucky, everyone knew that
people were murdered every day in Ethshar, stabbed or beaten in the Wall
Street Field, poisoned or smothered in the lounges and bedrooms of the palace,
roasted or petrified by wizards, or carried off to nameless dooms by demons
and other supernatural creatures. No one would notice anything out of the
ordinary if there were a few more deaths than usual.

That settled, the only questions remaining were who and when.

She had killed a warlock—she reached out and picked up the biggest chunk of
the broken mug and sent it sailing in broad circles around the room, all
without touching it; now that she knew how, it seemed to grow easier with
every passing second. The next step would be either some other form of magic,
or some vital, nonmagical skill—archery, perhaps, or swordsmanship. A soldier,
then?

Yes, a soldier, but one who knew his trade, not just one of the fat, lazy
bullies who guarded Grandgate by day and caroused in Soldiertown by night. An
officer, perhaps—one who trained the new enlistees.

And then some more magicians—a demonologist, perhaps, and a theurgist. Even if
they needed incantations, maybe she could learn those somewhere, listen to
someone at work; it couldn't be that hard, once you had the gift, the skill,
whatever it was that made them magicians instead of mere mortals. And then
maybe a wizard, despite the Guild and her inability to make an athame, maybe
two, they didn't all use the same spells, maybe she could learn something
useful. A sorcerer, a witch . . .

She drew the dagger and looked at it.

"We're going to be busy," she said. She smiled. "And it'll be worth it."

CHAPTER 15

There's wizardry here," the witch said, kneeling by the body.

"You're sure it's wizardry and not some other magic?" Sarai asked from the
doorway.

The witch frowned. "Well, my lady," he said, "it's either wizardry or
something entirely new, and if it's something entirely new, it's something
that's more like wizardry than it's like anything else we've ever known."

"So it could be something entirely new?"

The witch sighed as he got stiffly to his feet. He ran a bony hand through
thinning hair.
"I don't know, Lady Sarai," he said. "I know that when warlockry first came
along, when I was just finishing my apprenticeship, we had a hard time telling
it from witchcraft at first, because there are similarities, and we didn't
know the differences yet. I know that theurgy and demonology are opposite
sides of the same coin, so that in some ways they look alike and in others
they couldn't be more different. Whatever happened here feels like wizardry to
me, but it might be that it's something new, and I just don't know the
differences yet. But it feels like wizardry."

Sarai nodded.

"All right," she said. "Wizardry, then, or something like it. Can you tell me
anything about the person who did it?"

The witch shook his head. "No," he said, "I'm afraid not. The magic fouls up
everything else."

"Can you tell me anything more about the magic, then?" Sarai asked. "Would you
know it if you met the murderer on the street?"

The witch tilted his head and considered that carefully. "I doubt it," he said
at last. "What I sense here is the flavor of the single spell that killed him.
It doesn't seem likely that the killer would be walking around with that spell
still active. I'm not a wizard, but as I understand it, their spells are
usually temporary things—they make them fresh each time, as it were."

Sarai nodded again. "But it's the same spell here as the others?"

The witch shrugged. "I think so," he said, "but I can't be absolutely certain.
The others were not so recent when I saw them."

For a moment the two of them stood silently, staring at the bloody corpse on
the floor. The body, in turn, was staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

"There's one thing," Sarai said. "You and the others all keep saying that a
spell killed these people, but it's plain to see that a knife killed them. Do
you mean that it was an enchanted dagger? That an ordinary knife was wielded
by magic? That the dagger was conjured out of thin air?"

The witch hesitated. "I mean," he said, very carefully, "that whatever made
the wounds was magical and that the life was drawn out by that magic. If it
was a dagger, the dagger was enchanted; whether it was wielded by magic or by
someone's hand I have no way of knowing."

"Very well, then," Sarai said, "suppose it's an enchanted dagger, and you
happen to bump into someone on the street who's wearing that dagger on his
belt. Would you know it?"

The witch hesitated even longer this time. "I doubt it," he said at last. "But
I think—I think—that if I saw someone use that dagger to cut someone, I would
know it."

"Well, that's better than nothing," Sarai muttered.

"I would, of course, immediately inform you, my lady, if I saw anything of the
sort."

"Of course," she said. "Or the nearest guardsman, or whoever."
"Of course."

Sarai turned and headed for the stairs.

This one was the worst yet, and for a very simple reason-she had known the
victim. Serem the Wise was one of the best-known enchanters in Ethshar of the
Sands—or rather, he had been; now he was nothing but a wandering ghost and a
throat-slashed cadaver.

His apprentice—what was her name? Oh, yes, Lirrin. Lirrin was waiting at the
foot of the stairs, looking pale and ill. Behind her, in the front parlor,
Sarai could see Serem's famous fan-tree, waving away as if nothing had
happened; trust old Serem to use solid, permanent enchantments, not the feeble
sort that would have died with their creator.

Lirrin would be doing all right for herself, probably—as far as Sarai knew,
there were no relatives with a stronger claim to any part of the estate than
that of a new apprentice. If Serem had any children or siblings, they were
long since grown, and any wives were dead, divorced, or disappeared. Under
Ethshar-itic custom, a child's welfare came before that of any adult other
than a spouse, and Lirrin, at seventeen, was still officially a child. She
would inherit the wizard's house and goods, including his Book of Spells and
the contents of his workshop.

That might be a sufficient motive for murder, and despite Lirrin's display of
grief Sarai might have suspected her, were it not for all the other deaths.

Inza the Apprentice Warlock had been the first, slain in her own bed, her
throat slashed, a stab wound in her chest; then there had been Captain Deru,
waylaid in an alley off Archer Street, stabbed in the back, and his throat
slashed. Athaniel the Theurgist was jumped in his shop, his throat slashed,
and a single thrust through his heart to finish him off. Karitha of East End,
a demonologist, had been beaten into unconsciousness in her own parlor, her
throat cut as she lay insensible.

Strangest of all, even as these murders had been talcing place, a dozen
animals, mostly stray cats or runaway dogs, had been found dead at various
places in the Wall Street Field, with their throats cut open. Had they all
been killed before Inza, then Sarai might have guessed the killer was working
up his nerve, practicing before he dared risk tackling a human being, but they
were not; instead, a dog and a cat had been killed shortly after Inza, the
rest one by one in the days that followed, interspersed with the other
victims.

And now old Serem was dead, on the floor of his bedchamber, stabbed in the
belly, and—like all the rest—his throat had been cut.

And on all of them, men, women, and beasts, the magicians found lingering
traces of a strange magic, probably wizardry, that blocked any divination or
scrying spell.

Mereth swore she couldn't identify the killer. Okko could tell nothing of what
had happened. Luris the Black had offered to help, to avenge her dead
apprentice, but she was as useless as any warlock when it came to knowledge,
rather than raw power. And now this witch, Kelder of Quarter Street, had
failed, as well.

"He hasn't killed any witches yet," Sarai remarked as she marched down the
stairs. "One of you will probably be next; he seems to be trying for one of
every sort of magician."
"There are still sorcerers, Lady Sarai," Kelder replied, "and the various
lesser disciplines, the herbalists and scientists and illusionists."

"True," Sarai conceded. "Still, I'd lock my door, if I were you, and maybe
invest in a few warding spells. Besides your own, I mean." Witches did not
have any true warding spells of their own, she knew, but she also knew that
witches didn't want outsiders to know it.

"Perhaps you're right, my lady," the witch agreed. "I would like to say that I
don't fit the pattern in these killings, but in truth, I don't see a clear
pattern." "Neither do I," Sarai admitted.

That bothered her. There ought to be more of a pattern in who was killed, and
how; criminals were usually abysmally unimaginative. This one, though . . .

They had no idea of any motive. The killer had slain the apprentice warlock,
leaving Luris untouched, but here he or she had killed Serem, the master, and
had left the apprentice, Lirrin, untouched. Athaniel had had no apprentice,
nor, of course, had Deru, since the city guard did not operate on an
apprenticeship system. Karitha's apprentice was a boy of fourteen who had been
visiting his parents on their farm somewhere outside the city. Serem's
apprentice inherited everything; Karitha's, due to the existence of the
demonologist's husband and nine-year-old daughter, inherited nothing but a few
papers and the right to stay on until Festival.

There was no pattern, no connecting motive, no common factor among the victims
that Sarai had yet discovered.

Lirrin was inheriting a large and valuable house and a great deal of wealth,
which would make an excellent motive, and she was a wizard of sorts, as
well—could she have arranged the entire thing, staging the other killings in
order to throw off suspicion? It was hard to believe that anyone could be so
coldblooded; besides, if that was it, she had been foolish to kill Inza and
not Luris, thereby missing the chance to create a false pattern and divert
suspicion onto Inza. And why kill the dogs?

Besides, Karitha was killed by a very strong person—she had been picked up and
flung against a wall at one point. And the killer had not been gentle with
Deru or Athaniel, either. Lirrin scarcely looked strong enough to do anything
like that. She wasn't as scrawny and underfed as some apprentices, but she
still had more bone showing than muscle. Of course, with magic, anything is
possible . . . Sarai realized that she had reached the bottom of the stairs
and was now staring into Lirrin's face from a distance of only four or five
feet.

"I'm sorry," Sarai said, trying to sound sincere. She was sorry that Serem was
dead, genuinely sorry, but right now she was thinking too hard about who might
have killed him to get real emotion into her voice.

Lirrin grimaced."I guess you see things like this all the time, Lady Sarai,"
she said, her voice unsteady.

"No," Sarai said. "No, I don't. Usually the guard takes care of... of deaths
without calling me in. They're usually simple— someone lost his temper and is
sitting there crying and confessing, or there are a dozen witnesses. If it's
not that obvious, then we call in the magicians, and generally we have the
perpetrator in the dungeons the next day." She sighed. "But this time," she
said, "we seem to be dealing with a lunatic of some sort, one who uses magic
that hides all his traces. So they called me in, because I'm supposed to be
good at figuring these things out.

And I'm trying, Lirrin, I really am, but I just don't know how to catch this
one."

"Oh," the apprentice—the former apprentice, Sarai reminded herself, since the
apprenticeship was over and done, and Lirrin would have to prove herself
worthy of journeyman status before the representatives of the Wizards' Guild,
despite missing the final year of her studies—said, in a tiny voice.

Sarai hesitated before saying any more, but finally spoke. "Lirrin," she said,
"you're Serem's heir, and that means you're responsible for his funeral rites.
But before you build a pyre, I have a favor to ask, a big one."

"What?" Lirrin was clearly on the verge of tears.

"Could you summon a necromancer to see if someone can speak to Serem's ghost?
His soul won't be free to flee to Heaven until his body is destroyed; if we
can question him, ask who stabbed him—he must have seen who it was. He might
not know a name, he might not remember everything—ghosts often don't—but
anything he could tell us might help."

Lirrin blinked, and a tear spilled down one cheek. "You said there were others
..."

Sarai sighed again.

"There were," sheadmitted,   "but with the first few we didn't know it would be
necessary until it was too   late, until after the funeral. We did finally try
with the demonologist; her   soul was gone without a trace, probably taken by
some demon she owed a debt   to. We hope to do better with Serem. With your
permission."

"Of course," Lirrin said weakly. "Of course."

The smoke from the pyre drifted lazily upward; the weather was starting to
turn cooler again, and the air was clear, the sky a dazzling turquoise blue.

"Damn it," Sarai muttered.

Captain Tikri glanced sideways at her, then across at Lirrin. The apprentice
seemed oblivious to everything but the burning remains of her master. The
handful of friends and family in attendance were lost in their own thoughts or
talking to one another.

"Troubled, Lady Sarai?" Tikri murmured.

"Of course I am!" she said in reply. "It's all so wasteful and stupid! Even
this funeral—it's just empty ritual. His soul isn't even in there; there's
nothing to be freed!"

"You're sure?"

"The necromancer was sure, anyway, or at least he said he was."

Tikri didn't reply for a moment; when he did, it was to ask, "Which sort of
necromancer was it?" "A wizard," Sarai answered. "Does it matter, though?"
Tikri shrugged, showing her an empty palm. "I don't know," he said. "It might.
My Aunt Thithenna always used a theurgist to talk to Uncle Gar, after he
died—at least, until the priest said she should leave him alone and let him
enjoy the afterlife. Worked fine."

Sarai sighed. "Your Aunt Thithenna was lucky," she said. "Half the time
theurgical necromancers can't find the one you want, even when there isn't any
question of other magic. And demonological necromancers are worse—unless the
ghost you want is a dead demonologist; they're lucky to contact one out of
ten. Sorcerers and warlocks don't do necromancy at all— they're probably
smart. It's a messy business. And as often as not the ghost doesn't remember
anything useful." "What about a witch, then?" It was Sarai's turn to shrug.

"It's   a little late now," she said. "I know theurgists and de-monologists
don't   need the body, but witches do, even more than wizards. I did have a
witch   look at him, though—Kelder of Quarter Street. You know him, don't you?"
Tikri   thought for a moment, then nodded. "Well, he's not a real necromancer,"
Sarai   said. "But he couldn't see anything."

"Too bad." Tikri hesitated, and said, "There's news, though. I was going to
wait until after the funeral to tell you, but maybe I should mention it now."
"Oh? What is it?" "It's not good news."

Sarai sighed again. "In this case, I wasn't expecting good news. What is it,
another body?" "No, no," Tikri hastily assured her. "Not that bad." "Not even
a dog?" Tikri shook his head. "Well, then?" Sarai demanded.

"Well, it looks like we have more than one killer. Mereth and her apprentice
were studying the traces in Athaniel's shop—the actual break-in was done by
warlockry."

Sarai frowned. "But it wasn't warlockry that killed him. Mereth was sure of
that."

Tikri nodded. "So if our killer is a wizard, he has a warlock working with
him," he said.

"Maybe it's a warlock who's gotten hold of an enchanted dagger somewhere,"
Sarai suggested.

"Maybe," Tikri conceded. "But why would a warlock be doing any of this? A
warlock can stop a man's heart without touching him; why cut throats?"

"Why would anybody do all this?" Sarai retorted.

"A demonologist making a sacrifice, maybe? Or a wizard collecting the
ingredients for a spell?"

"And how would a demonologist or a wizard do warlockry?" Sarai started to take
a deep breath to say more and accidentally caught a lungful of smoke from the
pyre; she lost whatever she had intended to say in an extended coughing fit.
Tikri stood silently by, waiting.

When she regained control of herself, Sarai was no longer thinking entirely
about warlocks or motives; the coughing had reminded her of her father's
failing health and poor Kalthon the Younger with his fits. Her family was not
exactly robust or numerous anymore. She had to face the possibility that any
day, she could find herself the new Minister of Justice permanently, not just
filling in—and she would still be Minister of Investigation, as well.

As a girl, she had never expected to have this sort of responsibility; her
father and brother were supposed to handle the Ministry of Justice, and back
then there had been no Minister of Investigation yet. By rights, she shouldn't
have had a government job at all; she should have been married off years ago
to a wealthy merchant, or to some noble not too closely related to her. She
should be raising chickens and sewing clothes and tending children, not
standing here watching a murdered friend burn and worrying about who killed
him instead of remembering his life.

The idea of being the overlord's investigator had sounded intriguing four
years ago, but the idea of spending the rest of her life at it, at hunting
down demented criminals and sadistic thugs, or worse, failing to hunt them
down . . .

It was beginning to wear on her. She wondered how her father could stand going
on being Minister of Justice, year after year.

But of course, maybe he couldn't stand it, maybe that was why he was dying.

And here before her was the body of a man who could have saved her father, and
had refused. Maybe, Sarai thought bitterly, she should be applauding, instead
of mourning.

Then she blinked, startled.

Could that be the killer's motive?

It wasn't at all likely that all the victims had wronged any one person by
their actions, but might they have done so by inaction? Was there something
the killer wanted that all of them, the warlock, the soldier, the theurgist,
the demonologist, the wizard, had failed to provide?

It seemed like a reasonable -possibility. It didn't explain the almost
ritualistic throat-slashing, or the use of both warlockry and wizardry,
though.

Sarai remembered that Tikri thought there was more than one killer involved.
That made sense—the man who threw Athaniel and Karitha around had clearly been
immensely strong and must have been large and muscular, while Inza's killer
appeared to have slipped in through a window open only a few inches. De-ru's
killer had been big enough to kill him while he was awake, without leaving
signs of a struggle, but had done so from the back—and an experienced old
brawler like Deru would not have turned his back on anyone he considered a
threat. That called for someone strong, but not big and burly.

But if there was more than one killer, why? Why would a group want to commit
these murders? It seemed even less likely than an individual—unless it was
some sort of conspiracy or cult at work.

Was there, perhaps, a secret conspiracy of magicians? Had Inza and Serem and
the others been offered a chance to join, and been killed to insure their
silence when they refused?

But why kill them all the same way, then? Was that a warning to others,
perhaps? Or was it in fact a ritual? Was this a cult of some sort, perhaps
followers of a demon that had somehow escaped from the Nether Void without
coming under a demon-ologist's control? Or people enthralled by some wizardry,
perhaps? There were wizards who could command elemental spirits or animals or
ghosts—why not people? Or might the killers be ensorceled? Sarai had heard
rumors, dating all the way back to the Great War, of sorcerers who could
control the thoughts of others.

Cults and conspiracies—what was she up against? Could there be a cult of
killers? She seemed to remember stories of such a thing.

"Tikri," she asked, "have you ever heard of an organization of assassins?"

"Do you mean the cult of Demerchan?" the soldier asked, startled.

Demerchan—that was the name. All she knew about it was vague legends and
unfinished tales. "Do I? Could they be responsible for these killings?"

Tikri hesitated, then admitted, "I don't know."

"I don't either," Sarai muttered.

She didn't know—so she would just have to find out. And not just about
Demerchan. There were magicians involved. She intended to check out the
organizations of magicians that might be involved—the Wizards' Guild, the
Council of Warlocks, the Brotherhood, the Sisterhood, the Hierarchy of
Priests, and any others she could uncover.

"Tikri," she whispered, "I'm going to need several men. And women, too,
probably."

Captain Tikri shot her a glance, then nodded.

CHAPTER 16

Four days later, a dozen blocks away, Tabaea lay back on the bed and stared up
at the painted ceiling. This inn was a far cry from the dingy, malodorous
places on Wall Street where she had spent most of her nights just a few months
before. The sheets were clean, cool linen; the blanket was of fine wool, dyed
a rich blue and embroidered with red and gold silk; the mattress was thick and
soft, filled with the finest eiderdown.

No more burlap and straw for Tabaea the Thief, she told herself. Three fluffy
pillows. A bottle of wine and a cut-glass goblet at her bedside, a fire on the
hearth, and a bellpull in easy reach. Even the beams overhead were decorated,
a design of red flowers and gold stars against a midnight blue background. The
plaster between beams continued the blue, sprinkled with white stars and wisps
of cloud.

She ought, she supposed, to be happy. She had more money than ever before in
her life, she was stronger and healthier and more powerful than she had ever
imagined she could be. She could take almost anything she wanted.

But she was not happy, and that "almost" was the reason why. There were things
she wanted that she couldn't have. True, she had gotten away with half a dozen
murders, but they had not all yielded the results she sought.

She had killed Inza, and now she could work warlockry—but only at an
apprentice level, at least so far. And sometimes it felt so good doing it that
it scared her; she knew nothing about it and was afraid she was doing
something wrong, something that, even if it didn't harm her directly, would
draw the attention— and the wrath—of the real warlocks, or, worse, of whatever
it was that was responsible for the whispering she drew her power from.

She had killed Captain Deru, and with his strength added to the rest she was
stronger than any man in Ethshar; she could wield a sword with the best of
them and could put an arrow in a dog's eye at sixty paces; but she still
looked like a half-starved, plain-faced girl, and no one stepped aside at her
approach, and no one was intimidated by her bellow.
She had killed Athaniel, and that had done her no good at all; the gods still
didn't listen when she prayed and still didn't come at her call. She didn't
know the right formulae, the invocations, or the secret names; none of that
had transferred.

She had killed Karitha and had discovered that demons were just as picky as
gods in how they were summoned.

She had killed Serem, and she really wasn't even sure why, because by then she
had known what would happen. She didn't know the incantations, the
ingredients, or the mystic gestures. She didn't even know the names of any of
the spells. And of course, she had no athame and could not make one; she had
only the Black Dagger, instead.

Maybe the dagger was her reason for killing him, she thought, in frustration
over his part in saddling her with it. True, it had given her power and
strength, and it had saved her from that awful drunk, but it was so maddening,
having this magic right there in her hands and not understanding any of it.

She hadn't really thought the dagger had influenced her at the time, but yes,
she admitted to herself, it probably had something to do with it.

Whatever the reason, she had killed him, and it hadn't done any good.

And finally, just a few days before, she had killed a witch by the name of
Kelder of Quarter Street. She had seen him at Ser-em's funeral and had
followed him home. That had some result, anyway—she seemed to have acquired at
least one new ability; she could feel odd, sometimes incomprehensible bits of
sensation fairly often, especially when near other people.

She could not, however, make very much sense of them. She was no apprentice;
she had no one to tell her what anything meant. When she sensed a wet heat
from a man's thoughts, or an image of red velvet, or a tension like the air
before a thunderstorm, what did that represent? The cool blackness from the
potted daisies here in her room at the inn—was that normal? Did it mean they
were thriving, or dying?

The truth was that she could gain more useful information about the world and
its creatures through her canine sense of smell than through any of her
supernatural abilities.

And her warlockry seemed to be getting worse. Not by itself; at first, she had
thought she was just being distracted, or forgetting what she had managed to
learn, but now, looking back on it, she was fairly certain that every time she
had killed another magician, her warlockry had weakened. The effect was most
noticeable when she added witchcraft to her collection of skills. Now she had
to listen intently to find that whisper; it wasn't intruding uninvited as it
had at first.

Did the different magicks interfere with each other, like kittens stumbling
over their litter-mates?

If she had killed a witch first, could she have made sense of what she saw and
felt? Would she be able to do more, even without training?

It was all rather discouraging. There was so much she didn't know. Here she
had, at least in theory, the ability to perform five different kinds of magic,
and she didn't know how to use any of them properly!
And no matter what she did, no matter how powerful, how fast, how perceptive
she became, she still looked like a ragged half-grown thief, and those around
her still treated her accordingly. She had had to pay cash in advance for this
room, and the innkeeper had clearly been astonished when Tabaea had pulled out
a handful of silver.

And she couldn't tell anyone about any of it; there was no one she could
trust, no one she could talk to. If she ever admitted anything, they would all
know that she was a murderer, and she'd be hanged.

It just wasn't working out the way she had thought it would.

There had to be something she could do to make it work, though. Maybe if she
knew more about all the different kinds of magic, she thought, she would be
able to get some use out of them. She couldn't just steal the knowledge, of
course—the Black Dagger didn't work that way; she now knew that beyond any
doubt, she would never learn anything from it.

And of course, she was too old to be an apprentice. She was nineteen, almost
twenty.

But maybe, if she listened—she had superhuman hearing now, at least in the
upper registers, thanks to a dozen dead animals. She could get in anywhere,
with her lockpicking and house-breaking skills, her animal stealth, her stolen
strength, and her warlockry.

If she crept into a magician's home and watched and listened, if she found a
new apprentice just beginning his training . . .

It was certainly worth a try.

Moving like a cat—not figuratively, but literally—she leaped from the bed and
crept to the door, then down the hall, down the stair, through the common
room, and out into the gathering night.



CHAPTER 17

The legendary assassins' cult of Demerchan, Captain Jikri assured Lady Sarai,
was quite real and headquartered somewhere in the Small Kingdoms; beyond that
he knew nothing definite. At Lady Sarai's insistence, Tikri sent a well-funded
agent to attempt to learn more.

Until the agent returned there was nothing else to be done about Demerchan, so
Sarai turned her attention to other organizations, ones that happened to be
closer at hand—the organizations that represented the different schools of
magic. She knew of five—the Wizards' Guild, the Council of Warlocks, the
Brotherhood, the Sisterhood, and the Hierarchy of Priests. Neither sorcerers
nor demonologists nor any of the lesser sorts of magicians, such as herbalists
or scientists, seemed to have any unifying body—at least, four years of
research into magic had failed to find any sign of one operating in Ethshar.

Lady Sarai didn't think it was worth worrying about herbalists or the like,
and she couldn't do much about the sorcerers or demonologists, but the five
known groups definitely wanted attention—especially the wizards and warlocks,
since the killers had left indications of wizardry and warlockry.

The Wizards' Guild was by far the most powerful of the organizations—every
wizard was a member, bound by Guild rules, as well she knew. Every wizard in
the World was responsible to his or her local Guildmaster.

Most people   thought that the Guildmasters ran everything, but Sarai knew
better. She   had learned a year before that the Guildmasters, popularly
believed to   all be equals in the government of the Wizards' Guild, in fact
answered to   a select few called the Inner Circle—that secret, she was given to
understand,   could cost her her life if she were too free in its dissemination.

If she wanted to speak to someone with real power in the Wizards' Guild, she
knew she should speak to a member of the Inner Circle—but if the very
existence of the Inner Circle was secret, she could hardly expect anyone to
tell her who was a member.

Serem the Wise might or might not have been a member; her informant thought
that he had been. This particular rumor had come up in a discussion of Serem's
apparent successor as the senior Guildmaster in Ethshar of the Sands—Telurinon
of the Black Robe was definitely not a member of the Inner Circle and was said
to have hopes of changing that.

But if Telurinon was not in the Inner Circle, was he really the city's senior
member of the Guild?

Well, whether he was or not, he was her best possible contact with the Guild;
she sent him a message asking if a private meeting could be arranged for her
to speak to the Guild's representatives in Ethshar of the Sands.

While she waited for a reply, she considered the other organizations.

The Council of Warlocks was a much looser body than the Guild; while every
warlock she spoke to seemed more or less to acknowledge its authority, at
least within the city walls, no one mentioned rules or discipline or death
threats when discussing the Council. The membership of the actual Council
seemed to change fairly often—since it was nominally composed of the twenty
most powerful warlocks hi the city, its members were also the warlocks most
likely to hear the Calling and vanish without notice.

She wasn't sure just who the current chairman was; Sarai was fairly certain
that Mavis of Beachgate had left the city, either Called or fleeing southward
by ship, hoping to get farther from Aldagmor before the Calling could claim
her.

Luralla would know, though; she had the warlock called in and asked her to
take a message to the chairman of the Council. Those groups were the important
two, but for the sake of thoroughness, Lady Sarai considered the others.

Only a minority of theurgists had any connection with the Hierarchy of
Priests; Sarai wasn't sure whether that would have made them more or less
suspicious under other circumstances. As it was, though, Okko happened to be
the high priest, and Sarai simply couldn't take seriously the idea that he
might be behind some fiendish conspiracy.

Still, she did go so far as to question him briefly while a witch by the name
of Shala of the Green Eyes sat concealed in an adjoining room, watching for
lies or any sign of guilt. Shala had been hired almost at random, after a walk
down the western portion of Wizard Street—Sarai wanted to avoid using anyone
Okko might recognize or might have had any chance to subvert. Shala found no
evidence that Okko was concealing anything and assured Sarai that the old
theurgist was telling the truth when he swore he knew nothing about the
murders he hadn't told Lady Sarai.
Of course, there might be another organization of theurgists— but really,
theurgists committing murder? The gods didn't approve of that sort of thing.

That brought Sarai to the witches.

Witches had two organizations, segregated by sex—which made no sense that
Sarai could see, since she hadn't come across any differences between how
witchcraft worked for men and how it worked for women. Neither of them was
very structured—the Sisterhood generally chose their leaders by lot at erratic
intervals, while the Brotherhood elected them annually, and there was no
permanent hierarchy in either group. Between them, they included perhaps a
third of the thousand or so witches in the city. The Sisterhood was somewhat
larger than the Brotherhood—but then, Sarai had the impression that there were
more female witches than male.

Of the witches she had dealt with, Sarai knew at least one was a member of the
Sisterhood—Shirith of Ethshar, who had tried unsuccessfully to heal Lord
Kalthon. There were no annoying delays while meetings were arranged; Shirith
and her apprentice came when invited and met with Lady Sarai in the Great
Council Chamber that same evening.

Sarai had chosen the council chamber, rather than one of   the innumerable
smaller rooms in the palace, to impress upon the witches   just how important
this was—and also because the chamber gave an impression   of great privacy,
even while Okko would be listening from a concealed room   adjoining, and
Mer-eth of the Golden Door would be watching by means of   a scrying spell.

She dressed for the meeting in a nondescript tunic and skirt. She not only
didn't wear the impressive robes of the Minister of Justice—she had had a set
altered to fit her when first she found herself forced to act in her father's
place—but she dressed far more simply than was her wont, to add to the air of
secrecy.

The thought struck her as she straightened her skirt that she was probably
entitled to some sort of formal costume as Minister of Investigation; she had
never worried about it before, since it was not in the nature of the job to
make public appearances.

Perhaps this plain black skirt and dark blue tunic would serve. Her mouth
twisted in a semblance of a smile at the thought.

She could hear her father's labored breathing as she crossed to the door;
Kalthon the Younger was asleep in his chamber, but their father was awake,
lying on the couch—or at any rate, as awake as he ever was anymore.

She took a moment to kiss his brow, then left the apartments and hurried down
the corridor.

She found the two witches waiting in the council chamber, looking very small
and alone in the two chairs they occupied of the hundred or so that the room
held. Three red-kilted guards were standing watch, one at each door; Sarai
dismissed them. "Shirith," she said, when the doors had closed behind the
guards, "I'm so glad you could come."

The elder witch rose and curtsied. When she stood again she smiled wryly, and
said, "Perhaps, Lady Sarai, you have not yet realized just how unlikely any
citizen of Ethshar is to ignore a summons to the Palace from the Acting
Minister of Justice, especially one delivered by a member of the city guard in
full uniform, including sword."
Sarai had not thought of it in those terms. She had sent a soldier because he
was handy—most of the officials of the overlord's government used the city
guard for their errands outside the palace.

To an ordinary citizen, though . . .

Well, she saw Shirith's point. And perhaps it was just as well; she had wanted
to impress the witches with the severity of the situation, after all.

"Do you know why you're here?" Sarai asked. She knew the more skilled and
powerful witches could hear the thoughts in people's heads, if they tried, and
Shirith was undoubtedly skilled.

"Do you want me to?" Shirith countered. "Ah, I see you do, if only to save
time. I'm sorry, Lady Sarai, but I'm afraid that... oh."

She paused, then said, "The killings. Poor Kelder."

Sarai nodded.

"If you could tell me more, Lady Sarai..." Shirith began.

Lady Sarai explained quickly, well aware that Shirith was filling in missing
details with her witchcraft.

"I'm afraid," Shirith said at last, "that I can't help you. We in the
Sisterhood are naturally concerned, even though Kelder was obviously not one
of our members. I can attest that I am in no way involved in these killings,
nor is any member of the Sisterhood with whom I have spoken in the past month.
Your theurgist will confirm that I speak the truth; I don't know what the
wizard's spell will show, but if it tests veracity, then that, too, should
support me."

So much, Sarai thought, for secrecy.

"Well," Shirith said apologetically, "once I start listening to what lies
behind your words, I can't always help hearing more than you might want."

Sarai waved that away. "It doesn't matter," she said, "and I didn't really
suppose that the Sisterhood was behind the murders. Can you vouch for the
Brotherhood, as well?"

"Not as definitely," Shirith admitted, "but I can send their leaders to you
for questioning."

Sarai nodded. "That would be useful. Do you have any other suggestions?
Anything you would advise me to do to track down these killers who use both
wizardry and warlockry?"

Shirith shook her head. "No," she said, then added, "it's odd, that
combination; wizards and warlocks have distrusted each other since the Night
of Madness, and from what I've heard, warlockry fits better elsewhere."

"What do you mean?" Sarai asked. Then she remembered something Kelder had
said, when the two of them were studying Serem's corpse.

"Well," Shirith said, "it appears, from all I've heard, that witchcraft and
warlockry are much more closely related to each other than either one is to
wizardry." "I've heard that, too," Sarai admitted. "Do you know who you might
want to talk to?" Shirith suggested. "Teneria of Fishertown, from Ethshar of
the Spices. The word in the Sisterhood is that she's made some remarkable
discoveries about connections between witchcraft and warlockry— especially
remarkable, since she's still only a journeyman."

"Thank you," Sarai said, making a mental note of the name. "I'll do that."

In the three days that followed Sarai spoke to a four-man delegation from the
Brotherhood and removed that group from suspicion, as well. She sent a
messenger by sea to Ethshar of the Spices, to fetch this Teneria of
Fishertown. She had notices circulated to demonologists, sorcerers, and other
magicians of various kinds that she sought any information they could provide
about whoever was responsible for the recent murders.

But she received no reply from either the Council of Warlocks or the Wizards'
Guild, nor did she learn who had killed those men, women, and dogs.

CHAPTER 18

There had been no killings for three sixnights, but Sarai did not believe
anyone was safe. The conspirators, whoever they were, might just be lying low,
or perhaps the phase of the greater moon might be related, in which case the
next murder could occur at any moment.

And during this lull there had been some very curious break-ins. No one was
harmed, nothing stolen, but several magicians of different sorts, alerted by
Sarai's far-flung inquiries, had reported signs that they had been spied upon,
their workshops entered, their books read. What's more, the signs left by
these strange invasions had included traces of wizardry, warlockry, and even
witchcraft. This last had prompted further questioning of Shirith and several
other witches, but again, all swore to their innocence, and other magicians
said those oaths were truthful.

Sarai was convinced that these break-ins were the work of the murderous
conspiracy, but she still had no idea what the conspirators were up to.
Furthermore, she still had not met with the Council of Warlocks or the
representatives of the Wizards' Guild.

With all this going on, she really did not much care that Lord Tollern,
Minister of the Treasury, was not happy with her. Finding the killers and
unmasking the conspiracy was more important than money. Money was only worth
what it could buy, and when she hired magicians and sent ships to Ethshar of
the Spices and so forth, Sarai was buying information.

"That's all very well," Lord Tollern told her, "but you can't spend the city's
entire treasury on this."

"Why not?" Sarai demanded.

"Because we need it for other things, as well. Oh, I don't deny that this
conspiracy is dangerous, Lady Sarai, I don't deny it at all, not for a moment.
But it isn't the only danger that old Ederd has to worry about. What good will
it do to stop these mysterious magical murderers, if it allows common thieves
to run amok, or we let the walls fall into ruin, or the harbor silt up so that
no ships can dock?" "I'm not spending that much!" Sarai protested. "No,"
Tollern admitted, "but this isn't anything we've budgeted for, you see. My
dear, can't you find some way to settle this whole matter quickly?"

"How?" Sarai asked. "I'm doing the best I can, but I can't even get the
Wizards' Guild to talk to me."
"My dear Lady Sarai, you're Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of
Justice; surely you can order them to talk to you, in the name of our beloved
Ederd the Fourth. Even the Wizards' Guild would not be quick to refuse a
command from the overlord himself. Defy one of the triumvirs of the Hegemony?
That's a risky business, even for a magician."

Sarai hesitated. She knew the treasurer was technically correct, but she
hadn't dared to directly invoke the overlord's name before. Any power used too
often was power wasted, and she knew that Ederd did not take kindly to those
who called upon his authority too freely. Up until now, people had cooperated
willingly—or had been intimidated much more easily; as Shirith had pointed
out, most citizens did not care to argue with soldiers sent by one of the
government ministers. "I'll think about it," she replied.

The following day she sent not a lone messenger, but a squad commanded by a
lieutenant, to order the Council of Warlocks, in the name of Ederd, Overlord
of Ethshar, to wait upon the Minister of Investigation in the Great Council
Chamber, at a time to be mutually agreed upon.

The reply arrived that same evening; the meeting was held the following day.

She prepared for the meeting in her family's apartments, gathering her wits
and her notes, trying not to look at her father as he lay unconscious in his
bed. This time, acting in the overlord's name, there would be no pretense of
privacy or informality; she wore the attire of a Minister of Justice.

It occurred to her, as she made the turn into the broad marble passage that
led from the outer apartments into the central mass of the palace, that she
should have arranged for attendants to accompany her—when she entered the
justice chamber in her lather's place she was always preceded by Chanden the
bailiff and Okko the theurgist and a couple of guardsmen and followed by the
door guards. The overlord himself, when entering a room on official business,
might have a retinue of anywhere from a handful of bodyguards to a parade of a
hundred soldiers and officials. As Minister of Investigation, Sarai realized,
she was surely entitled to bring a couple of guards and her chief of staff,
Captain Tikri.

She couldn't very well bring Okko, since as before, he and Mereth were to spy
on the meeting, but some guards would have been a good idea.

Well, she wouldn't worry about it. She had put Tikri in charge of arranging
seating and keeping an eye on the warlocks, so he wouldn't be available in any
case.

When she reached the council chamber there were guards posted outside the
door—Tikri's work, of course. One stood on either side of the gilded archway;
each was a big man, in his best uniform of mustard yellow tunic and bright red
kilt, and each carried a gold-shod spear with a very nasty, practical-looking
barbed head. At the sight of Lady Sarai they snapped to attention and thumped
their heavy spears on the stone floor.

They did not, however, open the door; Sarai hesitated.

As she did, a small door in the side of the passage opened, and a servant in
the overlord's livery stepped out.

"Lady Sarai," he said, bowing low. "Just a moment, and we'll have your way
prepared."

Sarai blinked. Tikri had apparently been more thorough than she had expected.
"Is everyone here?" she asked.

The servant said, "We have twenty people here who have identified themselves
as the Council of Warlocks. That's all I know, my lady."

"Thank you," Sarai said. "What needs to be prepared, then?"

"You'll have to ask Captain Tikri, my lady." Before she could ask another
question she heard footsteps and turned to find a party approaching. Captain
Tikri was in the lead, with half a dozen soldiers in gleaming breastplates
marching at his heels, while two minor palace officials hurried alongside.

It appeared that even if she hadn't thought of providing an entourage, Tikri
had. "Are you ready, my lady?" Tikri asked. Sarai, smiling, nodded. Two
soldiers stepped forward and flung open the doors; one of the officials
stepped in and proclaimed loudly, "Stand and obey! Behold the Lady Sarai,
Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd the Fourth,
Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three
Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies and Defender of the Gods! Bow to the
overlord's chosen representative!"

He stepped aside, and two other soldiers marched in and up to the low dais at
the far end. Lady Sarai, picking up her cue, followed them; behind her came
the other official, Tikri, and the two remaining guards.

The two who had opened the doors now closed them, from the inside, and took up
positions as guards, while the official who had announced her hurried around
the side of the room.

Sarai walked slowly up the aisle, keeping her eyes straight ahead, but she
still got a good look at her audience.

All of them wore the monochromatic robes and peculiar hats that had somehow
become the accepted occupational garb for magicians of every sort; for most of
them, the single color was black, but she saw one in red velvet, one in dark
green, and two in shades of blue. There were old men and youths, ancient
crones and handsome young women. She saw a few familiar faces, but mostly
strange ones.

And all of them bowed, as ordered. Lord Tollem had been right; they were
cowed.

At least, for the moment.

She reached the dais and made her way to the center; there she turned and
faced the crowd, waiting while her entourage took up positions around her.

The official who had announced her had now made his way around the room to one
of the front corners; he bellowed, "By courtesy of the Lady Sarai, you may be
seated!"

It wasn't really very different from presiding over her father's court, once
she got started—right down to listening to feeble excuses.

"I swear, my lady, we had every intention of meeting with you," the chairman
insisted—Vengar the Warlock, he called himself, and Sarai did not recall ever
meeting him or hearing his name before this. "It was simply a matter of
logistics; there are twenty of us, after all, each with his or her own
schedule, each with his or her own concerns, and coordinating such a meeting .
. ."He didn't finish the sentence; instead, he said, "We had not realized the
importance you attached to it. We have nothing to tell you as a group that we
have not told your agents separately; none of us are involved in these
killings; and at any rate, the deaths have stopped, have they not?" He glanced
uneasily at the door guards, and asked, "Or have there been others we were not
informed of?"

"There have been none of these killings reported for three sixnights," Sarai
confirmed. "However, there could be more at any time, and the overlord's
government cannot tolerate such things."

"Of course," Vengar agreed. "But what has this to do with us? We are no part
of Lord Ederd's government."

"No," Sarai agreed, "but at least one of your people, a warlock, is involved
in the killings."

"Who says so?" a younger warlock demanded—Sirinita of somewhere, Sarai thought
her name was.

"Kelder of Quarter Street," Sarai replied. "A first-rate witch who was aiding
me in my investigations. He assured me that both wizardry and warlockry were
involved."

"Why doesn't he speak for himself?" Sirinita called angrily.

"Because he's dead," Sarai answered, just as angrily. "He was the last
victim—that we know of."

"How convenient!" Sirinita replied, her voice dripping sarcasm.

This disrespect was too much for some of the other warlocks, provoking a
shocked murmur from several of them. "My apologies, Lady Sarai," Vengar said,
throwing a furious glance at Sirinita. "You are sure of this? A warlock was
involved in the killings?"

"Quite sure," Sarai replied.

Vengar frowned. "I regret to say," he said, "that we are still unable to help
you. Ours is purely a physical magic; we have no way to read the thoughts or
memories of other warlocks, and we do not spy on each other. It may well be
that one or more warlocks participated in these crimes; it may even be that
those participants were among the warlocks of Ethshar of the Sands, and as
such nominally subject to this council. Still, we have no knowledge of them,
nor any means of obtaining such knowledge."

"You're certain of that?" Sarai asked.

"I swear it," Vengar answered.

"You all say so? You all swear it?"

There was a general mutter of agreement, but Sarai was not satisfied; she went
through the entire score, one by one. All gave their oaths that they knew
nothing about the murders that Sarai did not.

Finally, the vows complete, Sarai announced, "I accept your word. Still, you
claim to represent the warlocks of this city, and that means that you are
partially responsible for them, as well. I therefore charge you all to tell me
at once if you learn anything more, and further, I hereby require, in the
overlord's name, that if at any point in this investigation 1 call upon the
services of the Council of Warlocks, that those services will be forthcoming.
It doesn't have to be any of you who does what I ask—send your journeymen,
your apprentices, whoever you please, but when I call, I expect cooperation."
This speech was composed on the spur of the moment; she was up against a
magically gifted multiple murderer, who might reasonably be expected to be
very dangerous. Knowing that she could call on several powerful warlocks would
be reassuring. "Is that clear?" she asked.

Sirinita spoke up again. "Who are you," she demanded, "to give orders to the
Council of Warlocks?"

"I," Sarah answered, "am Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of
Justice to Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of the
Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies—which means that
I have those holy armies, which is to say the city guard, at my disposal."

"You seek to frighten us with mere soldiers?" Sirinita sneered.

"Not exactly," Sarai said. "I hope to frighten you with the knowledge that if
you defy me, you'll be forced to use your warlockry over and over to defend
yourselves for as long as you stay in this city—and we all know what happens
when a warlock uses a little too much of his magic, don't we? The twenty of
you are the most powerful warlocks in the city—but you and I realize what most
people do not, that that also makes you the twenty most vulnerable to the
Calling. True, you'll easily be able to defeat a dozen guardsmen apiece, but I
have several thousand soldiers I can send and send and send, until the Calling
does my work for me. And there's nothing south of here but ocean; if you try
to flee farther from Aldagmor, that means the Small Kingdoms far to the east,
or the Pirate Towns to the west—is that really what you want?"

She stared questioningly at them; no one answered.

After a moment of silence, Sarai said, "I don't like making threats, you know;
I'm not trying to make enemies of you, any of you. I'm just explaining that I
do know who and what you are, and that I will have your cooperation, one way
or another. This investigation is very, very important to me."

There was a reluctant mutter of acknowledgment.

With that, Sarai dismissed eighteen of the warlocks, but asked Vengar and
Sirinita to stay for a moment.

"Sirinita," she said in a low voice, when the others had gone, "I don't know
why you seem so displeased that the overlord's government should require the
cooperation of the Council of Warlocks. Is there some personal issue at stake
here?"

Sirinita, a magnificent creature who looked scarcely older man Sarai but far
more powerful, and who stood several inches taller, peered down her nose at
the noblewoman. "I became a warlock," she said, "because I was tired of being
told what I could and couldn't do. I worked my way up to the Council at an
earlier age than anyone else for the same reason. And I still don't like it."

Sarai sighed. "I will keep mat in mind, then." She dismissed them both; she
had only wanted Vengar as a witness and restraint on Sirinita, should she
prove dangerous.

Then, for several minutes, she sat on the edge of the dais, thinking.

She had completely forgotten her entourage until Captain Tikri cleared his
throat. She looked up.

"Yes? "she asked.

"My lady," Tikri said,"one of my men reports that a stranger wishes to speak
with you."

Sarai blinked up at nun. "What sort of a stranger?"

Tikri shrugged. "He's dressed as a magician," he said. "That's all we know.
That, and that he knew where to find you."

"Send him in," Sarai said, puzzled.

The moment she spoke, the door at the back of the council chamber opened, and
a figure in white appeared. Sarai watched silently as he approached.

He was a man of medium height, heavily built, wearing a robe of fine white
linen; a hood hid any hair, and his weathered face was clean-shaven—Sarai
could not remember ever before seeing a man so obviously mature without so
much as a mustache.

He stopped a few feet away, looking down at her. He did not bow.

"I am Abran of Demerchan," he announced. Sarai stared silently up at him.

"It has come to the attention of our organization, Lady Sarai," Abran said,
speaking slowly and clearly, as if he were reciting a prepared speech in a
language not his own, "that you suspect we are responsible for a series of
unnatural deaths that have taken place in this city. I am here on behalf of
Demerchan to address this suspicion." "Go on," Sarai told him.

Abran nodded, and said, "You know of Demerchan as a cult of assassins; that
description is inadequate, at best, but it is true that at times we have slain
outsiders. However, we have not struck down any of those whose slayer you
seek. I swear, by my name and by all the gods, that Demerchan had no part in
the deaths of Inza the Apprentice, Captain Deru of the Guard, Athaniel the
Theurgist, Karitha of the East End, Serem the Wise, or Kelder of Quarter
Street. If you doubt me, consider that Demerchan has existed for
centuries—why, then, should we suddenly kill these, and in this new and
noticeable way?"

"Any number of possible reasons," Sarai answered, a little surprised by her
own courage hi answering this intimidating figure. "Someone could have hired
you, for example."

"Butnonedid," the spokesman for Demerchan replied. "You have your concealed
magicians who can tell truth from falsehood; they will tell you I speak the
truth."

Sarai was rather annoyed by this; what was the point of putting Okko in
another room if everyone knew he was there? "There are spells that can fool
any magician," she remarked.

"I need no such spells," Abran insisted. "I promise you, if we of Demerchan
had sought to remove these people, none of you would ever know that then"
deaths had not been mere happenstance and coincidence. We are not so obvious
as this new power that stalks your city; our ways are subtle and various."

"That's what you claim," Sarai said.
For the first time, Abran allowed himself to appear visibly annoyed.

"Yes," he said, "that is what we claim, and we make this claim because we know
it to be true. Why would we want to slay these people? None of them had
troubled us; indeed, we do not trouble ourselves with Ethshar of the Sands at
all, in the normal course of events. Our interests lie farther east."

"Maybe you're extending those interests," Tikri suggested from behind him.
"Things have been pretty stirred up in the Small Kingdoms lately—that's where
you people operate, isn't it? But the Empire of Vond has been changing things
..."

"Even if we were troubled by Vond, which we are not, why would Demerchan want
anything to do with Ethshar of the Sands?" Abran asked. "I don't know," Sarai
admitted.

"Lady Sarai," Tikri said, "regardless of whether he's responsible for these
mysterious deaths, hasn't this man just admitted that he's part of a
conspiracy of murderers?"

Sarai, somewhat startled, realized that Abran had, indeed, done just that. She
nodded to Tikri, who started forward.

Before the captain could touch the white-robed figure, however, Abran raised
his hands, spoke a single strange word, and vanished.

"Damn," Tikri said, stopping short. Sarai bit her lip. This was   magic, of
course. Well, she had some of that available herself, just now.   "Okko!
Mereth!" she called. "Did you see where Abran went? Is he still   here,
invisible?" "Keep the doors closed!" Tikri called. Okko's voice   sounded from
his hiding place. "I find no trace of him."

And no trace was ever found—a search of the room turned up nothing, a hastily
summoned witch could detect no sign that anyone fitting Abran's description
had ever been hi the Great Council Chamber. A canvass of the inns failed to
locate any such visiting foreigner.

Okko and Mereth agreed that he had been there, however, and Okko said that
there had been no sign at any time in the conversation that Abran was lying.

When Sarai finally retired, late that night, she was unsure just what she had
seen and spoken to, unsure whether to believe what he had told her—but all in
all, she thought that he was most likely just what he said he was, that he had
spoken the simple truth, and departed by means of a prepared spell of some
sort. If so, then Demerchan was not responsible, nor, she believed, were any
of the other magicians' groups—except, perhaps, the Wizards' Guild.


CHAPTER 19

Teneria of Fishertown arrived the next day, a thin, solemn young woman Sarai
judged to be not yet twenty.

Sarai had intended to arrange a meeting with representatives of the Wizards'
Guild, rather as she had with the Council of Warlocks, but the witch's arrival
distracted her from that; instead, she settled down in Captain Tikri's office
and chatted with Teneria about the connections and differences between
witchcraft and warlockry—or tried to.
"I understand you're a witch, but that you're supposed to be expert on the
other sorts of magicians," Sarai said.

Teneria shook her head. "Not all magicians, my lady. It just happens that a
little over a year ago I found myself in the company of a warlock for a time,
and the two of us discovered some interesting things about our two varieties
of magic. Where most magicks conflict one with another, we found that we could
make ours work together, and thereby become more than the sum of their parts.
So since then I've tried to study the interactions between witchcraft and the
other magicks—but I haven't learned much, yet. I've been too busy earning a
living and living my life."

Sarai nodded. "What became of the warlock, then?"

Teneria hesitated. "He went to Aldagmor," she said at last.

Sarai blinked.

"Went to Aldagmor?" Captain Tikri asked. "How do you mean . . . ?"

Teneria shrugged, and Sarai waved Tikri to silence. "Went to Aldagmor" surely
meant that he was drawn by the Calling, and was gone forever; no warlock ever
returned from Aldagmor. If Teneria's interest in him had been personal, as
well as professional, the subject was probably a painful one, and it didn't
seem relevant to the matter at hand.

The conversation continued, and the two were just getting comfortable with one
another when a knock sounded on the office door.

Tikri answered it, as Sarai and Teneria watched. They heard a woman's voice
say, "Hello, Captain; I wasn't sure you were in, your door isn't usually
closed."

Sarai recognized the voice. "That's Mereth of the Golden Door," she told
Teneria. "She's a wizard specializing in divinations."

"What can I do for you, wizard?" Tikri asked.

"I just wanted to be sure that Lady Sarai wouldn't be needing me today,"
Mereth replied. "I have a meeting to go to . . ." . Tikri glanced at Lady
Sarai, who frowned. What sort of a meeting was Mereth talking about? "Bring
her in," she told the captain.

Tikri opened the door and motioned for Mereth to enter; she stepped in, looked
around the cluttered little room, and spotted Sarai and Teneria. Teneria rose
from her chair.

"Oh, hello, Lady Sarai," she said cheerfully.

"Good morning, Mereth," Sarai answered. "I'd like you to meet Teneria of
Fishertown; she's a witch who will be helping us investigate the murders. From
Ethshar of the Spices."

"Oh," Mereth said, startled. "You're bringing in foreign advisers, too?"

"Yes, I thought . . ." Sarai stopped hi midsentence. Something about the way
Mereth had phrased her question had belatedly caught her attention. "What do
you mean, 'too'?" she asked.

Mereth looked flustered. "Well, I mean the Wizards' Guild has been sending for
experts as part of their investigations— there's a wizard from the Small
Kingdoms called Tobas of Telven who's due to arrive any day now, and a witch
who works with him named Karanissa of the Mountains."

"A witch?" Sarai asked. A witch working with a wizard? She glanced at Teneria.

Mereth shrugged. "That's what I heard. And they're trying to find Fendel the
Great: they hope they can convince him to come out of retirement..."

Sarai started; even before she became Minister of Investigation and began
seriously studying magic, she had heard of Fen-del the Great. She had thought
he was long dead. "Wait a minute," Sarai said. "What do they want with these
people? What do you mean, 'their investigations'?"

"Well, I mean their investigation of the murders, of course, Lady Sarai. After
all, it involves wizards—someone murdered a Guildmaster, and that means that
everyone responsible must die as quickly and horribly as possible, and then
there's the fact that whoever did it used wizardry, and the Guild doesn't
allow anyone to use wizardry except real wizards, and besides, the magic
involved might be an entirely new spell, and the Guild ..." "And they didn 't
tell me!" Sarai shouted. Mereth, cowed, blinking at her silently. "What's this
meeting you were going to?" Sarai demanded. "Is it connected with this?"

Mereth nodded. "I'm supposed to meet the Guildmasters at the Cap and Dagger
and tell them what I know from helping you," she explained timidly.
"Ordinarily I suppose they'd use the Guildhouse, but they ..." "When?" Sarai
demanded. "Noon."

"Where is this Cap and Dagger? That's an inn?" Mereth nodded. "On Gate Street,
between Wizard and Arena," she said.

"Good," Sarai said, rising from her chair. "Captain Tikri, I want as many
guardsmen as you can find to accompany me; Teneria, I would appreciate it if
you would join us. Mereth, I am going with you to this meeting." "I don't..."
Mereth began uncertainly. "I didn't ask," Sarai snapped.

An hour later, as noon approached, Mereth walked up Gate Street with a burly
soldier on either side; immediately behind her came Sarai and Teneria, and
following the two of them came Captain Tikri at the head of three dozen
uniformed men. The normal midday traffic stepped aside as this formidable
party approached, and they arrived unhindered at the door of a large and
elegant inn, where a signboard above the door displayed a silver dagger across
a red-and-gold wizard's cap.

At Sarai's order, soldiers flung open the door of the inn and marched in with
swords drawn.

Close behind them, Sarai marched into the common room and found a dozen
astonished men and women in magician's robes looking up at this unexpected
intrusion. She saw Algarin of Longwall, Heremon the Mage, and a few other
familiar faces among them.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded an elderly man Sarai recognized as
Telurinon, the senior Guildmaster. "You're interrupting a private gathering,
young woman."

Sarai announced, "Guildmaster Telurinon, you will address me properly. I am
Lady Sarai, Acting Minister of Justice, and you are all under suspicion of
treason."
That created a stir, during which Sarai stepped into the room and allowed
Mereth, Teneria, Tikri, and the other soldiers to enter, crowding the
good-sized room.

"What are you talking about?" lelurinon demanded. A soldier thrust the point
of his sword toward the wizard's throat, and Telurinon belatedly and
begrudgingly added, "My lady."

"I am talking about what appears to be deliberate subversion of the
criminal-justice system of this city," Sarai explained. "You wizards have been
withholding information from the Minister of Investigation, refusing to speak
with her, while using undue influence on her employees to obtain the results
of her own efforts."

"Aren't you the Minister of Investigation?" someone asked. Sarai nodded.
"That's right," she said, "but right now I'm here as Minister of Justice—since
you all chose to ignore my invitations as Minister of Investigation."

"What's going on?" a white-haired wizard asked. "I thought we were all here
because some rogue was using wizardry without our leave; I want no part of
treason."

"You are all here," Sarai said, "because someone, or some group, is
responsible for killing half a dozen innocent citizens of Ethshar, most of
them magicians. It's my belief that this is the work of some sort of cult or
conspiracy, one that is based on magic, and because of that I formally
requested the assistance of the Wizards' Guild to help me find those guilty of
these crimes, so that they may be stopped. My requests were ignored."

"Why don't you find them yourself?" Algarin shouted. "You claim to be the
overlord's investigator—investigate it yourself, then!"

"I have," Sarai replied angrily.

"From what I've heard so far, you've hired a bunch of magicians to
investigate, you haven't done anything yourself!"

"And just what would you suggest I do?" Sarai demanded.

"I don't know," Algarin replied. "I'm a wizard, and while I may have worked
for your father a few times, I don't pretend to be an investigator!"

"Then don't tell me how to do my job," Sarai retorted. "I've investigated
this. We've questioned everyone connected with the victims, everyone who was
involved; we've looked at all the evidence we can find."

"Ha! You're just taking credit for work that was done by magicians—wizards,
mostly!"

"I'm not taking credit for anything," Sarai answered. "There's no credit to
take—we haven't caught the people behind these killings. And that's why I'm
asking everyone here to help, to tell me anything you can that might help."
"Why should we?"

"Why shouldn't you?" Sarai put her hands to her hips and shouted angrily,
"This conspiracy, if that's what it is, killed one of your own Guildmasters!
Don't you want Serem the Wise avenged? Aren't you worried that you might be
next? Or with all this talk about credit, are you worried that wizards might
get the blame for these killings? It's wizardry that's at the heart of them,
as far as we can determine—is the Guild covering something up?"
"You 're the one who's covering up!" the wizard shouted back. " You 're the
one who isn't getting her job done! And it's because it's magicians getting
killed, because you want the Wizards' Guild to take the blame!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" another wizard asked, before Sarai
could reply.

"It's true!" Algarin insisted. "She's jealous of us all, jealous of our magic!
We solve far more crimes with our spells than she does with her so-called
investigations, and she's jealous!"

Telurinon, who had stood silently during this argument, spoke again. "I
believe I see the reason for this baseless charge of treason. She's Lord
Kalthon's daughter; he's ill, probably dying, and we've refused to heal
him—the Guild does not heal aristocrats, as you all know, and perhaps Lady
Sarai resents that. I've heard these nobles claim we're all playing at being
gods and getting above ourselves when we make such rules; maybe the lady would
like to put us back in our place."

Captain Tikri's ringers were closed on the hilt of his sword, but Sarai put
out a hand and stopped him before he could draw it. "No violence," she
whispered, "not with so much magic here."

With Lady Sarai thus distracted for a moment, Mereth tried to speak in her
defense; other voices rose in protest against

Telurinon's words as well, and in seconds the entire room was a chaos of
shouting and arguing voices. Fists waved in the air; none, so far, had been
aimed at anyone.

"You have no right to blame us because you can't find the people responsible!"
someone shouted at Sarai.

"I'm not blaming you!" Sarai shouted back. "I'm just asking you to help me
find them!"

She let the bickering continue for a moment longer, but when it showed no sign
of reaching any conclusion, Sarai shouted over the hubbub, "Guildmaster
Telurinon! Whatevermy reasons, the charge stands and requires an answer—why
did you refuse my request for a meeting and the Guild's assistance in this?"

Telurinon turned back to face her, abandoning his argument with other
Guildmasters.

"Because, my lady," he said, "this is a matter that the Wizards' Guild wishes
to handle on its own. Someone has killed a Guildmaster; we cannot allow that
person to be brought before the overlord's courts, or thrown in the overlord's
dungeon— whoever it is must die, as horribly and publicly as possible, as a
direct result of our Guild's actions."

"Well, damn it," Lady Sarai shouted, "why didn't you meet with me and soy so?"

The argument died away, as the wizards turned to listen.

"I have no problem with recognizing the Guild's claim to vengeance," Sarai
said. "The overlord's government makes no claims to priority in these matters.
I would be delighted to arrange terms whereby, in exchange for the Guild's
cooperation, I would, as Acting Minister of Justice, turn the guilty parties
over to the Guild for execution."
Telurinon blinked stupidly at her.

"Well, there, Telurinon," Heremon called. "I told you you were being hasty."
Several other voices murmured agreement.

"You barged in here, accused us of treason ..." Telurinon began.

"I had to get your attention," Sarai retorted. "You were ignoring me."

"You brought all these soldiers ..."

"I can send them away. If you'll agree that we'll   all sit down together and
pool our information, and that henceforth I am to   be kept informed of
everything the Guild learns about this matter and   every action it takes
concerning it, then I'll send the soldiers away."   She smiled at Telurinon.
"What do you say, Guildmas-ter?"

Telurinon turned helplessly to the other wizards; a moment later, with
Telurinon abstaining and only Algarin dissenting, they had agreed to do as
Sarai suggested.

Swords were sheathed and the soldiers dismissed, all save Captain Tikri and
two others who remained as Sarai's assistant and bodyguards. Mereth, Sarai,
Teneria, and Tikri found seats, and the meeting began.

The discussion started well enough; Sarai gave an account of the known crimes
to date and let Mereth report on what her spells had shown her. Then Sarai
spoke again, mentioning that both wizardry and warlockry had been involved.

"We were aware of that, my lady," Telurinon said chidingly. Sarai ignored him
and recounted the other meetings she had held with Okko and the witches and
warlocks; Mereth confirmed what she said. The wizards seemed to be especially
interested in the evidence that the Council of Warlocks knew nothing about the
killings and had no magic that could help.

For their part, the wizards reported that they knew little about the actual
killings beyond the fact that the murders had involved magic. A necromancer by
the name of Thengor reported that his own studies indicated no theurgical or
demonological involvement and that the souls of the victims were nowhere in
the World, while some of the others expressed doubts about the accuracy of any
necromantic reports.

"We did discover," Heremon said, when Thengor had finished, "that whatever
magic was involved is a sort of negative wizardry—it appeared to counteract
any wizardry used in its presence. Guildmaster Serem did not come by his
cognomen 'the Wise' entirely without earning it; while he was notoriously
careless about the usual wards and warning spells, he had cast several
personal protective spells upon himself. The murderer's weapon seems to have
instantaneously nullified all of them when it struck."

That was interesting, and something Sarai had not known; she leaned forward
attentively.

"That's why we sent for Tobas," Algarin said.

Sarai looked at him questioningly, but it was Heremon who explained,"Tobas of
Telven is a young wizard who has made a
specialty of the study of counterwizardries, of spells that prevent other
spells from functioning. He lives in the Small Kingdoms, but Guildmaster
Telurinon has invited him to join us here in Ethshar, to see if he can tell us
anything about the magic this killer uses."

Sarai nodded.

That seemed to conclude the exchange of information; the Guild had gotten no
further in actually determining the identity of the killers than Sarai had.
Accordingly, Sarai and Telurinon threw the meeting open to speculation.

"Lady Sarai, you said it might be a cult," a woman asked. "I know what Thengor
told us, but do you think it might be demonologists after all? Maybe it's the
demons themselves using the other magicks—they can do that, can't they?"

"What kind of a cult?" another voice demanded.

"I don't know," Sarai replied. "A cult of assassins, maybe ..."

"Demerchan!" The name was repeated by half a dozen voices.

"No," Sarai said, "I don't think so." She described her unexpected visit from
Abran of Demerchan. Mereth confirmed her account.

"Maybe it's the Empire of Vond that's behind the killings," a woman suggested.
"Wasn't Vond himself supposed to be some sort of superwarlock?"

"Call in the Vondish ambassador, Lady Sarai! Demand an explanation!"

"No, it's Demerchan!"

Several voices chimed in with their opinions, and for a moment, chaos reigned.

"What could Vond hope to gain by killing those six people?" "Fear!"

"Magic!"

"They knew too much!" "It's a sacrifice to a demon!"

"Not Demerchan, Vond! Vond is doing it to disrupt and weaken the Hegemony!"

"Demerchan is killing them to prepare the way to take over the city!"

"It's a conspiracy that's trying to overthrow the overlord!"

The discussion deteriorated into several small arguments, and Sarai prepared
to take her leave; she had made her point and
learned about as much as she could reasonably expect to learn.

And while the wizards argued and Lady Sarai straightened her skirt, Tabaea the
Thief crouched in the shadows a few yards away at the top of the staircase,
safely out of sight, listening.

Learning about this meeting had been easy; two different wizards had mentioned
it in her hearing as she spied on them. Getting in to eavesdrop, however, had
been more difficult. She had thought about trying to slip in under some false
identity, perhaps as one of the inn's maids, but had lost her nerve, and
instead settled for breaking in through an attic window and hiding at the top
of the stairs.

She had been late in arriving and had fled temporarily when all the soldiers
marched in, but even when she abandoned her post in the shadows, Tabaea had
the ears of a cat—or rather, several cats, and a bird, and several dogs. She
had missed some of the discussion and couldn't see what going on from her
chosen place of concealment, but she heard most of it.

They were blaming the Empire of Vond for the killings, which was crazy—that
was way off at the other end of the World, wasn't it? And they were blaming
the cult of Demerchan, whatever that was. They were blaming demonologists, and
the Council of Warlocks, and even each other. They were blaming Lady Sarai for
not catching the killer. They were blaming demons and monsters and just about
everything except the Northern Empire. Someone even suggested that spriggans,
those squeaky little green creatures like the one that had startled her in
Serem's house so long ago, were not the harmless little nuisances they
appeared to be, but diabolical killers working under the direction of some
renegade archimage.

Tabaea smiled broadly at that. Spriggans, killing people? The idea of
spriggans as deliberate murderers was completely absurd.

Lady Sarai was leaving, and someone named Teneria of Fish-ertown was going
with her. Teneria had not said much of anything, but Tabaea had heard someone
explain that she was a witch who knew about ways witchcraft and warlockry were
related.

Tabaea wished Teneria had spoken up more. After all, Tabaea had both the
warlock talent and some witch's skills and would have liked learning more
about them.

Not that she was still as ignorant as she had been when she began. She had
listened to warlocks and witches as they talked among themselves and as they
lectured their apprentices. She knew that warlockry came down to two
abilities, the ability to move things without touching them and the ability to
create or remove heat and that everything else was just applications of those.
She knew that warlocks had infinite power available and that they drew on a
mysterious source somewhere in the wilderness of southern Aldagmor, far to the
northeast. She knew about the Calling—she didn't know what it was, nobody did,
but she knew that any warlock who used too much power was irresistibly drawn
to the mysterious source of that power and never seen again. She knew that the
first warning of the Call would be nightmares, and she had sworn that if she
ever again had a nightmare she would give up warlockry.

As for witchcraft, that drew its power from the witch's heart and belly, which
was why witches were so limited in what they could do. A witch could die of
exhaustion doing tasks a warlock or wizard would find easy. Witches,
therefore, had learned subtlety, had learned to use knowledge more than
power—but Tabaea had only the power and not the knowledge, and she wasn't sure
she had the patience to learn.

It did occur to her that thanks to the Black Dagger, she surely had more raw
strength in her heart and gut than any other witch who had ever lived; still,
she was not sure of how to use it. She wasn't really sure how to use any of
her stolen skills and strengths, though she was learning.

Tabaea found it very amusing mat the magicians all thought she was a
conspiracy, rather than an individual; she giggled quietly into the palm of
her hand. Little Tabaea the Thief, a World-spanning conspiracy of evil?

Besides, she wasn't evil, not really; she just wanted her share of the good
things in life. She wanted to be on top, instead of on the bottom.

One of the wizards had suggested that the conspirators intended to overthrow
the overlord and take over the city. Tabaea hadn 't thought of that.

Overthrow the overlord? Rule Ethshar of the Sands? She liked that idea. She
liked it very much indeed. The entire city at her beck and call? Servants to
fulfill her every whim? Her choice of the baubles and pretties on Luxury
Street, or of the handsome men of Morningside? What a lovely thought—Tabaea
the First, Overlord of Ethshar!

No, not overlord—that wasn't enough. The overlord ruled as part of the
triumvirate and as first among the lords; she wanted to rule on her own, like
the monarchs in the Small Kingdoms. Rather than overlord, she would be queen!
Queen of Ethshar!

And why stop with the city? Why not conquer the entire World and be empress?
She was not giggling anymore; she was starting to take the idea seriously. Why
not?

Well, because she was just one woman, that was why. She had her magical
powers, of course—she was stronger, more powerful than anyone. She knew, from
her eavesdropping and some careful experimentation, that most magic could not
work against her: The Black Dagger seemed to nullify any wizardry; she had
warlockry of her own, and the one thing a warlock's power couldn't seem to
touch was another warlock; witchcraft could not directly defeat her because
she was stronger than any other witch; theurgy was inherently nonviolent and
therefore could not harm her.

Sorcery was still an unknown, though; demonology and some of the minor arts
were mysteries, too. And she was not at all sure what would happen if someone
managed to get at her with an ordinary weapon. It was not likely that anyone
ever could, given ner stolen senses and strength and speed—but on the other
hand, she still had to sleep sometimes.

But who had to know any of that?

Conquer the city . . .

She would, she decided, have to think this over very carefully indeed.

Moving as silently as a cat, she hurried away, back to the window she had left
open, and then out to the open air.

CHAPTER 20

Sarai sat dejectedly in Captain Tikri's office. She had spent the day taking
Teneria the witch and Luralla the warlock to the scenes of the various
murders, hoping that Teneria might be able to leam something useful with her
unique understanding of how witchcraft and warlockry were related; Luralla had
been along more as a power source for Teneria than anything else. The net
result was nothing; Teneria could do no more than confirm what other witches
had already learned. Wizardry and warlockry had been used, and the murderer
had left no psychic traces.

Sarai gathered from   Teneria that this last was unusual, but just what it meant
was not clear. Some   witches could choose not to leave traces; warlocks often
left no traces, but   did not appear to have any voluntary control over it; some
spells that wizards   used could hide or erase traces. Which of those applied
here, Teneria could   not say.

The witch was off to her room in the palace now, to refresh herself a little,
and Luralla had gone home, leaving Sarai and Tikri in the office. A spriggan
had followed them back to the palace; Sarai shooed it away with a shove of her
toe, and the little creature backed away, but did not leave the room.

"I hate this," she muttered to herself. "I should be tending my father, or
listening to his cases for him. There must be a sixnight's backlog by now."

"Then why don't you go handle some of them?" Captain Tikri asked from behind
her. She turned, startled. "I couldn't help hearing," he said, not very
apologetically at all.

"That's all right," she said. "I should go—but I couldn't concentrate on it."

"You might want to try, though—a distraction might help clear your thoughts on
this whole mess."

Sarai stared at Tikri for a moment, then nodded. "Maybe you're right," she
said. "I should ..."

"Excuse me," an unfamiliar voice said.

Startled, Sarai turned around and found a small man in a nondescript brown
tunic and breeches standing in the doorway.

"Yes? "she asked.

"I'm Kelder of Tazmor," the man said, speaking with a curious accent. "I got
your message."

Sarai paused to gather her wits somewhat before she asked, "What message?" The
accent, she realized, was Sardironese.

"Ah . . . you are Lady Sarai, aren't you?" Kelder asked.

"Yes, I am," Sarai admitted. "But I still ..."

"You sent messengers to Sardiron," the little man said,"asking for help in
solving a series of murders—didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, that message," Sarai said. "Of course. And you ... ?"

"I'm a sorcerer," Kelder explained. "A forensic sorcerer. When I got your
message I came south as quickly as I could." "Oh, I see; and you've just
arrived? Do you need a place to stay? I'm sure a room . . ."

"No, no," Kelder assured her. "I have a very comfortable room at an inn out by
Grandgate; I arrived in the city several days ago."

"Oh. And you've been seeing the city?" Sarai asked. Kelder nodded. "You might
say that, Lady Sarai. You see, I've been investigating these murders
independently—I didn't want to allow myself to be influenced by any
preconceived notions you might have. This is the sort of study where my
specialty can really shine, Lady Sarai. I think that the use of forensic
sorcery has been shamefully neglected in Ethshar, not just in this city, but
throughout the entire Hegemony. To the best of my knowledge, you haven't
consulted any sorcerers on this case:" "Forensic sorcery?" She glanced at
Tikri, who shrugged. "I didn't know there was such a thing."

"It's rather a neglected field," Kelder admitted. "I did talk to sorcerers,
you know," Sarai said. "None of them were able to help."
Kelder shrugged. "Ethsharitic sorcerers," he said scornfully. "Amateurs."

"And you're a professional?" Tikri demanded. "I like to think so," Kelder
said, a trifle smugly. "I've been studying forensic sorcery ever since I was
an apprentice. In general, Sardironese sorcery is considerably more advanced
than anything you have here."

"The Northern taint," Tikri remarked. "Yes, exactly," Kelder agreed, ignoring
the captain's insulting tone. "The Baronies of Sardiron, and especially my
homeland of Tazmor, were part of the Northern Empire throughout the Great War.
Thanks to the relics of the Empire, we have far more to work with than you
Southerners."

"So you've come south to show us how it's done?" Tikri suggested
sarcastically.

"No," Kelder said, still unoflended. "I was at Sardiron of the Waters when
Lady Sarai's messengers arrived, looking for information about cults or
conspiracies, maybe involving surviving Northerners, and I thought I might be
able to help." Tikri glanced at Sarai. "You thought we might be dealing with
Northerners? My lady, they've all been dead for two hundred years!"

Sarai shrugged. "We think they've all been dead for two hundred years," she
said. "The World is a big place." "Oh, I think they have," Kelder said. "So,
sorcerer," Tikri said, "you know something about cults and conspiracies?"

"No," Kelder said, "but I know forensic sorcery. So I came here and studied
the places where the killings occurred—I confess, it wasn't until I followed
you and those other two women today that I was sure I had located them all.
And of course, I was too late to study the bodies, unfortunately."

Sarai looked at him with renewed interest. The funny little man with the
northern accent was full of surprises. "You followed us?" she asked. The
sorcerer nodded.

"Do you think you learned something?" she asked. "Yes, my lady," he said.

"And what might that be?" Tikri asked. "Was sorcery involved in these crimes?"

"Not that I know of," Kelder said, "but that doesn't mean very much. Sorcery
doesn't always leave traces. But I did learn that there were four people who
had, prior to today, been in each room where a person was murdered." "Four?"
Sarai stared. "So it was a conspiracy . . ." "Yes, four, my lady, two men and
two women, but it was not necessarily a conspiracy. I could not determine the
exact times that these people were there, only that they had been. And I have
identified one of the four as the final victim, the witch Kelder of Quarter
Street—I assume that he visited the rooms in the course of investigating the
crimes. One or more of the others might have been legitimate visitors as well,
perhaps even among the other investigators. Should all three prove to have
been there for other reasons, then perhaps that will prove that there was more
than one murderer. Have your investigations found anyone who visited all those
places?" Sarai blinked. "Well, I did, after the killings." "Yes, of course,"
Kelder agreed, "I should have expected that. Then I assume one of the two
women was yourself—might I test that hypothesis, please?" "How?" "With this
talisman." He drew a flat silver object from inside
his tunic and held it out. A circle of milky crystal was set into the center
of a metal oblong roughly the size of Captain Tikri's hand. "If you would be
so kind as to touch your fingertip to the white disk ..."

Sarai glanced at Captain Tikri, who shrugged. Then she reached out and touched
the crystal.

"Thank you. And do you perhaps ..."

"I was in all of them," Tikri interrupted.

"Ah. Then could you . . . ?" Kelder held out the talisman again.

Tikri glanced at Sarai.

"Do it," she said.

Tikri obeyed, tapping one forefinger lightly on the white crystal.

"Thank you, sir." Kelder pulled the talisman away and closed both his han'ds
around it, holding it near his chest, not quite touching the fabric of his
tunic. He stared down at it for a moment, stroking the metal with his thumbs,
clearly concentrating hard.

Sarai watched with interest; she had rarely seen sorcery in action before, and
nothing at all like this.

After roughly a minute and a half, the little Sardironese looked up at Sarai
again.

"It's definite," he said. "You, Lady Sarai, were one of the women, and the
captain here was the other man. There is evidence that the two of you, and my
late namesake, all visited the sites after the other woman. I therefore
suspect that this other woman is connected with the crimes. Unless there was
another ..."

Sarai shook her head. "I can't think of any other woman who visited all the
rooms before I took Teneria and Luralla around this morning," she said.
"Mereth saw some of them, but she didn't go to every room. Can you tell us
anything more about this woman?"

Kelder glanced down at his talisman. "She has black hair and brown eyes," he
said. "And is not tall, certainly not as tall as you, though I cannot specify
her height any more exactly than that. She is thin and light on her feet, with
a rather square face, a wide nose, and pale skin. She usually wore black
clothing and may have gone barefoot. Beyond that ..." He turned up an empty
palm. "Beyond that, I'm afraid I know no more."

"That isn't Mereth," Sarai said. "The height's right, but not the rest of it.
Are you sure of this? "

"Oh, absolutely. A woman fitting that description visited each murder site
within a sixnight or so of the killings."

Sarai looked up at Tikri."That description doesn't bring anyone immediately to
mind," she said. "Does it for you?"

"No." Tikri frowned. "I'm not sure how much we should trust this information."

The sorcerer tucked his talisman back in his tunic. "That's entirely up to
you, of course," he said,"but I give you my word that it's reliable
information. I don't know that this woman killed anyone, but she was very
definitely there. If I had been able to see the bodies, I could have told you
whether the same knife was used in every case ..."
Sarai waved that aside. "We already know that," she said. "The wizards tested
that for us. It was the same knife every time."

"Oh." Kelder essayed a quick little bow of acknowledgment.

Sarai smiled at him. "I'm not disparaging your information, Kelder of Tazmor,"
she said. "Thank you for bringing it to us. If you learn anything more, please
come and tell us."

"Of course." Kelder bowed again, and stepped away.

Sarai looked up at Tikri. "Do you think mis woman is the killer?"

Tikri shook his head. "No woman smaller than you could be strong enough to
have committed these murders single-handed. Perhaps she's the high priestess
of a cult that's responsible for this—if she exists at all."

"I think she exists," Sarai said. "Why would the sorcerer lie?"

"To throw us off the track," Tikri suggested. "Perhaps he's part of the
conspiracy."

"I hadn't thought of that," Sarai admitted, staring at Kelder's back and
chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. "We could check his story, though."

"How?"

"Witchcraft. Where's Teneria?" Sarai turned, peering out the door as if she
expected to find the young witch standing in the hallway.

Thin, black hair, light on her feet, usually wore black—that described
Teneria, Sarai realized. The height was probably wrong, though; the journeyman
witch stood very close to Sarai's own height. And her long, narrow face, with
its pointed jaw, hardly looked square, and while her nose was noticeable, that
was because it was long, with a bump in it, not because it was wide. Her
complexion wasn't particularly pale. And weren't her eyes green? . She wasn't
there to check.

Sarai snorted with sudden annoyance. Was she going to be matching every female
she met against the sorcerer's description, from now until the murderers were
caught?

She debated sending Tikri to fetch Teneria, but before she could decide,
Teneria actually did appear in the doorway. "Just the person I was looking
for!" Sarai called. Teneria entered and bowed before Lady Sarai, then asked,
"How may I be of service?" "You don't already know?" Sarai asked wryly. The
ghost of a smile flickered across the witch's rather somber face. "No, my
lady," she said. "Not at the moment."

"I need to know what's true and what isn't," Sarai said."You witches are good
at that."

Teneria cocked her head to one side and replied, "In a way. We can generally
tell when people believe what they say— whether that's actually the truth is
sometimes an entirely different matter. And it works better with some people
than others." Sarai nodded, and asked, "Suppose you spoke to a woman I thought
had been connected with the murders; could you tell me whether she had, in
fact, been connected?"

Teneria frowned. "That would depend. Probably. If she spoke at all, almost
certainly. If she spoke freely, with no magical constraints, absolutely. But I
would not necessarily be able to ascertain the nature of the connection."

"Could you tell if a person had actually committed one of the murders?"

"Oh, yes, I would think so. Unless there was a very great deal of magic hiding
the fact."

"Suppose you were to walk down the street, or through the market; could you
pick a murderer out of the crowd?"

Teneria shook her head. "Only if I was incredibly lucky. The murderer would
have to be thinking about the actual killing and feeling a strong emotional
reaction to those thoughts, with absolutely no magical protection of any kind.
Even then, I couldn't be sure without stopping to investigate. What might look
like a murderer's thoughts at first glance could just be a housewife worried
about killing a chicken for dinner."

"I thought it was probably too much to ask," Sarai admitted. "If you could do
that, we'd have just had witches working for my father for years, instead of
relying on Okko and the others for most of it."

Teneria shrugged.

"But if we brought you a person and asked, 'Is this the murderer,' you could
tell us?" Sarai asked.

"Ordinarily, yes."

Sarai nodded. "Good enough," she said. She pointed. "That man in the brown
tunic there is a sorcerer by the name of Kelder of Tazmor; he claims to have
magically established that a particular woman was present in each room where a
murder was committed—though not necessarily at the time of the killing. I want
you to find out how reliable his information is."

Teneria followed the gesture, but said nothing at first.

"Does sorcery interfere with your witchcraft?" Sarai inquired.

"Not usually," Teneria replied. "Sometimes."

"Will it this time?"

Teneria turned and walked away from the dais, toward Kelder. "I'll let you
know," she said, over her shoulder.

Ten minutes later, she let them know. Kelder believed absolutely in what he
had told Sarai and Tikri. Sarai thanked the young witch, and stared down at
the spriggan that was clutching at her ankle.

Who was that woman Kelder had described?

CHAPTER 21

Captain Tikri's files were a mess. Lady Sarai had thought her own records, up
in her bedroom, were not as organized as they ought to be, and had always been
embarrassed when she thought of the tidy shelves and drawers that her father
and his
clerks maintained. By comparison with Tikri's random heap of reports and
letters, her records were a model of order and logic. "What are you looking
for, anyway?" Tikri asked, as Sarai dumped another armful on his desk.

"I don't know," Sarai said, picking a paper off the stack. "But I hope I'll
know it when I see it."

"How will you know it if you don't know what it is? I'd offer to help, but how
can I?" Sarai sighed.

"What I'm after," she said, "is some record of a crime that the conspirators
might have committed before the murders. Once they killed Inza, we were
looking for them, and I'm sure they've been careful, and certainly we've been
careful, checking out everything that we thought might be connected. Right?"
"Right," Tikri said, a trifle uncertainly. "Well, this conspiracy probably
didn't burst out of nowhere, full-grown and completely ready, the night poor
Inza died," Sarai explained. "They must have been preparing before that. They
may have killed more dogs, for example, before working their way up to people.
They may have injured people without killing them. They may have stolen things
they needed for their magic. And maybe, since they weren't so experienced yet,
they left traces and clues. Now do you see what I'm after?"

"Oh," Tikri said. He hesitated. "How far back do you want to go?"

"I don't know," Sarai admitted. "You may not find anything."

"I know that," Sarai said, flinging down a thick report and glaring angrily at
Tikri. "Don't you think I know that? But I don't have much of anything else
left to try. The Wizards' Guild wants to catch whoever it is for themselves,
because it won't look as good for them if I do it, so they won't help me any
more than they have to." Tikri started to protest, and Sarai cut him off. "Oh,
they'll put up a pretense of cooperation, I'm sure," she said, "but half of
them probably still think I'm trying to blame them for all this, or steal the
credit. I won't know if they're covering up something or not; I can't be sure,
and they aren't about to tell me. The Council of Warlocks is no help; they're
all afraid that if they do anything to help me they'll draw down the Calling
on themselves. The Brotherhood is less organized than a children's street
game; they don't even know who's in charge, or who their members are. The
Sisterhood isn't much better-they don't know how many witches there are in
Ethshar, let alone what any of them are doing. And none of them seem to be
getting anywhere with their magic, anyway. So what else would you suggest I
do?"

"The magicians can't help at all?"

"They can't help any more. Okko says the gods can't see anything through the
haze of wizardry; Kallia says the demons won't tell her anything, and she
doesn't know whether they know anything to tell. The warlocks all swear their
magic doesn't handle information. Kelder's told me all he can, and that's more
than I could get from any Ethsharitic sorcerer. Wizards and witches tell me
what magic was used, what went where, but they can't give me names or faces.
So I'm reading these papers. Don't you ever sort them?"

"No," Tikri admitted.

Sarai let out a wordless noise of exasperation and turned back to the reports.

Tikri, hoping to be of help, began picking up papers and glancing through
them, as well. The two sat, reading silently, for several minutes.

"Here's a report of a missing dog," Tikri ventured.
Sarai glanced up. "Let me see it."

Tikri obeyed; Sarai skimmed through the report quickly, then put it to one
side. "It might be worth another look," she said.

A moment later she found one herself.

"What ever happened in this case?" she said, handing two pages to Tikri.

Tikri read enough to remind himself what had happened. "Oh, this," he said.
"Nothing happened. We never found out who it was."

Sarai took the two sheets back. " 'Guardsman Deran reports tending to stabbing
victim in tavern,' " she read. " 'No accusations or arrests made.' " She
looked up. "That's in your handwriting."

Tikri nodded. "That's right," he said.

"The other one isn't," Sarai pointed out.

"No, that's the lieutenant who was in charge, Lieutenant Sen-den," Tikri
agreed. "He sent it in the next day."

"And you actually managed to keep the two together? It is the same stabbing?"

Tikri shrugged. "Sometimes I get lucky," he said. "It's the same one."

"Guardsman Deran Wuller's son tended to two knife wounds, a slash and a stab,
on the upper left thigh of a man who gave his name as Tolthar of Smallgate,
who claimed to have been discharged from the city guard five years previously
for being drunk while on duty,' " Sarai read aloud. " 'It was Guardsman
Deran's conclusion that the stabbing was a result of a disagreement with a
young woman; witnesses at the scene reported that the so-called Tolthar had
been seen talking with a woman shortly before the stabbing. Those elements of
their descriptions of the woman that are in general agreement were as follows:
Thin, black hair, below average height, wearing dark clothing.' " She put down
the report. "Short, thin, black hair, dressed in black," she said. "A stab and
a slash. Sound familiar?"

"But it wasn't his throat," Tikri protested.

"She probably couldn't get at his throat," Sarai pointed out. "He was awake."

"But drunk."

Sarai glowered at Tikri. "Are you seriously claiming you don't see any
possible connection?"

"No," Tikri admitted. "I'm just not sure there's a connection."

"Neither am I," Sarai said, "but it's worth investigating, isn't it?"

"Oh, I suppose so," Tikri said.

"Then send for this Lieutenant Senden and this man Deran Wuller's son and have
them find Tolthar of Smallgate and bring him to me for questioning."

"Now?"

"Do you know of a better time? Yes, now!"
Tikri put down his own stack of reports and headed for the door, in pursuit of
a messenger. In so doing he almost collided with a messenger who had been
about to knock at the open door.

"Yes?" Sarai asked, as Tikri apologized and slipped past.

"I'm looking for Mereth of the Golden Door," the messenger said warily, eyeing
Tikri's departing back. "She has a visitor, and someone told me she might be
here."

"Mereth isn't here right now," Sarai replied. "What visitor is this?"

The messenger finally looked into the room."Oh, is that you, Lady Sarai? It's
three visitors, really—the man gives his name as Tobas of Telven and the women
as Karanissa of the Mountains and Alorria of Dwomor."

Sarai recognized two of the names. These were the foreign experts the Wizards'
Guild had sent for. "Show them in," she said.

The messenger hesitated. "Well, they aren't. . ."she began. "Bring them here!"
Sarai commanded, fed up with delays and explanations.

"Yes, my lady," the messenger said, bowing; she turned and hurried away.

For the next few minutes Sarai sat looking through old reports; then the
messenger knocked again.

A spriggan scurried into the room, and Sarai took a moment to chase it to the
corner and warn it, "If you tear a single piece of paper, or chew on one, or
spill anything on one, I'm going to rip your slimy green guts out and wear
them as a necklace; is that clear, you little nuisance?"

"Yes, yes," the spriggan said, bobbing its head and staring wide-eyed up at
her."Not hurt paper. Nice paper. Nice spriggan not hurt paper."

"Good," Lady Sarai said, turning away and finding a young man standing in the
doorway. He looked just about her own age; she had expected this famous expert
on certain wizardries to be a good deal older.

Well, maybe he had some way of disguising his age—an illusion of some sort, or
a youth spell. But then, he looked rather sheepish just now, and Sarai had
trouble imagining a wise old wizard, one capable of a youth spell or other
transformation, looking so embarrassed when he had done nothing to cause it.
Maybe this wasn't Tobas of Telven at all.

"I'm sorry about the spriggan," the young man said.

"Oh, it's not your fault," Sarai said, waving a hand airily. "The little pests
are turning up everywhere lately."

"Well, actually, I'm afraid it is my fault," the man insisted. "I created the
spriggans. By accident. A spell went wrong on me about six years ago, and
they've been popping up ever since. And they still tend to follow me around
even more than they do other wizards, which is why that one came running in
just now."

"Oh," Sarai said, unsure whether she should believe this story. It was true
that spriggans had only been around for a few years, but had they really come
from a single botched spell?
"I'm Tobas, by the way. You're Lady Sarai? Or ..." He paused, confused.

"I'm Lady Sarai," Sarai confirmed.

"Ah." Tobas bowed politely in acknowledgment, then stepped aside and ushered a
black-haired young beauty into the room—one whose green velvet gown failed to
hide a well-advanced pregnancy. "This is my wife, Alorria of Dwomor," Tobas
said proudly.

Alorria did not bow, Sarai noticed, and a silver coronet held her hair back
from her face—she was presumably a noblewoman of some sort from one of the
Small Kingdoms.

Or maybe the coronet was just an affectation, and bowing was uncomfortable
because of her belly; Sarai had no firsthand experience to compare.

A second woman, taller, thinner, older, and not visibly pregnant, but also
black-haired and beautiful, appeared in the door. Where Alorria wore green
velvet, this other wore red.

"And this," Tobas said, "is my other wife, Karanissa of the Mountains."

"She's a witch," Alorria volunteered.

Tobas nodded agreement. Karanissa bowed.

Sarai didn't comment, but her lips tightened. Over the years she had met a few
men who had two wives, and even one eccentric old fellow with three, and she
hadn't liked the men, their wives, or the whole idea very much; it had always
seemed a bit excessive and in doubtful taste. This wizard not only had two
wives, he had brought both of them along, despite Alorria's pregnancy.

The black silk tunic that Tobas wore was hardly extravagant, and his manners
seemed acceptable, but still, bringing not just one wife but two, and claiming
to be responsible for an entire species, in addition to his supposed expertise
in magic—Sarai thought that despite his show of diffidence, this wizard
appeared a little too pleased with himself for her liking. She was not
favorably impressed.

"I understand you're an expert on the magic we're dealing with," Sarai said,
without further preamble. She was not disposed toward idle pleasantries with
this man.

"Well, not really," Tobas said, with a wry half smile. "I don't know what
you're dealing with. I understand it's an enchanted blade that appears to have
a neutralizing effect on wizardry, and I know a little something about that,
though—about things that neutralize wizardry. I don't honestly know a great
deal, but probably I know a little more than anyone else."

"Do you," Sarai said. The fellow spoke well enough and wasn't really an
obvious braggart, but she still didn't like him. "Why is that?" she asked.

"Oh, well, I have rather a personal interest in it," Ibbas explained. "I
happen to have inherited a castle ..."

"No, you didn't," Alorria protested, "you found it abandoned."

"Oh, be quiet, All," Karanissa said. "That's close enough to inheriting."
"It isn't the same thing at all!"

"Shut up, both of you," Tobas said—not angrily, but simply making a request.
To Lady Sarai's surprise, it was obeyed, and the wizard continued.

"Let us say, then, that I have acquired a castle that happens to be under a
spell cast during the Great War that renders wizardry ineffective," Tobas
explained. "And for reasons I prefer not to explain, I can't just sell it or
abandon it; I pass through its neighborhood fairly often, and being a wizard,
I find the spell very inconvenient—I can't use my magic there. So I've taken
to studying what little is known about neutralizing wizardry, in hopes of
someday reversing the spell."

"Ah, I see," Sarai said. "And are you close? Have you learned much about this
sort of negative magic?"

"No." Tobas shook his head. "Hardly a thing. But I'm still trying. This thing
you've got here—I spoke to Telurinon about it and some of the others, before
Heremon insisted I come find Mereth and talk to you. They tell me that someone
has an enchanted weapon that appears to absorb wizardry, that they've been
studying it, but they weren't getting anywhere, because this thing is
completely immune to wizardry, so much so that they only know there's magic
there because wizardry isn 't, you see."

Sarai looked blank.

"Well, ordinarily," Tobas explained, "wizardry is sort of everywhere at once,
in the light and the air and the earth, but wherever this thing has been used,
this enchanted dagger or whatever it is, wizardry doesn't work right anymore."
"So it's an entirely new kind of magic?" Sarai said. "Maybe," Tobas said, "or
maybe it's just a special sort of wizardry. I don't really know a thing about
it. But I thought it wouldn't hurt to come and take a look."

"Besides, we felt so sorry for all those poor people who were killed,"
Karanissa said. "We felt we had to try to do something."

"If we can," Alorria added.

"Tobas is a wizard, Karanissa's a witch," Lady Sarai said. "Are you a
magician, too, Alorria?"

The woman in the coronet shook her head quickly. "Oh, no, nothing like that,"
she said hastily. "I just wanted to come along ... I mean, Tobas is my
husband."

Lady Sarai nodded. She wondered, though; was it comfortable to go traveling
about when one was, by the look of her, six or seven months pregnant? Sarai
had the feeling there was a story here she didn't know, but it wasn't really
any of her business, so she didn't pursue it. "And do any of you know anything
about the conspiracy that's behind the killings?" she asked."Or is it just the
murder weapon you're interested in?"

"Is it a conspiracy?" Tobas asked, interested."I hadn't heard that. Please,
Lady Sarai, you must understand, we only arrived in the city a few hours ago,
and all we've heard about these terrible crimes came from the other members of
the Wizards' Guild. Naturally, they've paid most of their attention to the
magic involved. I'd be very glad if you could tell us more. Do you have any
idea who's behind it?"

Lady Sarai eyed the wizard suspiciously. He wasn't entirely living up to her
first impression of him as a self-assured and superior boor.

"We have a description of a woman," she admitted. "There are guards out now
looking for someone who may know who she is. We know she's involved somehow."
"And you think this man will tell you where to find her?" "We certainly hope
so. If not, once we have a name, wont a fairly simple spell lead us to her?"

"If it's a true name," Tobas admitted. "The first name she knew herself by."

"Well, if it's not her true name," Sarai said, "we'll send the city guard to
look for her, too."

"Lady Sarai," Alorria asked, "what will you do with her when you find her?"

"We'll   arrest her, of course! On suspicion of murder. And bring her to the
Palace   for questioning." Only after she had
spoken   did Sarai remember that she was addressing a member of the Wizard's
Guild,   and the Guild wanted Serem's murderer turned over to them.

Well, this woman would need to be questioned to be sure she was Serem's
murderer. Anyone intelligent would see that.

"Of course," Tobas said. Then he remarked, "It may not be that easy, arresting
someone who was able to kill several different magicians."

Sarai glanced at him, startled. "That's a good point," she said. "If she is
the killer. I'll have to see that whoever is sent after her takes special
precautions."

"But you think this woman you seek is part of a conspiracy?" Tbbas had moved
around to the front of the desk; now he leaned back comfortably against it.
Karanissa settled against a wall. To Lady Sarai's distress, Alorria began
looking around for a clear patch of floor to sit on—the chairs were stacked
with reports. The spriggan in the corner rustled papers and peered out
curiously; Lady Sarai turned and kicked at it, sending it squealing out the
door.

"Maybe we should go somewhere more comfortable," Lady Sarai suggested. "And
I'll tell you all about it."

CHAPTER 22

Tolthar of Smallgate stared into the empty mug, wishing he had the price of
another pint. The Drunken Dragon never gave credit, especially not to him, so
there was no point in asking for it, and he didn't have so much as an iron bit
left in his purse.

He didn't feel well enough to rob anyone, either, though he thought he might
once he sobered up a little. It was too late in the day to find honest work,
or to expect much from begging— not that he really wanted to try either one.
That meant that dinner, if he got any at all, would probably come out of Mama
Kilina's stewpot, over in the Wall Street Field. Maybe that little hellion,
Tabaea the Thief, would turn up there tonight. After all, her lucky streak
couldn't last forever.

That assumed, of course, that it was a lucky streak that had kept her out of
the Drunken Dragon and out of the local portion of the Wall Street Field for
the last few sixnights. He thought that if she had gotten herself killed
someone would know about it; that meant she was still somewhere in the city.
Tolthar couldn't imagine that she would ever leave Ethshar of the Sands; the
people he knew, the people he thought of as his own kind, simply didn't do
that. The outside world was for rich merchants and stupid farmers, not the
people who lived on the fringes, who spent an occasional night in the Field.

The idea that Tabaea might have found a permanent job somewhere never occurred
to him. Thieves and beggars simply didn't do that, in Tolthar's view of the
World, and Tabaea, as her very name proclaimed, was a thief.

He supposed she might have wound up in a brothel somewhere,   but that wasn't
usually permanent. Slavery was permanent, but he thought he   would have heard
if she had been auctioned off. He had friends—or rather, he   had people who
were willing to talk to him—who had promised to tell him if   they saw Tabaea
anywhere.

So he assumed mat she'd committed a few successful burglaries.

But the money would run out; it always did. Sooner or later, he would find her
again, in the Dragon or at Kilina's stewpot, or somewhere else among his
familiar haunts.

And when he did, she would pay for the wounds in his leg. They were healed
now; the leg was as good as new, but she owed him for the pain, the blood, and
the time he had spent limping. She owed him for the embarrassment of having to
talk to mat young snot of a guardsman, Deran Wuller's son.

And he had a wonderful idea of how she could repay him for his troubles. She
might even enjoy it; he wouldn't mind if she did. Sometimes it was even better
that way.

He shoved the mug aside and got to his feet. He was not entirely sure where he
was going, whether he would head directly for Mama Kilina or make a stop or
two along the way, but he knew he would have to stand up, so he went ahead
with that part of the job. Once he was upright he didn't have to worry about
the proprietor of the Dragon harassing him to buy another ale or get out.

His head swam slightly. Maybe, he thought, he should have spent some of his
last coppers on food, rather than ale.

Well, it was too late now. He turned toward the door.

Then he sat heavily back down. There was a guardsman standing in the doorway,
and Tolthar recognized him. It was Deran Wuller's son. Deran might be there
for something entirely unrelated to Tolthar, but Tolthar did not care to try
walking out past him.

Then Deran stepped in and marched straight toward Tolthar. He pointed, and
Tolthar realized there were two other soldiers behind Deran. One of them had a
lieutenant's band on his arm. "Oh, gods," Tolthar muttered. "Now what?"
"Iblthar of Smallgate?" Deran asked loudly, stopping a step away.

Tolthar winced at the volume. "Yes," he said, "you know I am. What is it this
time?"

"We are ordered to bring you to the palace immediately," Deran said.

Tblthar's eyes widened, and the shock of Deran's words seemed to cook away a
good part of the alcohol in his body.

"Why?" he asked. "What did I do?"
"You're wanted for questioning," Deran said, a bit more kindly. He didn't like
seeing anyone, even a worthless drunkard like Tolthar, needlessly frightened.
"They didn't tell us, but I think they want you as a witness, not for anything
you've done yourself."

"I haven't seen anything," Tolthar protested. "I haven't heard anything,
either. I don't know anything."

"Well, you can tell the folks at the palace that," Deran said, reaching for
him. "Come on."

Tolthar pressed back against his chair, but the guardsman's hand clamped
around his arm like a noose drawn tight. Reluctantly, he yielded to the
inevitable and allowed himself to be led out.

As he and the three soldiers marched down Wall Street in a tight little group,
one at each side and the third behind, Tolthar remembered all the other people
he had seen escorted away over the years. He had even escorted a few himself,
before he was kicked out of the guard—but to a district magistrate, not the
palace.

A good many of them never came back; they were executed, or sold into slavery,
or exiled. Others took a beating, or paid a
fine, and then, presumably chastened, went on with their lives. A few returned
untouched and continued as if nothing had happened.

Tolthar hoped very much that he would be one of those few. At the gate, the
party turned right; Tolthar was escorted across one side of Grandgate Market
and into Gate Street. He could see the dome of the palace ahead already, even
though it was still over a mile away—the dome was the highest structure in the
city, even taller than the Great Lighthouse, and it towered over the
surrounding buildings, above the rooftops, a great dark semicircle against the
scarlet sunset. In the mornings Tolthar had seen it gleaming golden-white,
like a huge pale moon rising in the west, but now it was shadowed and ominous.
The sun was sinking just to the left of the dome, almost behind it, and for a
moment Tolthar fancied that the dome was some sort of shadow-sun trying to
blot the true sun out of the sky.

The foursome marched down seven blocks to the fork and bore right onto Harbor
Street; now the sun was a tiny red sliver nestled at the base of the looming
dome of the palace, and the sky was darkening overhead. Tolthar glanced at
Deran, then up at the dome. "Can you tell me where you're taking me, and why
it's the Palace instead of the magistrate's office?" he said. "Am I going to
see the Minister of Justice?"

"We're taking you to Captain Tikri's office," Deran said, "to talk to Lady
Sarai, the Minister of Investigation. She's also Lord Kalthon's daughter, and
Acting Minister of Justice." "But you aren't taking me to the justice
chamber?" "The captain's office." "Why?"

Deran shrugged apologetically. "They didn't tell us," he said. That brought
them to the second fork, where they bore left onto Quarter Street. The dome of
the palace had blocked out the sun entirely, or perhaps the sun had set;
Tolthar couldn't be sure. The sky overhead had darkened to a deep sapphire
blue, and the lesser moon shone pink in the east.

They came to Circle Street, then to the colorful pavement forming a ring
around the palace; they marched directly across, past the final line of stalls
owned by elite and fortunate merchants. The palace itself stood before them
now, the dome hidden by the wall and the eaves. Tolthar had never been here
before; even during his days in the guard, he had never drawn duty in the
palace. He had never been closer than Circle Street.

Somewhere behind that wall lived old Ederd IV himself, overlord of Ethshar of
the Sands, master of the fates of over a million men, women, and children—one
of the three most powerful mortals in the World. And Lord Kalthon, Ederd's
Minister of Justice, would be there, who could have a man flogged, hanged,
beheaded, exiled, or sold on a moment's notice. Lord Torrut, commander of the
guard, was in there, as well—and his slightest word could send ten thousand
men out to fight, kill, and die.

Tolthar did not particularly care to join them.

He had no choice, though; when he hesitated on the threshold of the little
side door the soldiers heaved him through without even slowing.

The floors inside were stone—not rough slate or flagstone, tike an inn's
hearth, but polished granite and marble. Tolthar had never seen such floors.

The walls, too, were stone—some of them, anyway; others were paneled in wood,
or hidden by drapes or tapestries. He could see them through the archways and
open doors as he was hurried through what seemed like an endless maze of
antechambers and corridors.

At last his escort stopped at the door of a small chamber with bare walls of
pale gray stone; in the center of the room stood a large desk, with
wood-and-brown-velvet chairs behind and before. Papers, scrolls, and ledgers
were spread across the desk and stacked on the floor.

Two people were in the room: a tall young woman with thick brown hair and a
large man in the uniform of a guard captain. They were standing by the desk,
arguing. At the sound of arriving footsteps they stopped and turned toward the
doorway.

"Captain Tikri," one of the guardsmen said, "this is Tolthar ofSmallgate."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," the man in the captain's uniform said. "Bring him
in."

Deran and the lieutenant brought Tolthar into the little office, while the
third man returned to the corridor.

The woman was wearing clothes of fine gold linen, and Tolthar might have
guessed that she was a noblewoman of some son, but he was still startled when
Tikri addressed her as Lady Sarai.

"Which magician shall I send for, Lady Sarai?" he asked.

"More than one," the young woman replied. "I don't want any doubt about this.
Teneria, certainly, and Mereth, if you can find her, and Okko, and I suppose
you should get that Tobas and his witch wife back here, and anyone else you
think we might want." As an afterthought, she added, "Not the pregnant wife,
though—she's not a magician."

"This may not have anything to do with the case, remember," Tikri reminded
her. "And we have half a dozen other chances, if this one doesn't work out."

"I know that," Lady Sarai snapped. "But this man is here, now, and he's one of
the more promising possibilities." She turned to the guards. "Sit him down,"
she ordered.
Abruptly, Tolthar found himself seated, on the chair in front of the desk. He
stared up silently at the woman. "Do you know who I am?" Lady Sarai demanded.
Tolthar blinked and didn't answer.

"He's drunk," Deran remarked. "We dragged him out of a tavern in Northangle."

Lady Sarai nodded. Tolthar didn't bother to argue, although he didn't feel
very drunk anymore.

A messenger appeared in the doorway. "You wanted me, Captain?" she asked.

"Yes," Tikri said. He crossed the room quickly. "You go ahead, Lady Sarai." He
stepped out into the corridor to give the messenger her instructions.

"Close the door, Lieutenant," Lady Sarai directed. "Let's have some privacy."

Senden obeyed. Lady Sarai stepped up close to the seated Tolthar and stared
down at him. "You're drunk?" she asked.

"A little," he admitted. He was beginning to recover his nerve.

"That might be just as well. Do you know who I am?" "They call you Lady
Sarai," Tolthar said. "I can still hear." "That's my name; you know who I am?"
"Lord Kalthon's daughter," Tolthar answered. Lady Sarai's face hardened. "I am
Lady Sarai, Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd
the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the
Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies and Defender of the Gods, and I
am speaking to you now in the performance of my duties and with the full
authority of the overlord. Do you understand that?"

"Uh ..." Tolthar hesitated, then said, "I'm not sure."

"That means that I can have you flogged, or tortured, or killed, right here
and now, without having to worry about appeals or consequences. And I'll do it
if you don't cooperate."

Tolthar stared up at her. He did not see Deran and Senden exchange doubtful
glances behind him.

"Now," Lady Sarai said, "I understand that on or about the fourth day of the
month of Summerheat, you received two knife wounds in your left leg. Is that
correct?"

"Yes, my lady," Tolthar replied softly, thoroughly cowed.

"These were both inflicted with the same knife, at approximately the same
time?"

"Yes."

"And that knife was used by a woman?"

"That's right," Tolthar admitted.

"How tall was she?"

"Uh . . . if you want ..." Did they think he didn't know who had stabbed him?
"How tall was she?" Sarai shouted, leaning closer.
"She's short," he said quickly. "I mean, not tiny, but she's . . . she's
pretty short."

"What was she wearing? What color?"

"Black," Tolthar said, "she usually wears black."

"What's the shape of her face like?"

Baffled, Tolthar wondered why Lady Sarai didn't just ask for Tabaea's name. He
said, "I don't know ..."

"Did you see her face?"

"Well, yes.

"What shape is it? "

"Let me think for a minute!"

Sarai backed away from him slightly, giving him room to breathe. "Take your
time," she said.

"Thank you, my lady," Tolthar said, resentfully. He tried to picture Tabaea's
face. "Sort of straight," he said, "and wide. She has a square chin, almost."

"Along nose?"

"No, it's more wide."

"Brown hair?"

"I think it's black ..."

"Green eyes?"

"I didn't notice, I thought they were brown . . ."

"Dark skin?"

"No, she's pale ..."

"Full-bodied?"

"Skinny as a steer in Srigmor."

"Clumsy?"

"If she were clumsy, do you think I 'd have let her get me with the knife?"
Tolthar protested angrily. "I wasn't that drunk!"

The door opened, and Lady Sarai paused in her questioning. She looked up as a
thin, black-haired girl entered.

For a moment, Tolthar thought it was Tabaea herself, and he began to imagine
elaborate schemes to blame him for some crime he had not committed, to punish
him for making false accusations; then he saw that this person wasn't Tabaea,
that she was taller and generally thinner, though perhaps fuller in the chest.
And the new arrival had a long, narrow face that was not like Tabaea's at all.
"Teneria," Lady Sarai said, "we think this man may have survived an attack by
the killer. We want you to check his wounds, if you can, to see if the same
knife was used."

"I'll try," the woman Lady Sarai had called Teneria said quietly.

"They're healed," Tolthar protested. "My wounds are healed!"

~"I'll try, anyway," Teneria replied. "Thank you," Lady Sarai said. "But
first," she added, turning back to Tolthar, "I believe that this man was about
to tell us the name of the woman who stabbed him."

The long-awaited question came as a great relief. "Tabaea," Tolthar said.
"Tabaea the Thief."

CHAPTER 23

Tabaea was coming dawn the stairs of her current residence, a pleasant little
inn called the Blue Dancer, and thinking out her plans for the evening, when
she heard the sound of soldiers walking. There was the distinctive slapping of
scabbard against kilt, the heavy tread of the boots—definitely soldiers, on
the street out front, drawing nearer. She sniffed the air, but with the inn's
door closed she could make out nothing unusual. Dinner had been beef stewed in
red wine, and she could still smell the lingering aroma of every ingredient,
and of the half-dozen different vintages that had been served to the Dancer's
customers. The chimney was drawing well, so the scent of the hearthfire itself
was relatively faint, but its heat was making Beren, the serving wench, sweat
as she swept the floor; Tabaea could smell that, too. She could distinguish
the moist odors of Beren's cotton tunic and wool skirt.

Dogs were amazing creatures, Tabaea thought. She had never realized how
amazing until she had started killing them. They could all smell all these
details.

The booted steps were coming directly up to the door of the inn; Tabaea
wondered why. Soldiers were a common enough sight in the taverns and inns of
Wall Street, but the Blue Dancer was a quiet and rather expensive place
several blocks down Grand Street from the market, and the city guard was not
generally found here unless someone had sent for them.

There were other footsteps as well—she hadn't heard them at first, with the
door and the windows closed and the various sounds of the city drowning them
out, but someone in slippers was walking with the soldiers, someone wearing a
long, rustling garment.

Suddenly nervous, Tabaea hurried down the last few steps. The guards couldn't
have anything to do with her, of course-nobody except the innkeeper and a few
strangers knew she was here, no one would have any reason to connect her with
any recent disturbances—but still, she didn't care to be caught in her room
upstairs if there was trouble.

Now the soldiers were at the door, five of them, in addition to the person in
slippers, and one soldier was lifting the latch. Now even Beren heard them;
she straightened and leaned her broom in the chimney corner as Tabaea slipped
back into the little alcove under the stairs. The table there was usually
occupied at meals by young lovers, as it was the most private spot in the
dining room; there was nothing suspicious about it if Tabaea should happen to
sit there on a quiet evening, just minding her own business.

And it would scarcely be her feult that she could hear everything that went on
in the main room. "Can I help you?" Beren asked.

"We're looking for a woman named Tabaea," an unfamiliar man's voice said. "We
don't know what she's calling herself. A little below average height, thin,
black hair—probably alone." Tabaea could almost hear Beren frowning. "Let me
get my master," the serving wench said. "Is she here?" a different voice
asked. "I don't know," Beren replied, "I'll ask." Tabaea watched through the
archway as Beren vanished into the kitchen.

Tabaea bit her lip, worrying and wondering. Why were these men—these
soldiers—looking for her? How did they know her name, or what she looked like?
And what should she do about it?

It registered that the alcove was a dead end, that she could be trapped in it.
True, she could hold off a small army, as they wouldn't be able to get at her
more than two or perhaps three at a time, and she could use the table as a
shield, but they could besiege her there and wait her out. That would not do.
Better to get out now, while she could! But the soldiers were in the front
door, while Beren and the innkeeper might be emerging from the kitchen at any
moment, blocking that route. That left the window.

Tavern windows varied greatly in Ethshar, in number, size, placement, and
nature. The Blue Dancer gloried in a single great bow window, a long, graceful
curve made up of several hundred small panes, framed not in lead, but in
imported hardwood, an exotic touch that added to the inn's expensive
atmosphere. Three small casements were built into this structure, for
ventilation; none of them looked large enough for even a person of Tabaea's
size to fit through.

Tabaea knew that appearances could be deceiving, though. Moving as quietly as
she could—which was very quietly indeed—she rose and crept to the edge of the
sheltering arch.

There, she reached out with her poorly developed and ill-understood abilities,
the witch-sight and warlock sense, and dimly perceived the intruders.

She could distinguish their scents, as well, but identity was not what
interested her now. She wanted to know where they were looking, to be sure
that she was somewhere else. One was watching up the stairs, very carefully.
Another was guarding the door. The one in slippers . . . that one was a woman,
and she smelled of magic. That was bad. She was looking about the room with
interest, not focusing on anything in particular.

One of the soldiers was watching the magician; he was no threat to anyone just
now.

That left two soldiers and a magician who were looking out into the dining
room; one soldier was watching the kitchen door, the other was peering into
the dimly lit farther recesses—including the one where Tabaea stood.

She nudged the one in the door, ever so slightly, with a little warlock push;
he started, and made a surprised noise.

The others turned to look at him, and Tabaea made her run, fast and smooth and
silent, across the room and up onto the broad sill. She was almost there when
she was spotted; her distraction had only held for a fraction of a second.

She swung open the nearest casement and thrust her head through; her ears
scraped the frame on either side, her hair snagged on the latch.
"Damn," she whispered. She wouldn't fit out that way. "Hey!" a guardsman
called, and Tabaea, desperate, pushed at the wooden frame with the heel of her
hand.

She had never really tried her accumulated strength; she had never had any
reason to. Most of her killings had been for skill, more than strength. She
knew she was strong—she had flung that demonologist, Karitha, around like a
doll. But she had not realized until this very moment just how strong she had
become. Her hand punched through the polished window frame as if it were
paper, spraying splinters of wood and glass into the street beyond.

"Stop her!" someone shouted, and the guards started for her. Frightened,
Tabaea kicked at the window.

Debris burst out into Grand Street like spray from a wave-struck rock; the
casement itself hung for an instant by one corner, then tumbled onto the
street with a shattering of glass.

Tabaea dove through the hole and landed, catlike, on her feet; she leaped up
and ran, eastward, without thinking.

Behind her, men were shouting.

Run, hide, run, hide—her years as a thief had drummed that into her. When
anything goes wrong, you run; when you have run the pursuit out of sight, you
hide. If they find you, run again. No need to think or plan; just run and
hide.

And the best places to hide weren't empty attics or dark alleys; the best
places were in crowds and busy streets, where there was always another escape
route, were always other faces to distract the pursuers.

And the very best place of all was the Wall Street Field, where the clutter of
destitute humanity lay down an obstacle course of ramshackle shelters and
stolen stewpots, where most of the people would be on her side, where the
soldiers felt outnumbered.

She ran east on Grand Street, straight toward Grandgate Market and access to
Wall Street.

Behind her, the soldiers poured out the door of the Blue Dancer; a raised
sword whacked the signboard and set it swinging, and even through the shouting
Tabaea could hear the metal links creaking. Booted feet ran after her.

The woman, the magician, did not run; Tabaea could vaguely sense her presence,
far back and growing farther with every step. She was working a spell, Tabaea
was certain, some land of spell that would flatten her, steal her powers, turn
her to a statue or a mouse. She ran, expecting to be felled at any instant, by
spell or sword.

She was not felled; she ran headlong into Grandgate Market, not even panting,
and spun to her left, turning north toward the part of the Wall Street Field
she knew best. Late-night shoppers on their way home, the last merchants in
the midst of packing up for the night, and a few strolling lovers, turned to
stare after her.

The guards were shouting, but they were farther behind than ever; she was
outrunning them. Other soldiers were emerging from the towers by the gate, but
not in time to cut her off. She was into the Field, into the strip that ran
alongside the barracks towers, and no one had touched her yet.
Then a man, his red kilt and yellow tunic visible in the light of a nearby
torch but his face in shadow, stepped out in front of her, reaching out to
grab her; she thrust out an arm and knocked him aside without slowing.

She rounded the corner of the North lower into the wider part of the Field and
promptly tripped over a sleeping figure.

She stumbled, but caught herself, arms outflung, balanced like a cat, then was
up and running again.

There were no torches here, no lanterns; yellow light leaked from the distant
windows of Wall Street; the orange glow of the greater moon limned the top of
the city wall above her, and the scattered remnants of the evening's cookfires
made pools of lesser shadow here and there, but most of the Field was in
darkness. Its inhabitants, asleep or awake, were but shadowy lumps in the
gloom; her cat-eyes, still not yet fully adjusted from the cozy light of the
Blue Dancer's dining room, let her see movement, but not colors or details.
She danced through the dark, avoiding bodies and shelters at the final
fraction of a second.

Then, abruptly, fire bloomed above her, orange light a thousand times brighter
than any moon. She stumbled, stopped, and looked up.

A warlock hung in the air, glowing impossibly bright, like an olf-color piece
of the sun itself. She knew he was a warlock, but she couldn't have said how
she knew; the light simply felt like warlockry.

Without thinking, she reached her own warlockry up to counter him, to
extinguish the glow, but his power was greater than hers; it was like fighting
the tide. She could stop anything he did from reaching her, but she couldn't
put out the light or drive him away.

Around her, she realized as she pressed her power upward, were people, dozens
of people, the people of Wall Street Field— the poor and dispossessed, the
downtrodden, the homeless, the outlawed.

"Help me!" she called.

No one answered, and she could hear soldiers coming, she could smell leather
and steel and sweat. Someone tossed a rock in the general direction of the
flying figure, but it never even came close.

It gave her an idea, though.

She could not fight him with warlockry, she was outmatched that way, but
warlockry was not all she had. She knelt and snatched up a chunk of brick,
still warm from a cookfire, and flung it upward—not with magic, but with the
strength of her arm, the strength she had stolen from Inza and Deru and the
rest.

The warlock shied away, and the light dimmed somewhat.

The soldiers were coming; Tabaea snatched out her belt knife, intent on giving
them a fight.

The knife was like a sliver of darkness in the warlock's glow; Tabaea held the
Black Dagger ready in her hand.

Above her, the warlock still hovered, glowing, but she had his measure now; he
could hold himself up, suppress her own
warlockry, and provide light, but that left him no magic to spare for anything
else.

Someone else shied a stone at the warlock; he turned it away, but Tabaea could
sense that it distracted him slightly.

Further, he was beginning to worry, she knew—probably about the Calling. How
close was he to the threshold, to the first nightmares? He could draw upon all
the power he wanted, and because he had started with more than she Tabaea
could never match him, but if he drew too much . . .

She decided the warlock was not really the major threat.

The first soldier paused a few feet away, watching the knife.

"Tabaea the Thief," he called, "in the name of Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of
Ethshar of the Sands, I order you to surrender!"

"Go to Hell, bloody-skirt!" she shouted back.

Other soldiers were surrounding her, forming a fifteen-foot circle with her at
the center; the Field's usual inhabitants had Mien back into the darkness.
Tabaea tried to pick up something with warlockry, but the magician in the air
above her wouldn't allow it.

There were a dozen guardsmen encircling her; at a cautious signal from the one
in front of her, they all began closing in
slowly.

"Oh, no, you don't," Tabaea said. She lunged forward, with inhuman speed, and
thrust the Black Dagger's blade under the ribs of the man before her.

His eyes widened, and he slashed belatedly with his sword, cutting her arm.
Blood spilled, black in the orange light, black across her black sleeve.

It really didn't hurt very much at all, to Tabaea's surprise, and what pain
there was was lost in the hot surge of strength she was receiving from the man
she had stabbed. Then one of the other soldiers, one of the men behind her,
struck.

That hurt, and the wave of strength she had just felt vanished; the blow to
her back was a shock, a burst of pain, and her head jerked backward. Then it
snapped forward again, involuntarily, and she found herself looking down at
her own chest.

Something projected from her tunic, something dark that had cut its way out
through the fabric, stretching it out and then cutting through, something dark
and hard and smeared with thick liquid.

Then she realized what it was. She was looking at the point of a sword that
had been thrust right through her, a sword covered with her heart's blood.

She was dead. She had to be.

But she didn't feel dead. Shouldn't she already be losing consciousness, be
falling lifeless to the ground?

She pulled her own blade from the soldier's body; dark blood spilled down his
pale tunic, and he crumpled to the earth. He was dead, no doubt about that.
But she wasn't. She reached down, grabbed the blade that protruded from her
chest, and shoved it back, hard. She felt it slide through her, back out, and
she whirled swiftly, before whoever held it could strike again.

She could feel a prickling, a tingling, and she suddenly realized that she
probably had a gaping wound in her, that she might yet bleed to death. She
felt no blood, though.

Tabaea looked quickly down at her chest, and sensed that the wound was closing
of its own accord. That was magic—it had to be. It wasn't anything she was
doing consciously, though, and she didn't think it was witchcraft or
warlockry. It didn't feel like those.

It felt like the sensation she got when the Black Dagger cut flesh. Whatever
was happening, she was sure it was the Black Dagger's spell at work. Whether
it would truly heal her, or at least keep her going until she could do it by
other means, she didn't know. It had to be the dagger that was keeping her
alive, and she didn't understand how or why, but she had no time to worry
about that now. She looked up.

The soldiers were staring at her, eyes wide; no one was moving against her.
One man held a bloody sword, its tip just an inch or two from her chin.

Tabaea realized, with astonishment, that they were afraid of her.

And then she further realized, with a deep sense of surprised satisfaction,
that they had very good reasons to be afraid.

She knocked the sword aside, held up the Black Dagger, and smiled a very
unpleasant smile.

"It's not going to be that easy," she announced, grinning. "If I were you, I
would throw down my weapons and run."

"Elner, call the magicians," a guardsman said. Tabaea turned and smiled at
him.

"I am a magician," she said. Then, moving faster than any human being could
without magical assistance, she slashed the
soldier across the chest—not fatally, just a nasty gash that would weaken him,
and in so doing would strengthen her. He gasped, and stepped back, his hands
flying up to stop the blood, his sword falling to the dirt at his feet.

She thought she understood, now, what had happened. That sword thrust should
have killed her, obviously, but it hadn't—or rather, not completely. She was
fairly sure she had lost one life. But the Black Dagger had stolen a dozen for
her—including dogs, cats, magicians, and the life of the man who had led this
party to capture her.

She didn't know whether dogs and cats carried as much life as people, and she
did not particularly want to find out; she wasn't going to throw her lives
away recklessly. Still, she was stronger and faster than anyone else in the
World, and as long as she took a life for every one she lost, she could not
die. She liked that idea very much.

"I am the magician," she said."Not just a witch or a warlock or a wizard, but
all of them!" She suddenly remembered what she had heard, listening to the
Guildmasters at the Cap and Dagger; she laughed, and said, "Bow, you fools!
Bow before labaea the First, Empress of Ethshar!" "She's crazy," someone said.
The Black Dagger moved again, faster than any other human hand could move it,
fast as a striking cat, and the guardsman who had impaled her fell back,
bleeding. The bloody sword fell from his grasp.

"You think I'm crazy?" she shouted. "Then just try to stop me! Didn't you seel
He put a sword right through me, and it didn't hurt me!"

"Call the magicians, Elner," someone called mockingly from the crowd of
civilians.

More guardsmen were arriving, pushing through the crowd; behind them came the
robed figures of magicians.

"Magicians?" Tabaea stooped and snatched up the sword, left-handed, and flung
it upward with all the speed and strength and skill of her dozen stolen lives.

The warlock shrieked, and the light went out; the orange glow vanished like
the flame of a snuffed candle, plunging the Field into darkness.

When the shriek ended, silence as sudden as the darkness fell. Cloth rustled
as the warlock fell out of the sky, and then he landed with a sodden thud, off
to one side, upon a mixed group of soldiers and bystanders.

"You think I'm afraid of magicians'?" Tabaea screamed over the sudden tumult.

In fact, magicians were about the only thing she   was still afraid of—she had
no idea whether she could defend herself against   all the different kinds of
magic. Warlockry, yes—she could hold off another   warlock indefinitely.
Witchcraft, absolutely—she had greater vitality,   and therefore more power,
than any other witch that had ever lived.

Gods and demons and wizards, though—who knew? Sorcery, any of the subtler
arts, she could not be sure of. She was bluffing—but she didn't think anyone
would dare to test her. She stood, dagger ready.

Something came sweeping toward her out of the darkness, something Tabaea could
not describe, with a shape and a color she couldn't name; reflexively, she
raised her knife, and the black blade flared blue for an instant. Then
whatever it was was gone.

Magic—it had been magic, certainly. Wizardry, probably. And the knife had
stopped it. She was safe from magic other than witchcraft and warlockry—at
least some of it.

She could do anything—and she knew what she wanted. She had already said it.

Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar! "Listen, you people!" Tabaea
shouted,"you people who live here in the Wall Street Field, listen to me! Why
are you here?" She paused dramatically and sensed half a hundred faces turned
attentively toward her—soldiers and magicians and beggars and thieves.

"You're here because the fat old overlord of this stinking city, the man who
claims to protect you, has sent you here!" Tabaea proclaimed. "He's taken your
homes with his taxes, stolen your food to feed his soldiers, and given you
nothing in return but dungeons and slavery!" She pushed aside a soldier and
stepped up atop a makeshift wooden shelter. "Haven't you had enough of this?
Haven't you had enough of seeing the rich get richer, seeing them buy your
friends, your neighbors, your sons and daughters from the slavers, when
they've stolen a few coins in order to eat? Haven't you heard enough of girls
and boys tortured in the Nightside brothels to please the perverted tastes of
some wealthy degenerate?" The words seemed to be coming from somewhere deep
within her, of their own accord; one of her victims, she realized, someone she
had killed, must have been skilled in oratory. And she could augment that, now
that she had seen how; she warmed the air about her, then let a feint orange
glow seep out.

A warlock and an orator both; she suppressed a smile. Self-delight would win
no converts; only anger would do that."Haven't you had enough!" she screamed
at the people of the Field.

Some of the soldiers were backing away; some of the civilians were muttering.

"I say that Ederd has had his chance!" Tabaea shouted. "I say his time is
over! Let the old man step aside, and let a woman of the people see justice
done in this city! Not the justice of slaver and swordsman, but true justice!
Not Lord Kalthon's justice, but my justice! The justice of one who has no need
to fear nor favor, because I cannot be harmed! Beholden to no one save those
who aid me now, I am the Empress of Ethshar! Who's with me?"

A dozen voices shouted. "I said, who's with me!" This time, a hundred chorused
in reply. "Then let's show old Ederd who's in charge here! Come with me to the
palace! We'll throw Ederd and his lackeys out in the Wall Street Field and
take the palace for our own! Come on!" She turned and stepped off the shelter,
but not down to the ground; instead she caught herself in the air, warlock
fashion, and propelled herself forward, above the crowd.

Using too much warlockry wasn't safe, of course; she doubted she was any more
immune to the Calling than anyone else was. But warlockry was showy, and that
was what she needed right now.

The soldiers had mostly faded away, falling back into the darkness, out of
sight of the angry crowd; Tabaea and her followers marched unimpeded out of
the Field onto Wall Street and down Wall Street to Grandgate Market. Many of
the people behind her had torches or makeshift clubs, she saw with pleasure;
one had picked up a soldier's fallen sword. She was at the head of an army.

The Empress Tabaea, at the head of her army. She smiled broadly.

"Come on!" she called. "Come on!"

CHAPTER 24

It was Alorria of Dwomor who rousted Lord Torrut out of his bed; the soldier
who had guarded the bedchamber door stood nervously beside her, holding a
lamp.

"She said it was an emergency, sir . . ."

"It is an emergency," Alorria said, tugging at the bedclothes. "There's an
uprising!"

Lord Torrut was not a young man anymore and did not wake as quickly as he once
had; he looked up Wearily at the unfamiliar but unmistakably attractive face
and smiled. "Ah, young lady . . ." he began. Then his head sank a little, and
he saw the rest of her. His eyes widened. "Is it the baby?" he said. "Soldier,
go fetch a midwife!"

"No, it's not the baby," Alorria snapped. "The baby's fine and not due for
sixnights. There's an uprising! They're marching on the palace!"
Torrut sat up and shook his head to clear it; then, speaking as he reached for
his tunic, he asked, "Who's marching? What's going on?"

"There's a woman named Tabaea who has just declared herself Empress of
Ethshar, and she's raised an army of the poor and discontented from the Wall
Street Field. They're marching here to take the palace and kill the overlord."
Alorria stepped back, to give the commander of the city guard room to stand.

"From the Field?" Lord Torrut said, astonished; he stopped with one arm in its
sleeve and the other bare. "You don't need me for that! A hundred men and a
magician or two should be able to handle it."

Alorria shook her head. "Tabaea's a magician—a very powerful one, the one that
Lady Sarai's been looking for for months, the one who's been murdering other
magicians."

"Well, but surely ..."

"The magicians are trying to stop her, and Captain Tikri's getting the palace
guard ready to defend against her, but so far nothing's working. She's already
walked right through a squadron of guards, out on Wall Street; she crippled a
warlock and brushed aside the wizards' spells as if they were mere illusions."

Torrut stared at her for a moment, then turned to his door guard. "Is this
true?" he demanded.

The guard turned up an empty palm."I don't know, my lord," he said. "This
woman was sent by Lady Sarai and Captain Tikri, but that's all I know."

"Damn." Torrut slid his arm into the empty sleeve and then reached for his
kilt. "Who are you, young woman? Why wasn't one of the regular messengers
sent?"

"My husband's a wizard," Alorria explained. "Everyone else was busy, and I
wanted to help, so they sent me to fetch you."

Torrut nodded. "Good of you. Listen, I want you to take this soldier to vouch
for you and go wake the overlord. I don't know what's going on here, or how
much danger there really is, but I'm not about to let anyone say I didn't do
my best to protect Ederd. While you do that, I'll go down and see what's
happening for myself."

"Wake the overlord?" Alorria squeaked. Even though she was the daughter of a
king herself, she lived in awe of the three Ethsharitic overlords. Beside her
the guardsman looked very unhappy indeed.

"That's right," Torrut said, standing up and pulling his kilt into position.
"Somebody better." He smiled, "Don't worry, Ederd's a gentle old man; he won't
have your heads lopped off for disturbing him. For that matter, despite his
age, he doesn't mind looking at a lovely young woman any more than I do. All
this fuss may be nothing, but I think Ederd would want to know." He reached
for his sword belt. "Now, go on, both of you!"

They went.

When Alorria had come up to the level where most of the higher nobility had
their apartments, the stairways and passages had been quiet and dim; now,
though, she could hear voices and running footsteps and could see lights
behind a dozen doors. "Which way?" she asked.
The guard pointed.

Officials were hurrying about; Alorria knew that the magicians were gathering
two flights below, to prepare a defense
against Tabaea's advance, and to find a way to kill the mysterious
self-proclaimed "empress."

And out in the streets, Tabaea was marching steadily closer. Once Tabaea was
out of the Wall Street Field, she got as far as the intersection of Gate
Street and Wizard Street before she encountered any further organized
resistance. There, though, she found herself facing a living barricade of
soldiers, swords drawn, formed up in a line three deep that stretched from one
side of the avenue to the other.

"Are you trying to keep me from the palace? From my palace?" she shouted.

The lieutenant in charge of the formation called back,"Drop your weapons, all
of you! I call on you in the name of Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar, to
surrender!"

Tabaea laughed. "I could just go around the block," she called, "but I think
I'll teach you all a lesson." With the Black Dagger ready in her hand, she
marched forward. The line of soldiery braced to meet her. When she came within
striking distance, the soldier directly in front of her called out, "Stop, or
I '11 kill you!" He raised his sword high.

"Go ahead and try!" Tabaea called back, without stopping. The man stabbed at
her; catlike, she dodged the thrust. Her hand flicked out, like a cat's paw at
a mouse, and closed around the sword's blade.

Startled, the soldier tried to snatch it back, but Tabaea tore the weapon out
of his hand and flung it aside.

The soldiers to either side were striking at her, as well, now; she ducked and
wove, dodging their blows. She snatched the swords away from two more
soldiers. The line formation had broken, now; they were all coming to get at
her, forming a tight little knot around her.

She smacked away swords, dodged their thrusts, grabbed one in her fist, and
bent it until it broke; behind her she could hear her ragtag army muttering,
brushing up against the soldiers, but not really fighting.

It didn't matter. She didn't need them.

A sword hit her squarely in the side, and she felt an instant of incredible
pain, but then it was gone; she had lost another life.

Angry, she lashed out with the Black Dagger and sliced open a soldier's
throat. As he started to fall back she finished him with a thrust to the
heart; she wanted a life to replace the one she had lost.

She picked up another guardsman and threw him against his companions; then
another, and another. She used her hands and her warlockry both.

"You can't stop me!" she shrieked. "No one can stop me!"

The Black Dagger flared blue, and something crackled like dead leaves in a hot
fire. Someone was trying to use magic against her.
"No one!" she repeated, "not even wizards!"

The dagger flared again, greenish this time. Tabaea jabbed it into a soldier's
belly.

A moment later the guard broke; several men fell back under the lieutenant's
orders, but others ran off down side streets, either Wizard Street or Arena
Street, and a few ducked into the Cap and Dagger.

And of course, half a dozen or so lay unmoving on the ground.

"All right, men," the lieutenant shouted. "She won't make it easy, we'll leave
this one to the wizards!"

"Run away!" Tabaea called. "Look at them, you people, look at them run! Send
your wizards, I don't care! They can't stop me!" She waved the dagger in the
air, and a cheer went up from her "army." "Come on!" she called, and again she
marched toward the palace.

At the palace, the more ordinary officials and workers listened closely as the
magicians reported on the encounter.

"Bad," Karanissa said, "very bad. Three dead, at least. All on our side."

"She's still coming?" Lady Sarai asked.

"Oh, yes; the fight hardly even slowed her down."

"What if we let her pass, but stopped her army?" The question was directed at
the entire room, rather than at Karanissa.

"We could," Okko agreed, "but what would that accomplish, if we can't stop
heft"

"Well, she couldn't very well rule the city all by herself, could she?"

"No," Okko agreed, "but I think she could kill everyone here, one by one,
starting with the overlord himself, until the survivors started obeying her."

"Would she do that?" one of the overlord's scriveners asked, horrified.

"Yes," Teneria said flatly. "She would."

Sarai turned to the wizards. "What spells have you tried against her?"

"Several," Tobas said. "From simple curses to the White Death. Whatever is
protecting her blocks them all instantly." "Is there any way to stop her?"
Lady Sarai asked.

"Probably," Tbbas replied, "and we'll keep trying spells. But most of them
would take more time than we have to prepare. And some of them would take out
large parts of the city with her."

"And we don't really know which to use," Karanissa pointed out. "Since we
haven't yet figured out what keeps her alive, we can't be sure of how to kill
her."

Lord Torrut stepped into the room at that point and demanded loudly, "What's
happening?"
Several people rushed to tell him; he quickly chose one to serve as his
spokesman and began quietly absorbing information.

"I wonder where the other conspirators are?" Tbbas asked.

Karanissa shook her head, but before she could say anything, Kelder of Tazmor
answered quietly, "I don't think there is any conspiracy. I think there's just
Tabaea."

"You never found traces of anyone else, did you?" Lady Sarai asked, startled.
"She's small enough, and strong enough, and seems to have several different
magicks available—how can she do that?"

"There's just Tabaea," Karanissa agreed. "At least, there's just Tabaea and
the rabble from the Field."

"It's all just her. . ." Lady Sarai's voice trailed off; then she asked, "What
happens if we can't stop her?"

No one had an answer for that, until Karanissa suggested, "We die, probably."

"There's no need for that," Lord Torrut said, startling the others. "We don't
die; we retreat, we regroup, we reconsider our situation, and when we're
ready, we retaliate."

"But how ..." Sarai began.

"Listen, little Sarai," Torrut said, cutting her off, "you and your father
have made fun of me for years for being a warrior with no wars to fight. Well,
now I have a war—and by the gods I swear that I'm going to fight it, and I'm
going to win it. It's not who wins the first battle that matters, it's who
wins the last battle. This Tabaea is going to win the first one, but I intend
to make sure it's not the last."

The whispered side conversations had died away as Lord Torrut spoke; now
everyone was listening to him.

"This Tabaea doesn't like the overlord—that means we need to get him out of
the palace before she gets here, and while we're at it, I think we had better
get his entire family out, with him: Ederd the Heir and Zarrea and Edarth and
Kinthera and Annara, all of them. If she's lived in the Wall Street Field then
she probably doesn't like the guard, and she doesn't like me, and Sarai, she
probably doesn't like your father, Lord Kalthon—you'd better get him and your
brother out of here, too. And magicians-she doesn't like magicians."

"But where do we go?" Lady Sarai asked, dismayed.

"She's coming from Grandgate, is she? Then we go to Seagate. We put the
overlord and his family and anyone who's too old or too sick to fight on a
ship, and we sail it out of here, out of her reach."

"How do you know when it's out of her reach?" Tobas asked.

That stopped Lord Torrut for a moment; then he smiled, showing well-kept
teeth. "I don't," he said. "I'm guessing. But if she could stop a ship at sea
... well, has she shown any sign of being able to affect what she can't see?"

"No," Karanissa said, "not yet."

"How can we fight back from a ship, though?" Lady Sarai protested.
"Until we know how to fight back," Lord Torrut pointed out, "what does it
matter where we are?"

Lady Sarai was not entirely satisfied with this, but she could think of no
good answer. "I would never have thought a murder case could turn into
something like this," she muttered to herself.

No one heard her, as Lord Torrut continued, "I sent that woman Alorria to
rouse the overlord. And I'll leave it to this group here to get old Ederd and
anyone else who Tabaea might want to kill out of the palace and down to
Seagate before she gets here; and while you're doing that, I'll be doing what
I can to slow her arrival."

"Then you're not going to flee yourself, Lord Torrut?" someone asked.

"Of course not!" Lord Torrut grinned outright. "At long last, I have a war to
fight!"

PART THREE

Empress

CHAPTER 25

Lady Sarai could hear distant shouting as she tucked the blanket around her
father; Tabaea and her army must have gotten as far as Quarter Street, at the
very least. Kalthon the Younger sat upright at the back of the wagon, looking
slightly dazed; Lady Sarai could see his expression clearly in the light of
the torch the wagon's driver held.

"Sarai, I don't understand," her brother said again.

"You don't have to," Sarai said. "You just do what I told you."

"But aren't you coming?"

Sarai hesitated. She looked down at her father. He had appeared to be more or
less awake when they left the palace, and had moved partly under his own
power, but now he gave no sign of consciousness; he probably couldn't hear
anything, might well have no idea what was going on around him. "No," she
said, "I'm not."

"But why not?" young Kalthon protested. "If this crazy magician would kill us
all, won't she kill you, too?"

"Oh, I suppose she will if she catches me and finds out who I am, yes." Sarai
attempted a mocking smile, but it didn't work very well—or perhaps her brother
couldn't see it in the dark; her face was probably in shadow from where he
sat.

"Then shouldn't you come with us?"

"No. " She gave the blanket a final tug, then let herself slide back over the
side of the wagon.

"Why nor?" Kalthon's wail was heartbreaking. "How am I going to manage Daddy
without you?"

"You won't be alone; there will be people to help. The overlord's going, too,
and all his family. His granddaughter An-nara will help. And Ederd the Heir."
She hoped Ederd the Heir would, at any rate; he was a healthy man, not yet
fifty, but prone to turn morose and useless at times. His daughter Annara was
just a year older than Sarai, though, and still cheerful and energetic.

"But what will you do? Are you staying in the palace? Is this horrible woman
going to kill you?"

"No," Sarai said. "No, she won't kill me. I won't stay in the palace. I'll
hide somewhere in the city."

"But if you're hiding, why can't you come with us?"

Sarai sighed. "Kallie," she said, "I'm sending you and Dad and the others away
so you'll be safe, but someone has to stay here to fight Tabaea, and I 'm
going to be the one from our family who does that."

"What about Ederd the Heir, then? Shouldn't he be staying?"

"No, because he's too valuable. He's the overlord's heir."

Kalthon couldn't argue with that, but he still didn't like it.

"I think you should come with us," he said.

"No, Kallie," Sarai said gently. Then she stepped away and told the waiting
driver, "Go, quickly!"

He obeyed wordlessly, setting the torch in its bracket and cracking the reins
over the horses.

Lady Sarai watched them go, the horses trotting, the wagon bumping its way
down Palace Street, toward the docks at Seagate. The torchlight wavered madly
with the wagon's motion, sending light and shadow dancing insanely across the
darkened housefronts on either side.

Sarai hoped that using horses wouldn't be too conspicuous, especially at this
hour of the night; the palace stables had held no oxen, and besides, oxen
would be dangerously slow. A few of the richest merchants were using horses to
draw their wagons now, weren't they?

She hoped so. Or if not, then she hoped Tabaea wouldn't know any better; it
was entirely possible the little thief wouldn't even recognize a horse, or
wouldn't know that they were traditionally the exclusive property of the
nobility.

The royal family was all safe now, or as safe as she could make them—Ederd IV,
his wife Zarrea, his sour old bachelor brother Edarth, the aging son who would
one day be Ederd V, his wife Kinthera, and their daughter Annara, all rousted
from their beds and sent hurrying on their way to a hastily chartered ship.
And now Lady Sarai's own family, her father and brother, were following. Okko,
too old to fight—if theurgists could fight, which they generally couldn't—had
gone as well.

Lord Torrut hadn't fled, of course; he was out there somewhere, trying every
sort of trap, ambush, and delaying tactic he could improvise. Sarai was fairly
sure that Captain Tikri was with him. And most of the magicians she had
collected in the palace were taking shelter at various places in the city, on
Wizard Street or elsewhere.
And of course, she was staying, herself—but where?

There was a temptation to remain in the palace after all, but to pretend to be
someone else—borrow a maid's apron, perhaps, or join the assistant cooks in
the kitchens. After all, as far as she knew, Tabaea had never seen her and
wouldn't recognize her face.

That was too risky, though. Tabaea might have spies, or her unknown magic
might expose the deception, or some innocent servant might slip up and reveal
Sarai's rank.

No, Sarai knew she would have to find somewhere else--but where?

She realized she was still staring down the black and empty length of Palace
Street, though the wagon was out of sight; she turned away with a wry smile.

Maybe, she thought, she should go to the Wall Street Field. After all, wasn't
that where anyone in Ethshar went who had lost her home and been thrown out
into a hostile world? And wouldn't it be appropriate, now that Tabaea's ragtag
followers would be taking their places in the palace?

But it wasn't everyone from the Field who was marching with the
self-proclaimed empress, and Sarai realized, with a bitter little laugh, that
the Field was probably the place in all the city outside the palace where she
was most likely to be recognized as Lord Kalthon's daughter.

The barracks towers in Grandgate would be almost as bad— and besides, a woman
alone there would hardly be safe. Besides, Grandgate, or any part of Wall
Street, was a long way from the palace. She wanted somewhere closer at hand,
somewhere she could keep an eye on things, the way the magicians did.

The magicians were mostly on Wizard Street, of course—and not necessarily the
closer sections, since for many their spells could serve them even at a
distance.

She frowned. She was no magician, and she hardly belonged on Wizard Street.
She had a little money with her—not much, but a little. Why not just take a
room at an inn?

No, she told herself, that would be too exposed, would involve too much
dealing with strangers, and at this hour, would be far too noticeable.
Ordinary travelers didn't take rooms hours after midnight, did they?

A high, thin scream sounded somewhere to the northeast, on the other side of
the palace. The shouting was much closer, and she could hear other noises,
noises she couldn't identify. Tabaea must be almost to the palace, and here
she was, still standing on the plaza across from Palace Street.

She stepped off the stone pavement onto the bare earth of Circle Street, and
choosing her direction at random, she turned right—she didn't want to follow
Palace Street, or even the fork for North Palace Street. She wanted to put
distance between herself and the fleeing nobles.

The next turn off the circle was Nightside Street, and she passed that by, as
well, and the next. Here her choice was largely pragmatic; both streets were
utterly black and unlit, while closer at hand the glow from the windows of the
palace spilled out over the outer walls and made Circle Street relatively
navigable.

She could hear the hissing of fountains left running, out there in the
darkened gardens and forecourts; the sound, normally pleasant, was turned
sinister and menacing by the circumstances. Sarai wondered whether the wealthy
inhabitants of the mansions of Nightside were aware of what was happening just
a few blocks away. When they awoke in the morning, how long would it take them
to realize that the World had gone mad, that their overlord had been deposed,
and that a thieving young magician was ruling the city? Would Tabaea leave
them alone, or would she pillage those mansions behind their iron fences?

Well, if Sarai had her way, Tabaea wouldn't have time to disrupt the city's
life that much. And right now, Lady Sarai did not care to try finding her way
through Nightside's unlit streets.

Sooner or later, despite the dark, Sarai knew she would have to move farther
out into the city, away from the palace; she wished there was more natural
light to help her. The greater moon was rising in the east, casting orange
light on the rooftops, but not yet penetrating to the streets below, while the
lesser moon was far down in the west, its pale pink glow of no use at all.

By the time she reached North Street the roar of battle was overpowering, and
farther ahead, farther around the circle, she could see reflected torchlight
and the shadowed backs of soldiers. North Street was no more brightly
illuminated than the
others she had passed, but she could scarcely go any farther around the circle
if she meant to escape; she turned left onto North Street, despite the
darkness.

And then, suddenly, she knew where she was going. She would go to Wizard
Street, just three blocks away. She would go to Mereth's shop, Mereth of the
Golden Door. Even if Mereth wouldn't take her in, surely the wizard would know
of someone who would.

Now that she had a destination in mind, Sarai began to hurry.

Behind her, a man's dying scream sounded above the fighting. Sarai winced. It
seemed so pointless, fighting Tabaea every step of the way like this; didn't
Lord Torrut see that? He was letting his men die for nothing.

But there was nothing Sarai could do about it, not anymore. She fled down
North Street.

The stub of a lone torch still burned unnoticed above a shuttered shop on
Harbor Street; Lady Sarai glanced at it, grateful for the slight relief from
the surrounding night. To see Harbor Street utterly empty and almost dark
seemed very odd indeed; she had never before been out so late and never seen
the streets so deserted.

Behind her, the shouting seemed to be fading away. By the time she turned left
onto Wizard Street, she was no longer entirely sure whether she heard
shouting, or the distant roar of the sea.

Here there were no torches, only whatever light moons and stars might provide,
but Sarai could see that the door of Mereth's shop was shut, her signboard
unlit. The shop windows were tightly closed, draperies drawn, but a thin line
of light showed around the edges; it would scarcely have been visible were the
street brighter, either with daylight or the glow of the evening's torches and
lanterns.

Sarai hurried to the door and rapped gently on the gilded panels.

For a long moment, nothing happened; then, abruptly, the door was flung open.
"Get in!" someone ordered.

Sarai obeyed, and the door slammed shut behind her, leaving Wizard Street once
more dark and empty.

CHAPTER 26

The palace door was locked and barred, but Tabaea didn 't mind; sbs braced
herself against the paving stones of the plaza, put her shoulder to the
brass-covered panels, and shoved with all her supernatural strength. The latch
shattered, the brackets holding the bar snapped, and the twisted, ruined door
swung open. Tabaea laughed and shouted, "Come on!" She waved to her followers;
some of them surged forward, close on her heels, but others hung back,
intimidated by the idea of intruding on the palace itself.

Tabaea stepped through the broken portal into a broad and shadowy marble
corridor; somewhere far ahead light spilled through an archway, and the
contrast of the distant glow with the surrounding darkness seemed to
exaggerate the length of the passage.

Or did it? Tabaea was unsure; the palace was for larger than any other
building she had ever been in. Perhaps the corridor really was that long.

The euphoria of her triumphant march from Grandgate faded quickly at the sight
of the polished stone floor, the countless doors on either side, and a
gleaming staircase barely visible in the dim distance. This hardly seemed to
her like a part of her own familiar city, or like anything human at all. She
had thought old Serem's house was almost offensively magnificent, yet this
palace hall dwarfed anything in the wizard's home.

But it was hers now, she reminded herself. She sniffed the air, but that told
her little; people had been through here recently, but were not here now. The
faint familiar odors of furniture, of lamps and candles, and of polishing oil
reached her, mingled both with the smells of her followers and the street
outside, and with scents she could not identify. No longer feeling
particularly bold, she nonetheless put on a bold front and marched forward.
Her footsteps tapped loudly on the shining marble, and echoed eerily from the
stone walls.

Behind her came a score of the vagabonds and scoundrels who had followed her
from the Wall Street Field; their feet, bare or slippered or wrapped in rags,
did not make the sharp tapping her good new boots did, but slapped or scraped
or shuffled. Like her, they were awed by what they saw; their shouting dropped
to whispers that echoed from the stone, chasing each other back and forth
along the passage.

"Where is everybody?" someone asked.

"Who do you mean?" Tabaea demanded, turning. "Who did you expect here? We
fought the city guard in the streets!"

"I mean the people who live here," the beggar said. "The overlord and his
family, and all the others."

"Fled, probably," someone said. "Or cowering in then-beds. "

"Did you think they'd be waiting by the door to welcome us?"

Someone laughed.
"Come on," Tabaea said. She had intended to shout it, but somehow couldn't
bring herself to do it; instead she merely spoke loudly. She turned forward
and marched on down the corridor.

The doors on either side were mostly closed; a few stood ajar, but the rooms
beyond were dark, and Tabaea did not bother to explore them. They passed
arches opening into large dark rooms, and those, too, Tabaea hurried quickly
by without further investigation. Three of her followers carried torches; they
waved them in the open rooms to be sure no soldiers lurked in ambush there,
but then hurried on after their leader.

Ahead, that lone light spilled its golden glow across gray marble floor, walls
of white marble veined with gray, and Tabaea hurried forward to see where it
came from.

The answer was a disappointment; a perfectly ordinary oil lamp, apparently
forgotten by whoever had extinguished the others, burned atop a black iron
bracket on the side of a pillar, lighting another passageway that ran
crosswise to the one they were in. This other corridor, Tabaea saw, was not so
inhumanly, perfectly straight, but instead curved away in the distance.

And it gave her a choice, and therefore a problem; which way should she go?

The left-hand passage curved to the right; the right-hand passage curved to
the left. Whichever of the three she took, she
would be proceeding deeper in toward the center of the palace— in which case,
there was no reason to prefer one over the other. She marched on straight
ahead.

Now that the light was all behind her, shining over her shoulders, she could
see more clearly what lay ahead. The corridor continued another forty feet or
so, then ended in a dark open space—she could not judge its extent, only that
its walls and ceiling were out of sight. All she could see, beyond the
corridor's end, was a set of broad steps leading up into the darkness, steps
of polished yellow marble.

Where had the builders of this place gotten all this stone, Tabaea wondered;
she hadn't known there was so much marble in all the World.

She marched on to the end of the passage; there she paused and looked around.
She sniffed the air, but caught no suspicious odors.

To either side, walls began at right angles to the corridor, then curved away
into darkness; ahead, under the great staircase, were walls and, she thought,
doors. There were carvings in niches and statues standing on pedestals here
and there—one stood on either side of the bottommost step. Everything was of
stone, in white and gold and maroon.

She let her gaze drift up the staircase; she had expected the top to be
utterly black, like the unlit hallway of an inn late at night, but instead
there was a faint glow, and she thought she could make out vague shapes. There
was a certain airiness about it, somehow, and a hint of the pastel colors of
moonslight.

She considered a warlock light, but decided against trying it; she hadn't
really learned how to do one properly yet, and she was very wary about
overusing warlockry. Instead she waved the torchbearers back and let her eyes
adjust. After all, she reminded herself, she could see as well as any cat.

She blinked and drew in her breath.
"Come on," she said, waving her little band forward and marching up the marble
steps.

At the top she paused. The sensible thing to do would be to use the torches,
but she couldn't resist the more dramatic gesture; she waved, and her warlock
fire-lighting skill struck a hundred candlewicks. Golden light flickered, then
blazed forth, and Tabaea stepped forward into the Great Hall of the Overlord
of Ethshar of the Sands.

She stood on a broad floor paved in tesselated stone, a square floor a hundred
feet across. Far above, the palace's immense dome curved gracefully through
shadowed distance, too far up for the light of candles to illuminate it well;
a hundred-foot ring of sixteen hexagonal skylights set into the dome gave a
view of the stars.

Three of the four walls were broken at the center by a broad stair; Tabaea and
company had just mounted one of these, the others lying to their left and
directly across. To the right, the fourth wall had no stair, but instead an
elaborate display of carvings, gilt, and scarlet draperies, all centered
around an ornate golden chair on a wide dais. Magnificent golden candelabra,
wrought in a variety of shapes, lined the walls to either side of this
display, and it was these that now provided the light.

"The throne room," someone murmured, as Tabaea's followers emerged into this
splendor.

"And the overlord's throne," someone else added, pointing at the golden chair.

Tabaea grinned, her enthusiasm suddenly returning.

"Wrong," she said, bounding gaily to the throne. She leaped up and stood for a
moment on its scarlet velvet cushion, watching as the last few stragglers
trickled into the room.

"This is not the overlord's throne," she proclaimed, "not anymore!" She paused
dramatically, then slid down and seated herself properly. "This is my throne
now," she said. "Mine! Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar!" She smiled—not
at all a pleasant smile.

After a second's hesitation, the little crowd burst into wild applause.

As they cheered, Tabaea ran her hands along the arms of the throne, enjoying
the feel of it; the arms were of solid gold, she thought, worn smooth by
centuries of use.

Under one arm she found a loop; curious, she tugged at it. It yielded an inch
or so, then stopped. She could have forced it, but decided not to; there was
no point in breaking something before she even knew what it was.

It occurred to her belatedly that the loop might have been a trap, something
intended to dispose of usurpers like herself, but if so, it obviously wasn't
working.

She sat and looked out at the room, at the people cheering for her, at the dim
soaring dome above, the shining stone floor, the gold ornaments and silken
tapestries, and an immense satisfaction settled over her.

It was hers. All of it, hers.
At least for the moment.

She sniffed the air, sorting out the scents in the room. Nothing was very
fresh; no one had been in here for at least an hour before her arrival. The
throne smelled of an old man—Ederd IV, of course; wasn't he seventy or eighty
years old? Tabaea had never paid much attention to politics.

However old he might be, he was still the only one who had sat in this
throne—until herself, of course.

Others had come and gone, men and women of all ages. She could smell the cold
stone, the dust on the tapestries, and the lingering scents of the overlord's
courtiers. They had stood and knelt on that vast expanse of unfurnished floor.
They had been there just that day, Tabaea was sure—but now it might as well
have been a century ago, because they were gone, their overlord overthrown. It
was all hers now.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, and leaped down from the throne, snatching
the Black Dagger from her belt.

A woman was on the stairs; Tabaea could smell her. A woman was approaching,
and she was frightened.

Tabaea's followers, the twenty or so that had made it this far, had heard
nothing, sensed nothing, until they saw their leader jump from her throne and
crouch, knife ready. Their babbling euphoria vanished; a few began to retreat
toward the stairs by which they had entered, while the others stared nervously
in every direction.

"What is it?" someone asked.

Then the woman's head came into sight as she ascended the staircase to the
right, as seen from the throne—the side opposite where Tabaea had entered. By
her expression, she was utterly terrified; she hesitated at her first glimpse
of the new masters of the palace, then continued up the steps.

She wore a gold tunic and a skirt of dark red, almost maroon, with a white
apron protecting the front; her long brown hair was pulled back into a
ponytail. She was not particularly young, nor particularly attractive. She
looked harmless; what's more, she smelled harmless. Tabaea relaxed somewhat,
rising up from her fighting stance, but keeping the dagger ready in her hand.

At the top step the woman in the apron hesitated again, one hand on the rail.
She looked over the ragged crew before her, then turned toward the empty
throne and spotted Tabaea, in her fine embroidered tunic that was smeared with
blood and pierced by holes and tears left by sword thrusts, and her long black
skirt stained with mud from the Field.

The newcomer curtsied, catching her apron and skirt up and bobbing quickly.

Tabaea blinked; she had hardly ever seen anyone curtsy before, and certainly
never to her. That was reserved for the nobility.

"Um . . . Your Majesty?" the woman said. "My lady? I'm sorry, I don't know how
to address you."

Tabaea smiled. " 'Your Majesty' will suit me quite well," she said.

"Very good, Your Majesty. You rang for me?"
"I did?" Tabaea remembered the loop on the throne. "Ah, yes, so I did."

"How may I serve you?"

Tabaea sheathed her knife and stood as tall as she could on the dais. "You may
begin," she said, "by explaining how you know who I am, and by telling me who
you are."

The woman in the apron curtsied again. "My name is Ista, Your Majesty; I'm
just a servant. I was on duty downstairs when you rang. As for knowing who you
are, I don't know for certain, but we were told that the old overlord was
fleeing because a great magician had declared herself empress, and he could
not stop her. I assume you are she."

"That's right," Tabaea said. "Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar of the
Sands!" She waved toward the others. "And these are my court!" She laughed,
and stepped back to the throne. "So old Ederd's fled?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Tabaea settled onto the scarlet cushion, grinning broadly. "But you're still
here?"

"Oh, yes, of course, Your Majesty; the palace is my home. Where else would I
go?"

"And you'll serve me, as you served Ederd?"

Ista bobbed her head. "If you'll permit me, Your Majesty."

"I will," Tabaea said, gesturing magnanimously. "What about the other
servants?"

"I can't speak for them all, Your Majesty, but most of them are still here and
ready to obey you."

"Oh, excellent! And what about the others? Ederd had a family, didn't he? And
there are all the others, the so-called Minister of Justice and the rest—what
of them?"

"Fled, Your Majesty. Lord Ederd the Heir, Lady Zarrea of the Spices, Lord
Edarth of Ethshar, Lord Kalthon, all of them fled."

"Well, let them flee, then—maybe they can take shelter hi the Wall Street
Field!" She laughed. "So this palace is all mine, then?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Then show me my new domain, Ista—give us all the grand tour!" She stood again
and made a shooing gesture.

Ista hesitated, then curtsied once more. "What would you like to see first,
Your Majesty?" she asked.


CHAPTER 27

The three brocade armchairs were already occupied when Lady Sarai stepped into
Mereth's front room—Alorria sat in the green, sound asleep; Kelder of Tazmor
was in the gold, awake but visibly weary; and an old man Sarai didn't
recognize dozed in the blue. Two soldiers leaned against the wall, one of them
brushing his elbow against an ink painting; young Thar, who had admitted
Sarai, eyed that nervously but said nothing. A few salvaged belongings were in
battered knapsacks, stacked in odd corners, looking rather grubby and out of
place. The little decorative boxes had all been shoved to one side of the
table, making room for a plate covered with crumbs—whatever food had been
provided, Sarai had clearly missed it.

"Is Mereth here?" Sarai asked. "Or Tobas?"

Thar shook his head. "No," he said, "they're over at the Guildhouse."

Lady Sarai blinked. "What Guildhouse?" she asked.

"Guildmaster Serem's house, on Grand Street," Thar explained. "Lirrin turned
it over to the Wizards' Guild until Serem's murderer is caught." He shrugged.
"She doesn't need all that space, anyway."

Sarai nodded. That explained why there had been several other

wizards there, as well as Lirrin, when she took Teneria and Luralla to see the
murder scene. Naturally, the wizards hadn't said anything about it to her.
"Are they . . . what's happening there?" she asked.

"I don't know," Thar said. "I'm just an apprentice."

"Are they looking for a way to stop Tabaea?"

"I don't know—honestly, Lady Sarai, I don't know."

"I'm going there," Sarai said. She turned back toward the door.

"No, Lady Sarai," Thar protested, "not at this hour! In the morning we'll all
go, but right now everyone needs to rest. That's what Guildmaster Telurinon
said. I'll be taking Princess Alorria myself."

"We don't have time to rest," Sarai objected. "Tabaea isn't sleeping, is she?"

"I don't know, maybe she is, but whatever she's doing, we should rest. Or at
least, you should—I have to stay up in case anyone else comes."

Lady Sarai hesitated.

"Tabaea isn't going to come after us tonight, my lady. Honestly, she won't."

Sarai studied Thar's face and saw a child trying hard to be grown up, a child
on the very edge of complete exhaustion. She thought if she argued he would
probably start crying.

She didn't want that, and besides, he was right; she was incredibly tired
herself. It had been an abominably long day. Hard as it was to remember, when
she had gotten up the morning before, about twenty hours ago, she had not yet
heard the name "Tabaea the Thief," and she had never met Tolthar of
Small-gate.

"The chairs are all taken," she said.

Thar smiled with relief. "The guest beds are all taken, too," he said, "but
you can use mine. I have to stay up and watch the door, any way."
Sarai nodded.

The apprentice's bed was lumpy and narrow, and she didn't sleep well; it
seemed as if she had only just managed to get comfortable, at long last, when
a guard's polite cough awakened her.

"They're getting ready to go to the Guildhouse, my lady," he said. Then he
ducked back beyond the curtain that separated
Thar's niche from Mereth's kitchen, leaving her to her own devices.

Lady Sarai rose and brushed herself off, then straightened her clothes as best
she could; there was no need to get dressed, since she had brought none of her
clothing out of the palace with her except the outfit she was wearing. She had
packed a few things for her father and brother, but had not worried about her
own needs.

She made a quick trip to the privy in the courtyard behind the shop, then
rinsed her face with water from the kitchen pump— Mereth was lucky, having a
pump right there; or perhaps, since she had surely paid a good bit of money
for it,"lucky" was not exactly the right word.

Feeling a little more alert and socially acceptable, Sarai hurried back down
the corridor to the consultation room.

A crowd of people was gathered there—everyone who had been present the night
before, and others as well. Sarai recognized some of them, but by no means
all; there were magicians of various sorts, minor officials in the overlord's
government, and people who could have come'from anywhere.

And they were all arguing about something, but Sarai could make out nothing of
what they were debating. She looked around for help.

The two guards were both there, but this time, instead of standing to one
side, they were among those arguing most intently. Thar, however, was leaning
silently against the archway, looking distressed.

"What's happening?" Sarai asked him.

The apprentice looked up at her unhappily. "They're arguing about how to go to
the Guildhouse."

Sarai blinked. "I had assumed we would walk," she said.

"Well, yes," Thar agreed. He paused, considering, then added, "Except maybe
some of the wizards and warlocks—I suppose they might fly."

"Wouldn't that attract attention?"

"Probably."

"So if we're walking," Lady Sarai asked, trying not to let her exasperation
show, "what are they arguing about?"

"Whether we should all go at once, or go separately. Some of them think we
should go together, in one big group, but the others think that would be too
noticeable."

"That's stupid," Sarai said. "Of course we'd be too noticeable." She raised
her voice and announced, "I'm going to the Guildhouse now; I'd be glad to
travel with one or two others."
"But Lady Sarai..." one of the guards began.

Lady Sarai did not stay to hear what he might have to say; she marched out the
door onto Wizard Street.

The morning was a bright and cheerful one; she could hear children laughing as
they chased each other through the alleys, and somewhere a block or two away a
hawker was shouting out praises of his wares. There was no outward sign at all
that a dangerous lunatic had overthrown the government the night before, that
the overlord and half his court had fled.

In fact, Lady Sarai suspected that most of the city was unaware of Tabaea's
accession to the throne. It would probably be a few days before the average
citizen became aware of any change.

Or perhaps not—one of the shops across the way was shuttered and barred. Had
the proprietor fled?

Or maybe the proprietor was in bed with a fever, or just taking a day off to
go down to the beach. Lady Sarai snorted at her own eagerness to see some
difference in the city. Just because her own life was all awry, that didn't
mean that the entire city's was.

She did expect that Tabaea's usurpation of power would have its effect
eventually, since she doubted very much that Tabaea and her cohorts could rule
the city as well as the old overlord had, but it would be a slow, subtle
thing. A city the size of Ethshar mostly ran by itself. Lady Sarai thought of
it as a great spinning top, and it was the government's job to keep it
balanced—a touch here, a touch there. Tabaea would be bound to miss a wobble
here, push too hard there, and before long the whole thing would careen wildly
out of control, maybe come smashing to a halt.

But for now, it looked just as it always had. She paused a few steps from
Mereth's gilded door, looking about.

"Lady Sarai!" someone called. Sarai turned, a finger to her lips.

It was Alorria who had spoken; she stood in the doorway, leaning forward, her
feet still safely within the threshold in case she had to slip quickly back
inside. Behind her stood Kelder of Tazmor on one side, Thar on the other.

"Don't use the title," Sarai said mildly. "It might be unhealthy just now."

"Oh," Alorria said. She looked uneasily out at the street.

"What is it?" Sarai asked.

"I'd like to come with you," Alorria said. "I think they're going to argue all
day, and I want to see my husband. And I don't know the way to this Guildhouse
they talk about. And I don't like traveling alone."

"I would be glad to provide an escort," Kelder said, in his odd Sardironese
accent, "but I fear I don't know the house's location, either."

"Well, come on then, both of you." Sarai waited while the two of them hurried
out. Kelder, she noted, carried a large knapsack; a floppy, broad-brimmed hat
shaded his face, and his feet were ensconced in large, well-worn boots. As for
Alorria, while she was not dressed for serious travel, she wore three assorted
pouches on her belt; both were probably better equipped than she was herself,
Sarai thought wryly.

Together, the three of them strolled northeastward on Wizard Street, moving at
a leisurely pace so as not to tax the pregnant Alorria. The sun was bright,
and Sarai quickly regretted not having a hat like Kelder's. When she had left
the palace in the middle of the night she hadn't worried about sunlight.

They crossed North Street and a block or so later moved on from Nightside into
Shadyside—but it was hardly shady today; the shadow of the palace dome could
never have reached this far out; the name was more symbolic than descriptive.

"Warm," Alorria remarked. She pulled a gauzy red kerchief from one pouch and
draped it over her head, then secured it in place with her coronet. Sarai
admired the effect—barbaric, but not unattractive.

She glanced enviously at Kelder's hat—that wasn't exactly barbaric, but it was
rather outlandish. There was nothing unreasonable about that, since he was an
outlander.

The two foreigners made rather a striking contrast—Kelder in his rough and
practical attire, Alorria in her barbarian Small Kingdom splendor of silks and
gold. The coronet and kerchief might be pretty, but on the whole, Sarai
thought she would prefer Kelder's hat.

And thinking about Kelder, something struck her.

"You said you don't know where the house is," she said accusingly, "but of
course you do."

"I do?" Kelder asked, startled.

"Certainly! You've been there."

"I have? No, La ... no, I haven't."

"You said you had been there. Did you lie to me?"

"No! How did I lie? I haven't been to the wizards' Guild-house, and I never
claimed I had."

"Yes, you have, if you really did the investigating you told me about. It's
the old wizard's house. Serem's."

"Ah," Kelder said, nodding. "I see. Then it stands at the corner of Wizard
Street and Grand Street, and we are now on Wizard Street, are we not? Need we
just follow this right to the door, then?"

"If we want to take all day, we could do that," Sarai agreed, "but Wizard
Street turns south and makes a long detour, through Morningside and Eastside,
before it comes back north through Midway to Grandgate. We'll be turning and
following Harbor Street from Shadyside to Midway, then Gate Street from Midway
to Grandgate, and then we'll meet Wizard Street again for the last few
blocks."

"Ah," Kelder said. "I see. The streets of Sardiron are not so complex."

"Sardiron isn't as big."

Just then a pair of spriggans ran across the street in front of the threesome,
shrieking. Someone shouted imprecations after the creatures. Alorria sighed.
"I wish Tobas had never invented those things," she said.

"Did he really?" Sarai asked.

"Not on purpose," Alorria explained. "A spell went wrong. But yes, it was
really his doing."

Sarai looked at her, then around at the shops, at the signboards promising
miracles of every sort, at the window displays of strange apparatuses or
stuffed monsters, at the posted testimonials from satisfied customers.

Magic really could do amazing things. If anyone could ever get it all
organized, all working toward the same end, who knew what might be
accomplished?

And of course, who knew what might go wrong?

"Harbor Street," Alorria said. "Isn't that where most of the fighting was last
night?"

"I think the worst was on Quarter Street," Sarai said, "but yes, there was
fighting there. We'll be reversing the route of Tabaea's march for about half
our journey—the entire time we aren't on Wizard Street, we'll be on the
streets she used." She had not really thought about that before; it would be
interesting to see if there was more obvious evidence of Tabaea's accession
than there was on Wizard Street.

Alorria shuddered. "I've never been on a battlefield before," she said.

"A battlefield?" Sarai had never thought of any part of Eth-sharof the Sands
as a battlefield. Battlefields were far-off places, in the Small Kingdoms or
on the borders of Sardiron, not here in the heart of civilization. But what
else was Tabaea's route from Grandgate to the palace, but a battlefield?

"We'll see it soon enough," Sarai said. "We turn at the next corner."

CHAPTER 28

At first, when Tabaea awoke, she didn't remember where she was. She looked up
at the ornate canopy, the incredibly high, elaborately painted ceiling with
its gilded coffering, and wondered what sort of an inn she had found this
time.

The bed was broad and long and soft, the coverings rich and luxurious—a bed
fit for the overlord, she thought.

And then memory came back. It was a bed fit for the overlord—or for the
empress who had deposed him.

But it couldn't be real, she thought, sitting up. It must have been a dream.
Even with all her magic, she couldn't have overthrown the overlord in a single
night. . .

Could she?

A bellpull hung by the bed; she jerked at it, then slid out from under the
coverlet and onto her feet.

She was wearing a red silk gown that she had never seen before—no, she
corrected herself, she remembered changing into it last night. The chambermaid
had tried to take away her old clothes, and Tabaea had refused.

Sure enough, draped across a chair was her skirt, still muddy; hung on the
back was her embroidered tunic.

A dozen holes had been punched through it, it had been slashed several places,
and dried blood had stiffened it horribly. It looked like ancient scraps of
untanned black leather.

Tabaea shuddered. Those holes and slashes had been made by swords and spears
and arrows, and they had gone right through her, as well. That was her own
blood that stained the fabric. She looked down at the robe she wore, then tore
it open.

Faint scars traced across her breast. No one would ever have believed they
were the remains of wounds less than a day old.

Tabaea blinked. Were they less than a day old? How long had she slept?

A door opened, and a young woman leaned in. "Yes, Your Majesty?" she asked.

"What time is it?" Tabaea demanded. "And what day is it?"

"It's midday, Your Majesty, or close to it, on the sixteenth of Harvest, in
the Year of Speech 5227."

Tabaea relaxed slightly. She had marched to the palace on the night of the
fifteenth, she was fairly sure. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Lethe of Longwall, Your Majesty. Your morning maid." She curtsied, still
half-hidden by the door. Tabaea noticed that she was wearing the same gold
tunic, red skirt, and white apron as the woman last night, Ista, who had given
Tabaea a tour of her new home.

But this was definitely not Ista. Lethe was younger, shorter, and plumper.
Ista worked at night. Lethe, it seemed, worked mornings.

"My morning maid." Tabaea grinned. "Fine. Excellent." She glanced around the
room, and then down at the robe she had just torn.

"Fetch me some clothes, Lethe," Tabaea said. "Clothes fit for an empress. And
rouse my court—the ones I brought with me and anyone who didn't flee with old
Ederd. I intend to hold audience in half an hour, and I want them all there."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Lethe vanished, closing the door behind her.

Tabaea hopped back onto the edge of the bed and sat for a moment, swinging her
feet and looking around the room, at the carved and polished woodwork, the
ornate ceiling, the fine tapestries.

Then a tap sounded on the door.

"Come in," Tabaea called.

The door opened, and Lethe reappeared, but still did not fully   enter the room.
"Your Majesty," she said, "I've passed on your orders, and the   mistress of the
wardrobe is bringing selections from the closets of Annara the   Graceful and
others, but she asked me to tell you that there's been no time   to make new
dresses or alter what was here, so that she cannot promise any   will fit
properly at first." "Who's Annara the Graceful?" Tabaea asked. Lethe blinked,
startled. "Why, that's the overlord's ... I mean, the former overlord's
granddaughter."

"Oh," Tabaea said. She had never taken much of an interest in politics. "He
has grandchildren?" "Only the one." "Too bad. Is she pretty?"

Lethe hesitated. "I couldn't say," she answered at last. Tabaea hopped off the
bed again. "I take it she dressed well, at any rate."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I don't expect miracles about the fit . . ." Tabaea began. Then she stopped.

"But on the other hand," she said, "why shouldn't I expect miracles? Lethe, go
fetch me the court magicians!" Lethe's face turned white.

"YourMaj . . . Majesty," she stammered, "I can't." "Why not?" Tabaea demanded,
more curious than angry. "Are they so terrifying as all that?"

"No, Your Majesty; they're gone. They fled last night, for fear you would slay
them all. They said that you had already killed many magicians."

"Oh." Tabaea considered that. Even after spying on several magicians as they
discussed the murders, it had never occurred to her that killing half a dozen
people could terrorize all the other magicians so thoroughly. It wasn't quite
the effect she had in mind. She had just wanted one of each, to absorb their
powers and abilities.

Well, what was done was done. "It doesn't matter," shesaid. "We'll make do
with ordinary tailors and seamstresses to adapt my new clothes, then, rather
than magic." "Yes, Your Majesty."

A thought struck Tabaea. "What do they pay you, Lethe?" she asked.

"I have a room here in the palace that I share with three other maids, Your
Majesty, and I get my meals, and six bits a day, as well." She lifted a comer
of her apron. "And my clothes," she added.

"Is that all?"

Lethe nodded.

"From now on, Lethe, you'll be paid a round and a half— with none of those
expensive magicians around, I'm sure the treasury can pay all you servants
twice as much!"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you." Lethe curtsied.

"And the dungeons—last night Ista showed me the stair to the dungeons, but we
didn't go down. Are there prisoners down there?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I want them freed. Right now. All of them."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Lethe started to turn to go, then stopped and stepped out
of the way as two men marched in, hauling a large wooden trunk. Behind this
came a tall woman in a green and gold gown, perhaps the most extravagant
garment Tabaea had ever seen.
"Your Majesty," this new arrival said, as the men set the trunk on the floor,
"it's such an honor to meet you! I'm Jandin, mistress of the wardrobe."

"I'll go tell the guards," Lethe called, ducking out. Almost out of earshot,
she added, "If I can find any." The two men departed close on her heels, and
the door closed behind them.

Jandin flung open the trunk, revealing a glittering array of expensive fabric,
fine embroidery, and bright jewelry. Tabaea gasped, and her eyes went wide.

"Now, if Your Majesty could give me just the tiniest clue as to how you wish
to appear today," Jandin said, "I'm sure I can find something here that will
suit us . . ."

An hour later, as the nervous courtiers milled about the Great Hall in two
distinct groups, the old and the new, their desultory conversations were cut
short by the sound of trumpets. All eyes turned toward the rear staircase, and
a few unfortunates quickly scurried to one side or the other to get out of
their ruler's path.

As Tabaea rose into sight someone stifled a giggle. The empress was wearing
the most incredibly gaudy dress that anyone present had ever seen. The basic
colors were red and green, in alternating panels divided by gold borders.
Jewels in a dozen hues glittered along every golden border and in elaborate
patterns on the panels, as well. Gold braid circled the waist, hips, and bust,
and edged each cuff; fine gold chains draped across the bodice. Padded crests
rose from either shoulder. Gold-edged slashes in the puffed sleeves revealed
tight black velvet undersleeves. She also wore dangling earrings of
intricately wrought gold, and a headpiece of woven peacock feathers.

Several jaws dropped at the sight.

"I'll be damned," someone muttered as Tabaea made her slow march down the full
length of the hall to the throne. He leaned to a companion and whispered, "I
know that dress— Annara had it made for a show in the Arena. It was supposed
to represent greed and tastelessness."

"Do you think Tabaea knows?"

"She couldn't—she wouldn't wear it if she knew."

"Maybe someone's played a trick on her?"

"That's one very risky trick to play on a known murderer and self-proclaimed
empress!"

The speakers had no way of knowing that Tabaea, with her stolen abilities,
could hear every word they said. She flushed angrily, but continued her
procession, up onto the dais. With each step she considered what, if anything,
she should do to Jandin; the wardrobe mistress had not suggested the dress,
but she had not said anything against it when Tabaea had pulled it out,
either. And she had put it in the trunk in the first place, hadn't she?

But on the other hand, Tabaea realized that this incident might well determine
the whole tenor of her reign, whether she was seen as a ruthless tyrant or a
merciful and generous benefactor. She had heard those courtiers call her a
"known murderer," and she didn't like it. That was not the image she wanted.

Therefore, when she reached the dais, she turned and announced, "Welcome, my
people!"

No one answered; no one knew what reply was expected.

"The brutal reign of the heirs of Anaran is ended!" Tabaea announced. "Today
we begin a new era of justice and mercy! I hereby decree an end to slavery in
this city; all slaves in Ethshar of the Sands are to be freed immediately! I
decree forgiveness for those who have been driven to crime by the cruelty of
my predecessors; all prisoners in the dungeons are likewise to be freed
immediately! I decree that the brutal oppression of innocents by the city
guard is to cease immediately; all guardsmen are to surrender their swords and
are hereby charged with finding food and lodging for all those who have been
forced to take shelter in the Wall Street Field! I decree that those who serve
me shall be paid according to their true worth, and that for the present, that
shall be assumed to be twice whatever my foul predecessor, the so-called
overlord, saw fit to pay them!" "She's mad," a courtier muttered, "completely
mad!" "No!" Tabaea shouted. "I am not mad!" She leaped from the dais and
marched across the room, a pointing finger thrust out before her.

The courtiers parted, and she confronted the man who had dared to speak.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

The man bowed. "Lord Sancha, Minister of the Port," he said. "At Your
Majesty's service." "Minister of the Port?" Tabaea asked. "I have that honor,
Your Majesty." "Not anymore," Tabaea said. She laughed. "Sancha is no name for
a portmaster, in any case. You're now Sancha the Fool, and your job is to
entertain me with your foolishness." She had heard of such things in old tales
about the Small Kingdoms; she had no idea whether Ethshar had ever had a court
jester before, and she didn't much care. It had one now.

"As Your Majesty wills," Sancha said, bowing more deeply— much more deeply, an
exaggerated, absurd bow.

Tabaea smiled. He was taking to his new post already. She reached out and
grabbed his nose, then turned and led him to the dais. Those watching assumed
that Lord Sancha was playing along as he followed, struggling wildly to keep
his nose from injury; they had no idea just how strong Tabaea actually was.
She was, in fact, hauling Sancha against his will, and the process was quite
painful. She pushed him to the floor beside the throne, then sat down.

"It seems we need a new Minister of the Port," she said, "and undoubtedly
there are other posts to be filled, as well, as I understand many of the
officials of the city chose to depart with old Ederd. Fortunately, I brought
some people to fill these vacated positions." She waved at the motley group
that had followed her from Grandgate; some were still in their own ragged
clothing, while others had plundered the palace and put on newer, cleaner, and
better domes. Some were dressed splendidly, others ineptly; the result was a
far more mixed group than the original rags had produced, and a far more mixed
group than the more uniform and sedate crowd left from the overlord's court.

"Now, if you'll come forward, one at a time, and tell me who you are," Tabaea
said, "we'll see if we can't put together a better government than this city
has ever seen before!"

CHAPTER 29

At first glance, Harbor Street appeared unchanged—but upon a closer look,
Sarai noticed differences. Windows were broken, buildings blackened by smoke,
and walls chipped by blades and flying debris. Dark stains could still be seen
in the dirt. And several businesses, perhaps the majority, were closed,
although it was full daylight.

At least there weren't any bodies or other remains; someone had cleaned up
after the fighting, clearing away the dead and wounded, dropped weapons,
broken glass, and the rest.

Even so, the journey impressed upon Sarai that Tabaea had done real damage to
Ethshar of the Sands. She arrived at the Guildhouse in a very somber and
thoughtful mood indeed.

Someone she didn't know opened the door to her knock, and showed the three of
them, Sarai and Kelder and Alorria, into the parlor. Alorria inquired after
Tobas, and was promptly led away; Kelder and Sarai waited in uncomfortable
silence for a second or two before Mereth, rumpled and worried, came to
welcome them.

"How many died?" Sarai asked Mereth, after only the most perfunctory
greetings.

"I don't know," Mereth said."I don't think anyone's counted. At least, no one
here; I suppose Lord Torrut knows."

"Where is Lord Torrut, then?"

Mereth shrugged."I don't know, Lady Sarai. In hiding somewhere, probably—or
perhaps he's holed up in the barracks towers; so far, almost all of the city
guard has remained loyal to him."

Lady Sarai looked around at the parlor, which had continued undisturbed by
Serem's murder, by the house's usurpation by the Wizards' Guild, by the
overthrow of the city government. The animated plant still fanned the air
endlessly.

She shooed away a spriggan and then settled slowly onto a divan embroidered
with pink and green flowers.

"Is that wise?" she asked.

Mereth blinked, puzzled. "Is what wise?"

"I take it that Lord Torrut is still resisting," Sarai said,"even though
Tabaea's in the palace and the overlord has fled."

"Well, he isn't actually fighting anymore," Mereth said, seating herself in a
nearby armchair, "but I'm sure he isn't taking orders from her."

"And I wonder if that's wise," Sarai said. "Maybe we should just let her
govern and not damage the city further."

"But she's a murderer!" Mereth protested, "and a thief, a burglar! And she's .
. . wizards aren't allowed in government."

"Is she a wizard?" Sarai asked. "She's not a member of the Guild."

"She's a magician, and she's something like a wizard, and the Guild doesn't
want any magicians interfering in politics. It's dangerous. It's a bad
precedent."

"Then perhaps it's the job of the Wizards' Guild to remove her," Lady Sarai
said. "I don't see any reason to throw away more lives trying to depose her.
And whether we like it or not, at the moment she is the ruler of Ethshar of
the Sands, and she can't rule without the city guard—the guard is what gives
the government authority, and no one can run the city without it. I think
perhaps Lord Torrut should reconsider."

"I don't," Mereth said. "Maybe if she finds out that she can't run the city
she'll pack up and leave."

"Somehow, I doubt she'll do that," Sarai replied."And who's to say that she
can't be a good ruler? It's not as if Ederd was chosen by the gods, or worked
his way up to be overlord; he just happened to be born right."

"Isn't that enough?" Mereth asked, shocked. "He's Anaran's heir!"

"Anaran was a fine general, but does that mean all his descendants are going
to be natural rulers?" Sarai said. "They've ruled Ethshar of the Sands for
seven generations now; doesn't that mean that less than one part in a hundred
of Ederd's blood comes from Anaran?"

"Oh, but they've intermarried with the families of the other overlords, and
bred back in . . ." "So what?"

"Lady Sarai," Kelder interrupted, "at least Anaran's descendants did not take
their thrones by force, or murder innocents in their beds."

"That's true," Sarai admitted. "But I still don't like it. I don't want anyone
else to be killed."

"None of us do," Mereth said. "Or at least, we don't want anyone other than
Tabaea to be killed."

"Mereth?" The voice came from the archway opening into the central hall; Sarai
and Kelder turned to find Lirrin, Serein's former apprentice, standing there.

"You're needed downstairs," Lirrin said. "What's happening downstairs?" Sarai
asked. She blinked; was there a downstairs? She hadn't noticed that when she
visited the house in the course of her investigation.

"Guild business," Lirrin said apologetically. Mereth rose, gathering her
skirts, then looked back at Sarai. "Oh." Sarai glanced at Kelder, who
shrugged. "I'm no more a wizard than you," he said. "We can wait here together
and pass the time."

"I'm sorry, Lady Sarai," Mereth said. "I'll be back as soon as I can." She and
Lirrin vanished down the hallway.

That left Kelder and Sarai alone in the parlor; for a moment they sat in
awkward silence.

"Do you still have all those talismans and trinkets of yours?" Sarai asked at
last.

"Of course," he said, gesturing at his pack. "Do you think they could tell you
anything more about Tabaea that might be useful in deposing her? She was in
this house once, after all."

"Oh, I doubt it," Kelder said. "There will be traces, but what they can tell
us will be limited. If you like, I can see what there is to see."
"I'd be very interested."

Kelder bobbed his head in a semblance of a bow. "Then I'll try," he said. He
opened his pack and began rummaging through it.

A moment later he emerged holding a thin silver box set with square-cut gems.
"A denekin allasir," he explained, tapping an uneven rhythm upon it.

"What's that mean?" Lady Sarai asked.

"I haven't any idea," Kelder admitted. "It's just what it's called."

"What does it do?"

Kelder proudly explained, "It reads traces a person has left— flakes of skin,
bits of hair, even the air he or she breathed—and then displays for me a
pattern of lights, in this row of jewels here, that I can interpret to tell me
about that person. What I can see will vary; sometimes it's a great deal,
sometimes it's nothing at all."

Lady Sarai looked at the row of jewels Kelder pointed to. She could see odd
little curls of light, glowing deep within the stones, but they made no
pattern that she could see. "And what does it tell you about Tabaea?" she
asked.

"Well, this is the device that gave me the description I gave you," Kelder
said. "I don't suppose it will find any trace of her in here, though; the
murder was upstairs, and I assume Tabaea came in through the bedroom window."

"Did she?"

Kelder hesitated. "I don't know," he said. "Shall we find out?"

Sarai nodded.

"If she used the stairs, we'll probably find ..." Kelder began, as he tapped
at a dark blue gem on the side of his little box. Then he stopped in
midsentence and stared. He began tapping other jewels and various places on
the surface of the allasir.

"What is it?" Lady Sarai asked.

"She was here," Kelder said.

"That's not so very surprising," Sarai began.

"No, no, Lady Sarai," Kelder said, cutting her off. "She was here four years
ago. Several times."

"Perhaps she knew Serem, then," Sarai suggested. "Perhaps she bought a potion
from him, or sold him something he needed for one of his spells. It's hardly
as shocking as all that."

Kelder blinked.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "Yes, of course you're right." He sighed.
"And here I thought I'd found something important."

"Well, perhaps you did," Lady Sarai said comfortingly. "There might be a
connection. Why don't we go discuss it with the others, the wizards?"
"Do you think that's a good idea?" Kelder asked.

"Yes, I do," Sarai said, getting to her feet. "I'm tired of being shut out by
them, anyway. Maybe we can trade this discovery of yours for some of their
information." She pushed aside the plant that was waving determinedly at her
and headed for the hallway. Kelder followed.

In the central corridor Sarai stopped, suddenly aware that she didn't know
where the wizards were.

"That way," Kelder said, holding out his silver box. Following his directions,
Sarai soon found herself on the stairs to the old wizard's great underground
chamber, which she had not known existed; surprised into caution and silence,
she crept down the steps slowly and carefully.

Before her, she saw a score of wizards—Mereth, Tobas, Lir-rin, the
Guildmasters Telurinon, Heremon, and Algarin, and others she knew only
slightly or not at all. No one else could be seen; despite Tobas's presence,
Alorria was not there. Voices rose from below.

"... the dagger," an unfamiliar voice said, "it must be that dagger she
carries that's stopping all our spells."

"I don't think there's much doubt of that," replied Telurinon. "Which leaves
us with the question of where the dagger came from, and what it is, and how
this thief obtained it."

"We've been using the Spell of Omniscient Vision," Mereth's voice said. "We've
managed to follow her back for a few months, though it's very difficult, the
way she's constantly moved around and never lived in the same place for more
than a few sixnights. She's always had that dagger, as far back as we've gone.
She always had that embroidered tunic and black skirt, and a few other things,
as well—I've made a list—are you sure it's the dagger?"

A chorus of voices replied, all in the affirmative. Lady Sarai cleared her
throat.

Noone heard her, as Telurinon said, "I'm sure you've all seen the significance
of the fact that this woman's magic appears to reside in a dagger ..."

"Ahem," Lady Sarai said loudly. She really did not want to be accused of
spying on wizards. Several eyes turned toward her, and someone shrieked.
"Excuse me," Lady Sarai said, trying very hard to stay calm, "but Kelder and I
have just learned something that we thought might be of use."

Guildmaster Telurinon stepped forward from the corner where he had been
standing, and glared up at the new arrivals.

"Lady Sarai," he said, "what is the meaning of this intrusion? Surely, despite
your display the other day at the Cap and Dagger, you know better than to
enter uninvited into the private councils of the Wizards' Guild!"

Lady Sarai glared back. "And surely you, sir, know better than to leave the
doors unlocked and unwarded when conducting private councils! Therefore, this
could hardly have been such a council, or else neither of us would have made
such a foolish mistake!"

Mereth giggled nervously; Tobas threw her a warning glance.
"The doors of this house are locked and warded, my lady, and you are here only
because the door was opened for you," Telurinon replied. "Still, I see your
point and concede that you have not forfeited your life."

"How gracious of you," Lady Sarai said. "Now, as I started to explain, the
forensic sorcerer, Kelder of Tazmor, has learned something that might be of
use in your investigations."

"And what might that be?" Telurinon asked, in the unconvinced tone of one
merely being polite about a waste of his time.

Sarai moved aside and beckoned Kelder forward; the sorcerer stepped up to the
railing and announced, "I have found traces of Tabaea the Thief's presence in
this very house—in fact, on this very stairway—dating back some four years, to
the summer of5223."

"You mean she lived here?" Algarin asked.

"No," Kelder answered. "The only traces of her presence upstairs were those
left when she murdered Serem the Wise. But on several occasions in 5223 she
passed through the front parlor, down the hallway and onto this staircase
where I now stand."

"Only that year?" Tobas asked. "Not since then?"

"Not since then," Kelder confirmed.

"Why did she come down here?" Mereth asked."Why would Serem allow it?"

"She didn't go down there," Kelder said. "The trail stops right here, at this
railing."

The wizards looked at one another.

"She spied on him," someone said.

"She spied on us," Lirrin answered. "That was when ... I mean ... I began my
apprenticeship on the eighth of Rains, 5223."

"These visits," Telurinon asked. "Can you date them precisely?"

Kelder shook his head. "Not to the day, certainly. I doubt any were as early
as Rains, though—I would judge them to fall mostly in the later part of
Greengrowth, and perhaps into the first naif of Longdays."

The wizards exchanged looks again.

"Leave us," Telurinon said.

Lady Sarai said, "But.

"Go!" Telurinon bellowed. "We thank you for this information, but we must
speak in private now—Tobas, see that the door is locked and warded."

"Yes, Guildmaster," Tobas said. He headed for the Starrs.

Sarai and Kelder did not wait for him; they turned and retreated, back up the
steps and out through Serem's cluttered little workroom. They were in the
hallway when Sarai heard the door slam shut.
"Lady Sarai?" a woman's voice called.

Sarai turned and saw Karanissa on the stairs. Teneria and Alorria were behind
her, watching over her shoulders.

"We sensed some upset," she said.

"We intruded on Guildmaster Telurinon's meeting," Sarai explained.

"Oh." The witch glanced at the door to the workroom. "That's unfortunate," she
said. "Telurinon can be very difficult. " She hesitated, then asked,"Have you
had breakfast, either of you?"

"No," Lady Sarai admitted. "At least, I haven't. Have all of

you?"

"Yes, but don't let that trouble you." Karanissa trotted quickly down the
stairs and led the way to the kitchens, where she found biscuits, jam, and a
variety of fruit for Sarai and Kelder.

Teneria and Alorria joined them there, and the five sat comfortably chatting
for some time.

They were still there, though the food was long gone, when Telurinon marched
in and informed them all that they were no longer welcome in the Guildhouse.

"It's nothing personal," he said, after the initial shock had passed. "The
incident this morning demonstrated, however, that it's a serious mistake to
allow anyone not a member of the Guild to be in the building when we have such
important and secret matters to discuss as we do at present."

"Wait a minute," Sarai protested. "We had an ..."

"Lady Sarai," Telurinon retorted, cutting her short, "or rather, Sarai of
Ethshar, we had an agreement to share information relevant to your
investigation of a series of murders. Well, that investigation is over now—the
identity of the killer is known, her whereabouts are known, and the question
is not who is responsible, but how to punish her, which is purely a Guild
matter and none of the concern of the city government. And furthermore, you,
along with your overlord, have been removed from office. We have no more
information to share with you."

"But. . ."

"And even if that were not the case," Telurinon continued, "we never invited
you to wander into our councils whenever you chose. There are times when we
wish to discuss matters that we never agreed to share with you or anyone else
outside the Guild, matters that it is absolutely forbidden for anyone outside
the Guild to know." He turned to the others. "I expect that your husband will
find a comfortable inn for you all, Alorria and Karanissa—the Cap and Dagger,
perhaps. Or if you prefer, I 'm sure some other member of the Guild will be
glad to accommodate you."

For a moment no one spoke; then Telurinon turned to go. Alorria stuck her
tongue out at his departing figure, and Sarai, despite herself, giggled.

When the mage had gone, the giggle vanished.

"Now what will I do?" she asked.
CHAPTER 30

Is this all of them ?"the Empress Tabaea said, looking over the immense crowd
that was jammed into her throne room and spilling down the three grand
staircases.

"All who would come," her newly appointed chancellor replied.

Tabaea turned to him, startled. "Some wouldn't come?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Some people refused your invitation." "Why? Did they say
why?" "Some of them did." "Why, then?"

The chancellor hesitated, scuffed a foot on the marble, and then said,
"Various reasons, Your Majesty."

Tabaea could smell his nervousness, but was not in a mood to let him avoid
explanations. "Name a few, Arl. Just for our enlightenment."

"Well, some. . ."He glanced warily at her, and seeing more curiosity than
anger, he continued, "some didn't trust you. They suspected a trick of some
kind, that you were going to enslave them all, or kill them."

"Why would I want to do that?" Tabaea was honestly baffled. She could smell
that Arl was telling the truth; his tension had decreased as he spoke, rather
than increasing, and liars didn't do that.

Chancellor Arl shrugged. "I couldn't say, Your Majesty." "What other reasons
did they give?" "Well, some said they were happy where they were, that they
enjoyed living in the open—there are a few people who are like that, Your
Majesty ..."

"I know." She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I never understood why
they stay in the city, instead of out in the wilderness somewhere, if that's
what they want, but I've met them. What else?"

"A few said they wouldn't bother moving because they didn't think ... uh ...
they said that it wouldn't last, they'd just have to go back in a few days . .
."

He was getting nervous again. "Why?" the Empress demanded. "Do they think I'm
going to change my mind and throw everyone out again?"

"That, or that you . . . urn . . . won't remain in power." "Oh." Tabaea
frowned. "Well, they're wrong about that, anyway. The overlord's run for his
life and isn't coming back, and I 'm going to stay right here." "Yes, Your
Majesty."

Tabaea turned back to the crowd, then asked her chancellor one final question.
"How many are there, here?"

"I have no idea, Your Majesty," Arl admitted unhappily. "I didn't think to
count them."

Tabaea nodded, then addressed the crowd. "People of Eth-shar!" she said,
"welcome to my palace!"

A halfhearted cheer rose, then died.
"I am Tabaea the First,   Empress of Ethshar, your new ruler!" Tabaea continued.
"The days of oppression   are at an end, and the cruel descendants of Anaran
driven from us! All the   people of Ethshar of the Sands are now free and
equal—there shall be no   more nobility to lord it over us, no more slaves to
suffer unjustly!"

She paused for more applause, and after an uncertain beginning, she received a
satisfactory ovation.

"No citizen of my city need cower in the Wall Street Field for fear of the
overlord's guards and tax collectors," Tabaea said. "Those who have no homes
of their own will now have a home here, with me, in the palace built by the
sweat of slaves ..."

The chancellor cleared his throat and looked up at the dome— the dome which
every educated person in Ethshar knew had been built mostly by magic, not by
muscle. Tabaea carried on, ignoring him.

"... a palace far larger than any conceivable government might need, built
entirely for the ostentatious display of power and wealth! You may all stay
here as long as you wish, and in exchange I ask only that you help clean and
maintain the palace, that you run those errands I and my aides might ask of
you, and that you stand with me against any misguided fools who might try to
restore the foul Ederd to my throne. What do you say?" The applause was not
all that Tabaea had hoped for—several of her listeners were unenthusiastic
about those unspecified errands and the call to help defend the palace—but she
decided it would do.

When the crowd had quieted—which really, Tabaea thought, happened a little too
quickly—the empress raised her arms for silence, and continued.

"As some of you probably know," she said, "much of the former overlord's city
guard has not yet accepted my authority. I ordered them to turn in their
swords, as a sign that they would no longer rule through fear, and many have
refused to do so." In fact, fewer than a hundred had handed in swords, and she
knew that there were supposed to be ten thousand men in the city guard. "Some
of these renegades have scattered among the people, abandoning their posts;
others have gone into hiding, where they seem to have maintained a semblance
of organization, in defiance of my orders. While I, since I am no oppressing
tyrant, have no need for the large numbers of thugs and parasites my
predecessor retained, still, there are some tasks appropriate to soldiers that
yet need doing—searching the city for slaveowners who ignore my order to free
their prisoners, for one. If any of you would like to volunteer to help with
this glorious liberation, report to my new and loyal general, Derneth,
formerly Derneth the Fence, at the northeast door of the palace today at
midday. And all of you are free to come and go as you please—this palace is
home to all my people, from this day forward!"

The applause was a little better this time, Tabaea thought. She smiled and
waved, then stepped back and sat down on her throne.

The crowd dissipated slowly as Tabaea sat and watched, her smile gradually
growing rigid and fixed. She had expected it all to vanish rather quickly, as
her guests went about their business, but it didn't; some stubbornly refused
to vanish at all, quickly or otherwise. Some of the people simply stood,
watching her nervously, and gave no sign of leaving; a few approached the dais
cautiously, then stopped, or changed their minds and retreated.

"You haven't told them what to do," Arl whispered.
"They can do what they like," Tabaea snapped, the pretense of a smile
disappearing instantly.

"But some of them don't know what that is, Your Majesty," her chancellor
explained. "Not everyone in the Wall Street Field was there through simple
misfortune, you know; some were there because they didn't fit anywhere
else—they're mad, or simpleminded, or blind, or deaf, or crippled, or deranged
in various other ways."

"So what?" Tabaea demanded. "They're still people!"

"Yes, of course, Your Majesty," Arl agreed hastily. "But some of them aren't
entirely capable of thinking for themselves; they don't know what to do unless
someone tells them." He looked out at the few dozen people who still lingered.
"And I think some of these people have favors to ask of you, but don't know
how to go about it."

Tabaea glared up at Arl, then at the waiting citizens. A handful, noting her
expression, headed for the stairs, but the others remained; at least one
smiled tentatively at her.

"All right, Arl," Tabaea said, "have them form a line, and I'll hear them. I
suppose an empress has to do some work to earn her keep, like any other honest
citizen."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Arl bowed hesitantly; he had never been in the palace
before Tabaea's conquest the night before last, had never formally learned
anything of court etiquette, and in any case Tabaea's rules might well differ
from what had gone before—if Tabaea had any rules—but he had seen a few plays,
had seen the overlord's visits to the Arena and how he was treated there, and
thought that a bow was appropriate at this point.

Then he stepped to the front of the dais, where he paused for a moment to
think how to word what he wanted to say. When he thought he had it worked out,
he took a deep breath and announced, "Her Imperial Majesty, Tabaea the First,
Empress of Ethshar of the Sands, will now hold audience. Those who wish to
address the emp . . . address Her Majesty may form a line." He pointed to a
spot just before his own feet.

He had the feeling that a true chancellor, or chamberlain— wasn't this
something a chamberlain would do?—would have made that sound better, somehow.
Until two days ago, Arl had been a beggar and swindler, not a courtier; he had
used fancy words, all right, but for persuasion, not formal announcements. It
was a different sort of skill.

Of course, it was his old skill, carefully applied to his "old friend" Tabaea,
that had gotten him his impressive title and powerful position in the first
place.

People were lining up, just the way they were supposed to; Arl was pleased
with himself. Without waiting for everyone to settle into place, he took the
first one, an old woman, by the hand and led her up onto the dais. After a
moment's hesitation, he turned and sent her on her way to the throne, but did
not accompany her.

Uncertainly, the woman took a few tottering steps, then stood before the
throne, looking down at Tabaea. The empress looked back.

The old woman was supposed to kneel, Tabaea thought, and she showed no sign of
doing it. Her scent didn't provide any useful information about what she was
feeling or planning—she wasn't scared or excited. Her movements gave no clues.

Well, she was supposed to kneel, and Tabaea decided that she would kneel. Her
warlock's touch reached out and gripped the woman's knees, forcing them to
bend.

The old woman almost tumbled forward; she was far slower catching herself than
Tabaea had expected. At last, though, she steadied, and knelt before the
throne.

Tabaea addressed her.

"What is it you want, woman?"

"I want a turn in the pretty chair," the woman mumbled.

Tabaea stared at her.

"I want a turn," the woman repeated, pointing at the throne.

For a moment, the empress couldn't believe she had heard correctly. When she
did believe it, her first reaction was fury.

Then she remembered what Arl had said about some of the people from the Field;
the old woman was obviously demented. "No," Tabaea said gently. "It's my
throne. I'm the empress."

"You said we could share," the woman protested.

"The palace," Tabaea said. "Not the throne."

"We don't share the pretty chair?"

"No," Tabaea said. "We don't."

"Oh." The old woman looked down at her knees, and announced, "I fell down."

"You knelt," Tabaea explained. "When you speak to an empress, you must kneel."

"Oh." She showed no sign of rising, of leaving; the line of other petitioners
was growing restless, Tabaea could see it and smell it and hear it.

"Is there anyone taking care of you?" Tabaea asked.

"No."

"That's too bad," Tabaea said. "I think you could use some help. But you'll
have to go now."

"Will you take care of me?"

"No, I'm too busy. I'm the empress."

"Hike you."

"That's nice. Go away, now, and let someone else have a

turn."

"But I didn't get to sit in the pretty chair."
Tabaea stared at the old woman, frustration beginning to overwhelm her
determination to be patient and understanding. She wished someone else would
come and drag the old fool away, that there was someone she could signal, but
Arl was much too busy keeping order among the others, and she had no one else
there to help her. Her other new appointees had been sent off about their
various businesses, and what with desertions and confusion she didn't have all
the guards and servants that the overlord had kept close at hand.

To get rid of this nuisance she would either have to call for help or use her
own two hands, either of which seemed beneath her dignity as empress.

Tabaea began to see that mere was a contradiction here, between her desire to
be an absolute ruler, honored and respected, and her desire to avoid
oppressing her people. She might want to be a fair and reasonable empress, but
obviously, there were people in the city who wouldn't be fair and reasonable
subjects.

And with people like that, soldiers would be very useful.

Even if she had had a thousand soldiers in the palace, Tabaea realized, in her
determination to be a good and kind and fair and accessible ruler she would
have sent them away while she was holding court. She now saw that this would
not have been a good idea. She resolved that when things were more organized,
when she had a proper city guard of her own, she would keep a couple of
soldiers nearby.

For now, she had to improvise. The warlock power reached out and pinched the
old woman's nostrils shut.

"Go away," Tabaea told her, as the woman gasped for breath.

The invisible grip vanished, and the woman got to her feet.

She did not leave, however, instead she reached out and slapped Tabaea across
the face. "You nasty!" she shrieked. "You squeezed my nose!"

Tabaea, with her animal responses, had seen the blow coming and ducked aside;
what should have been a resounding blow was just a gentle brush across one
cheek.

Still, it could not be tolerated; in an instant, Tabaea was on her feet,
picking the old woman up by the throat, one-handed.

She looked up at the astonishment on the ancient face and said, "You should
die for that. The person of your empress is not to be touched. Because of your
age, because my reign is new and you understand little, you won't die this
time, but don't ever let me see or smell you again."

Then she flung the woman out onto the marble floor of the audience hall.
Brittle old bones snapped, and the woman lay in a heap, moaning softly.

"Get her out of here," Tabaea said.

No one moved.

"Get her out of here!" Tabaea shouted, pointing at the line of waiting
petitioners.

Two men from the back ran to obey; a few of the others abruptly decided that
whatever requests they might have had could wait until a more propitious time,
and scurried away down the side stairs.

Tabaea settled back on the throne, touched her unmarked cheek, then turned to
Arl and snapped, "Next!"

CHAPTER 31

It had been Lady Sarai 's own suggestion that she not stay at the same inn as
Tobas and his wives; she had been worried that such a group would be too
distinctive. Instead, she had gratefully accepted a loan of a dozen copper
rounds and had found herself lodgings at the Fatted Calf, an inn on
Soldiertown Street, a block south of Grandgate Market. The rather inept
painting on the inn's signboard had given it the nickname the Bloated Beef,
and that had seemed to imply a cheerful good humor.

That was not, Sarai discovered, reflected hi the urn's rather tense
atmosphere. Her night there was an uneasy one; whenever she had set foot
outside her own room she had been in constant fear that someone would
recognize and denounce her.

The conversation in the common room had been strained for almost everyone; two
burly men had announced that they were friends of the new empress, members of
the new court, and as such entitled to the best oushka in the house, at no
charge. The innkeeper had been inclined to refuse, and a former guardsman—at
least, he wore no sword, though he was still hi the traditional red and yellow
and had spoken of fighting Tabaea's mob on Harbor Street—had supported that
refusal, whereupon the two thugs had beaten the guardsman soundly and thrown
him out into the street.

Those others among the guests who might have been inclined to help found
themselves badly outnumbered by those who were cheering the thugs on and had
declined to intervene, thereby avoiding an all-out brawl.

The thugs got their oushka. They also got the company of a frightened young
woman. One of them eyed Sarai herself, but when Sarai bared her teeth, in as
threatening a snarl as she could manage, he turned away and didn't pursue the
matter.

And Sarai stayed the night, as she had planned, since it was too late to go
elsewhere and she had nowhere else to go, but the next morning she left
quickly, taking a pastry with her for her breakfast.

Like anyone strolling in that part of the city with no particular destination
hi mind, she found herself wandering into Grand-gate Market. For a while she
strolled about, nibbling her pastry while looking over the merchants' goods
and the farmers' produce; superficially, it all appeared quite normal,
unchanged by Tabaea's accession.

On a closer look, though, anyone reasonably observant—and Sarai knew herself
to be at least reasonably observant—would notice that there were no guards at
the gate.

There were subtler differences as well. The great gates themselves stood open,
but the doors that led into the towers did not; they were instead locked and
barred. The familiar yellow tunics and red kilts of soldiers were not only not
to be seen at the gate, they were nowhere in sight, not in the gate or the
market or the streets.

The rather sparse crowd hi the marketplace did not seem particularly troubled
by the guards' absence; in fact, if anything, Sarai thought the buyers and
sellers looked somewhat more prosperous than usual.

That didn't seem right; she looked again.

There was a real difference, she realized, but it was not that the merchants
or farmers or their customers were attired any better than their usual wont.
Rather, the difference was that there were no beggars. In all of Grandgate
Market, no one wore rags, any more than anyone wore the red kilt of the
overlord's service.

Sarai wondered at that. Tabaea might well have promised to eliminate poverty,
but how could she have possibly made any significant change so quickly!

And for that matter, where did all the soldiers actually go! Ten thousand
people—well, seven or eight thousand, anyway; she knew that the guard had not
been up to its full authorized strength for decades—could not simply vanish.

Or could they? It was a big city, after all. There were hundreds of miles of
streets and alleyways out there, and all a soldier needed to do to hide was to
get out of uniform.

And there were plenty of little-used military and government installations, as
well—die towers at Beachgate and Northgate and Smallgate, the Island Tower out
past the South Channel, the Great Lighthouse, the four towers guarding the
harbor, all the dozens of watch-stations along the wall, the tunnels and
passages under the wall, even the Arena's maze of storerooms and corridors,
all of those were under Lord Torrut's jurisdiction before Tabaea's arrival.
Companies of guardsmen could be gathered in any of them.

The soldiers could even still be in the two immense barracks towers here at
Grandgate itself, or in the six towers that guarded the city's main landward
entrance; just because the doors were closed and no soldiers were in sight,
that didn't mean there were no soldiers inside. Sarai wandered northward
across the square, toward the gate, the towers, and the barracks.

The tower doors were unmistakably closed and barred; the windows were
shuttered, those that had shutters. From her vantage point in the market she
could see no signs of life anywhere in the entire elaborate complex that
guarded the entrance to Ethshar of the Sands.

Idly, she wandered on northward, out of the market and into the Wall Street
Field.

And in the Field she finally found a place that did not appear normal in the
least.

Most of the shacks and hovels were still there, though some had been knocked
down or had simply collapsed; the stones that some of those who dwelt there
had used as boundary markers or weights to keep blankets in place were still
scattered about, indicating rough paths between bedsites. The charred remnants
of cookfires could still be seen here and there.

The hundreds of Ethsharites who had lived there, though, were gone.

Normally, Lady Sarai would not have dared to enter the Field without an escort
of well-armed guardsmen. Normally, the place would be constantly abuzz with
conversation, shouts, arguments, the cries of children, and the rattle of
crockery. Babies would be waning, youngsters would be laughing and chasing one
another through the chaos.
The only sounds now were the flapping of unfastened door-cloths, the snuffling
of dogs and other animals scavenging in the
ruins, and the distant hum of Grandgate Market and the rest of the city going
about its business.

The effect was eerie and utterly unsettling; despite the growing heat of the
day, Sarai shivered and pulled her loose tunic a little more closely about
her. Even that didn't help much, as it reminded her that this was the third
day that she had been wearing this same tunic, this same skirt.

Her uneasiness was such that she almost screamed when a spriggan giggled
nearby, leaped down from atop a ramshackle lean-to, and ran shrieking past her
feet. Cursing, she watched the little nuisance scurry away.

When she had regained her composure, she forced herself to think.

Where had everyone gone?

She knew that some of the people here had followed Tabaea in her march to the
palace, but surely, not all of them had! The mob that the magicians had
reported had hardly been large enough to account for the entire population of
the Field!

Where were the rest of them, then? Had Tabaea done something terrible to those
who had refused to follow her? Old tales Sarai had heard from her mother as a
child came back to her, stories about how Northern demonologists, during the
Great War, would sacrifice entire villages to appease their patron demons, or
to pay for horrible services those demons might perform. Sarai had long since
decided that those tales were just leftover lies, wartime propaganda, but now
she wondered whether there might be some truth to the legends, and whether
Tabaea might have made some ghastly bargain with creatures no sane
demonologist would dare approach.

Of course, she told herself, she might be jumping to conclusions. She didn't
even know for certain how much of the Wall Street Field really was abandoned;
it could just be a block or two here by the barracks. Perhaps the city guard,
before disbanding or fleeing or whatever they had done, had cleared this area
for some obscure reason.

She walked on, past huts constructed of broken furniture and collapsed tents
made of scavenged draperies, and sure enough, as she rounded the corner from
Grandgate into Northangle, she saw the smoke of a small fire sliding up the
summer sky.

"Hello!" she called. "Who's there?"

No one answered; cautiously, almost timidly, Sarai inched closer, until she
could see the little cookfire and the old woman sitting beside it.

"Hello!" she called again. The woman turned, this time; and spotted Sarai.
"Hello yourself," she said. "May I talk to you?" Sarai asked nervously. "Don't
see how I can very well stop you," the old woman replied. "I'm not planning to
go anywhere if I can help it, and I doubt I have the strength to chase you
away if you don't care to go." She poked at her fire with what looked to Sarai
like an old curtain rod.

Sarai could hardly argue with this. She crept forward, then squatted beside
the fire, at right angles to the old woman. To remain standing seemed rude,
but she could not quite bring herself to sit on the dirt here, and there were
no chairs, no blankets within easy reach. "My name's Sarai," she said.

"Pretty," the old woman remarked. She poked the fire again, then added, "I
don't usually give my name out to strangers. Most of the folks who used to
live here called me Mama Kilina, though, and you can call me that if you need
a name." "Thank you," Sarai said, a little uncertainly. For a moment the two
sat silently; Sarai was unsure how to phrase her question, whether there was
anything she should say to lead up to it, and Mama Kilina clearly had nothing
that she particularly cared to say.

Finally, however, Sarai asked, "Where did everybody go?" Mama Kilina glanced
at her, a look that was not hostile, exactly, but which made it clear that the
old woman didn't think much of the question. "Most folks," she said, "didn't
go anywhere special. I'd suppose that everyone in the Small Kingdoms or the
mountains of Sardiron must be going about all the usual business hi the usual
way, without paying any mind to what we've been doing here in Ethshar. And for
that, I doubt the fifth part of the city knows anything's out of the ordinary,
even here." "I mean ..." Sarai began.

Mama Kilina did not let her say any more; she raised a hand and said, "I know
what you meant. I'm no dotard. You mean, where did most of the folks that
ordinarily stay here in the Field for lack of anywhere better to go, go? And
if you think, Sarai, as you name yourself, you might see that that question's
got half its own answer in it, when it's asked right, just like most
questions."

Sarai blinked. "I'm not sure I ... oh. You mean they had somewhere better to
go?"

"Well, they thought so, anyway. I didn't agree, and that's why I'm still
here."

"Where did they go, then? What's this better place?"

"What's the best place in Ethshar, to most ways of thinking?"

"I don't know, I... oh." Sarai finally saw the connection. "The palace, you
mean. They've all gone to the palace."

"You have a little wit to you, I see." Mama Kilina's tone was one of mild
satisfaction.

"But they can't all live there!" Sarai said. "It's not big enough! I mean, the
palace is ... well, it's huge, but..."

Mama Kilina nodded. "Now, you think that's a better place?" she asked. "I
don't, not with all that riffraff bedding down in the corridors, as I suppose
they'll be doing."

"Oh, but that's ... I mean ..." Sarai groped for words, and finally asked, "Is
this Tabaea's idea?"

Mama Kilina nodded. "That young woman's got no sense at all, if you ask me,"
she said. "What she wants to be empress for in the first place I don't know,
and how she can call herself an empress when all she rules is one city, and
everyone knows an empress rules more than one people ..." She shook her head.
"I suppose she heard about that Vond calling himself an emperor, out in the
Small Kingdoms, and she liked the sound of it, but Vond conquered half a dozen
kingdoms before he called it an empire."
"What exactly did she say? Did she come out here herself to invite everybody?"

"She sent messengers," Mama Kilina explained. "A bunch of prissy fools got up
in clothes that wouldn't look decent even on someone who knew how to wear them
came out here and told us all that from now on, the palace belonged to all the
people of Ethshar of the Sands, and we were all free to come and go as we
pleased, and to live there if we wanted to until we could find homes of our
own. And all those eager young idiots went galloping off down Wall Street to
take her up on it and get a roof over their empty heads." She shook her head
and spat in disgust, into the fire, where the gob of expectorate sizzled
loudly. "That whole mob living in the palace ..." Sarai said. The idea was
horrifying—all those stone corridors jammed with people, with ragged beggars
and belligerent thieves, strangers crowding into the rooms, into her office,
into the family apartment—somehow the idea of Tabaea invading was nowhere near
as upsetting as the notion of that entire indiscriminate mob. She wanted to
get up and run back down there to save her family's possessions, to chase the
squatters out of her old room, but of course she couldn't, she didn't dare
show her face in the palace . . .

Or did she?

With all those strangers wandering in and out, who would recognize her? Who
would stop her? She could just walk right in and see what Tabaea was up to,
she could search out Tabaea's weaknesses—if she had any.

Of course, some people might recognize her, people who had seen her at her
father's side. If she wore a disguise of some sort, though, no one would ask
her who she was or what business she had in the palace.

This was just too good an opportunity to miss. She had been wondering where
she could live, and here, it seemed, was the answer.

She could live in the palace, just as she always had!

CHAPTER 32

Tobas had been idly turning a cat's skull over in his hands; now he flung it
down on the table in disgust, cracking the jaw and loosening a fang.

"You're mad," he said.

Telurinon drew himself up, obviously seriously affronted. "I do not think," he
began,"that there is any call for insults ..."

"And that's just more evidence that you're mad," Tobas said, a little
surprised at his own daring even as he said it. He had never before spoken to
any other wizard, let alone a Guildmas-ter, so bluntly.

"Might I remind you ..." Telurinon began.

Tobas interrupted again. "Might I remind you," he said, "that this Black
Dagger is the cause of all the trouble we've seen in this city, trouble enough
to bring me here all the way from Dwomor and to drag all of the rest of you
away from your own affairs to attend these meetings. It's prevented us from
killing someone that Guild law says must die. And you want to make another
one?"

"I think we should at least consider the possibility," Telurinon said. "After
all, this artifact is, by its very nature, utterly immune to all other
wizardry, and protects its wielder from wizardry as well. Our spells, as we
have demonstrated repeatedly over these past few days, cannot touch its
bearer. That being so, how else are we to defeat this Tabaea and destroy her
utterly, as we must, except by creating another Black Dagger to counter the
first?"

"If the esteemed Guildmaster will permit me," Tobas said, with thinly veiled
sarcasm, "how are we to defeat whoever wields this second Black Dagger you
propose to create?"

"Why, we'll have no need to defeat him," Telurinon said, honestly startled.
"That's the entire point. We'll choose someone we can trust."

" Will we," Tobas replied."Need I point out to the esteemed Guildmaster that
whoever creates this dagger cannot be a wiz-zard? The Spell of the Black
Dagger is a perversion of the Spell of Athamezation and cannot be performed by
anyone who has ever owned an athame—and therefore, since the athame is the
mark of the true wizard and the sole token of membership in our Guild, whoever
creates the new dagger must be an outsider. Has the Wizards' Guild ever
trusted an outsider in anything, let alone something as important as this? How
are we to explain to this outsider why he must perform this spell, rather than
one of us? How are we to explain how this spell was ever discovered in the
first place, if no wizard can perform it? And how can we trust anyone with a
weapon like this, when by creating it in the first place we're admitting that
we can't defeat it? Even if our hypothetical hero doesn't decide to make
himself emperor in Tabaea's stead and doesn't go about murdering magicians, do
we really want someone wandering the World with such a weapon? Even supposing
we find some noble and innocent soul to serve as our warrior, and this
trusting fellow builds himself up to be Tabaea's equal or superior and slays
her, leaving himself in possession of two Black Daggers and the knowledge of
how to make more, yet is so good and pure and wholesome that he never even
thinks of turning those daggers against his sponsors in the Guild—even
supposing all that, what happens when our original recruit dies, and passes
the daggers on to his heirs, who might not be quite so cooperative?"

"We won't allow that," Telurinon said, rather huffily. "When Tabaea is
defeated, both daggers will become the property of the Guild." "Says who?"

" We say it, damn your insolence!" Telurinon shouted. "And who are we, that
the bearer of a Black Dagger need listen to us?"

Telurinon glared at Tobas, mustache thrust out angrily. Before he could argue
further, Mereth spoke up.

"And how would we build up our man?" she asked."Tabaea killed people, half a
dozen of them. She killed a warlock and a witch. For our dagger-wielder to
match her, he would have to kill a warlock and a witch. I don't think that's a
good idea at all."

"Of course not!" Telurinon yelled. Then he repeated, more quietly, "Of course
not." He frowned. Reluctantly, he admitted, "I see that there are difficulties
with the scheme. While I am not convinced that these difficulties are
insuperable, they are, I fear, undeniable. In which case I must ask if,
bluntly, anyone has a better idea."

It was at that moment that Lirrin, who was acting as doorkeeper, appeared at
the railing above the chamber and made the sign of requesting recognition.
"What is it?" Telurinon demanded. "It's Lady Sarai," Lirrin replied. "She's at
the front door and says she wants to talk to Mereth, or whoever's available."
"Tell her to come back later," Telurinon answered. Lirrin bowed and ascended
the stairs, out of sight. "There must be something better than another Black
Dagger," Mereth said, when Lirrin was gone.

"There are any number of incredibly powerful magicks we could use," Tobas
remarked. "Can that dagger really stop all of them?"

"Apparently so," Telurinon said. "WeVe been throwing death spells at her ever
since we first heard her name, after all, and what the dagger doesn't stop,
Tabaea can probably handle by herself. Remember, she has the speed and
eyesight of a cat, a dog's sense of smell, the strength of a dozen men, and
multiple lives—she must be killed repeatedly, not just once, to be destroyed.
Even if we got the dagger away from her, she would be a threat."

"If we got the dagger away from her, we could dispose of her in any number of
ways," Heremon the Mage pointed out. "She wouldn't be protected against
wizardry anymore."

"She would still have some protection," Mereth replied."She would still be
both witch and warlock, and wizardry is unreliable against either one. We
would want to use something really drastic, to be sure."

"We have plenty of drastic magic at our disposal," Tobas pointed out. "We have
spells all the way up to the Seething Death—it's hard to imagine anything much
more drastic than that."

"I don't know if we need to be so drastic as all that," Telurinon muttered.

"What's the Seething Death?" Mereth asked.

"Never mind," Tobas said, "we don't want to use it."

"You're supposed to be an expert on countermagicks, aren't you, Tobas?"
Heremon asked.

"Well, not exactly," Tobas said. "I happen to have a castle in a place where
wizardry doesn't work, that's all."

"You do?" Mereth eyed him curiously."A place where magic doesn't work?"

"Wizardry, anyway; witchcraft still works there, and I don't know about the
others," Tobas explained. "I'm not inclined to invite a bunch of theurgists
and sorcerers out there to experiment."

"But it's really a place that wizardry doesn't work? I thought those were just
legends." Mereth said.

"Oh, no," Tobas said. "It's real. And it appears to have been created on
purpose, by a wizard—apparently there's a spell that will do that, will make a
place permanently dead to wizardry."

"Do you know it?"

"By the gods, no," Tobas said, "and I wouldn't want to use it if I did. Think
about it, Mereth—it makes a place permanently dead to wizardry. The one I know
about has been there for centuries, and it covers half a mountain and part of
a valley. We're powerless there, just ordinary people. We don't want any more
places like that around, and certainly not in a city like Ethshar!"

"I suppose not," Mereth agreed.

"If we could get Tabaea into a place like that, though," Her-emon suggested,
"then wouldn't her magic stop working? Wouldn't she be just another vicious
young woman?"

"I don't know," Tobas said. "It's very hard to say just what magical effects
are permanent and which are only maintained by magic. I mean, if you had cast
a perpetual youth spell on yourself a hundred years ago, you wouldn't
instantly age a century in the no-wizardry area—but you would start aging at a
normal rate. So perhaps Tabaea would lose all her acquired abilities, and
perhaps she wouldn't."

"Besides, how would we get her there?" Mereth asked. "A Transporting Tapestry,
perhaps?" Heremon suggested. "One of those that a person can step into and
emerge wherever the picture showed? I believe you've said you own such a
thing, Tobas?"

"Two of them," Tobas admitted. "A set. One of them goes into the dead area,
all right, but I need it—I mean, it's absolutely essential." He paused, and
then added, "Besides, I can't get it here."

"Can Y?"Telurinon snorted. "Tobas, are you sure you aren't putting your own
convenience before the welfare of an entire city, perhaps the entire World?
Where in the World is this tapestry, that you cannot bring it hither?"

"Well, that's the thing, Guildmaster," Tobas said. "It isn't in the World—it's
somewhere else, somewhere that can only be reached with the other tapestry.
And I can't bring the tapestry out because the tapestry itself is the only way
out."

"Oh," Telurinon said. He frowned and stroked his beard. "Is that possible?"
Heremon asked. "I never heard of such

a thing!"

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Telurinon said."Tobas would scarcely lie about that,
and the Transporting Tapestries have always been quirky and untrustworthy
things. That's why we don't use them more."

"I thought it was the cost," Mereth muttered.

"Oh, that, too," Telurinon agreed. "But during the Great War cost and
reliability weren't as important as we consider them now, and they made a
great many of those damnable tapestries, and a good many of them went wrong.
About half of them would only deliver people at certain times of day, or when
the weather was right—if you stepped in at the wrong time, you just wouldn't
be anywhere until the light or whatever it was matched the picture. There was
one fool who got the stars wrong, outside a window; it took the astrologers
months to figure out what had gone wrong with that one, and meanwhile the
people who stepped into it have been gone for three hundred years and they
still aren't going to step out again for decades yet—and that's assuming that
the room in the tapestry is still there when the stars are right!"

"I've had some experience with that sort of thing," Tobas remarked. "They're
tricky devices, all right."

"Yet you trust one to get you safely out of this nowhere of yours?" Heremon
asked.

Tobas shrugged.

"What if," Mereth suggested, "we gave Tobas another Transporting Tapestry that
he could take into this wherever-it-is, and then he could hang it there and
bring the one that shows the no-magic place out through it?"

"Where would we get another one?" Heremon asked. "Doesn't it take a year or
more to make one?"

"Telurinon said there were many of them made during the Great War," Mereth
said. "What happened to them all?"

Telurinon blinked. "Um," he said.

A sudden smile spread across Tobas's face. "You know, IVe wondered sometimes
about how some of the elder Guildmasters seem to be able to travel so quickly,
yet I never see them flying."

"Well, there might still be a few old tapestries in use," Telurinon admitted.
"But not so many as all that; some of the old ones show places that aren't
there anymore, and therefore they don't work."

"You don't appear somewhere in the past, when the place did exist?" Heremon
asked.

"Oh, no," Telurinon said. "Transporting Tapestries can never move anyone back
in time. They aren't that powerful or eccentric. If the place did exist, but
doesn't anymore, they just don't work."

"But you have some that still work," Mereth said. "Why don't you give one to
Tobas, in exchange for his to the no-wizardry place?"

"Well, I suppose we might," Telurinon said uneasily, "but they're all Guild
property; I'd have to consult with, um, the others ..."

"And will the Guild put their own convenience ahead of the welfare of an
entire city?" Tobas said, grinning.

"We'll just have to see about that," Telurinon said angrily. "And besides,
even if we get this tapestry of yours here to Ethshar, Tobas, how would we get
Tabaea to step into it?"

"Will she be able to step into it if she's carrying the Black Dagger?" Heremon
asked.

"And if we're going to get her to step into a Transporting Tapestry," Tobas
asked, "do we need all the rigamarole about the dead area? What happened to
that one that had the stars wrong, Guildmaster? If we could get her to step
into that, we'd have however many decades you said it would be until she came
out again . . ."

"I don't think a tapestry will work on the Black Dagger," Heremon said. "You
might wind up permanently ruining the tapestry."

"And I don't think Tabaea's likely to step into one in the first place,"
Mereth said.

"I think we'd better come up with something else," Tobas said.

"Why don't we all take a little time to think about it?" Heremon suggested.
"We can meet back here in a few hours, after we've had a chance to come up
with more ideas."
"And meanwhile," Mereth said, "I can see what Lady Sarai wants."

With that, the wizards arose and scattered, the meeting adjourned.

CHAPTER 33

J. o all appearances, Lady Sarai of Ethshar was no more.

In her place, a young woman with a face broader, darker, and less distinctive
than Sarai's, wearing as nondescript an outfit as Mereth could provide, had
wandered into the palace, where she roamed the wide marble passageways,
gaping—or pretending to do so—at the splendors of the place.

No one who encountered this slack-jawed young woman would be likely to connect
her with the ousted aristocrats, or to suspect her of spying; and in fact,
none of the dozens of vagabonds and scoundrels who did encounter her even
noticed her. She was just another refugee from the Wall Street Field, come to
live in the corridors of the palace.

Sarai was pleased. The disguise worked very well indeed; she owed Algarin of
Longwall a debt for this—or at the very least, she would forgive him his
earlier offenses.

She had first asked Mereth to help, but Mereth had been unable to oblige; she
simply didn't know a suitable spell. It had been a surprise when Algarin,
hearing what Sarai wanted, had volunteered his services.

But then, the alteration of her features was probably not the most valuable
thing she had received from the wizards, and it had been Mereth, rather than
Algarin, who told Sarai a good deal of what the wizards had discussed after
sending Sarai and the others out of the Guildhouse.

She had not revealed any Guild secrets, of course, nor had Sarai asked her to.
She had, however, confirmed what Sarai had already suspected from her
inadvertant eavesdropping—Ta-baea's power derived originally from a single
wizardry artifact: a black dagger. She appeared to have no true command of
wizardry, as she had not been seen to use any other spells, but she had used
the dagger somehow to steal other sorts of magic.

Tabaea might not have really mastered those other magicks, though.

Mereth had also spoken, with some scorn, of the various plans the wizards had
suggested for dealing with Tabaea. Sarai knew that they did not have any
simple counterspell for the Black Dagger, nor any simple means of killing or
disarming Tabaea. The Guild might yet devise something, but as yet, Mereth
told her, they had not.

That somehow didn't surprise Sarai much. The Wizards' Guild was very, very
good at some things, but in this case they seemed to be completely out of
their depth.

But then, so was everybody else, Sarai herself included. As she roamed the
sadly transformed halls of the palace, Sarai could see that plainly. Even the
conquerors, the city's outcasts, didn't seem comfortable with the new
situation. They had not moved into the palace as if they were the new
aristocracy, but rather as if it were a temporary shelter, a substitute for
the Wall Street Field; it was with a curious mixture of annoyance and amazed
relief that Sarai discovered that for the most part, the invaders had not
dared to intrude on any of the private apartments or bedrooms. Her own
family's rooms were untouched, as were most of the others that had been
abandoned, and those courtiers and officials who had remained behind were, for
the most part, undisturbed.

Instead the newcomers were camped in the corridors, the stairways, the
audience chambers, and the meeting rooms. They had no beds, but slept on
carpets, blankets, stolen draperies', or tapestries taken from the walls; they
did not take their meals in the dining halls, but wherever they could scrounge
food, eating it on the spot. The palace servants sometimes brought trays
through the passages, handing out tidbits.

There was no organization at all; the people simply sat wherever they chose
and moved when the urge struck them. They chatted with one another, played at
dice and finger games, and, Sarai saw with disgust, stole one another's
belongings whenever someone's back was turned. These were the new rulers of
the city? After a tour of the palace that took her slightly more than two
hours, however, Sarai found herself in the Great Hall, watching Tabaea at
work, and realized that here were the real rulers of the city. The people in
the corridors below were parasites, hangers-on, like the lesser nobility of
old.

Still, she was not particularly impressed with what she saw. Tabaea held court
as if she were settling arguments between unruly children—which was often
appropriate, Sarai had to admit, but not always. And she didn't have the sense
to delegate anything; no one seemed to be screening out the frivolous cases.
Tabaea was serving as overlord, and as her own Minister of Justice, and half a
dozen other roles as well.

Sarai watched as Tabaea heard a dispute between an old woman and the drunkard
she claimed had stolen her blanket; as she received a representative of the
Council of Warlocks who wanted to know her intentions, and whether she
acknowledged killing Inza the Apprentice, and if so whether she intended to
make reparations; and as she listened to a delegation of merchants from
Grandgate Market who were upset about the absence of the city guard.

Tabaea gave the drunkard to the count of three to return the blanket; his
failure to meet this deadline got him a broken hand as the empress forcibly
removed the blanket.

She freely admitting killing Inza, but claimed that it was a matter of state
and no reparations or apologies would be forthcoming; furthermore, she saw no
need to tell anyone of her plans, especially not a bunch of warlocks. They
could wait and see, like everyone else, or consult fortune-telling wizards or
theurgists—but no, she wasn't holding any particular grudge, and they were
free to stay in Ethshar of the Sands and operate as they always had, so long
as they didn't annoy her. The warlocks' representative was not especially
pleased by this, but he had little choice; he had to accept it. When she
dismissed him, he bowed and departed without further argument.

As for the merchants, she asked if there had been any increase in theft or
vandalism in the guards' absence.

"I don't know," the spokesman admitted, as his companions eyed one another
uneasily.

"Not yet," one of the others muttered; Tabaea clearly heard him, however.

"You think the thieves will be bolder in the future, perhaps?" Tabaea asked,
her tone challenging.

For a moment, no one replied, and a hush fell on the room. The delegates
shifted their feet uneasily, looking at one another and stealing glances at
the empress. At last, one spoke up, far more courageously than Sarai would
ever have expected.

"I think that at the moment, all the thieves in the city are here in the
palace," he said. "And when they either finish looting the place, or they
realize they aren't going to get a chance to loot it, they'll be back out in
the market."

"And what if they find they don't have to loot it?" Tabaea shot back. "What if
they find that the new government here is more generous than the old, and that
anyone can have a decent living without being forced to steal?"

"I don't know anything about that," the brave merchant answered. "I think
there'll always be thieves, and I want someone to protect us from them."

"You have me," Tabaea said. "That's all you need."

The merchant's expression made it quite plain that he did not consider his new
empress, whatever her abilities, to be an adequate replacement for several
thousand soldiers, but his nerve had apparently run out; he said nothing more,
and the scruffy little man who seemed to be serving as Tabaea's chamberlain
herded the group down the stairs.

Next up was a woman who claimed she had been unfairly forced from her home; as
she gathered herself together and inched up to the dais, Sarai, standing at
the head of the left-hand stairway, considered what she had just heard.

Tabaea was no diplomat; her treatment of the warlock and the merchants had
made that plain. The case of the stolen blanket was interesting, though; she
had not hesitated in the slightest before ordering the man to give the woman
the blanket. Had Tabaea really known who was lying, as quickly as that?

It could be, of course; if Tabaea had acquired the right magical skills, she
might be able to instantly tell falsehoods from truth. She hadn't had to
consult any magicians other than herself, certainly.

Or maybe she had just guessed. Maybe she assumed that the accused were always
guilty. Maybe she would always prefer women to men, or the sober to the
intoxicated. From one case, Sarai really couldn't say ...

She had reached that point in her thoughts when the arrow whistled past. Her
eyes widened, and she saw the impact very clearly as the missile struck
Tabaea, Empress of Ethshar, in the throat.

Sarai stared as blood dribbled down the pale skin and onto the front of
Tabaea's absurdly gaudy dress; the sight of the woman standing there gasping,
with the arrow projecting from her neck, was horribly unnatural. Sarai was
vaguely aware of clattering footsteps behind her as someone descended the
stairs so fast that it was almost as much a fall as a climb, and then the
fading sound of running feet as the archer fled down the corridor below. The
sound was very loud and distinct in the shocked silence following the shot.

Then Tabaea reached up and ripped the arrow free; blood gushed forth,
spattering the dais and drenching her dress. Someone screamed—a single voice
at first, then a chorus of shrieks and shouts.

The empress took a single step, staggered—and then straightened up.

As Sarai watched, the gaping red hole in Tabaea's throat closed, the skin
smoothed itself out, and the wound was gone as if it had never been.


"Where did that come from?" Tabaea demanded, in a voice as strong as ever.

Several fingers pointed, and Tabaea strode through the room, imposing in her
anger despite her small size, with the bloody arrow still clutched in her
hand. She headed for the stairs where the assassin had lurked. All present,
regardless of who they might be, hastened to get out of her way—Sarai among
them.

She had to admit, as she watched Tabaea pass, that was a very impressive bit
of magic, the way that wound had healed—if it had all been real, and not some
sort of illusion. She turned back to the throne room.

The dais was soaked with blood; if it was an illusion, it was a durable one.
And, Sarai saw, a line of bloody drops and smears on the stone floor marked
Tabaea's path from the dais to the stairs.

Sarai did not really think it was an illusion at all.

She wondered who the assassin was, and why he had made his attempt. Had Lord
Torrut sent him, perhaps? And would he get away, or would Tabaea catch him?

If she caught him, Sarai was sure the man would die. She hoped it wouldn't be
too slow or painful a death.

She looked around again, at the remnants of the crowd, at Tabaea's chamberlain
standing by the dais looking bewildered, at the rapidly drying blood the
empress had lost. She thought of the warlock, and the merchants, and the drunk
with the broken hand, of Grandgate Market and the gate itself left unguarded,
and of the palace corridors jammed with beggars and thieves. She thought of
the empress of Ethshar abandoning everything else to chase her own would-be
assassin, because she had no guards to do it for her, no magicians to track
down and slay the attacker.

This was no way to run a city.

Quite aside from any question of Tabaea's right to rule, it was clear to Sarai
that the murderous young woman didn't know how to rule properly.

She would have to be removed—but as the scene with the arrow had demonstrated,
as Mereth's report of the Wizards' Guild's repeated failures, removing her
wasn't as simple as it might seem, with the Black Dagger protecting her.

Sarai paused, looking after the departed empress. At least, she thought, there
was an obvious place to start. If the Black
Dagger protected Tabaea, then the Black Dagger had to be eliminated.

Of course, Tabaea knew that. It wasn't going to be easy to get the enchanted
knife away from her.

Easy or not, a way would have to be found. And since no one else seemed to be
doing it, Sarai would have to do it herself.

She sighed; it was easy to say she should do it. The hard part, Sarai told
herself, was figuring out how.

CHAPTER 34
Let me help you with that, Your Majesty," Sarai said, reaching out for
Tabaea's blood-soaked robe.

Tabaea looked around, startled. "Thank you," she said, pulling the robe free.
Sarai accepted it and folded it into a bundle; half-dried blood smeared her
arms and dripped on the carpet.

"You're not one of my usual servants," Tabaea remarked, as she unbuckled her
belt and tossed it aside. She tugged at her sticky, bloody tunic and asked,
"Where's Lethe? Or Ista?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty," Sarai replied. "I was nearby, and I just thought
I'd help." She hoped very much that if Lethe or Ista showed up that neither
would see through her disguise, or recognize her voice.

Of course, those two had mostly waited on the overlord and his immediate
family, not on Lord Kalthon and his children; while they both knew Lady Sarai
by sight, neither had been a close friend.

And both of them were tired of cleaning up Tabaea's blood, so they probably
wouldn't be in any hurry to answer the empress' call. This latest attack, an
attempt at decapitation, had been even messier than previous unsuccessful
assassinations.

Sarai had seen it, of course; she made a habit of unobtrusively following
Tabaea about her everyday business, watching any time an assassin might
strike. She wanted to know more about Tabaea's capabilities; she wanted to be
there if Tabaea did die, to help restore order; and she wanted to be there if
there was ever a chance to get the Black Dagger away.

She had an idea about that last that she hoped to try. That idea was why she
was now playing the role of a palace servant.

She supposed she hadn't really needed to watch the actual decapitation, but
she had been too fascinated to turn away. For a moment, when the assassin's
sword finished its cut through the imperial neck and emerged from the other
side, Sarai had thought that this might be too much for even Tabaea's magic—
but then she had seen that the wound was already healing where the blade had
entered, that the head had never been completely severed from the body, and
that Tabaea was already tugging the Black Dagger from its sheath.

Each time someone had openly tried to kill the empress, Tabaea had pursued her
attacker, and two times out of three she had caught and killed someone she
claimed to be the assassin.

At least, Sarai thought she had; certainly, she had caught the archer the
first time, and judging by her remarks to her courtiers and the satisfied
expression on her face, she had caught this swordsman, as well.

She hadn't caught anyone when magical attacks had been made, of course, but
those attacks hadn't inflicted any deadly wounds, either; the Black Dagger had
dissipated any wizard's spell used against her, and Tabaea, using her own
powers, had fought off all the others before they got that far.

She hadn't eaten the poisoned meals, either; Sarai didn't know why.

At least, she had turned away meals she said were poisoned, but Sarai had no
way of knowing whether poison had actually been present, or that Tabaea hadn't
cheerfully consumed poisons in other meals without detecting them—and without
being harmed.
And for that matter, if magical attacks had reached her undetected, perhaps
they had used up some of her store of stolen lives—but Sarai had no reason to
think that had happened. As far as Sarai could see, neither magic nor poison
had affected Tabaea's vitality.

The more direct assaults, however, surely did.

If Sarai correctly understood how the Black Dagger worked— which she doubted,
since her information was third-hand at best, relayed by Mereth or Tobas or
one of Tobas's wives from analyses provided by various wizards—then each time
Tabaea killed
someone, she added another life to her total; each time she received a wound
that would have killed an ordinary person, a life was lost from that sum.

So while she had lost three lives to assassins, she had recovered two of them,
tracking down her enemies and stabbing them to death before they had a chance
to escape. Neither one had even gotten out of the palace.

That must have been a ghastly sight for the would-be killers, Sarai thought,
to look back and see Tabaea, covered with her own blood and wielding that
horrible dagger, in hot pursuit. And it had presumably been the last thing
they ever saw—at least, for two out of three.

The chase was over now, and Tabaea had retreated to her apartments, to change
out of her bloody clothes, to wash the blood from her skin and hair, before
going on about the business of ruling me city. She had sent her chancellor and
her other followers away, so that she could clean up in private.

And this was what Sarai had been waiting for. The instant Tabaea had set out
after the assassin, Sarai had hurried to the imperial quarters, where she had
filled the marble tub and hung the kettle over the fire.

"The bath is ready, Your Majesty," she said. "I hope the water's warm enough;
it's not my usual job."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Tabaea said wearily, as she handed Sarai her tunic
and ambled into the bath chamber. Sarai accepted the garment, bowed, and
hurried after.

Tabaea dropped her skirt, stepped out of her girdle, and stepped into the tub.

"It is a bit cool," she said. "See to the kettle, whatever your name is."

"Pharea, Your Majesty," Sarai said. She put the bloody clothes aside and
fetched the kettle from the fire, then poured steaming hot water into the tub,
stirring it in with her other hand.

She wanted Tabaea to be comfortable, to take a nice, long bath—and give her a
good head start.

"You're nervous, Pharea," Tabaea said.

Sarai looked up, startled.

"Don't be," the empress said, "I won't hurt you."

Sarai was not reassured, but she tried to hide her discomfort. "Of course not,
Your Majesty," she said. "I suppose it's just the blood."
"Your Majesty?" a new voice called.

Sarai turned, as Tabaea said, "Ah, Lethe! Come in here and help me get this
blood out of my hair."

Sarai bowed, collected Tabaea's remaining garments, and backed out of the bath
chamber as Lethe stepped in. The servant gave Sarai a startled glance, then
ignored her as she tended to her mistress' needs.

Sarai collected Tabaea's bloody clothes into a bundle, and dumped it in me
hallway, to be disposed of or cleaned, whichever was more practical—she really
didn't know and didn't much care. Her servant act was almost over. In a few
seconds she would have what she wanted. She returned to the bath chamber and
leaned in.

"I'll just close this door to keep the steam in, shall I?" she said.

"Yes, thank you, Pharea," Tabaea said with a wave.

Sarai closed the door, quietly but firmly.

Then she hurried to Tabaea's belt, still lying on the floor where the empress
had flung it; she snatched the Black Dagger from its sheath, took her own
knife from concealment beneath her skirt, and substituted the ordinary belt
knife for Tabaea's magical weapon. She tucked the Black Dagger carefully under
her skirt, then looked around, checking to see if she had forgotten anything.

As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror; at first, she paid
no attention, but then, startled, she stared at the glass.

Her magical disguise was gone; she was no longer Pharea, a moon-faced servant,
but herself, Lady Sarai.

The Black Dagger had done that, obviously; it had cut away the illusion spell.

She certainly couldn't afford to stay here, in that case, not that she had
intended to. Moving quickly, but not hurrying so much as to attract attention
if someone saw her, she stepped out into the passageway and closed the door
behind her.

And then, carefully not hurrying, trying very hard to appear as ordinary as
possible, she strolled down the hall, down the stairs, and a few minutes
later, out of the palace entirely, across the plaza onto Circle Street.

She had done it. She had the Black Dagger.

Now what?

She didn't want to do anything hasty or ill-considered. The obvious thing to
do would be to go to the Guildhouse on Grand
Street and tell the wizards that Tabaea had been disarmed—but

Sarai did not always trust the obvious.

Would magic work against Tabaea now? She still had the strengths and talents
of a dozen or so people, even if she could no longer add more. And mere was
the question of whether it would be for the best in the long run if wizards
removed the usurper empress; however much she might like some of the
individual members, Sarai did not like or trust the Wizards' Guild. They had
claimed they didn't meddle in politics, yet she was quite sure that if she
told them the Black Dagger was gone, they would immediately assassinate
Tabaea. Like it or not, Tabaea was the city's ruler. What sort of a precedent
would it set if she helped the Wizards' Guild kill a reigning monarch and go
unpunished?

Not only would they surely go unpunished, they might expect to be rewarded for
such a service. They might well demand a larger role in running the city, or
some tangible expression of gratitude. Sarai did not for a minute believe that
their strictures against interfering in politics, or their insistence that
they wanted to kill Tabaea for themselves rather than the good of the city,
would prevent them from expecting payment for such a service to the overlord.

What if they demanded the Black Dagger?

Sarai frowned. She didn't like that idea. The Black Dagger was dangerous.

Of course, wizards were dangerous—but still, why hand them even more power?

And then again, it might be, for all she knew, that the Black Dagger would
only work for Tabaea. It might be that the wizards already knew how to make
such daggers.

It might be that Tabaea would be able to make another as soon as she found
that this one was gone, in which case Sarai really shouldn't be wasting any
time—but still, she hesitated. Wherever the Black Dagger came from, whether
more could be made or not, Sarai was sure that the wizards would want it.

Well, the wizards had things she wanted—not for Ethshar, but for herself. What
if she were to trade the dagger to them in exchange for a cure for her father
and brother?

This all needed more thought, despite any risk that Tabaea would make another
dagger. The time was not yet right, Sarai decided, for a quick trip to the
Guildhouse.

But then, where should she go?


Lord Torrut, she decided. There was no point in letting   more assassins die for
nothing, not when a single spell might now be enough to   handle the problem.
She had no doubt at all that the assassins were sent by   Lord Torrut; when open
battle had failed, he had gone underground, but she was   sure he was still
fighting.

The question was, where?

The obvious place to start looking was the barracks towers; with that in mind,
she headed out Quarter Street toward Grand-gate Market.

And as she walked, a thought struck her.

Ordinary swords and knives and arrows could not kill Tabaea, as long as she
had extra lives saved up—but what if she were stabbed with the Black Dagger?
Wouldn't that steal all her lives at once?

Maybe not; it would certainly be a risky thing to try. Most particularly, it
would be risky for an ordinary person, with an ordinary person's strength, to
attempt to stab Tabaea, with all her stolen power.

But what if someone used the Black Dagger to build herself up to be Tabaea's
equal, or her superior, and then stabbed Tabaea?

Whoever it was couldn't go about murdering magicians, of course, or even just
ordinary people, but perhaps if there were condemned criminals . . .

Did the dagger's magic work on animals? Sarai remembered that dogs, cats, and
even a pigeon had been found with their throats cut; Tabaea had, at the very
least, experimented with animals. Someone with the strength of a dozen oxen
might be a match for her.

Of course, if anyone tried that, then the knife's new wielder would be a
threat to the peace of the city—unless it was someone completely trustworthy,
someone who would simply never want to disrupt the normal flow of events.

Someone, for example, like Sarai herself.

She glanced briefly toward the Guildhouse as she crossed Wizard Street, but
walked on toward the Wall Street Field without even slowing.

In the Guildhouse, Tobas watched uneasily from the landing.

"I know that I sort of suggested some of mis," he said, "but I'm not sure it's
really a good idea."

Mereth glanced at him uneasily, then turned her attention back to Telurinon.
The Guildmaster was seated cross-legged on
a small carpet, his athame held out before him, its point directly over a
shallow silver bowl supported on a low iron tripod; he was chanting intently.
Fluid bubbled and steamed in the silver dish. A sword lay on the floor beneath
the bowl, and an old and worn noose encircled the tripod, the sword's blade
passing under it on one side and atop it on the other.

"Well," Mereth said, "if any kind of wizardry can kill Ta-baea, this can—can't
it?"

"I don't know," Tobas said. "I just hope it doesn't kill everybody.'"

"Oh, it won't do that," Mereth said, not anywhere near as certainly as she
would have liked.

"It might," Tobas replied. "The original countercharm is lost, has been lost
for four or five hundred years now, and in all that time no one's been foolish
enough to risk trying it. The spell book I found it in had a note at the
bottom in big red runes, saying, 'Don't try it!,' but here we are, trying it."

"But we've got it all figured out," Mereth insisted. "As soon as Tabaea's
dead, the warlocks pick it up and push it through that tapestry of yours, to
the no-magic place, and it'll be gone!"

"That assumes," Tobas pointed out, "that the warlocks really can pick it up
and that the tapestry really will transport it. For the former we have only
the warlocks' word that they can lift anything that isn't too immense, and for
the latter, all we have is assumptions and guesses. What if, instead of the
tapestry transporting the Seething Death, the Seething Death destroys the
Transporting Tapestry?"

Mereth went pale.

"Oh, gods," she said. "What if it does destroy the tapestry? Tobas, why didn't
you say anything sooner?"
"I did," Tobas replied. "I argued until my throat was sore and my lungs
wouldn't hold air, and Telurinon promised to think it all over carefully, and
when I came back he'd started the ritual."

"Oh, but. . . but it's so dangerous . . . How could he?"

Tobas turned up an empty palm. "He's frustrated,"   he said. "We've all been
throwing spells at Tabaea for a sixnight now, and   they've had even less effect
than Lord Torrut's archers and booby traps—by the   way, did you hear about the
tripwire and razor-wheels? The spies said it took   Tabaea almost five minutes
to heal."

Mereth shuddered.

"Well, anyway," Tobas continued, "all his life Telurinon has had these spells
too terrible to use, he's heard about how wizardry is more powerful than
anything, and now there's someone who just absorbs anything we throw at her—I
can see why he'd want to try some of the real World-wrecker spells on her.
He'll probably never have another opportunity to use any of them. But I don't
think he should use the Seething Death."

"Then why don't you stop him?"

"Oh, now, you know better than that," Tobas chided her. "Have you ever
interrupted a wizard in the middle of a spell?"

"Um . . . once." Mereth winced at the memory. "When I was an apprentice.
Nobody died, but it was close."

"Low-order magic, I assume?"

"Very."

Tobas nodded. "Ever see the Tower of Flame?"

Mereth turned to him, startled. "No, have you? I wasn't even sure it was
real!"

"Oh, it's real, all right," Tobas replied."It's in the mountains southeast of
Dwomor. You can see it for a dozen leagues in every direction; it lights up
the whole area at night. It just keeps going and going and going, spewing fire
upward out of a field of bare rock. The best records say it's been burning for
eight hundred years now, and the story is—I can't swear it's true—the story is
that it was only about a second- or third-order spell that went wrong, some
ordinary little spell, meant to sharpen a sword or something."

"Yes, but. . ."

"And for myself," Tobas said, interrupting her protest, "I'm not about to
forget that every spriggan in the World, and there must be hundreds of them by
now, maybe thousands, but every single one of them is out there running
around, causing trouble, because I got a gesture wrong doing Lugwiler's
Haunting Phantasm."

"But..."

"Not to mention," Tobas added forcefully,"that all our problems with Tabaea
and the Black Dagger are the result of a mistake during an athamezation."
"So you aren't going to stop him," Mereth said.

"That's right," Tobas said. "That's got to be tenth-, maybe twelfth-order
magic he's doing down there; I can't handle anything like that, hardly anyone
can, even among Guildmasters, and I'm not about to risk seeing a spell like
that go wrong. It's bad enough if it goes right."

"What happens if it doesn't?" Mereth asked. "I mean, Tel-urinon could make a
mistake even if we don't disturb him."

Tobas shrugged. "Who knows? Dragon's blood, serpent's venom, a rope that's
hanged a man, and a sword that's slain a woman . . . there's some potent stuff
in there."

"How is it supposed to work?"

Tobas sighed. "Well," he said, "when he's finished, that brew in the silver
bowl there is supposed to yield a single drop of fluid that's decanted into a
golden thimble. It's almost stable at that point; it won't do anything to the
thimble as long as the drop stays entirely within it. But when the drop is
tipped over the edge of the thimble, whether it's deliberately poured, or
spilled, or whatever, the spell will be activated, and whatever it falls upon
will be consumed by the Seething Death, which will then slowly spread,
destroying everything it touches, until something stops it."

"And we don't know of anything that will stop it," Mereth said.

"Right. Unless Telurinon's scheme to transport it to the dead area works."

"What if the Black Dagger stops it? "

Tobas shrugged. "Who knows?" he said.

Mereth blinked. "I'm not sure I understand exactly," she said. "The way I
understand it, the Seething Death forms a sort of pool of this stuff, right? A
pool that gradually spreads?"

"That's right."

"How will that stop Tabaea? Are we planning to push her into the pool?"

Tobas grimaced.

"No," he said. "Telurinon intends to pour the drop directly on her head."

Mereth was a wizard and had been for all her adult life; she regularly worked
with bits of corpses and various repulsive organic fluids. What was more, she
had worked for the Minister of Justice and his daughter, the Minister of
Investigation, studying and spying on all the various things that the citizens
of Eth-shar did to one another when sufficiently provoked. All the same, she
winced slightly at the thought of pouring that stuff on someone's head.

"Ick," she said. Then, after a moment's thought, she asked, "How?"

"The warlocks," Tobas told her. "As soon as it's ready, the warlocks will
transport it to the palace and pour it on Tabaea. Then, as soon as she's dead,
they'll lift her corpse, so the stuff won't get on anything else, and send
Tabaea and the Seething Death through the tapestry. It's all ready to go,
rolled up by the front door."
"Couldn't they just send her through the tapestry alive? Then we wouldn't have
to use the Seething Death at all!"

Tobas sighed again. "Maybe they could," he said, "but they don't think so.
She's a warlock herself, while she's alive, and she can block them. I don't
understand that part, I'm not a warlock any more than you are, but that's what
they say."

"Have they tried!" Mereth demanded.

Tobas turned up an empty palm. "Whether they have or not," he said, pointing
at Telurinon,"it's a little late to turn back now, isn't it?"

CHAPTER 35

Sarai winced, eyes closed, as she slit the dog's throat. The animal thrashed
wildly, and hot blood sprayed on Sarai's hands, but she kept her hold.

And as it struggled, Sarai felt a surge of heat, of strength, all through her;
without meaning to, she tightened her grip on the dying dog and felt the flesh
yielding beneath her fingers. Her heart was pounding, her muscles were tense.

Then the dog went limp, sagging to the ground between her legs, and the world
suddenly seemed to flood in on her; her ears rang with strange new sounds, and
her vision seemed suddenly sharper and more intense, as if everything was
outlined against the background of the Wall Street Field—though for a moment,
the colors seemed to fade away, as if drowned out by the clarity of shape and
movement.

Most of all, though, scents poured in. She could smell everything, all at
once—the dog's blood, her own sweat, her sex, the dirt of the Field, the
sun-warmed stone of the city wall, the smokes and stenches of every individual
shop or home on Wall Street or the blocks beyond. She could tell at once which
of the empty blankets and abandoned tents of the Field were mildewed or
decayed and which were still clean and wholesome; she could smell the metal of
the Black Dagger itself.

For a moment she stood over the dead dog, just breathing   in the city,
marveling at it all. She had known that dogs could smell   better than mere
humans, of course, everyone knew that, but she had never   before realized how
much better, and she had never imagined what it would be   like.

Her attempts to find Lord Torrut had, so far, been unsuccessful; she had found
no one in the barracks or the gatehouses. Now, though, she wondered if she
could locate him by smell, track him down by following his scent. She had
heard about dogs doing such things and had always dismissed the stories as
exaggerations, but now, she had to reconsider. She could smell everything.

She was stronger now, too; she could feel it. The dog had not been
particularly strong or healthy, just a half-starved stray scavenging in the
almost-empty Field, but she had felt the power in her grip as she held it
while it died.

Tabaea had killed a dozen men—Sarai tried to imagine just how strong that made
her feel, and couldn't.

And Tabaea had killed several dogs, as well, Sarai remembered—she, too, had
experienced this flood of scent and sound and image.

Scents—that explained some of Tabaea's mysterious abilities. It wasn't magic,
not in the way Sarai and the others had assumed; she could smell people
approaching; she could hear them, like a watchdog. People said dogs could
smell fear, as well, could tell friend from foe by scent—could Tabaea?

Until now, Sarai had viewed Tabaea as a mysterious and powerful magician, her
talents and abilities beyond any ordinary explanation, her mind beyond
understanding; now, suddenly, she thought she understood the usurper. Sarai
had assumed that Tabaea had created the Black Dagger deliberately, knowing
what she was doing; that she had studied magic, had set out to conquer
Ethshar. It was the Black Dagger that gave her her physical strength and
immunity to harm, the wizards had told Sarai that, but now Sarai began to
believe that all Tabaea's power came from the dagger.

Without it, did she have any magic?

Well, she presumably still had her warlockry, and maybe witchcraft—Teneria and
Karanissa had said that Tabaea had the talent, as they called it, but didn't
know how to use it properly.

And she had her canine sense of smell and her accumulated strength and stolen
lives.

Sarai remembered the dead cats and the dead pigeon; could Tabaea have stolen
the bird's ability to fly? What had she gotten from the cats?

Well, Sarai thought, holding up the bloody dagger, there was one way to find
out, wasn't there?

The first cat came as a revelation; the addition to her strength was nothing,
smell and hearing got no better, but the increase in her speed and the intense
sensitivity to movement were as big a surprise as the dog's sense of smell.
That was how Tabaea could react so quickly when she fought!

The pigeon was a waste of time; that explained why dead birds hadn't littered
the city when Tabaea was building herself up.

The next step, Sarai decided, was an ox, for the raw strength it would
provide; Tabaea had used people, but Sarai had no intention of committing
murder.

Unfortunately, there were no stray oxen wandering in the Wall   Street Field.
Buying an ox was not difficult—if one had money. Sarai had no   money to speak
of, just a few borrowed coppers in the purse on her belt. The   family treasure
had gone to sea with her father and brother, while the family   income was gone
with Lord Tollern and the overlord.

Perhaps she could borrow more money somewhere, she thought. The obvious place
to go would be the Guildhouse, since that was where the richest and most
powerful of her nominal allies were, but she still did not care for the idea
of walking in there with the Black Dagger on her belt. She thought she could
trust Mereth, and Tobas seemed like a reasonable person, but Telurinon and
Algarin and the rest. . .

Tobas was not living in the Guildhouse, though; he and his wives were staying
at the Cap and Dagger. Lady Sarai sniffed the air, without consciously
realizing she was doing it. She stretched, catlike, then flexed her shoulders
in a way that would have fluffed a pigeon's feathers out nicely. Then she
wiped the Black Dagger clean, sheathed it, and headed out of the Field, up
onto Wall Street, and toward Grandgate.
From the market, she turned down Gate Street; the Cap and Dagger was six
blocks down on the right.

As she walked, she soaked in the odors and sights of a city turned strange and
rich by her augmented senses. She could, she found, tell what each person she
passed had eaten for his or her last meal and how long ago that meal was; she
could detect the slightest twitch of a hand or an eye. She spotted rats
foraging in an alley and knew that she would never have seen them without the
Black Dagger's spell.

She saw someone glance oddly at her and realized that she was moving
strangely, her gaze darting back and forth, her nose lifted to catch the air.
She forced herself to look straight ahead. Then she was at the inn; she stood
in the door until the inn-Keeper came to ask what she wanted.

Sarai was sure she had not seen the man before and wondered where he had
hidden himself when the wizards held their meeting in his establishment.

"I'm looking for a man named Tbbas of Telven," she said. "Or if he's not here,
one of his wives."

The innkeeper frowned, then directed her to a room upstairs. Sarai thanked
him, and was about to head up, when the man reconsidered. "Maybe I'd better
come with you," he said. "I don't know you, and I don't want any trouble."

"There won't be any trouble," Sarai said, but the innkeeper insisted.
Together, they ascended the stairs and found the door of the room Tobas,
Karanissa, and Alorria shared. The innkeeper knocked.

"Yes?" a woman's voice called. Sarai had not entirely adjusted to her new
hearing, so much more sensitive to high-pitched sounds, so at first she didn't
recognize it.

"There's a woman here to see your husband," the innkeeper called.

Sarai heard footsteps, and then the door opened; Alorria leaned out. "Tobas
isn't here," she said. She spotted Sarai, and said, "Oh, it's you, La ... it's
you, Sarai. Is there anything I can do?"

"I hope so," Sarai said. "May I come in?" "Oh. All right, come in." She swung
the door wide. Sarai stepped in, and Alorria closed it gently in the
innkeeper's face.

"Thank you," she called to him as the door shut.

Then, for a moment, the two women stared at each other, Sarai unsure how to
begin, Alorria unsure she had done the right thing admitting anyone when she
was alone and so clumsy and helpless with her swollen belly.

But after all, Lady Sarai was a friend and a fellow noblewoman.

Sarai looked around the room, at the three beds, the table that held basin and
pitcher, and the two large trunks, while Alorria studied her guest's face.
"Why do you want to see Tobas?" the princess asked.

"Well, I probably don't need to," Sarai said. "I really just need to borrow
some money. I'll pay it back as soon as tilings are back to normal."

Alorria blinked, slightly startled. "Why do you need to borrow money?" she
asked.
"To buy an ox."

Alorria stared at Sarai. "Why do you want an ox?"

"To kill," Sarai explained. "As part of a spell."

Alorria frowned. "You're doing magic now? Isn't there enough of that already?"

Sarai shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "Is there?"

"Well, I certainly thought so," Alorria said, settling awkwardly onto the edge
of the nearest bed. "That's where Tobas and Kara are—the Wizards' Guild is
trying some horrible spell on Tabaea, with the help of the warlocks, and
Karanissa and the other witches are all standing by to help, at the palace or
the Guildhouse or places in between."

"What kind of a spell?" Sarai asked, seating herself on the next bed over. She
berated herself for not realizing that the wizards would still be trying their
spells on Tabaea, even without knowing the Black Dagger had been removed, and
she suddenly wished that she had gone straight to the Guildhouse when she had
first stolen the dagger. She didn't like it when things went on that she
didn't know about, particularly anything as bizarre as wizards and warlocks
working together.

And how could warlocks help with anything, when Tabaea was a warlock herself?
Warlockry didn't work on warlocks.

"Oh, I don't know," Alorria said, flustered. "I leave all the magic up to
Tobas and Kara, and I take care of the rest of it."

"Oh, but. . ." Sarai began.

Alorria interrupted, "It's called the Seething Death; Tobas got it from that
horrible old book of Derithon's, and nobody's used it in about five hundred
years."

Sarai's mouth twitched. "I thought you didn't know anything about magic."

"I don't," Alorria insisted, "not really. But I do know about my husband." She
smiled weakly.

Sarai smiled back, but it was not a terribly sincere smile. "The Seething
Death" sounded dangerous, and she had never heard of it before. Maybe building
up her strength with an ox could wait; watching this spell might be more
important. And some high official of the overlord's government ought to be
there when Tabaea died. The overlord himself had sailed off to Eth-shar of the
Spices with Lord Tbllern and Sarai's own father and the rest, and Lord Torrut
was in hiding; Sarai knew she was probably the highest-ranking official
available.

That assumed that the spell would work on Tabaea, but with the Black Dagger
gone Sarai thought that was a reasonable assumption. And if it didn 't kill
her, Sarai wanted to see that, too, to see how Tabaea defended herself without
the knife.

"The Seething Death," the spell was called. Where had it come from, anyway?

"Who's Derithon?" she asked,
"Derithon the Mage," Alorria said. "Karanissa's first husband—or lover,
anyway. He's been dead for centuries. She had his book of spells when she
first met Tobas, and she couldn't use it, since she's a witch instead of a
wizard, so she gave it to Tobas, and that's where he got most of his magic."

"Centuries?" There was obviously even more of a story to this threesome than
she had realized.

"Derithon put a youth spell on her. How much does an ox cost, anyway?"

"About three rounds of silver, I think. So Tobas is working this Seething
Death spell?"

"Oh, no!" Alorria said. "He thinks it's much too dangerous, that it's really
stupid. Telurinon did it before Tobas could stop him."

The last remnants of Sarai's smile vanished. She stood up. "I think I better
go," she said. "Forget about the ox; I need to see what's going on at the
palace." Alorria smiled up at her. "Be careful," she said. Sarai didn't
answer; she was already on her way out the door. Tobas was a sensible person,
despite his peculiar domestic arrangements, but Telurinon—Telurinon was an
overeducated idiot who wanted to prove to the Inner Circle how powerful he
was. What's more, he was an overeducated idiot who still thought Tabaea had
the Black Dagger protecting her.

Whatever this spell was, Telurinon expected it to overpower the Black Dagger.
Sarai was sure of that; Tobas or Heremon or Algarin might have found some way
around the dagger's magic, but Telurinon would have just thrown more and more
magic back at it. Unchecked wizardry could do an amazing amount of damage, and
there was no Black Dagger in the palace to blunt this Seething Death.

Sarai had to force herself not to draw attention by running as she headed for
the palace.

CHAPTER 36

Everyone knew that there were things in life that stayed interesting, and
things that got dull fairly quickly; this was no revelation to the Empress
Tabaea, who considered herself to be an intelligent person, and who thought
she had a pretty good idea of how the World worked.

All the same, she was rather surprised to find that ruling a city was one of
the things that got dull quickly.

In fact, by the end of her first sixnight as empress, she was bored with the
whole business and had begun trying to find ways to make it more enjoyable.

An obvious one would be to appoint someone else to handle the tedious parts of
the job, but that would require finding someone she trusted to do it properly,
and as yet she hadn't found such a person. Sometimes it seemed as if there
wasn't anyone in her entire court with the wit of a spriggan.

There were times she wasn't sure she was much better than the others, at that.

And then there was the loneliness. She had never exactly been popular company,
but at least she had usually had friends to talk to, just about everyday
matters. She could discuss the fine points of housebreaking with other
burglars, gripe about the city guard to anyone in the Wall Street Field—but
all her old friends were scared of her now. Not only was she the empress, but
she was a magician, with her superhuman strength and all the rest of her
abilities. And she had beaten Jandin and thrown that stupid old woman around.

So everyone was frightened of her.

She could still talk to them, of course, but it wasn't the same; they wouldn't
dare say anything she didn't want to hear, or, rather, anything they thought
that she might possibly not want to hear.

The remaining palace servants were actually better company now; they were
accustomed to dealing with powerful people, and they weren't anywhere near as
frightened of her as most of the others—but on the other hand, they didn't
seem to have much to say. They were mostly concerned with clothes and meals
and furniture, with how to keep the rugs clean, and what tunic went well with
which skirt.

And they were all women. Tabaea didn't understand that. Surely, the overlord
had had male servants; where had they all
gone?

Wherever they were, she didn't see them.   Perhaps they were still there,
working down in the depths of the palace   kitchens, or the stables, or any of
the other places that the empress didn't   go, but they certainly weren't
bringing her her meals or waiting on her   in her apartments.

They might be mixed in with the crowds in the corridors, of course.

And that was another source of her displeasure, she thought as she left her
apartments and headed for the throne room. Here she had done everything she
could to be an enlightened and benevolent ruler, and nobody seemed to
appreciate it. She had freed all the slaves, had emptied the overlord's
dungeons, had pardoned any number of criminals, had invited the entire
population of the Wall Street Field to live in the palace, had in fact thrown
the palace open to anyone who cared to enter—by her order, all the doors were
kept open in good weather, and were always unlocked in any weather—and what
had it gotten her? Had those people been grateful to her? Had they taken
advantage of this chance to improve themselves? Had any of them tried to repay
her by helping out, even such little things as cleaning up after themselves,
as she had asked?

No. Of course not. All she had to do was glance about to see that. The palace
corridors were littered with cast-off rags, with fruit rinds and chicken bones
and other remnants of stolen meals, and they stank of urine and worse. Dead
bodies were left unattended until they began to stink, if she or one of the
servants didn't happen on them; out hi the Wall Street Field someone would
have informed the city guard and the body would have been removed, but here no
one seemed to know who should be told.

What was worse, not all the deaths were from disease or age; not counting the
assassination attempts, there had definitely been at least two murders in the
palace since her ascension, both apparently the result of fights over
unattended goods. There were reports of other fights that had not ended quite
so badly, and stories of rapes and molestations.

It was just as bad as the Wall Street Field had been. Didn't these people
appreciate the fact that they had a roof over their heads now, that they
weren't outcasts anymore?

Obviously not. About the only comfort was that the population of the palace
seemed to be declining; there were clearly fewer people in the corridors now.
They might just be moving into the rooms and chambers, or down into the deeper
areas where she didn't see them, but Tabaea liked to think that they were
finding places for themselves outside, in the houses her people were taking
back from the old overlord's tax collectors, or with their families, or
somewhere.

She frowned. There had been that rumor that some were moving back to the Wall
Street Field. She didn't like that.

And then there were all the complaints from the other people, the outsiders,
the merchants and nobles and even sailors and craftsmen and the like, worried
about the absence of the city guard, complaining about the loss of their
slaves, claiming they had been robbed and the thieves had taken shelter in the
palace, and any number of other things . . .

The pleasures of ruling, Tabaea thought as she neared the steps that would
lead her up to the start of her working day, were overrated, and it didn't
help at all that she had gone and limited what pleasures there were, in her
idealistic drive to improve the lot of her subjects. She could think of
interesting ways to pass the time with a handsome slave, now that she could
afford one, could have had one for the asking—but she had abolished slavery.
She sighed, straightened her skirt, and proceeded up the steps toward the
throne room.

At least   she had finally had the sense to give up on those silly gowns and
gewgaws.   She didn't need to look like some jewel-encrusted queen out of an old
story to   convince people that she was the empress; all she needed was to be
herself,   Tabaea the First.

As always, there was a crowd waiting for her; as always, she ignored them and
marched straight toward the dais, expecting them to get out of her way.

Then, abruptly, she stopped. Something was wrong. She sniffed the air.

Someone in the crowd was terrified—not just nervous, but really scared, and at
the same time she scented aggression. And it wasn't from someone lurking in a
back corner, it was someone nearby. She saw movement, a hand raising. Another
assassination attempt, obviously. Well, this time she didn't intend to be
killed. Even if she always recovered almost instantly, it still hurt; in fact,
it was downright agonizing, for a few seconds. It used up precious magic
energy, and besides, it made a mess, getting blood all over everything.

This time she sensed warlockry, just a trace of it, a tiny bit of magic. That
had happened before; warlocks had tried to stop her heart, had tried to throw
knives at her, had tried to strangle her from afar, and every time, she had
blocked the attempt easily. Warlockry didn't work on warlocks, and she, thanks
to that silly Inza, was a warlock.

Usually, though, the warlock attacks had come when she was alone, not here in
the throne room.

Well, those attacks hadn't worked, so a change in strategy was sensible
enough. She wondered just what was intended this time.

All this ran through her mind almost instantly; she was reacting far faster
than any ordinary human could, faster than any ordinary warlock.

The frightened warlock in the crowd was holding something hi his upraised
hand, something small and golden, and then he was releasing it, sending it
flying toward her at incredible speed, supported and propelled by magic.
An ordinary woman probably wouldn't have seen it in time to react. An ordinary
warlock probably couldn't have gathered the will to respond before the gold
thimble reached her.

Tabaea had no trouble at all knocking the thing aside while it was still three
or four feet away; the thimble dropped to the floor, rattling on the stone,
and the single drop it held spattered out.

Immediately, a white vapor arose, hissing. Tabaea didn't concern herself with
that; she had an assassin to stop. She leaped over the smoking thimble,
reaching the warlock in a single bound; she grabbed the front of his tunic
with her left hand, and her right snatched her dagger from its sheath. Then
she stopped.

People were screaming and backing away, the white vapor was spreading, and
Tabaea could smell it, a horrible, burning stench like nothing she had ever
smelled before; the assassin, more frightened than ever, was struggling
helplessly hi her grip, trying to get free. Tabaea ignored all that. The knife
in her hand felt wrong.

It was a fairly subtle thing, and she couldn't have described exactly what the
difference was, but the instant her hand closed on the hilt, she knew, beyond
any doubt, that this knife was not the Black Dagger. A person gets to know a
tool when it's handled with any frequency, gets to know its feel, its shape.
Without question, Tabaea knew the Black Dagger.

And without question, the knife in her hand was not the Black Dagger.

Furious, she rammed the blade into her would-be assassin's belly, partly to be
certain that this was not just some inexplicable transformation that had left
the magic intact, and partly because after all, even if she couldn't steal his
life, this man had tried to kill her, and was therefore a traitor who deserved
to die.

She felt no surge of energy, no tingle of magic, as the man screamed and
clutched at her hand.

There was no magic. The Black Dagger was gone.

She threw the assassin aside, unconcerned whether he was dead or alive, and
turned to face the stairway she had just ascended.

Where could the Black Dagger have gone?

She had some vague idea of retracing her steps, but when she turned, she found
herself face-to-face with that stinking smoke. It was still rising, still
spreading. She looked down.

The contents of the thimble had spread, and now completely covered an area the
width of her hand, perfectly circular in shape—and Tabaea knew that that
perfect a circle was unnatural. The stuff should have sprayed unevenly across
the stone in a fan shape.

What was more, within that circle the floor was completely invisible, hidden
by a layer of... of something. Tabaea had no name for it, either for the
substance or even for its color. It wasn't exactly green, wasn't exactly gray
or brown or yellow, but it was closer to those colors than to anything else.
It was liquid, but she couldn't say what kind; it was shiny and looked somehow
slimy, but it wasn't quite like anything she had ever seen before.
And it wasn't still; it roiled and rippled and bubbled and steamed, though
Tabaea could feel no heat from it. It moved almost as if it were somehow
alive.

She had assumed at first that the drop was some sort of concentrated acid, or
virulent poison, but this stuff was obviously magic.

What's more, it was spreading.

And, she realized with a twinge of horror, it wasn't spreading on top of the
marble floor; it was eating into the stone.

And someone had wanted to put that stuff on her, and she didn't even have the
Black Dagger to protect her, it would have eaten away at her, just as it was
eating at the floor. She shuddered.

Who was responsible for this? She looked up and around at the throne room.
Most of the crowd had fled, but some were still there, staying well away from
her and from the little pool of whatever-it-was. No one was smiling; no one
seemed to stand out as reacting oddly, unless she counted the assassin, who
was still breathing, still alive.

Had the assassin known that her dagger was gone, that she was no longer
protected against wizardry? Had he taken the dagger himself?

She strode over to him and used one toe to roll him over onto his back. He lay
there, gasping and bleeding. The knife on his belt was obviously not the Black
Dagger; Tabaea could see that at a glance.

"Who sent you?" she demanded.

He made a strangled choking noise. He clearly was in no condition to answer,
even if he had wanted to. Tabaea frowned.

She reached out, warlock-fashion, and tried to sense the damage her knife blow
had done.

The wound was pretty bad, but she thought it could be healed if someone, a
powerful witch or a warlock who had been trained properly, got to it before
the man finished bleeding to death, or if a theurgist managed to get the right
prayer through in time. Unfortunately, Tabaea could not do it herself; she had
never learned to heal, with either warlockry or witchcraft.

She turned and spotted Arl, standing by the dais. "You, Art," she said. "Find
a witch or a priest or someone; I want this man healed, so he can tell me who
sent him. And be careful, he's a warlock. " "Uh. . ."

"Hurry! And I won't be holding court today, so the rest of you can all . . .
no, wait a minute. You, and you — find something to cover over that stuff, I
don't want anyone stepping in it. It looks nasty. And then get out of here,
all of you. Get going, Arl."

"Yes, Your Majesty. "

A moment later the throne room was empty, save for Tabaea and the wounded
assassin. The empress glanced around and noticed that even here, in the
imperial audience chamber, trash had piled up in the corners.

And over by the stair, the little pool of magical gunk was still bubbling and
smoking. Tabaea didn't worry about it; she was far more concerned just now
with the whereabouts of the Black Dagger.

After all, whatever that stuff was, it would surely dry up and die soon
enough.

CHAPTER 37

A fanner's wagon was sitting by the palace door in plain sight in the morning
sun, Sarai noticed. It looked incongruous; when the overlord was in power,
deliveries had been made as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, over at the
southeast entrance.

People were milling about, some in rags, some in commonplace attire, some in
finery—though most of the last seemed uncomfortable in their obviously stolen
clothes, and sometimes combined their finery with familiar rags. Those who
were just emerging from the dim interior of the palace blinked in the bright
sunlight; hands shading eyes were common. No one seemed to be paying any
attention to the wagon or its driver.

The mix of clothing was familiar to Sarai from her stay in Tabaea's palace,
but she had never noticed wagons at the northeast entry before. She took a
good look at it as she approached— and then stopped dead in her tracks.

The wagon's driver was Tobas, the wizard. He was dressed in rough brown wool
instead of his usual wizard's robe, but it was unmistakably him. He was
leaning down from his seat talking to someone, and Sarai recognized the young
woman in the black dress as Teneria, the witch.

Sarai took a second to gather her wits, then hurried forward again; a moment
later she hailed Tobas. She had to shout twice before he looked up, startled.
Even then, he didn't answer at first; he stared blankly at Lady Sarai until
Teneria said, "Oh, it's Sarai!"

Two or three passersby looked up at that and glanced curiously at Sarai. Sarai
hurried up to the wagon, not at all pleased by this attention; she didn't want
to be recognized, and with her disguise gone, it was entirely possible that
someone would know her face.

Well, it was her own fault for calling out. "Pharea," Sarai said. "I'm called
Pharea. What's happening?"

"Well, right at the moment, there's a warlock in the throne room, waiting for
Tabaea to make her entrance, and when she does, he's going to try a spell of
Telurinon's on her," Tobas explained. "Karanissa is in there, too, keeping an
eye on everything."

"That's the Seething Death?" Sarai asked. "Now, how ..." Tobas began.

Teneria said, "She talked to Alorria. Excuse me, Sar . . . Pharea, but
Tabaea's coming up the steps right now, she's at the top."

"So you know about this?" Tobas asked.

Sarai nodded.

"And you know about the Black Dagger."

"Yes," Sarai said.

Tobas sighed uneasily and said,"Well, in a moment we should find out if the
Black Dagger can stop the Seething Death. And if. . ."

"No," Sarai interrupted. "We aren't going to find out anything about the Black
Dagger."

"We aren't?" Tobas stared down at her. "Why not?"

Sarai hesitated, and before she could say anything, Teneria cried out, "Oh,
no!"

Tobas whirled back to the witch. "What happened?" he demanded.

"She spilled it! She knocked it aside and spilled it on the floor, and now
she's grabbed Thurin and ..." Teneria winced. "... and she's stabbed him, and
it hurts really bad ..." She closed her eyes and leaned against the wagon.

Sarai bit her lip and watched as the witch tried to continue. She had worried
that something might go wrong, ever since she had used the Black Dagger
herself and discovered how Tabaea saw the World—or rather, how she sensed it.
She could smell danger. She could move inhumanly fast. The slightest movement
could alert her. She could hear a whisper from across a room. None of the
magicians would realize that—at least, Sarai didn't see how they could. The
witches might have sensed something, but would even they have really
appreciated just how fast and how sensitive Tabaea was?

Well, either they hadn't, or they hadn't been consulted in setting this up.

"Now what?" Sarai asked.

"Now she's trying to get Thurin to talk, but he can't; he's dying, he's
bleeding to death, and she doesn't know how to heal him. She's sent her
chancellor for a healer, and Karanissa wants to know whether we should send a
volunteer—she'll try it herself, if you want, but she isn't sure she can heal
a wound that bad; a warlock would be better—Tobas, warlocks have trouble at
healing, they don't have the subtlety of touch, but if I did it, with a
warlock helping, I know how to draw on a warlock's strength ..." She looked
up. "Who's the Council got nearby?" Tobas asked. "Vengar is in the antechamber
..." "All right, then, you go find Vengar, and the two of you help Thurin, but
you be careful around Tabaea! And send Karanissa out here, so we can stay in
touch!"

Teneria nodded, then turned and ran into the palace.

As she did, the first of those who had fled the throne room in panic began to
emerge, shoving the young witch aside as they hurried out into the sun. She
fought her way past and in.

Tobas sighed as he watched her go.

"It all went wrong, didn't it?" Sarai said.

Tobas nodded.

"So how was it supposed to go?" she asked. "How does the Seething Death work?"

Tobas sighed. He climbed down off the wagon, patted the ox, and turned to
stare at the door to the palace.

"The Seething Death," he said, "creates a drop of... well, it's more or less
liquid chaos. It's the raw stuff that wizardry is made of, I think; the
descriptions aren't very clear. But whatever it is, once it's activated, it
spreads. It expands, and as it expands, it consumes everything it touches.
Anything that comes into contact with it dissolves away—the book says that
first it loses solidity, and then all the different elements that make it up
blend together into a sort of boiling slime, and then it all becomes more of
the Death itself, more pure chaos."

He was interrupted by the screams of three women who came running out the door
just then. When they had passed, Sarai remarked, "Sounds nasty."

"It is," Tobas agreed. "It hasn't been used in centuries because it's too
dangerous, but Telurinon was desperate to find something that could get at
Tabaea despite the Black Dagger, so he tried it."

"Someone was supposed to get it on Tabaea and dissolve her?"

"That was the idea," Tobas agreed. "A warlock named Thurin of Northbeach
volunteered—but he missed, I guess, and Tabaea caught him and stabbed him. I
don't know why he's still alive; I thought the Black Dagger stole the souls of
anyone it cut."

Sarai started to say something, to explain that Tabaea didn't have the Black
Dagger anymore and that that wasn't how it
worked anyway, but then she stopped. There would be plenty of time for that
later. "So the spell didn't work?" she asked.

"Well, it didn't work on Tabaea" Tobas said. "If the stuff landed on the
floor, then right now it's dissolving away the floor of your throne room, and
there's no way to stop it."

Sarai had been watching the people emerging from the palace; now, startled,
she turned back to Tobas. "No way to stop it?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No way we know of," he said. "If it had been confined to
Tabaea's body, we could have transported her to a place where magic doesn't
work—that's what's in the wagon here, a magic tapestry that would send her
there. But I don't see how we can send an entire floor through the tapestry."
"There isn't any countercharm?" Tobas shook his head.

"So how much is it going to dissolve, then?" Sarai asked. "I mean, it won't
ruin the whole palace, will it?"

Tobas sighed. "Lady Sarai," he said, "For all I know, in time it will dissolve
the whole World." She stared at him. "That's ridiculous," she said. He turned
up an empty palm. "Nonetheless," he said,"that's what may happen. It's what
the old books say will happen; every text that mentions the Seething Death
agrees that unchecked, it will indeed spread until it has reduced all the
World to primordial chaos." "But that's absurd!"

"I wish it were," Tobas replied, and Sarai realized for the first time that
despite his calm answers, the wizard was seriously frightened. He was almost
trembling.

"But there must be a countercharm," she said. "If the spell was written down,
then someone must have performed it, right?"

Tobas nodded. "I can't see any other way it could have been," he agreed.

"Well, the World's still here," Sarai pointed out. "Something must have
stopped the spell, mustn't it?"
"Yes," Tobas admitted, "something must have. Someone must have tried the spell
at least once, at least four hundred years ago, so it must have been stopped,
or it would have dissolved the World by now. But we don't know how it was
stopped."

"Well, find out!" Sarai snapped. "Isn't that one of the things magic is good
at?"

"Sometimes," Tobas said, "but not always. Spying on wizards, even dead ones,
isn't easy, Lady Sarai; we tend to use warding spells, since we don't like
being spied on; we're a secretive bunch. And even if we don't use warding
spells, learning a spell by watching a vision of it being performed is not
always reliable." "Well, has anyone tried to find the countercharm for this

Seething Death?"

Tobas laughed hollowly. "Oh, yes, Lady Sarai," he said."Of course they have. A
spell that destructive has been a temptation for generations of wizards. But
no one's ever found that lost counterspell."

Sarai sputtered. "Then how could Telurinon . . . Why didn't . . . What kind of
idiot ever wrote the spell down in the first place without including the
countercharm?"

Tobas turned up an empty palm. "Who knows?" he said. "Lady Sarai, we wizards
do a good many things that don't make much sense; it's been our policy for a
thousand years to record everything, but to keep it all secret, and that means
we have situations like this one. It doesn't surprise me at all, I'm sorry to
say."

Sarai was too worried and angry to correct him for calling her by her right
name; she turned and stared at the palace.

"What's happening in there?" she asked.

Tobas shrugged again. "How would I know? I'm not a seer, and Teneria isn't
here."

"I'm going in to see."

"I don't. . . well, be careful, Sar. . . Pharea. Don't go near the Seething
Death. And Tabaea's still in there, you know, still the empress."

"I know, I know," Sarai said. She waved a distracted goodbye to Tobas, then
marched on into the palace.

CHAPTER 38

Tabaea stepped back as the witch knelt by the assassin's side, giving her room
to work. She glanced quickly at the wooden
bowl that someone had placed upside down atop the puddle of magical gunk; it
still looked secure enough, but the nasty odor of the stuff lingered, making
it unpleasant for someone with the empress' superhuman sense of smell to
breathe.

Whatever that fluid was, Tabaea was very glad she hadn't touched it, or gotten
any on her. She had tried moving it by warlockry and had found that as far as
a warlock's or witch's special senses and abilities were concerned, it didn't
exist; she couldn't affect it in any way, with any of the limited magic at her
command.

What's more, everything she had dropped or poked into it had dissolved. Wood,
cloth, metal—anything at all, it didn't matter, whatever touched the stuff
would dissolve like ice shards dropped in boiling water. At least the goo
didn't splash.

She wished the spell would hurry up and burn out; it was beginning to worry
her. Maybe there was more to it than she had thought at first.

She would have to ask the assassin, if he lived. She turned back to him and to
the witch tending to him. Tabaea could feel the witch's energy gathering in
her hands, then transferring out through her fingers into the assassin's
belly, knitting together the ruined tissues . . .

And she could feel something else, too; something was strange about the flow
of power. It wasn't witchcraft; something else was at work, as well. The witch
was drawing power from somewhere else.

Tabaea had heard that witches could share energy; was there another witch
nearby, then, who was helping this Teneria? If so, why didn't the other witch
step forward and help openly?

The empress turned and nervously looked over the people in sight. Arl was
there, of course; it was he who had brought the witch. There were half a dozen
others on the stairs behind him, watching from what they presumably thought
was a safe distance. As Tabaea watched, another woman came up and peered into
the room.

There was something familiar about this new arrival; not her face, which
Tabaea was fairly sure she hadn't seen before, but something. Perhaps her
scent was one that Tabaea had smelled somewhere.

Whatever it was, she couldn't place the woman immediately. She wasn't a witch,
though, Tabaea could sense that, and it
was magicians who worried the empress just now. With the Black Dagger gone she
was not at all sure of her ability to fend off hostile magic.

One of the other women, the tall dark one with the long hair, was a witch, but
she wasn't sending Teneria any power. She was doing something, but it wasn't
helping Teneria.

Then the tall woman noticed Tabaea's interest and instantly stopped whatever
she had been doing. That was annoying of her. Tabaea wished she hadn't been so
careless in her investigation; that witch was on her guard, now.

But that wasn't where the power was coming from, anyway; Tabaea tried her best
to see where this not-quite-witchcraft was coming from, and suddenly something
dropped into place.

It wasn't witchcraft; it was warlockry. It was coming from a man on the stair.
Teneria was taking the warlock energy and using it for witchcraft.

That was interesting and a little frightening; Tabaea had not known that that
was possible. She had discovered for herself that the two varieties of magic
were surprisingly similar, but she hadn't realized that anyone else knew it,
since no one else was both a witch and a warlock, and it had never even
occurred to her that anyone might have learned how to use the two in
combination.
Magicians, it seemed, were just full of unpleasant surprises today—a warlock
had used wizardry against her, and now a witch was using another warlock's
power to heal the attacker.

They were joining forces.

They were joining forces against her.

And the Black Dagger was gone.

Just then something hissed; everyone but Teneria and the unconscious assassin
turned at the sound, to see the cloud of noxious grayish smoke that rose from
the pool of whatever-it-was as the bowl sank down into it, dissolving away as
it went.

"By the gods," someone muttered.

Tabaea, shaken, stared at the puddle. It was almost a foot across now, still a
perfect circle.

How large would it get? It had only been there perhaps half an hour, starting
from a single drop.

She turned back to Teneria and demanded, "Hurry up! I need him conscious!"

"I'm hurrying," Teneria said quietly, in an odd, distracted tone; an ordinary
woman wouldn't have heard her, but Tabaea,
Empress of Ethshar, did. She heard everything, saw everything, smelled
everything; she had the strength of a dozen men and the speed of a cat. She
was a witch and a warlock both.

But she wasn't a wizard anymore, with the Black Dagger gone, and her enemies
were working together.

And this Teneria was one of them, wasn't she? She was working with a warlock,
and the warlocks had sent the assassin. When the man was healed, what was to
keep him and the other warlock and the two witches from turning all their
power on her, their common foe?

Tabaea could counter a warlock and fight off a witch, but she wasn't sure
about the combination, and two of each; the dagger had always helped her, had
blocked part of any magic. And witches were subtle.

She took a step backward, away from Teneria, and then caught a whiff of the
fumes from the wizard-stuff. Without thinking, she took a sniff and almost
choked; the stuff was unbelievably foul. It covered other scents, as well—but
not completely; Tabaea realized that she could still smell the blood from the
assassin's wound, the nervous sweat on Teneria's skin, the distinct odors of
the people on the stairs, some familiar, some strange.

There was another odor there as well, a very faint trace, that somehow seemed
important. The fumes were making her dizzy, and she had too much to think
about, with the assassin and all the magicians working together; if she still
had the Black Dagger . . .

When had it disappeared, anyway? How had they taken it? Magic wouldn't work on
it, so it couldn't have been taken magically; someone must have slipped it
away while Tabaea was asleep—but she had always kept the knife close at hand,
even when she slept, she only took it off to bathe.
It must have been one of the servants. It was not Lethe or Ista. She could
trust them; she knew by the smell. And they had still been here when she came
down to the throne room.

Pharea.

That woman who had only been there once, who had helped her clean off the
blood, then disappeared. She must have taken it.

And that's who that was on the stairs, Tabaea realized, the woman with the
familiar scent. That smell was the peculiar odor the woman had had that Tabaea
had thought was just some odd sort of perfume—but it was too faint for
perfume, an ordinary
human probably couldn't smell it at all.

Her face was different, but that must have just been a disguise of some sort,
probably magical. There was no mistaking the scent. That was Pharea, and she
was in it, too—in the plot against Tabaea, against the empress.

Tabaea whirled and stared at the group on the stairs. "Arl," she said, "bring
those people in here."

Arl blinked; he had been staring at that horrible puddle. "What people, Your
Majesty?" he asked.

"Those people on the stairs. You, all of you—come closer." Tabaea beckoned.
With varying degrees of reluctance and much glancing at one another, the
little group stepped up into the throne room. Arl stepped in behind them,
herding them forward.

"Line up," Tabaea ordered. Something drew her attention; she turned to see
Teneria looking up. "Go on healing him!" Tabaea snapped.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the witch said, turning back to her work.

The people formed a ragged line, and Tabaea looked them over. "You," she said,
pointing at the tall witch, "get over there." She gestured toward the dais.

The woman glanced at the others, then obeyed.

"You, too," Tabaea ordered the warlock. He hesitated, then went.

"And you, Pharea."

"I don't think so," the woman replied; her hand dropped to the hilt of the
knife she carried on her belt, concealed by a fold of her skirt. She never
questioned how Tabaea had recognized her, never tried to deny her identity;
the empress thought she knew what that meant. "The rest of you, get out of
here," Pharea said. She waved at the others still in the line.

The three of them looked at Tabaea.

"She's right," the empress said. "Get out of here. Now."

"Your Majesty . . ." Arl began.

"Shut up," Tabaea commanded. She was watching Pharea's hand closely, the hand
that was on the hilt of a knife.

Tabaea knew that knife well. She had carried it herself for four years.
Witchcraft couldn't sense it; warlockry couldn't touch it; although she had no
spells to test it with, Tabaea knew that wizardry would not work on the person
who held it.

That meant that it would have dispelled a magical disguise, didn't it? So this
was Pharea's real face, and the other had been an illusion.

The bystanders departed, and now the sides were clear, the stage set, Tabaea
thought; she and Arl on one side, Pharea and the four magicians on the other.
When the footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs, and her enhanced
senses assured the empress that there were no other intruders around, Tabaea
demanded, "Do you know what you've got there, Pharea?"

"I think so," Pharea said warily; something about the way she stood, the way
her eyes moved, told Tabaea that she had already used the Black Dagger
herself, had killed at least one cat, and perhaps other animals.

A movement on the dais attracted Tabaea's attention for an instant; the older
witch had moved, had taken a step toward Pharea, and was staring at her.

"I don't think your friends know," Tabaea said. "You are working with the
magicians, aren't you? They're all working together, now."

Pharea smiled crookedly. "We haven't always been as coordinated as we might
be," she said. "But yes, we're all on the same side."

Behind Pharea, Arl was moving up slowly and quietly, clearly planning to grab
her from behind; the tall witch was about to say something, and Tabaea did not
want Pharea warned. She turned to the witch and demanded,"And who are you,
anyway? I can see that you're a witch, but you didn't volunteer to help heal
this killer you people sent. Who are you?"

Startled, the woman answered, "My name is Karanissa of the Mountains," she
said.

"And you aren't helping Teneria; why not?"

"Because she doesn't need help," Karanissa said. "I would if she wanted me to;
I was going to try it myself, but Teneria thought..."

She was interrupted by Arl's lunge—and his falling headlong on the marble
floor, as Pharea dodged neatly and drew the Black Dagger. Before anyone else
could react, the false servant grabbed Arl by the hair and stood over him with
the knife to his throat.

"It's not that easy," Pharea said to Tabaea. "I've got the dagger, and I'm
keeping it. And I'll use it to defend myself if I need to."

Tabaea frowned. "You think you can handle all my followers so easily?"

Pharea smiled grimly. "Why not?" she asked. "You handled the city guard. And
they're on our side, too, by the way—Lord Torrut is still in command, and only
a few dozen men deserted or went over to you."

Tabaea stared at Pharea, trying to decide if that was a bluff. Hadn't Lord
Torrut fled with the others, sailed off to wherever they all went? "Who are
you, anyway?" she demanded, stalling for time to think. "You're no magician,
so far as I can see, and you don't look like a soldier."

The woman Tabaea called Pharea smiled an unpleasant smile. "I'm Lady Sarai,"
she said. "Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd
the Fourth, overlord of Eth-shar."

"Ederd's not the overlord anymore," Tabaea replied angrily. "I'm empressl" She
tried to hide how much she was shaken by the discovery that she was facing
Lord Kalthon's daughter; for all her life until the last few sixnights, Tabaea
had lived in terror of the Minister of Justice, and for the last few months of
that time Lady Sarai had been feared, as well. Tabaea had tried to dismiss her
as a harmless girl, but here was that harmless girl, in her own throne room,
holding the Black Dagger.

"You're Tabaea the Thief," Sarai said. "Four years ago you stole a spell from
Serem the Wise, but it came out wrong and made this dagger I'm holding. For a
long time you didn't do anything with it—maybe you didn't know what it did—but
then you killed Inza the Apprentice, and Serem the Wise, and Kelder of Quarter
Street, and others. And when the guards came to arrest you for those murders,
you declared yourself empress, and used the knife's magic to occupy the
palace."

"I am the empress!" Tabaea insisted. "I rule the city—the old guards don't
dare show their faces, and the overlord and his family all fled before me!"

"But that," Sarai said, holding up the dagger, "was when you had this."

"And I'll have it again! Give it back to me!"

Outrageously, mockingly, Sarai laughed. She dared to laugh at the empress of
Ethshar!

Moving faster than humanly possible, Tabaea lunged for Sarai, intending to
snatch the knife away from her.

Moving faster than humanly possible, Sarai dodged, flinging Arl aside, and
spun to face Tabaea again, with the enchanted knife raised and ready.

"Think a minute, Tabaea," the noblewoman said. "We both have stolen lives and
stolen talents—but I have the dagger. If you stab me, I lose a life—but if I
stab you, you not only lose a life, I gain one. And maybe, you know, maybe
this dagger will take more than one at a time. Maybe I only have to kill you
once."

Tabaea, hearing this, started to turn, then stopped herself. No ordinary enemy
would have seen the tiny little twitch, but Sarai saw it.

"And yes, you're right; I'm not a witch nor a warlock," the overlord's
Minister of Investigation said. Then she pointed with the dagger to her
companions, and added, "But they are, over there, and they're on my side."

Tabaea glanced at Arl—but there was no need for Sarai to say a word about the
rat-faced little chancellor; he was crawling away from both women, heading for
the stairs, obviously wanting only to be out of sight.

But Sarai hadn't cut his throat when she had the chance, when Tabaea had
attacked; Lord Kalthon's daughter was apparently not as bloodthirsty as her
father was said to be.

"Are you planning to kill me?" Tabaea demanded.

Sarai blinked, catlike and quick. "I suppose we ought to," she said. Tabaea
thought she sounded almost startled, not at the question, but at her own
reply. "After all, you're a murderer. But there were some exceptional
circumstances here, and I think my father and I, acting in the overlord's
behalf, would accept a plea for mercy and commute the sentence to exile from
the city—if you surrender now and don't force us to do any more damage to
depose you."

"You think," Tabaea said. "And what if I don't surrender, then? I've seen you
move—you're fast, all right, and yes, you have the dagger, but I think I'm
still faster and stronger. Your magicians and I cancel each other out. Are you
ready to take me on and try to kill me, here and now?"

"Oh, no," Sarai said, smiling   again. "I don't have to. All I have to do is get
us all out of here alive, and   I think I can manage that much. And after that,
we'll let the wizards and the   demon-ologists try out their spells on you—now
that you don't have the Black   Dagger. Or maybe we'll just wait."

"Wait for what?" Tabaea demanded, shaken by the woman's confidence and the
threat of demons and wizardry. She could still counter witchcraft, since she
had the talent and more raw vitality than any three normal witches; she could
still counter warlockry because of the inherent limits on every warlock; but
without the dagger she had no defense against other magicks.

"For the Seething Death to get you," Sarai replied, pointing to the pool of
wizard-stuff. "True, it didn't get you immediately, but it will keep spreading
until it does—unless we use the countercharm to stop it."

Disconcerted, Tabaea turned to stare at the puddle—and the instant she did,
the two witches and the unhurt warlock dashed for the stairs. The assassin,
still unconscious, sailed along behind them, unsupported through the air—his
fellow warlock was doing that, Tabaea sensed.

She let them go. This was between Sarai and herself, now. Sarai seemed very
sure of herself—but was she really? The sight of the fleeing witches reminded
Tabaea of her own witchcraft—she had so many choices now, so many things she
could do, that there were times when she forgot some of them. "That stufF is
going to go on spreading?" she asked. "That's right," Sarai said—but Tabaea,
witch-senses alert, knew that was a half truth. Sarai was hiding something.
"Until it kills me? It's after me, specifically?" "That's right," Sarai
said—but this time it was a lie, Tabaea knew.

"Unless you use the countercharm?" "A wizard working for us," Sarai said, "not
me." And that was a lie, too. It was all lies and tricks.

Except, perhaps, the part about using wizardry to kill her. Tabaea was between
Sarai and the nearest staircase; the other exits were far across the throne
room. Sarai was fast, but Tabaea thought she was faster. Sarai had the Black
Dagger—and Tabaea needed it. Only the dagger could guard her against wizards.

She had killed a Guildmaster; even if Lord Kalthon gave her mercy, the
Wizards' Guild never would. She knew that. They hadn't killed her yet—but
Tabaea remembered when Sarai had first shown the dagger. The other magicians
had been surprised. The Wizards' Guild must not have known about the theft,
either. And only the fact that they didn't know Lady Sarai had gotten the
Black Dagger away from her had kept Tabaea alive this long, she was suddenly
certain.

She might lose a fight with Lady Sarai, but at least she'd have a chance; if
she didn't get the dagger back, she was as good as dead.

She lunged.
CHAPTER 39

Oarai had watched from the stairs as Teneria worked at her healing and had
watched as the Seething Death dissolved the bowl Tabaea had used to cover it,
had seen and smelled that Tabaea was on the ragged edge of panic, and had
realized that the situation was critical.

Tabaea had to be removed, and the Seething Death had to be stopped.

The wizards could handle Tabaea now, once they knew the dagger was gone; all
Sarai had to do was to tell Tobas, or even just Karanissa or Teneria, that she
had stolen the Black Dagger.

Stopping the Seething Death wouldn't be so easy.

Or would it? The Black Dagger negated most wizardry; would it be able to stop
the Seething Death?

That was something to think about, maybe something to try if Tabaea ever left
the room—but at that thought, something occurred to Sarai that she should, she
told herself, have considered sooner: Bringing the Black Dagger so close to
Tabaea might have been a foolish risk to take. If the self-proclaimed empress
were to realize that the knife was there . . .

Just then, Tabaea demanded, "Art, bring those people in here."

The funny little man who was acting as Tabaea's majordomo looked up. "What
people, Your Majesty?" he asked.

"Those people on the stairs." Tabaea waved for them to come forward, and said,
"You, all of you—come closer."

Sarai cursed herself for getting into this dangerous a position. She should
have slipped away while she had the chance, gone to the Guildhouse, and told
them everything.

"Line up," Tabaea ordered. Then she turned and shouted at Teneria, "Go on
healing him!"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Teneria replied. Tabaea pointed at Karanissa. "You," she
said, "get over there." She ordered Vengar to the dais, as well.

And then she turned back and pointed directly at Sarai and said, "And you,
Pharea."

For an instant, Sarai froze; how had Tabaea recognized her? "Pharea" had had a
different face.

But then she realized what had given it away, what must have given it away:
her scent.

She should have known; after all, she could now recognize the odor of anyone
she had been near herself, and Tabaea had killed not just one dog, but
several.

The method didn't really matter, though; all that mattered was that Sarai had
been spotted.

But of course, Tabaea didn't know everything; she didn't know who "Pharea"
was, didn't know everything that was going on. She couldn't. She had magic,
she had superhuman senses, but she wasn't omniscient. If Sarai let Tabaea
control events now, that might ruin everything. Tabaea might take the dagger
back, she might kill Thurin and Teneria and Karanissa and Vengar, and she
might let the Seething Death spread unchecked; Sarai hoped that if it was
dealt with while it was still small the spell could be stopped.

She didn't dare let Tabaea tell her what to do—but what choice did she have?

She had to bluff. She had had four years of practice in talking information
out of people; maybe she could talk Tabaea into giving herself up. And what
choice did she have?

"I don't think so," Sarai said, as confidently as she could. She let her hand
fall to the hilt of the Black Dagger.

It seemed to go well at first; she dodged Tabaea's first attack, removing
whatever threat Art might pose. A moment later, the distracted would-be
empress let the four magicians escape.

And it all seemed to be working, right up until Tabaea dove at her.

Sarai just barely dodged; she had not been ready for it this time, as she had
before. And the little empress looked so small and harmless—it was hard to
remember that she had torn men apart with her bare hands.

Tabaea whirled and struck again, and again Sarai dodged. She couldn't keep
this up, though, and she didn't dare actually fight; Tabaea was much faster,
vastly more powerful, and had her magic, as well. Sarai had to escape, to get
away—and even that would be difficult. She remembered the assassins Tabaea had
run down and butchered. She had to do something they hadn't, something
unexpected—but what?

Lord Torrut had mentioned a trick once, when he and Captain Tikri had been
joking with each other; Tabaea came at Sarai again, and she tried it, putting
her hands on Tabaea's shoulders and vaulting over her head.

If the throne room had had a normal ceiling, it would never have worked, but
there under the great dome, with cat-reflexes and her augmented strength, the
move sent Sarai sailing a dozen feet through the air. She landed, catlike, on
her feet, and immediately sprinted for the stairs most nearly straight ahead,
which happened to be the right-hand set as seen from the dais. Tabaea needed a
second or two to whirl on one toe and set out in pursuit, but she closed much
faster than Sarai liked. At the very brink, Sarai dodged sideways and ran
along the throne-room wall toward the rear stairs.

Tabaea was unable to stop until she was four or five steps down; Sarai had
gained at least a second this time.

As she ran along the side of the throne room, Sarai's feet stirred through the
trash that had accumulated during Tabaea's reign; she took a fraction of a
second from her narrow lead to stoop and scoop up a handful of garbage. She
flung it over her shoulder, in Tabaea's face. The empress screamed with anger
as a chicken bone hit her in the eye, but she hardly slowed at all. As she
neared the corner, wondering why Tabaea had not cut diagonally across the room
to head her off, Sarai scooped up more debris; this time she tossed it, not at
Tabaea, but at the Seething Death.

Trash rattled and skittered across the stone floor—and then some of it skidded
into the Death, and dissolved with a loud hiss and a billow of stinking white
vapor.

Startled, Tabaea turned, and stumbled, then caught herself— but by then Sarai
was on the stairs, descending in four-step leaps, constantly on the verge of
tumbling headlong.

At the foot of the stairs she turned left, ignoring the broad straightaway
directly ahead; she wanted to get back to Tobas and his wagon, in hopes that
he would be able to help. Besides, there were fewer people in the way by this
route; that long southeast corridor had several dozen of Tabaea's "guests"
scattered along it, sprawled on the floor or seated against the wall, and any
one of them might decide to trip her or try to grab her. Furthermore, Tabaea
might not expect her to turn.

But that last hope was dashed almost instantly; she heard Tabaea's steps on
the stairs and knew that the empress had seen her make the turn. Running with
all her might, not daring to look back, Sarai ran on, leaping over the one
startled, rag-clad figure in her path.

Tabaea had stolen more strength and more speed, Sarai reminded herself, but
her legs were still shorter, and her skirt longer; there was still a chance.

She cut toward the inner side of the curving passageway at first, then back
toward the outside as she neared the next turn. She skidded around the corner
so fast, making her right turn, that she almost collided with the left-hand
wall of the passageway and with a frightened old woman who crouched on a
ragged blanket there.

Tabaea made the turn more neatly—Sarai could tell by the sound. Her own breath
was beginning to come hard, while Tabaea still seemed fresh.

Fifty yards ahead she could see the rectangle of sunlight that was the open
door; she charged for it full tilt, trying to think of somewhere she could
dodge aside, or some ruse she could use. Nothing came, and Tabaea was gaining,
inch by inch, step by step—but Sarai judged she would reach the door first,
and maybe if she dove aside . . .

And then, when she was less than a dozen yards away, the sunlight vanished; a
drapery of some kind had fallen across the door.

Sarai's heart sank, but she had no choice. She could only hope that Tabaea
would become entangled in whatever the obstruction was. She dove forward,
hoping to hit it low and crawl underneath.

As she crossed the last few feet, as her eyes adjusted, catlike, to the
dimness, she could see that it was a tapestry, one that showed a very odd
design, an amazingly realistic depiction of an empty room. Who would want
something like that on his wall?

And then she dove, and her hand touched the tapestry, but there was nothing
there—she felt no fabric at all, nothing that
would slow her headlong plunge onto the pavement of the plaza. Magic,
obviously, she thought, an illusion of some kind. She closed her eyes,
anticipating the impact.

And sure enough, she struck hard stone—but not the warm, sun-drenched pavement
of the plaza; instead, she sprawled on a sloping floor of cold smooth stone in
chilly darkness.

She still managed to scrape one cheek raw and give herself several bumps and
bruises, as well as banging her head. Dazed,
she scrambled up on all fours, eyes open again, and started forward, down the
slope, sure that Tabaea was right behind her.

Then she stopped and stared.

Tabaea was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was nothing to be seen; she was
in near-total darkness, a deeper and more complete darkness than any moonless
midnight she had ever seen. The only place Sarai had ever before encountered
anything so dark as this was in the deeper dungeons of the palace.

It was not perfect darkness, however; she could make out very faint
differentiations around her, places that were tinged with the darkest of
grays, rather than utter blackness.

But her eyes were unable to adjust. Even a cat, she decided, couldn't see
here.

She listened for Tabaea, but there was no sound of pursuit; in fact, there was
no sound at all, of any description. Sarai had never before experienced such
absolute silence, not even in the dungeons.

And she couldn't smell anything.

That wasn't right; at the very least, with her canine senses she should have
smelled her own clothes, her own sweat, and the stone of the floor she had
landed on. But she couldn't.

Was she dead, then? Was this darkness part of an afterlife of some sort?

What sort of afterlife was built on a slant? But no, she could sti&feel
perfectly well; she could see, however faintly, and she could hear the sound
of her own hand slapping on the stone. She wasn't dead, she had just lost her
sense of smell.

Or rather, she had lost the sense of smell she had stolen; she realized that
she could still detect odors, very slightly. She lifted her skirt and sniffed
at the hem, and the familiar scent of wool was there, faint and muffled.

Maybe a cat could see here, after all, and she had lost that, as well.

Where was she, then? And why hadn't Tabaea come after her, wherever it was?
She crawled down the slope, feeling her way in the darkness.

She came to a wall, and followed it along for several feet, still sloping
downward.

And then she heard footsteps behind her—not approaching, just suddenly there,
out of nowhere. She judged they were no more than a few feet away from where
she had first fallen when she came through the magical tapestry.

Sarai raised the Black Dagger, ready to defend herself.

Then the newcomer said,"Sarai? Are you there? Damn it all, I forgot we'd need
a light."

The voice was not Tabaea's; it was a woman's voice, and it sounded familiar,
but Sarai couldn't place it. She turned over into a sitting position, the
knife still in her hand.
"Are you in the passage? Did you find it?" the newcomer called, a bit louder.
"Sarai, it's me, Karanissa!"

"I'm here," Sarai said, lowering the knife; the voice was Karanissa's.

A faint orange witch-light appeared—but at first even that dim illumination
seemed almost blinding in such deep gloom. By its glow, Sarai could see that
she was in a stone corridor, just around a corner from a fair-sized room or
chamber. The glow, and the voice, came from the room.

She backed up far enough to see into the chamber and found Karanissa standing
in the center of an utterly bare stone room, a simple rectangular box with
straight sides and square corners—but the entire place was on a slant. The
witch's upraised hand was glowing, casting an eerie light on her arm and face,
as well as the stone walls.

"Karanissa," Sarai asked, "where are we?"

CHAPTER 40

Tabaea saw the sunlight vanish ahead, plunging the corridor into gray dimness,
and she slowed slightly; was this some new trick? Had Lady Sarai and her
magician friends set a trap of some kind?

And then Sarai dove toward the cloth and vanished, and Tabaea threw herself to
the ground, rolling, to stop her forward motion.

Wizardry! That had to be wizardry! It was a trap!

Furious, growling, she got to her feet and stared at the fabric that blocked
the door.

It was a tapestry, one of fine workmanship—she could hardly see the stitches,
and the depiction of the empty room was flawless. It was extraordinarily ugly,
however; it showed only bare stone, in black and shades of gray, with no
bright color, no graceful curves, nothing of any interest to it at all.

A tapestry, a magical tapestry—she almost reached out to touch it, and then
stopped herself.

A Transporting Tapestry! That was what it must be! Shuddering, she drew back.
She had spied on wizards as they spoke of such things. A Transporting
Tapestry—and one that, by the look of it, would deliver her directly into a
prison cell somewhere. The room in the picture had no doors, no windows; in
one of the rear corners was an opening that might have been a passageway, or
might just have been a niche, perhaps where a cot or privy might be.

They had wanted her to plunge right into it, after Lady Sarai— and she almost
had!

If she had, of course, they would have had some way to get Lady Sarai out,
leaving Tabaea trapped there forever as her punishment for killing their
Guildmaster Serem. That would be their revenge—not merely death, but perpetual
imprisonment. Perhaps they had other plans for her, as well.

Well, she wasn't going to fall for their tricks. She turned and marched away,
back up the corridor.

And then, as she remembered that Lady Sarai still had the Black Dagger, and
that Lady Sarai had just dived headlong into a wizard's tapestry and was
therefore back in contact with the Wizards' Guild, and that the Wizards' Guild
surely wanted to kill her for what she had done, she began to run.

"I abdicate!" she called as she ran, hoping that someone was listening. "I
abdicate! I give up!"

Maybe, she thought, just maybe, if she escaped quickly enough by another door,
she could still hide, could find somewhere even wizards couldn't get her.

But she doubted it.

"I think they're coming this way," Karanissa shouted. "They're still on the
stairs, but Sarai wants to come here. And Tabaea's gaining on her, she's much
faster. Quick, Tobas, do something!"

"Do what!" the wizard asked. "I didn't bring anything but the tapestry!" He
looked around helplessly. Teneria and the warlocks were off to one side;
Teneria and Vengar were once again working at repairing Thurin's wound, but
the situation was no longer desperate, and Thurin was conscious and watching.

None of them were making any suggestions.

"Well, then do something with the tapestry!" Karanissa called. "Set it up
somewhere Tabaea will run into it!"

Tobas hesitated, then said, "All right, give me a hand with it, will you?" He
hurried to the wagon.

A moment later, carefully holding the tapestry by the supporting bar and not
allowing themselves to touch any part of the fabric, Tobas and Karanissa had
the hanging unrolled, and up against the wall beside the door.

Passersby were staring, but no one interfered. This was clearly either the
work of magicians or Tabaea's followers, and no one wanted trouble with either
group.

"How do we get her into it?" Tobas asked.

"Put it across the door," Teneria called. "Then she'll run right into it."

"But Sarai will run into it first," Karanissa objected.

Teneria pointed out, "Well, at least she'll get away, then— and with the
dagger." Karanissa looked at Tobas, who shrugged. "All right," the witch said,
"let's do it." She swung her end around, and a few seconds later they draped
the tapestry across the open doorway.

Vengar, using warlockry, helped them to raise it until it hung perfectly
smooth and unwrinkled—the spell might not work if the fabric wasn't smooth.

"Now what?" Tobas said. "Do you think we could lift it while Sarai dives
underneath, and then drop it back before Tabaea could stop?"

"I don't. . ." Karanissa began. Then, as the sound of desperately running
footsteps suddenly became audible, drew near, and vanished, all in a few
seconds, she said, "No."

"What happened?" Tobas asked.

"Sarai hit the tapestry. She's gone."
"What about Tabaea?"

"Stopped in time."

"Then should we put it down?"

"No!" Teneria called. "If we do, she might come out here and attack us!"

Karanissa nodded confirmation, and for a long moment she and Tobas stood
absolutely still, holding the tapestry up against the palace door.

Then, at last, they heard retreating footsteps; cautiously, Tobas began to
lower the rod, just in time to let them all hear Tabaea shrieking, "I
abdicate! I abdicate! I give up! Just leave me alone!"

Karanissa lowered her end, too. "Now what?" she asked.

"Well, if she's serious, we just forget about her for now," Tobas said. "We
have to deal with the Seething Death."

"What about Lady Sarai?"

"Oh, damn." Tobas frowned. "That's right, she doesn't know where she is. She's
probably terrified. Someone had better go after her and bring her home."

"I'll go," Karanissa said. "After all, I know the way."

Reluctantly, Tobas nodded."You're right. You go." He beckoned for Vengar to
come hold the other side of the tapestry while Karanissa stepped into it.

Wizard and warlock supported the hanging, one on either side, while the witch
stepped up and put her hand on it.
Nothing happened.

"She must still be in the room," Karanissa said. "It won't work while she's in
the part that's in the picture."

"That's it, of course," Tobas agreed. "I guess we'll just have to wait until
she finds the passage, or wanders into one of the back corners."

He and Vengar stood patiently for a moment, while Karanissa kept her hand on
the fabric. "I'm getting tired of holding this," Tobas said. "Maybe we should
put it aside for now and see if we can do something about the Seething Death,
and then try again later."

Karanissa, her hand still on the tapestry, started to say something—and just
then, she vanished.

Karanissa found herself standing in complete darkness, and the silence was
startling after the constant hum of the city. She stepped forward and peered
into the gloom, trying to make out whether Sarai was anywhere nearby. "Sarai?"
she called. "Are you there? Damn it all, I forgot we'd need a light."

No one answered; Karanissa frowned. Maybe Sarai had already found the corridor
out to the rest of the castle.

"Are you in the passage?" the witch called. "Did you find it? Sarai, it's me,
Karanissa!"
"I'm here," Sarai's voice replied. Karanissa still couldn't tell where it was
coming from, though.

Well, she was a witch; she could do something about that. She raised her hand
and concentrated.

The hand began to glow, a weak orange witch-light. At first, Karanissa saw
only the bare stone walls of the arrival chamber, but then Lady Sarai,
crawling on hands and knees, backed into the room from the passageway out, and
turned to look up at her. "Karanissa," the Ethsharitic noblewoman asked
plaintively, "where ore we?"

"In the mountains between Aigoa and Dwomor," Karanissa answered. "In a secret
room in a castle that Tobas and I own." "What!? " Sarai shrieked, as she
turned to a sitting position. "We're in the Small Kingdoms! A hundred leagues
away?"

"Not much more than eighty, by my best estimate," Karanissa corrected her.
"But yes, we're in the Small Kingdoms. I came after you to show you the way
back. Now, can we get out of here, please? This light's very tiring, and there
isn't much to eat around here."

"Yes! Where? Where's the door?" She was almost pathetically eager—but then,
Karanissa could understand that.

"That way," she said. "Down the passage to the end, and out through the door."

Sarai stood and proceeded down the corridor, never more than a few feet ahead
of Karanissa for fear of losing the light, until at last the two of them
emerged into daylight in a room lit by a single high window.

Sarai stopped and stared. The room was lined with bookshelves, but most were
empty, many broken or rotted; a table had been shoved to one side. And like
the dark room and the connecting corridor, everything was at a slant. It was
as if the entire building, whatever it was, had tipped.

She remembered what Karanissa had said; the words hadn't really registered, as
she had been more concerned with getting out of that horrible darkness. "A
castle?" Sarai asked. "You two really have a castle?"

"We have a couple of them, actually," Karanissa said. "Both of them were built
by Derithon the Mage, hundreds of years ago. This one used to fly, until it
ran into a place where wizardry doesn't work."

"Oh," Sarai said. Understanding slowly dawned. "Oh. A place where wizardry
doesn't work? You wanted to send Tabaea here. That's why I lost . . . why I'm
back to just myself. And she would have been, too."

Karanissa nodded. "She dodged the tapestry, though; she wouldn't touch it."

Sarai held out the Black Dagger, which she had not yet sheathed. "So this
thing is useless, now? The spell on it is broken?"

Karanissa frowned. "No," she said, "it doesn't work that way. As long as we're
in the no-wizardry area, that's just an ordinary knife; but once we're back
out, it'll be magical again. We've brought a magical tapestry and an enchanted
mirror through this place, and neither one worked here, but they both worked
just fine elsewhere."

"Oh." Sarai looked at the dagger. "Maybe we should leave it here, then, where
it can't harm anyone."

"Not without a guard," Karanissa said. "We tried that with the mirror. For one
thing, there are spriggans around here, a lot of them, and they just love
playing with magical things." She hesitated, then added, "Besides, we might
need it."

"Against Tabaea?"

"Or against the Seething Death; I don't know if that thing will do any good
against the Death, but it certainly stopped every other spell Tobas and
Telurinon sent against labaea."

Sarai looked at the knife, then nodded and tucked it into the sheath on her
belt.

"All right," she said, "how do we get out of here, and back to Ethshar?"

Karanissa considered that."Well, we have to walk to the edge of the dead area,
of course," she said. "Usually, we have a flying carpet to take us from there,
but I'm afraid we don't have it with us—after shuffling the tapestries about
I'm not sure whether it's in Dwomor or Ethshar or somewhere else entirely, but
it's not here." She sighed. "So unless Tobas or one of the other wizards has
arranged something special, I think we'll have to walk the entire distance to
Dwomor Keep."

"Not all the way to Ethshar of the Sands?"

"Oh, no!" Karanissa replied, startled. "Of course not! We have another
tapestry down in Dwomor, even if the carpet isn't there. Once we get to Dwomor
Keep, we can be back in Ethshar in no more than a day, probably no more than
an hour."

"Oh, good," Sarai said, relieved. "And how far is it to Dwomor Keep?"

"Three days," Karanissa said. "Two, if we really hurry."

"Three days," Sarai repeated, thinking of Tabaea roaming freely about the
city, of the Seething Death spreading in the throne-room floor. She wondered
what the Wizards' Guild would do with those three days. Would anyone tell the
exiled nobility that the Black Dagger was gone and Tabaea's power lessened?
Would Tabaea cling to her title of empress right up until someone killed her,
or would she flee?

What would Ethshar be like when she got back to it?

Well, there was no use in wondering; she would see for herself soon enough.

"Let's get going, then," she said.

CHAPTER 41

Tobas watched intently as the dozen volunteer warlocks went about their work,
cutting deep grooves in the marble floor in a circle around the Seething
Death. The lamps set on every side did not burn well, but smoked and
flared—Teneria thought the fumes from the pool were responsible. Whatever the
reason, the magicians worked in a dim and smoky light, surrounded by gigantic
shadows, adding to the strangeness of the task at hand. Telurinon was still
trying counterspells; he had brought three cartloads of raw materials from the
Guildhouse and set up shop in the meeting room directly below, where a roiling
bubble of the Seething Death now hung from the ceiling, hissing and smoking
and dripping corrosive slime on the floor beneath—but not spilling through.
The stuff remained a perfect hemisphere, demonstrating irrefutably that
despite appearances, it was not a liquid in any normal sense of the word. It
wasn't a solid or a gas, either; it was magic. And it was, Tobas thought,
damnably powerful and stubborn magic. It had already dissolved a bottomless
bag when Mereth had attempted to scoop the goo into it, on the theory that
Hallin's Bottomless Bag could hold anything. It had been utterly unaffected by
Thrindle's Combustion, Javan's Restorative, the Greater Spell of Temporal
Stasis, Tranai's Stasis Spell, the Spell of Intolerable Heat, the Spell of
Intense Cold, Fendel's Accelerated Corruption, and Javan's Contraction. It had
expanded unhindered through Verlian's Spell of Protection, Fendel's Invisible
Cage, Cauthen's Protective Cantrip, Fendel's Elementary Protection, and the
Rune of Holding. If Tobas had interpreted Telurinon's latest efforts
correctly, the Guildmaster was currently attempting the Spell of Reversal, but
Tobas did not expect that to work, either—and even if it did, it would only
shrink the Seething Death back to where it had been perhaps an hour before.
The prospect of wizards endlessly working the Spell of Reversal to keep the
Seething Death contained for the rest of time was not appealing.

There were still more spells to be attempted, and Tobas expected Telurinon to
attempt them—if his own scheme didn't work.

Marble dust sprayed up as the warlocks used their mysterious powers to slice
through the stone of the floor, cutting out the chunk that held the Seething
Death. It was perhaps twenty hours since that one fateful drop had been
spilled, and the bubbling, boiling, smoking pool was more than a yard across,
the outer edge expanding fast enough that if a person watched for a moment he
could see the surrounding stone melting away.

Tobas felt he had to work fast if his plan was to have any chance at all. Once
the Seething Death was wider than the tapestry, it might not fit.

He had hoped that the warlocks would be able to simply scoop the stuff up, out
of its hole, but they reported that there wasn't anything there that warlockry
could touch. Whatever the stuff was, though, the floor could hold it, and the
warlocks could touch the floor, so they were cutting a chunk free, intending
to lift it up to the Transporting Tapestry. It meant doing serious and
permanent damage to the overlord's Great Hall, but the Seething Death would do
that anyway—had already done that. The rest of the mess Tabaea had made could
be cleaned up fairly easily, Tobas thought, but this might be difficult. He
supposed a good stonemason could handle it, somehow.

At the thought of Tabaea he glanced around nervously. The would-be empress had
vanished without a trace that morning, after announcing her abdication—which
meant she was still around someplace, and could spring out at them at any
time, complicating matters.

Once the Seething Death was dealt with, the Guild really would have to track
down Tabaea and kill her. Maybe they should go ahead and throw a death-spell
after her right now—but Tobas didn't want to take the time and was reluctant
to act on his own in any case. The Guild might want to use something
especially horrible.

"We almost have it, wizard," one of the warlocks said—a tall, black-clad man
whose name Tobas did not know.

"Good," Tobas said. He bent down and picked up the tapestry that lay at his
feet. He hoped that Sarai and Karanissa were well clear; in theory the stuff
would be completely harmless the instant it passed into the dead area around
the fallen castle, but Tobas had his doubts about just how fast it would lose
its virulence. The Seething Death was not just another spell.

Teneria helped him unroll the tapestry, lift it, and smooth it.

"It's free," another warlock announced.

"All right, then," the black-clad man said. "Lift!"

The marble circle, four feet in diameter, shuddered, and then began to rise,
up out of the surrounding floor.

Unfortunately, the Seething Death did not rise with it; instead, Tobas stared
in horror as the steady hiss of dissolving marble suddenly became a roar, and
dust and smoke boiled up from the circular hole in the center of the ascending
marble cylinder.

A warlock coughed; then another.

"Stop! Stop!" Telurinon shrieked from below.

The steady ascent slowed; the stone cylinder wobbled, and still more smoke and
powder spilled out of the central hole.

"You might as well keep going," Tobas said. "It's too late now."

A warlock doubled over, coughing, as more of the reeking cloud of smoke rolled
over the magicians.

The marble cylinder, four feet across and fifteen inches high, was clear of
the floor now—and clear of the Seething Death. Still following the original
plan, the warlocks started to move it toward the tapestry.

"No!" Tbbas shouted, suddenly realizing what they were doing. If they sent the
chunk of stone through the tapestry, the tapestry would no longer function—not
until somebody hiked out to the fallen castle, in the mountains between Dwomor
and Aigoa, and removed the cylinder from that hidden chamber.

The warlocks paid no attention, and in desperation Tobas simply dropped his
end of the tapestry's hanging rod; Teneria, not entirely sure why but
following the wizard's lead, dropped hers as well. A moment later the marble
cylinder hung suspended in the air, touching nothing, above the tapestry.

"Put it down somewhere," Tobas called. "Somewhere out of the way. It didn't
work."

The cylinder wobbled, then glided to the side and settled to the floor.

Tobas stared at it for a second, then turned his attention to the Seething
Death. It was hard to see clearly through the swirling vapor, but at last
Tobas convinced himself that he was not imagining it.

The Death was hanging there, totally unsupported, exactly where it had been
before, in the center of a ring of empty air. It was a perfect half sphere,
flat side up.

Not that the flat side was truly flat; it bubbled and, just as the name said,
seethed.

"It's dripping all aver now!" Telurinon wailed from below. "You people aren't
holding it, are you?" Tobas asked the nearest warlock.

"No," the woman assured him, smothering a cough. "We couldn't if we wanted
to." "I was afraid of that." Tobas stared at the Death. This was not a
possibility he had considered. This meant that his back-up plan, of having
relays of warlocks transport the entire thing to Aigoa, was totally
impossible, not just incredibly difficult and impractical. The only way to get
it to the dead area would be through the tapestry.

Well, if he couldn't move the Seething Death to the tapestry, he would just
have to bring the tapestry to the Seething Death. "All right," he said, "time
to try it another way." It took another half hour to cut away more of the
floor, so that the tapestry could be suspended flat beside the expanding
hemisphere; the first faint light of dawn was beginning to show in the dome's
skylights, high overhead, as Tobas and Teneria maneuvered the hanging into
position. In the interim, Telurinon had established that Kandir's Impregnable
Sphere did not live up to its name; the Seething Death had burst it, popping
it like a soap bubble.

And afterward, the Seething Death had still touched nothing but air.

The circle had grown at least an inch in diameter, though; Tobas was certain
of that. He and Teneria had to approach it much more closely than he liked; he
moved with exaggerated caution, dreading the possibility that he might lean
out too far and touch that stuff, or worse, lose his balance and fall into it.
Finally, though, the tapestry was in position, hung through the floor, its
lower edge dangling into the meeting room below, its supporting bar in Tobas's
and Teneria's hands. Several of the warlocks had left to escape the fumes;
those who remained, though no longer involved now that they had cleared away
the chunks of marble flooring, watched from the sidelines with interest.

"Now what?" the young witch asked.

Tobas had maneuvered the tapestry as close as he dared, without touching the
stuff; whatever was to be transported had to come to the tapestry, not the
other way around, to be certain the spell would work.

"Now we wait," he said. "When it expands far enough, it'll touch the cloth,
and then poof! It's gone!" He smiled; then the smile vanished, and he added,
"If we're lucky."

They waited, seated cross-legged on either side of the hole, the tapestry
between them.

At last, after a quarter-hour of growing nervousness and worsening sore
throats from breathing the foul air, the Death touched the tapestry—and did
not vanish. Instead, stinking white smoke billowed up from the point of
contact.

Teneria looked up and stared across at Tobas, looking for some sign as to what
she should do.

Tobas stared in horror.

"My tapestry," he said weakly. He could see the fabric dissolving, the threads
unraveling, where the Seething Death had touched it.

"What should ..." Teneria began.

"Pull it out!" Tobas shouted, before she could finish her sentence, but he
knew it was already too late.

They pulled the tapestry back, away from the Death, then lifted it out and
spread it out on the floor; Tobas studied the semicircular hole, six inches
across, and the blackened, frayed edges around it.

"It's ruined," he said. "A four-hundred-year-old Transporting Tapestry,
ruined."

"You're sure?" Teneria asked. "It won't still work? It can't be repaired?"

"I'm sure," Tobas said. "The tapestry has to be perfect, or the spell is
broken, and you can't put it back without reweaving the entire thing." He
looked up from the hanging and glared angrily at the Seething Death.

"There must be some way to stop that thing!" he growled.

"Maybe the dagger Tabaea had," Teneria said. "It stopped all the other
wizardry."

"Maybe," Tobas agreed, "but that's in Dwomor with Lady Sarai right now."

"Tobas," Teneria asked, "what about Sarai and Karanissa? How will they get
back, without the tapestry?"

Startled, Tobas looked at her. "Oh, they couldn't come back through that
anyway," he said. "The tapestries are only oneway. They'll have to walk to
Dwomor Keep, and then they can come through the other castle and the new
tapestry the Guild-masters gave me to replace this one. They should be back
here in a couple of days."

"Is it safe?"

Tobas shrugged. "Pretty safe. Karanissa's walked that route a few times
before; she knows the way." He glowered at the Seething Death again. "I
suppose we might as well keep trying things until they get here, though. And
what we're going to do if the Black Dagger doesn 't work ..."

He never finished his sentence.

CHAPTER 42

Whoever occupied the house on the comer of Grand Street and Wizard Street now
was more careful than old Serem had ever been; Tabaea had found every door
locked, front, back, or side-alley, with warding spells protecting them. The
Black Dagger could have cut through the wards as if they weren't there, but
the Black Dagger was gone.

Whoever the wizard was who had placed the wards had been more careful than
Serem, but he hadn't been ridiculous about it. He hadn't put wards on the
roof. The idea that somebody might climb up on the roof and pry the tiles up
with her bare fingers, one by one so they wouldn't clatter, in the middle of
the night so she wouldn't be seen—well, no one had worried about anything as
unlikely as that.

Even with a cat's eyesight and the strength of a dozen men, the job took
hours. The sky was pale pink in the east by the time Tabaea lowered herself,
slowly and carefully, through the hole into the attic.

She didn't know who lived here, or what the house had become, but she had seen
the magicians going in and out, the messengers hurrying to and from the front
door, and she knew that this place was somehow important. She guessed that her
enemies had made it their headquarters.

Why they weren't operating out of the palace, now that she was gone, she
wasn't quite sure. Maybe they were waiting until me overlord came back—one of
the messengers had said his ship was on the way; Tabaea had heard it quite
clearly from her place on the rooftop.

The city guard was back, even if the overlord wasn't; from atop the house
Tabaea could see the uniforms in Grandgate Market, the formations of men
marching back and forth as they resumed their duties and "restored order."
Much as she hated to admit it, the sight was somehow comforting.

Less comforting was the knowledge that the guard was clearing out the palace,
room by room and corridor by corridor, but oddly, even the processions of the
homeless finding their way back to the Wall Street Field were almost
reassuring; Tabaea was relieved that her people weren't being sent to the
dungeons, or slaughtered. Everything was to be returned to what it had been
before, it seemed.

Everything, that is, except herself. There was no way they could turn her back
to the harmless little thief she had once been. They would have to kill her—if
they could.

And it seemed to her that the best chance of making sure that they couldn't
would be to find out just what the wizards had planned. And since the wizards
seemed to hold their meetings here, in Serem's house . . .

Well, that was why she was standing on the bare, dusty planks of the attic
floor, peering through the dimness, looking for the trapdoor that would let
her down into the house itself.

She found it at last, over in a corner, and lifted it with excruciating
slowness, in case anyone was in the room below. The trap was larger than she
had expected, and when raised it revealed not a ladder, or an empty space
where a ladder might be placed, but a steep, narrow staircase with a closed
door at the bottom.

She crept down, and slipped through, and she was in the wizards' house, able
to spy on all that went on.

Except that nothing was going on; everyone in the place—and there were several
people there—was asleep, or nearly so;
from the central hallway of the second floor Tabaea could look down the stairs
and see that one woman sat by the front door, presumably standing watch, but
even this guard in fact dozed off and on.

None of the people were witches, which was a relief; a witch, or possibly even
a warlock, might have been able to detect her presence, no matter how quiet
she was. Wizards, though, needed their spells to do anything like that.

Of course, even a witch wouldn't spot her when the witch was asleep, and
everybody here was asleep.

This was hardly surprising, with the sun not yet above the horizon; after some
thought, Tabaea crept back to the attic, closed the door carefully, then
curled up on the plank floor for a catnap.

She awoke suddenly, as cats do, aware that she had slept longer than she had
intended to; quickly and quietly, she slipped back downstairs.

A meeting was going on hi the front parlor; she crept down the hall and stood
by the door, out of sight, listening.

". . .at least sixty feet across now," a man's voice said."It's taken out a
section of the back wall and rear stairway, while mostly maintaining its
hemispherical shape. It seems to send appendages up the walls, breaking off
chunks and pulling them down into the main mass. On the stairs, the upper edge
sags somewhat, rounding itself off, now that it's above the level of the step
it's dissolving. It's penetrated the floor of the meeting room below the Great
Hall and worked deep into the storeroom below; in a few hours, at most, it
should pierce that floor, as well, and begin dripping into the dungeons. The
Greater Spell of Transmutation, generally considered to be a tenth-order
spell, has had no effect, any more than any of the earlier attempts at finding
a countercharm. The Spell of Cleansing, third-order but requiring extensive
preparation, should be complete soon. Llarimuir's Vaporization is in progress,
but requires twenty-four hours of ritual, so we won't know the results until
late tonight."

A dismayed silence followed this report; Tabaea tried to figure out what it
was all about. A meeting room below a great hall? That sounded like the
palace. Something was dissolving things in the palace?

Then she blinked, astonished. They were discussing the Seething Death! "...
earlier attempts at finding a counter-charm ..." They didn't know how to stop
their own spell!

And Lady Sarai had laughed at her! As if prompted by her thought, someone
asked, "Is there any word from Lady Sarai?"

"Not yet," a man replied, "but she and Karanissa should reach Dwomor Keep late
this evening or early tomorrow, if all goes well, and they can be here within
an hour after that. The tapestry we gave Tobas comes out in an unused room in
one of the Grandgate towers; we have a guard posted there, ready to escort
them here the moment they appear."

"That assumes, of course," someone said, with heavy sarcasm, "that they're
coming back at all, that it isn't raining or snowing, that they haven't been
waylaid by bandits or eaten by a dragon, that they haven't gotten lost in the
mountains, that Lady Sarai didn't panic and kill Karanissa the moment she
appeared, that someone at Dwomor Keep hasn't inadvertently ruined the tapestry
there ..." Tabaea recognized the speaker as the one who had reported on the
Seething Death.

"Oh, shut up, Heremon," a different voice said, speaking with weary annoyance.
"Karanissa is fine; she spun a coin the day we arrived in Ethshar, and it's
still spuming, without the slightest slowing or wobbling. I checked less than
an hour ago." "That doesn't prove she isn't holed up somewhere waiting out a
blizzard, or warding off wolves," Heremon argued.

"There are no wolves in Dwomor," the tired voice said. "And for that matter,
even in the mountains, it doesn't snow in Harvest." "Still ..."

"Yes, they might be delayed," the tired voice agreed. "We just have to hope
that they aren't." He sighed. "The overlord's ship is due tomorrow afternoon,
I understand. It would be nice if we could present him with a palace, even a
damaged one, that's safe to enter and not in danger of being reduced to
bubbling slime."
Someone answered that, but Tabaea was no longer listening; she was thinking.

Lady Sarai would be returning soon, to one of the towers in Grandgate—and she
would have the Black Dagger with her, surely; that was why all these wizards
were so eager for her return. Tabaea had figured it out; the Black Dagger was
the countercharm for the Seething Death! And when Sarai had carried it off to
wherever that magic tapestry went, apparently some place called Dwomor, that
had left them unable to stop the Death from spreading.

If Tabaea could get to Sarai before the magicians did, she could take back the
Black Dagger. Then she could stop the Seething Death, renounce her abdication,
and resume her rule. Old Ederd was coming back, too—she could catch him and
kill him and put an end to attempts to restore him to the throne. Stopping the
Death would make her a hero; even those who had fought her would see that.

And she would do better this time; she wouldn't make the same mistakes.
Letting everyone live in the palace—well, there would have to be rules. And
the city guard was useful; if she couldn't make the old one obey her, she
would organize her own.

She would do it right this time.

First, though, she had to retrieve the Black Dagger, and that meant finding
Lady Sarai when she came back, before she was surrounded by guards and
wizards.

She would be coming through an unused room in the Grand-gate towers, the man
had said. There were eight towers in the Grandgate complex: the two gigantic
barracks towers, and then the six lesser towers, three on either side of the
entry road. Each of them contained dozens of rooms, Tabaea was sure, and many
of those were unused; she would have to search them all until she found the
right one.

But how would she know which was the right one? She smiled. The wizards had
told her that. When she found someone guarding an empty, unused room, she had
found what she was after.

And she had until that evening, at the very least. She scampered for the
stairs, her eagerness making her so careless that in the parlor Tobas looked
up, thinking he had heard something in the hall.

But of course, that was ridiculous. No one could possibly be in the Guildhouse
but the wizards, who were all gathered in the parlor—unless a spriggan had
managed to hide somewhere.

That was probably it, he decided; a spriggan must be running about somewhere.
That was nothing to worry about, then; annoying as they were, spriggans were
relatively harmless. "Has anyone tried Lirrim's Rectification?" he asked.
"I've
never used it myself, but it's in the books ..."

***

Dwomor Keep was not a particularly attractive or well-designed structure, but
Lady Sarai thought she had never seen anything so beautiful. However ugly and
decayed it might be, it was a building, and after two days in the wilderness,
anything that could possibly be considered urban was an absolute delight. That
this ramshackle fortress was also the gateway back to her beloved Ethshar of
the Sands only added to its appeal.
The walk down through the mountains had not been enjoyable at all. Karanissa
had taken it all in stride, but Sarai, accustomed to city streets and flat
terrain, had been constantly tripping over stones and stumbling on the steep
slopes. She had kept hoping, also, that her enhanced senses would return once
they were free of the dead area, but that had never happened. With Karanissa's
witchcraft to help she had managed to catch and kill a rabbit with the Black
Dagger, which provided both dinner and proof that the Black Dagger's spell
still worked, but the better hearing, tiny added strength, and slightly
improved vision and sense of smell didn't amount to much.

The little animal had been good eating, though, she had to admit.

Half a rabbit, however, and a few apples stolen from a farmer's orchard were
not much food for an entire two days, which made Dwomor Keep, where Karanissa
assured her they could expect to be fed, very attractive.

The guard at the gate greeted Karanissa familiarly in a language Lady Sarai
had never heard before; the two women were then escorted inside, where Sarai
got to stand idly by, studying the architecture and interior design, while
Karanissa carried on several conversations with assorted people dressed in
varying degrees of barbaric splendor. Some of the people she spoke to seemed
concerned, others inquisitive, still others casually friendly; most of them,
judging by gestures, inquired about Lady Sarai at one point or another, and
each time Karanissa answered without bothering to explain to Sarai what was
being said. In fact, throughout her stay in Dwomor Keep, including a bath, a
change into fresh clothing, and a generous supper, Sarai had no idea at all
what was going on around her. As far as she could tell, nobody present spoke a
word of Ethsharitic.

At last, however, Karanissa waved a farewell to three people and led Sarai
down a passageway into a lush bedchamber, where she drew aside a drapery to
reveal a truly bizarre tapestry.

The image was absolutely perfect and incredibly detailed; it showed a path
leading from a stone mound across a narrow rope bridge to a castle out of
someone's nightmares, a fortress of gray and black stone encrusted with
turrets and gargoyles, much of it covered with carven faces—most of them
leering monstrosities, while the few that appeared human were screaming in
terror. Even the front wall of the nearest section was a face, the entry way a
yawning, fanged mouth, two windows above serving as eyes.

This structure stood against a blank background of red and purple shading into
one another in vague, cloudlike patterns, and the reddish highlights on the
castle made it plain that these colors were part of the picture, intended to
represent a sky unlike anything in the World.

"You better hold my hand," Karanissa said.

"Oh, you don't... We aren't going there ..." Sarai said, trying to back away.

The witch grabbed her by the hand and yanked, pulling them both forward into
the tapestry. Lady Sarai screamed and fell to her knees.

She landed on the rough stone of that pathway; on either side was empty,
bottomless void, purple shot through with crimson.

"Welcome to my home," Karanissa said, smiling. Then she led the way across the
little bit of bare stone, over the rope bridge, through the fanged entryway
and the open door widiin, into the castle.
Lady Sarai followed wordlessly, staring at her strange surroundings, as
Karanissa explained, "Deny—that's Derithon the Mage—made this place, hundreds
of years ago, and brought me here. Then he got himself killed when his other
castle, out in the World, crashed, and I was stranded until Tobas found the
tapestry and came in here and found the way out, through the tapestry that
took us to the fallen castle. Except Telurinon traded with him, to get the
tapestry to the dead area—he wanted to send Tabaea there, or else the Seething
Death after it killed her. So now we've got another tapestry, one that will
bring us out in one of the towers in Grandgate." She paused for breath.

Sarai didn't say anything; she was too busy looking around at the forbidding,
torch-lit corridor, with its gargoyles peering down from the ceiling comers.

Karanissa led the way up a broad spiral staircase, saying, "I suppose we'll
have to move now, take the other tapestry out of Dwomor to Ethshar—it's just
not practical, having our front door and our back door so far apart. The walk
down the mountains was bad enough, even with the flying carpet; having to
cross a hundred leagues of ocean is just impossible."

They emerged in an arched passageway; Karanissa lifted a torch from a nearby
bracket and led the way down a side passage.

"I don't know if Alorria is going to like that much," Karanissa said, as they
turned a corner. "And I'm pretty such that her father, King Derneth, isn't
going to like it at all. He likes having Tobas as his court wizard, and he
likes having his daughter nearby. Alorria's never lived anywhere but Dwomor
Keep—well, and here, of course." She waved at the castie walls.

Sarai shivered slightly; this place made her very nervous. There was something
utterly unnatural about it. They had entered from bright sunlight, but most of
the castle was dark except for Karanissa's torch, and where light did get in
through windows, the light was an eerie reddish purple.

It didn't seem to bother the witch at all; she prattled on cheerfully as she
led the way through a maze of chambers and passages until at last they arrived
at a door, several stories up from the entrance. "We need to go through
together," she warned Sarai, as she opened the door.

Cautiously, Sarai stepped into the room beyond, and looked around. Karanissa
stepped in behind her and reached up to set her torch in an empty bracket.

The room was small and simple—no gargoyles or black iron here, just plain gray
walls, on one of which hung a tapestry. There were no other furnishings.

"Maybe we should move this downstairs, nearer the entrance," Karanissa said,
considering the tapestry carefully. "That would save time when we're just
passing through like this."

Sarai gazed at the hanging, too, but with relief, ratiier dian consideration.
The room it depicted was so utterly normal and ordinary! A simple room, with
off-white walls, an iron-bound wooden door, and one of the standard-issue
wooden tables the Ethsharitic city guard used. "Come on," she said. This time,
she was the one who grabbed and pulled, and an instant later she and Karanissa
stepped out in Ethshar.

The light was brighter here and the color of normal daylight, rather than the
orange of a torch or that weird reddish purple; Lady Sarai blinked and looked
around.

The tapestry was gone; from this side it simply wasn't there. Instead she saw
the other half of a nondescript and unused little room, with a single narrow
window providing illumination.

"North light," Karanissa remarked. "It's steadier, doesn't change much over
time, so it doesn't matter where the sun is, or whether it's cloudy." She
frowned. "I'll wager the tapestry doesn't work at night, though; I hadn't
thought of that before, and that could be inconvenient." She stared for a
moment, then turned back to the door. "Oh, well," she said, "there isn't much
we can do about it now." She lifted the latch and opened the door.

Before she could get a glimpse of what lay beyond, Lady Sarai heard the thump
of a chair's front legs hitting the stone floor and a soldier getting
hurriedly to his feet, kilt rustling and sword belt rattling. She followed
Karanissa through the door into a wide hall, where various military equipment
was strewn about or leaning against walls and pillars. Hazy sunlight poured in
through skylights; voices and footsteps were audible in the distance. Close at
hand stood a soldier and a chair; the soldier saluted, hand on his chest, and
announced, "I'm Deran Wuller's son, ladies; if you'd come with me, please,
Captain Tikri wishes to see you."

"Tikri?" Sarai was astonished and delighted; she hadn't seen Tikri since the
day Tabaea first marched on the palace, when he had gone off to defend the
overlord. She had feared he was dead, or at best driven into exile, yet here
he was, apparently back at work.

"Yes, my lady," Deran answered. "This way."

Sarai and Karanissa followed him across the room, toward a stairway leading
down. "Where are we?" Sarai asked.

"Officers' training area, my lady," Deran answered. "Top floor of the North
Barracks, in Grandgate."

"So the city guard is back here? Everything's back to normal?"

Deran kept walking, but hesitated before answering, "Not everything, my lady.
The guard's back, all right—Lord Torrut saw to that as soon as he heard that
Tabaea had given up her claim to be empress—but I wouldn't say everything's
back to normal. The overlord is still aboard his ship down in Seagate— there's
something wrong with the palace, something to do with the Wizards' Guild.
Nobody goes in there without the Guild's permission. And Lord Kalthon . . ."He
broke off.

"What about my father?" Sarai demanded. "They say he's dying, my lady," Deran
reluctantly admitted. "The sea journey was bad for him; they say he has a
sixnight at most, even with that witch Theas tending him. But the overlord
won't appoint a replacement, and we need a Minister of Justice right now, to
sort out the mess. Lord Torrut's doing what he can, but . . . well, I wouldn't
say everything's normal." He stopped in front of a door and knocked.

The door opened, and Captain Tikri glared out angrily. When he saw Sarai,
though, the anger evaporated; he smiled.

"Lady Sarai!" he said. "You're back!" Belatedly, he added, "and you,
Karanissa!"

The two women smiled and made polite noises, but then Tikri held up a hand.
"We don't have any time to waste," he said. "We need to get you to the palace
immediately; the wizards have been very emphatic about that. We can talk on
the way; just let me get my sword."
A few minutes later, a party of four—Deran, Tikri, Sarai, and
Karanissa—emerged from the barracks into the inner bailey of Grandgate,
walking briskly; they passed through the immense inner gate into Grandgate
Market, headed for the palace.

And atop the south inner tower Tabaea leaned over the battlement, glaring
furiously. She could not see faces clearly from that distance, could not be
sure of the scents, but two women in aristocratic garb, accompanied by two
soldiers—that had to be Sarai! She had missed them! After all this time spent
searching through the absurd complexities of Grandgate's many towers, she had
missed them!

She ran for the stairs, berating herself for being overcautious. She had
searched all six of the gate towers, and most of the South Barracks, but had
left the North Barracks, with its hundreds of soldiers, for last.

But of course it would be the North Barracks—that was where everything
important was. She should have checked there first, despite the soldiers.

Furious, she plunged down the stairs, in hot pursuit of the Black Dagger.

CHAPTER 43

Lady Sarai stared in shock and dismay through the stinking, unnatural white
mist at the bubbling, steaming, swirling mass of greenish slime before her. It
blocked the entire corridor, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, at an oblique
angle.

"It's slightly over a hundred feet in diameter now," Tobas told her. "It's
down into the lower dungeons, and as you can see, it's consumed the rear half
of the throne room, including the entire rear staircase and the corridor
below. It's also eaten its way through into the passageway above, there, but
hasn't reached the overlord's apartments yet."

"And you expect the Black Dagger to stop thaf!" Sarai demanded, turning to
face the party of magicians and soldiers jamming the corridor behind her, and
holding up the knife so that everyone could see just how small and harmless
the enchanted weapon looked when compared with that gigantic mass of
corrosive, all-consuming wizardry.

For a moment, no one answered; Sarai could see them judging, comparing,
contrasting, considering.

Then one of the warlocks giggled nervously.

The giggle caught and spread, and in seconds several magicians—witches,
warlocks, and even a wizard or two—were laughing hysterically. The soldiers
were grinning, but not openly laughing.

Angrily, Telurinon shushed them all; after a few moments, with the soldiers'
assistance, order was restored. Then the Guildmaster turned angrily on Lady
Sarai.

"What do you know about wizardry?" he shouted. "Size is irrelevant! What
matters is the strength and nature of the enchantment, nothing else!"

"And you think a dagger enchanted by accident, by a girl who knew almost
nothing of wizardry, is going to stop a spell
you say can destroy the entire World, Guildmaster?" Sarai shouted back.
"It might!" Telurinon answered, not as certainly as he would have liked.

"I don't mink so," Sarai replied. "I think that stuff will dissolve the
dagger, just as it dissolved Tobas's tapestry and everything else, magical or
mundane, that it's touched."

"And what would vow suggest, then?" Telurinon sarcastically demanded. "Do you
have some clever little counterspell that's somehow eluded the attention of
the Wizards' Guild? We've tried everything we know; the warlocks, the witches,
the sorcerers, they've all tried. The theurgists couldn't even find anything
to try; the demonologists marched a score of demons and monsters in there, and
it consumed them all. Nothing stops it."

"And the Black Dagger won't, either," Sarai retorted.' "Look at it!"

"The dagger cuts all other wizardry," Telurinon insisted. "We've never found
anything else that stops wizardry so completely."

Startled, Sarai glanced at Tobas and Karanissa, then announced, "That's not
true, Guildmaster, and you know it."

Telurinon gaped. The rest of the party, soldiers and magicians alike, was
suddenly absolutely silent, and Sarai could feel them all staring at her,
giving her their full attention. Accusing a Guildmaster of lying, before such
an audience as this . . .

"I saw it myself," Sarai insisted. "There's a place in the Small Kingdoms
somewhere where wizardry doesn't work; it brought down & flying castle, by the
gods! That could stop the Seething Death!"

Telurinon recovered quickly. "Oh, that" he said. "Well, yes, there is such a
place. We had hoped to transport the Seething Death there, in fact, but it
turned out to be impossible."

"It dissolved the Transporting Tapestry," Tobas confirmed.

"It ate away the chunk of floor we tried to move," a warlock added.

"It can't be moved," Vengar agreed.

Sarai looked from face to face, trying to think. "You can't move the Seething
Death," she said.

Several voices muttered affirmation.

"Can you move the dead area?" she asked. "As the saying has it, if the dragon
won't come to the hunter, then the hunter must go to the dragon."

For a moment, silence descended, broken only by the hissing of the Death, as
everyone considered this.

"I don't see how," Tobas said at last. "It's not a thing, it's a place.
Certainly wizardry couldn't move it, since wizardry doesn't work there."

"Witchcraft does," Sarai pointed out. Karanissa had demonstrated as much.

"Yes, but Lady Sarai, it's a place," Tobas insisted. "Even if, say, moving
that entire mountain would be enough to move it, how could you bring it eighty
leagues to Ethshar? Witches couldn't do it, not unless you had thousands upon
thousands of them, probably more witches than there are in the World. Warlocks
could, perhaps—if they were all willing to accept the Calling. Sorcery,
demons—I don't think so."

"Not sorcery," Kelder of Tazmor agreed.

"Nordemonology," Kallia confirmed.

"Then can you create a new one?" Sarai demanded. "A new dead area, here in the
palace?"

Tobas hesitated and looked at Telurinon.

"No," the Guildmaster said, quite emphatically.

"The spell is lost," Tobas agreed.

Intending to make a point, Sarai turned to look at the Seething Death and
involuntarily found herself backing away—the wall of seething ooze had drawn
visibly nearer while she argued. Shaken, and after having moved several feet
farther down the corridor, she turned back to Tobas and demanded, "You're sure
of that?"

He nodded. "The only Book of Spells that ever held it was burned, over four
hundred years ago—in 4763,1 think it was." He added helpfully, "They hanged
the wizard who used it."

"But it was done by wizardry in the first place?" Sarai asked.

Telurinon glared at Tobas.

"Yes," Tobas said.

"And the spell was written down?" Sarai asked.

"By Ellran the Unfortunate, in 4680," Tobas said.' "That was when he
discovered it." He smiled wryly. "By accident. Just the way Tabaea made the
Black Dagger by accident. Ellran never used the spell again, but his
apprentice did, and got hanged for it. And the book was burned."

"You seem to know a lot about it," Sarai remarked.

"It's a sort of specialty of mine, if you'll recall—I told you that," Tobas
said. "It's why I was brought here in the first place. As you know, I have a
personal interest—or at least, I used to." "If you know that much about this
spell," Vengar asked, "can't you recover it somehow?"

"If you know the true name of the apprentice, and when the spell was used,"
Mereth volunteered, "the Spell of Omniscient Vision ought to let me see the
page it was written on. We never knew enough about the countercharm for the
Seething Death, but this one . . ."

"No! "shouted Telurinon. "Mereth, I forbid it! Stopandthink what you're
proposing! The overlord's palace, dead to wizardry? The Guild could no longer
..."

He stopped, abruptly, looking about wildly, as if realizing that he was about
to say far too much in front of far too many people. Then he shouted, "No!
We'll try the Black Dagger, and if that doesn't work we can evacuate the city
..."
Lady Sarai, moving as quickly as she could without her cat abilities—rabbits
were quick, but not as fast in their reactions as cats—stepped up and, with
her left hand, grabbed the front of Telurinon's robe. The Black Dagger, in her
right hand, pressed against his chest.

"Listen to me, Guildmaster," she said. "You and your stupid spells are
destroying the overlord's palace—and maybe the rest of the city, maybe the
rest of the World—and you're worrying about saving your Guild's secrets, your
Guild's power? You're worried that maybe you won't be able to eavesdrop any
more, won't be able to threaten the overlord with your spells and curses? That
you might have to really give up meddling in politics? Well, I've got a real
worry for you, Telurinon—this dagger. I don't intend to try it on the Seething
Death, Telurinon—I intend to use it on you. It'll eat your soul, you know—it
sucks the essence right out of you, doesn't even leave a ghost."

She didn't know whether this was truth or lie—but right now, she didn't care.
She pressed the point harder against the old wizard's chest, piercing the
fabric of his robe.

Telurinon gaped at her. "You can't do this!" he said. "The Guild . . ."

"The Seething Death is going to kill us all anyway if we stay here," Sarai
told him. "And besides, I don't think your Guild is on your side in this one.
Has anyone tried to stop me?"

Telurinon turned and looked.

Tobas and Mereth and Heremon were standing there, unmoving; Heremon at least
had the grace to look somewhat abashed, and Algarin had turned away rather
than watch. Further back, the other magicians were watching, but showed no
signs of helping the Guildmaster. The soldiers were obviously ready to cheer
Lady Sarai on.

"I don't know what spells you people are talking about," a soldier called,
"but I've about had my fill of the Wizards' Guild here. If anyone harms Lady
Sarai, he'll answer to me!"

Several growls of agreement, not all from soldiers, were enough to convince
Telurinon.

"Very well," he said, "very well. We'll try the Spell of Omniscient Vision, as
Mereth said, and if we can find Ellran's forbidden spell we'll try that. But
if it doesn't work, Lady Sarai, then we'll try the Black Dagger!"

"Agreed," Sarai said, stepping back and releasing the Guild-master's robe.

"I need my scrying stone for the Spell of Omniscient Vision," Mereth said,
"and I left the stone at home. Besides, I need a totally dark room, and I
don't know of any in the palace."

"Then go home and do it there," Sarai said. "I'll come with you," Tobas
ofiered,"to write down Ellran's spell. Besides, I want to see this."

Telurinon started to say something, but before he could speak, Sarai said,
"And I think it would be best if Guildmaster Telurinon returned to the
Guildhouse, wouldn't it, to see how things stand there?"

He glared at her, then looked over the crowd of magicians and decided not to
argue.
Sarai knew she had made an enemy for life of Telurinon, but just now she
really didn't care. As Mereth and Tobas headed down one corridor, circling
around toward the northwest gate, while Telurinon and Heremon headed out
toward the northeast and the others scattered in various directions, she just
wanted to find somewhere to rest. She wondered whether her old room was safe;
the Seething Death was nowhere near the southeast wing yet, where her family's
apartments were, but it seemed to be spreading quickly.

Someplace nearer a door would be better. She stopped into one of the little
waiting rooms along the northeast corridor, where petitioners could prepare
for their audience before the overlord.

The place was a mess; she stared around in dismay, unable to decide whether
someone had lived here during Tabaea's brief reign, or whether it had been
used as a garbage dump.

Karanissa appeared behind her. "What are you doing, Lady Sarai?" she asked.

"I wanted to ... oh, just look at this place, Karanissa!" She waved a hand at
the disaster. The two little silk-upholstered benches had lost their legs and
become crude beds; the pink silk itself was slashed and stained several
places. The gilded tea table was on its side. Three rotting blankets were
heaped on the floor, amid orange peels, eggshells, chicken bones, and other
detritus.

Karanissa looked and found nothing to say.

Sarai picked up one of the blankets, holding it between two fingers, then used
it to sweep a pile of trash out into the corridor.

"You shouldn't bother with that, Sarai," Karanissa said."For one thing, the
Seething Death may eat this room before we stop it."

"Before the wizards stop it," Sarai snapped, flinging the blanket aside.
"Those idiots who started it in the first place! Wizards who showed Tabaea how
to make the Black Dagger, wizards who started the Seething Death, wizards who
wouldn't help my father ..."

"Wizards like my husband," Karanissa replied gently. "And your friend Mereth."

"Oh, I know," Sarai said, peevishly. "Most of the wizards I've known have been
good people, really. But sometimes they don't know what they're doing, and it
can be so dangerous! And they talk about these stupid rules about not meddling
in politics, and then that old fool Telurinon practically admitted they spy on
the overlord ..." She sat down abruptly, on the floor of the passage.

Karanissa settled down beside her, and for a time the two women simply sat,
side by side. In the distance Sarai could hear footsteps and voices—and the
hissing of the Seething Death. She looked down at the Black Dagger, which was
still in her hand, and noticed a tiny drop of Telurinon's blood on the point.
She shuddered.

"I think I really would have killed him," she said.

"Probably," Karanissa said. "Something we all knew during the Great War was
that anybody can kill, under the right circumstances. Anybody can be
dangerous."

"Even a harmless little nobody like Tabaea the Thief," Sarai said. "With this
knife in her hand, she was empress of Eth-shar." She shuddered. "Maybe I
should have tried it on the Seething Death—at least then we'd be rid of it."

"Why didn't you?" Karanissa asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Sarai replied. "It just seemed like such a waste. You have
no idea what it's like, Karanissa—being able to smell everything, to
practically see with your nose. And seeing in the dark, like a cat, or hearing
all those sounds we can't hear; being strong and fest..."

"Are you going to do it again, then? Kill more animals?"

Sarai hesitated.

"No," she said at last. "I don't need to, with Tabaea gone, and I don't like
killing anything. I don't want to like killing."

"Then what will you do with it?"

"I don't know," Sarai replied slowly. "I'll have to think about it." She
stared at the dagger for a moment longer, men looked up at Karanissa and
asked, "What's it like, being a witch?"

Karanissa tried to explain, without much success; from there, the conversation
turned to what it was like to be married to a wizard, then what it was like to
share a husband, and how she had come to marry Tobas, and how Alorria had come
to marry him, as well. Some of this Sarai already knew, of course; me two
women had talked during the long walk down the mountains, but only now did
Sarai feel able to ask the questions that really interested her.

At last, though, the conversation ran down. The daylight was starting to fade,
and the hissing of the Seething Death seemed significantly closer.

"I'm hungry, and you look tired," Karanissa said. "Would you like to come back
to the inn with me for dinner and then borrow a bed?"

"That would be wonderful," Sarai admitted gratefully. She got to her feet; the
Black Dagger tumbled from her lap to the floor, and she picked it up.

She did not sheathe it immediately, but carried it loose—not for any
particular reason, but on a whim. The hilt felt curiously reassuring in her
hand.

Together, the two women strolled down the northeast corridor and out onto the
plaza.

CHAPTER 44

Tabaea had been waiting. She had not caught up to Lady Sarai and her escort on
Gate Street, Harbor Street had been crowded, and Quarter Street had soldiers
patrolling it; Tabaea had not dared to jump Lady Sarai anywhere on the way.
She had not dared to enter the palace, either, with all those guards and
magicians about, not without the Black Dagger in her hand. Sooner or later,
though, Lady Sarai would come out again; surely she wouldn't sleep in the
palace with the Seething Death still there. She would go out to Serem's house,
or to the barracks in Grandgate, or somewhere. Sooner or later she would be
careless, would travel with a small enough escort that Tabaea would have her
chance.

There was an abandoned wagon on the plaza, and Tabaea had seized her
opportunity; she had lain down in the wagon, out of sight, and watched the
door through a crack in the side.

Soon, soldiers and magicians came pouring out the door and marched or ambled
away without seeing her; Lady Sarai was not among them, however.

At last, though, as evening approached, Tabaea's patience was rewarded—out the
door, all by themselves, came Lady Sarai and that tall black-haired witch.

And Lady Sarai was holding the Black Dagger in her hand.

Using all her speed, all her agility, Tabaea leaped from the wagon and threw
herself at Lady Sarai's arm.

Sarai didn't even see her coming; she was still blinking, letting her eyes
adjust to the fading sunlight, when something smashed into her arm, spinning
her around, knocking the Black Dagger from her hand. She staggered and fell as
pain shot through her hand.

"Tabaea!" Karanissa shouted.

The self-proclaimed empress was already past them, and inside the palace,
running down the corridor with the Black Dagger in her hand.

"I think I sprained my wrist," Sarai said, sitting dazed on the pavement.
"What happened?"

"It's Tabaea!" Karanissa told her, reaching down to help her up. "She took the
dagger!"

Sarai blinked, then got to her feet as quickly as she could. "I thought you
said she was gone," she said.

"She's back," Karanissa answered.

"Why haven't the wizards killed her?" Sarai asked, still slightly dazed. "They
were so hot for vengeance ..."

"They hadn't got around to it yet," Karanissa answered. "They were too busy
worrying about the Seething Death. And what difference does it make why? They
didn 't kill her, and she's back. Come on!" As Sarai moved uncertainly toward
the palace door, Karanissa cupped her hands around her mouth and called to a
pair of guards nearby, "Tabaea! Tabaea's back! Get help! Bring torches!"

Then she and Sarai stepped cautiously into the palace.

Tabaea ran into the dark corridors, dagger held out before her, hurrying
toward the throne room. Had Sarai already stopped the Seething Death? That
would ruin her plan to become the city's savior—but on the other hand, she
could still resume her role as empress, now that she had the dagger back.

She wondered how big the Seething Death was now—had it kept spreading? Was it
still sixty feet across, as Heremon had reported, or had it grown even larger?

Then she heard the hissing and came skidding to a stop.

Full night had fallen outside; the passageway ahead was utterly dark, even to
Tabaea's enhanced vision, but she could hear the Death hissing and bubbling,
and she could smell its foul reek.
She needed light; guided by smell, she groped on the floor and found a
fragment of greasy cotton rag. She wrapped it around a broken table leg and
knotted it; then she held this makeshift torch up over her head and felt for
the whisper that gave a warlock power.

She knew how to use warlockry to light fires, but she was too nervous to
concentrate properly; she had no more than warmed her makeshift torch when a
golden light sprang up behind her. She whirled and saw the tall witch holding
up a glowing hand— witch-light, Tabaea realized. Lady Sarai was at the witch's
side.

"Stay back!" Tabaea shrieked, brandishing the dagger and backing a few steps
down a side-passage.

The other two followed her. "What are you doing in here?" Sarai called. "I
thought you had abdicated!"

"That was conditional!" Tabaea shouted back. "That was if you people stopped
the Seething Death, but you didn't! I will, and then I'll resume my rightful
throne!"

Sarai and Karanissa looked at each other.

"You can't," Sarai said.

"Yes I can!" Tabaea screamed. "I have the Black Dagger back, and it can cut
any wizardry!"

"Not that it can't," Sarai said. "Just look at it, Your Majesty!"

Karanissa added, "If you just wait, we have a way to stop it— my husband
should be here soon, with the spell."

"No!" Tabaea shouted. "I'll stop it! Not you! I will!" She looked past the two
women at the sound of approaching steps, heavy boots on marble—soldiers, not
magicians.

That was all right; she wanted witnesses, wanted all the soldiers to side with
her this time. Torchlight gleamed from stone walls. She waited.

A moment later, a band of torch-bearing guards trotted around the corner and
stopped, startled, at the sight of their former empress, clad in black rags,
holding off Lady Sarai with a knife.

"Don't get too close," Karanissa warned, as she extinguished her witch-light.
"She's got her magic dagger back."

"That's right," Tabaea said, "I have my dagger back, the one I made with a
piece of my own soul, and I'm going to use it to save the city from the evil
magic these two, and their magician helpers, loosed on us."

"All right, then," Sarai said, "if you're going to do it, do it."

"I will," Tabaea retorted. She turned and marched toward the center of the
palace, toward the Great Hall, toward the Seething Death. Behind her came Lady
Sarai, Karanissa, and half a dozen soldiers, Captain Tikri commanding, Deran
Wuller's son among them.

Then Sarai stumbled and tugged at Deran's sleeve; he stepped aside to steady
her, while the others moved on past. Quickly, she stood on her toes and
whispered in his ear, "Go find Tobas of Ifelven, the wizard; if he can work
his spell while Tabaea's still in the palace, she'll lose all her magic, just
be an ordinary girl with an ordinary dagger. Tell Tobas to hurry." She spoke
in as low a tone as she could manage; she well remembered, from her own
experience, that dogs and cats would hear best in the higher registers. She
would have preferred to have sent Captain Tikri, whom she knew better, but his
absence would have been too noticeable; she at least knew Deran as a familiar
face, and hoped he was up to the task.

Tabaea whirled at the sound of whispering, but over the growling and hissing
ahead she couldn't make out the words. She saw Lady Sarai hanging back,
though, and called, "Come on, Pharea, or Sarai, whichever it really is—come on
and see why I deserve to rule Ethshar!"

Sarai came, trotting to catch up—and Deran, moving as silently and quickly as
he could, trotted in the other direction, to start a search for Tobas.

A moment later the party reached the point where the Seething Death blocked
the way, a wall of greenish boiling ooze across the corridor. At the sight of
it Tabaea hesitated, but then she stepped resolutely closer.

"Watch!" she called. She stepped up and slashed at the stuff with the Black
Dagger.

The Seething Death erupted in a gout of white steam and a roaring, boiling
hiss, and for a moment the watchers were deafened, the vapor blocking their
view.

When they could see again, they saw the Seething Death still blocking the
passage, unmarked by the dagger's cut. Tabaea stood before it, holding up the
Black Dagger's hilt.

The blade was gone, dissolved away down to an inch or so from the crossguard.

Tabaea screamed, and Sarai remembered what she had said about putting a part
of her soul into the knife. Sarai started forward to help, Karanissa beside
her.

"No!" Tabaea shrieked. "Stay back!" She whirled and waved the ruined stump of
the Black Dagger at them, and Sarai and Karanissa stopped short. Then the
empress of Ethshar turned back to the Seething Death and cried, "It must
work," and thrust her hand at it, stabbing into the ooze.

Her hand went in clear to the wrist.

She screamed again and drew back the stump of her arm, blood spraying.
Clutching at it with her left hand, she staggered and toppled . . .

Into the Seething Death.

Her scream was abruptly cut short, but again, a roar of magical dissolution
and a gout of stinking vapor erupted; the two women and the five soldiers
backed away.

When the scene quieted, all that remained of Tabaea the Thief was one bloody,
severed bare foot, lying on the marble floor of the corridor, inches from the
Seething Death.

"Gods," Captain Tikri muttered under his breath. For a long moment, they all
simply stared.
And then, abruptly, the hissing of the Death faded away, and the wall of
magical chaos puffed outward and vanished like mist that blows in a doorway.
The close confines of the corridor were suddenly at the edge of a great open
space, a vast bowl-shaped hole in the palace, beneath the soaring central
dome.

The Seething Death was gone. Not so much as a single drop of corrosive slime
remained; the cut edges of walls and floors shone clean and sharp. Sarai and
her companions could see the fragment of wall that had once been one end of
the throne room, could see into rooms and passageways on six levels, from the
lower dungeons to the overlord's private apartments. Sarai imagined that the
Arena might look like that, if all the seats and floors were removed.

And standing in the open end of the corridor directly opposite their own was
Tobas, holding a knife and a handful of brass shards. He waved.

For several minutes no one did much of anything; they were all shocked into
inactivity by the suddenness of it all.

Then Deran came trotting up from behind. "I didn't find him, but I saw that
the Seething Death was gone," he called. "Was it in time? Where's Tabaea?
Where's the dagger?"

Sarai looked down at the hideous fragment that was all that remained of Tabaea
the First, Empress of Ethshar.

"Nowhere," she said. "Nowhere at all."

CHAPTER 45

What did you say the spell was called?" the overlord asked, leaning heavily on
Lord Tbrrut and staring at the hollowed-out ruin of his home. "The one that
stopped it?"

"Ellran's Dissipation," Tobas answered. "The Wizards' Guild outlawed it over
four hundred years ago, but this was a special case."

"Telurinon didn't like it," Lady Sarai remarked.

"I suspect the higher-ups in the Guild aren't very happy about it, either,"
Tobas said. "In fact, they'll probably be very annoyed with Telurinon for
making it necessary by using the Seething Death."

"Are there higher-ups in the Wizards' Guild?" Lord Tbrrut asked, startled.

"Oh, yes," Tobas said. "But I don't know much about them—and I shouldn't even
say as much as I have." He smiled crookedly. "Fortunately, they can't see or
hear me here."

The overlord nodded thoughtfully. "That's going to make rebuilding difficult,"
he said. "This place was all built by magic originally, you know—my ancestor
Anaran managed to get the largest share of the wizards when the war ended and
the army disbanded, and the Guild was a good bit less troublesome about these
things back then." He sighed. "Of course, Azrad lured most of them away
later."

"I'm sure that there are good stonemasons around," Lord Tbrrut said.

"Besides," Tbbas pointed out, "h's only wizardry that won't work here; you
could have warlocks, or witches, or even de-monologists do the repair work, if
you wanted to."

"I might just leave most of it open," the overlord said, looking up into the
dome. "As a sort of memorial." Then he turned to Lady Sarai and said, "It's
going to make your job as Minister of Justice more difficult, too."

"My father usually relied on theurgy, my lord," Sarai replied. "That won't
have changed." She thought, but did not mention, that just now she wasn't
particularly inclined to trust wizards— or any other magicians, really.

Ederd nodded. "I suppose," he said. "And if I haven't said so before, let me
say now that I share your loss; your father was a good man and a faithful
servant. I truly regret that my own health would not permit me to attend the
funeral." He coughed, as if to demonstrate that he was not yet fully recovered
from the indisposition that had kept him in seclusion for a sixnight after
Tabaea's death. Then he turned to Tobas. "You know, I used to have protective
spells around this place," he said. "Wards and alarms and so forth. Not that
they did much good against that poor girl and her magic dagger. Do you think
you could put them back? They were on the outside of the building, I believe."

"No, my lord," Tobas said. "While I kept it as confined as I could, even to
the point of risking failure, the dead area extends over the entire palace and
the surrounding plaza and out onto Circle Street to the northwest—I wasn't at
the center of the building when I performed the spell, of course, since the
Seething Death was in the way. I'm afraid that the wards can never be
restored."

"All the way to Circle Street? That will make the parades at Festival a bit
difficult."

"It might be, my lord," Lord Torrut ventured, not looking at Ederd, "that we
have, perhaps, used more wizardry around here than is entirely good for us."

Ederd snorted. "We often haven't used as much as I would like," he said. "The
Wizards' Guild hasn't always been very cooperative. And they always seem to
know what's going on— when I want something done, they'll insist I yield on
some other point."

"That should change," Lady Sarai pointed out. "They can't see what happens in
the palace anymore."

"Which might mean that they'll assume the worst," Ederd said. Then he
shrugged. "Well, there's nothing to be done about it now." He turned away,
forcing Lord Torrut to turn, as well.

"At least they can maintain their reputation for implacable vengeance," Lady
Sarai pointed out. "It was Telurinon's spell that killed Tabaea."

"And don't doubt for a minute that they'll take every advantage of that," Lord
Torrut said. "They'll boast of having saved Ethshar."

"But on the other hand," Tobas replied, addressing himself to Ederd, "it's
going to be hard to hide the feet that we made some very bad mistakes,
especially if your lordship does leave the interior of the palace open, as you
suggested. I doubt that even the Guild will be able to stop the rumors of how
Tabaea came by her abilities, or to hide how badly we bungled the use of the
Seething Death."

"And that will probably turn most of them foul-tempered and reluctant to serve
me," Ederd pointed out. "It's been my experience that most wizards are not so
reasonable as yourself, Tobas."

Tobas acknowledged this praise with a nod of his head.

"It may be, my lord," Lady Sarai said, "that there will be gains elsewhere, to
offset any loss of cooperation from the Wizards'Guild."

The overlord glanced at her as he started down the corridor. "Oh?" he said.

Sarai nodded. She looked quickly at Tobas, the only magician present, and
decided that he could be trusted. Besides, it could hardly stay secret for
long. "It would seem," she said, "that the Council of Warlocks is interested
in leasing space here in the palace that would be used for their meetings and,
perhaps, other activities. I was approached on the matter this morning."

Ederd looked at her thoughtfully. "Go on," he said.

"Well, naturally, I said that I would need to consult with you about it, but
that I thought it might be done—and that perhaps arrangements could be made to
pay part of the rent in services, rather than gold." She smiled. "Of course,
we all know that they want to be sure their meetings can't be observed by
wizards; despite their cooperation against Tabaea, they do see the Wizards'
Guild as a rival."

"You think allowing these warlocks in the palace would be wise?"

"I think that if they meet here, wizards won't be able to observe them, but we
will. And I think that having the Council of Warlocks in your debt can't
hurt."

Ederd nodded.

Sarai cleared her throat, and added, "If you wish, my lord, I could send
messages to the two witches' organizations, the Sisterhood and the Brotherhood
..."

"It bears thinking about," the overlord agreed. He glanced at Sarai again. "It
interests me, Lady Sarai, that the warlocks came toyow."

"Well, my lord," Sarai said, "I've dealt with them before, in my duties as
your investigator."

"My investigator," Ederd echoed. "And my Minister of Justice, at least until
your brother is old enough, and well enough, for the job—if he ever is. And it
seems that your recent actions have made you my liaison to every magician in
Ethshar, as well. You'll be a very busy young woman."

"In your service, my lord." She bowed.

"While we were in port, the rumors among the sailors aboard my ship mentioned
you, you know," the overlord said.

"Really, my lord?"

He nodded. "They scarcely mentioned the Wizards' Guild. It seems they credit
you, Lady Sarai, with forcing Tabaea back into the palace and trapping her
with the Seething Death while this counterspell of young Tobas's was
performed. That you offered Tabaea her life, but without magic, and that she
chose to perish instead. The tone of the accounts was frankly admiring."
Hesmiled. "It's a good beginning for a Minister of Justice to have such a
reputation."

"Itisn't. . ."

The overlord held up a hand, silencing her. "The truth of the matter really
isn't as important, you know, as what people believe."

"But. . ."

"There are also stories," Ederd continued, "about the meetings you held before
Tabaea's identity was known. They say you have sorcerers who would do anything
to please you, that a cult of assassins fears you. And it's said you can
vanish and reappear at will, that you're a master of disguise."

Sarai was too astonished to protest further.

"You will understand, I am sure," the overlord said, "that at my age, I am no
longer looked upon with awe or fear; that my son, while a good man, has
utterly failed to distinguish himself in a lifetime of being my heir and
nothing else, and furthermore managed to do nothing but flee when Tabaea
threatened his inheritance; and that it's therefore very useful for me to have
someone in my service who is looked upon as a hero, who is believed to have
performed superhuman deeds in the interest of keeping me on my throne, or
restoring me to it—and who had a chance to take that throne herself, as you
are presumed to have had when Tabaea was dead and I not returned, yet who
turned that chance down. The existence of such a hero will, I am sure,
discourage attempts to emulate poor little Tabaea. I therefore order you, Lady
Sarai, as your overlord, not to deny any rumors about your abilities, or about
secret knowledge you may possess, no matter how absurd."

Sarai's mouth opened, then closed. She stared at Ederd, then finally managed,
"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Then I believe we part here; I'm using Lord Tbrrut's quarters until my
own apartments are repaired." He turned, supported by the guard commander, and
hobbled down a side corridor.

For a moment, Lady Sarai watched him go. Then she walked on, not toward her
own apartments, but toward an exit from the palace. She wanted to walk in
sunlight and fresh air, to think. She did not feel ready to talk to her
brother and his nurse.

Besides, she had not yet decided which quarters were hers; should she return
to her own old room, or take her lather's?

It was a trivial matter, really, but right now, after sixnights of worrying
about usurpers and murderers, World-shaking magic and matters of life and
death, she preferred to think about trivia.

She emerged onto the plaza and looked out at the city of Ethshar of the Sands,
the streets and houses stretching away in all directions. Directly ahead of
her a wisp of smoke from a kitchen fire was spiraling slowly upward.

It reminded her of the smoke from her father's pyre. He was really gone,
now—his soul was free, risen to the gods on that smoke.

She wondered whether Tabaea's soul had been freed when her body was destroyed,
or whether the Seething Death had consumed that, as well. And what of the
various people killed by the Black Dagger? No necromancer, of any school, had
ever been able to find any trace of their ghosts, either in the World or
elsewhere.

She supposed she would never know. There were a great many things she supposed
she would never know.

But that would never stop her from learning what she could.