With no other choice left, Cheyne brushed himself off and headed for the curry stall where the vagrant had said was a way out of the city, hoping it wasn't a trick. The stallkeeper had raised a hand in a peculiar gesture when the beggar had pointed his way.

When he reached the tent, Cheyne eyed the roasting

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morsels with keen regret. He must have looked ready to drop with hunger, because the stallkeeper, clearing his brazier for the day, left a haunch of lamb on it and nodded to Cheyne as he seemed to melt into the wall. The young man eagerly grabbed up the meat, not minding the several grains of sand he found included. The lamb was tough and dry, stringy and oversea-,soned, but Cheyne wolfed it down.

In another moment, he stood hovering in front of the stall, ticking his fingers, still wondering how to get out of the Mercanto. Then he saw how the stallkeeper had disappeared so thoroughly-behind the flimsy tent, almost invisible in the deepening shadows, a large crack parted the stonework. Cheyne looked around, and finding no one to tell him he couldn't, took a deep breath, scuttled through the narrow passage, through a dark slaughterhouse, and out into the Barca. From the well-worn path under the wall and the cloying smell of old blood, both the butchery and the hidden entrance had probably been there since antiquity.

Exhaling, Cheyne walked through the shabby streets until he found the outer wall, and then studied it for similar openings. Behind the hanging tent cloth and lean-tos, he found dozens of such breaches, most of them seemingly natural, that had been made in the outer wall over the centuries.

It looks so solid from the outside, but it's just layers and layers of whitewash. I guess the Fascini wouldn't repair anything they didn't have to look at, Cheyne mused.

Soon he was on the flat, dusty road back to the older ruin, wondering just exactly what he would tell Javin.

not have your payment because… you had your mark in front of you, and you let him leave the shop? Then he got away from your man in the streets? Riolla, I am very disappointed in you. 1 thought I had taught you better than to be so careless. And such an unimaginative excuse at that." The hooded man spoke softly, but his words pierced Riolla's heart. "And why would that be? How many more like him have you let get away, hmm? Did this particular young man distract you to the point of blindness, or is your incompetence because of your new 'love'?"

"I did my best, Raptor," Riolla countered, anxiety making her words sound futile. She ignored the Raptor's mention of her newest attempt to procure the throne of Sumifa. "But Saelin, my best assassin, says he is ensorcelled. It's as though he feels you coming. Saelin reports that the digger dropped down in the street at just the instant before the silent, spinning blade would have struck him. Saelin the Butcher has never come back without the head he was sent for… perhaps there is magic here, or just very bad luck. Some people are followed by such luck, you know7 0

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they move through their lives with no care at all, never bowing to our beloved Caelus Nin, forswearing the ancestors, and nothing bad ever happens to them."

Riolla caught herself chattering nervously and stopped it. No true Fascini would ever do such a thing. The Raptor would not respect it. She moved to another tactic. One she knew the Raptor could not resist.

"Perhaps we might discuss future plans concerning this young man rather than past failures. I think he could be very valuable anyway. After all, he is a digger, and diggers are always after treasure. And I think this one has found something. He has been asking about a totem with a peculiar glyph on it, written in the old language," Riolla continued, mentally shoving her fear into a bag.

In the darkness of the hot room, which seemed especially hot today, Riolla waited for the Raptor to consider her tempting words. How she longed for an open window…

The Raptor lived on the topmost floor of Sumifa's tallest building, smack in the middle of the Citadel, the central feature of Sumifa, a spectacular view at his command. But in all the many years Riolla had answered to this man, paid him for the protection he gave her several businesses, legitimate and otherwise, she had never known him to open a window, light a lamp, or leave the airless room during the daylight hours. She had never seen his face, and just now, as he paced back and forth in front of the dark stone walls, the only way she could pick out his location was by the rustle of his robes and the click of his heels on the black marble floor.

How glad I will be when I don't need you anymore, you cruel-hearted, self-absorbed, fear-mongering vulture. When I have married Prince Maceo, I will turn you out of this dark roost and clean this house. Saelin does not miss. If this digger has escaped my best assassin, then that young man may very well have the

magic to lead me to the Clock, and its hoard, and then the entire Mercanto will look to me, and I will control what is paid and when. Maceo will be invested within the month, and I shall many him upon the same day. And the Fascini will throw parties just to argue with each other about how and to which of them I am suddenly related, for I will be the queen of Sumifa. Maceo will, of course, come to an unexpected and tragic, though very sudden, death. And you, Raptor, when I have the treasure from the Clock, I will find a way to destroy even you. You will never make me feel common and unimportant again.

Riolla smiled to herself, ruby lips perking at the edges just a little, her eyes unfocused in the darkness. A slow trickle of sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat. Today, as always, she had removed the black pearl before her audience with the Raptor-it was the one thing she could not afford to pay him. She flicked open a flabellum made from the stiff white feathers of an extinct peacock and began to fan herself as the Raptor stopped pacing and finally spoke. His voice was hard and edged like Sumifan steel.

"Riolla, how many foreign diggers do your spies tell you work the site?"

"Three, Raptor. The leader, the linguist, and this young man." Riolla was puzzled by the question.

"And the young man… how old is he?"

"Well, I would guess him to be about his naming year, that is, if he had a name to take up," Riolla replied. Though she couldn't tell exactly why, things seemed to have taken a very bad turn here.

"And Saelin said he is ensorcelled? Magic? When, then? He must be the one. Of course I could not see him. How very, very clever of Javin… but he will pay for such boldness and such cleverness. His time, I believe, will shortly run out," the Raptor muttered to himself. Though Riolla understood none of his ram-blings, she sat listening keenly anyway. Information was information.