Soon it was apparent that the voice had left the window, that its last sentence had been these odd words of assurance.

Assurance, indeed. It would protect him, deliver him.

Then why did his hand still shake?

* * * * *

It was an odd officer who made his way into the quartermaster's offices on the following morning.

His uniform was a ragtag assemblage, mixing rank, regiment and legion with almost a clownish abandon. The lieutenant's tunic from the Istarian Twelfth Legion contrasted strangely with the violet cavalry cape left over from the Ninth Legion, which had been disbanded by the Kingpriest two years before. The green leggings the officer wore had come from the Ergothian infantry and the helmet, fashioned of ornate boiled leather, was a relic from some other time.

A mercenary, the quartermaster deduced, glanc shy;ing over his shoulder as the motley man entered the offices. No man to reckon with. Or cheat.

The quartermaster might have been more curious had he seen the officer emerge from a nearby alley not minutes earlier, rolling the end of the cape around his silver slave collar, effectively hiding it from curious eyes. He might have wondered who the man was, what was his business. And why he wore the mark of a slave in the first place.

Busy with his inventory, the quartermaster noticed nothing more about the man-not even that he spoke not a word to the other soldiers milling through the assembled supplies, but that his hands flashed secretly with ancient Ergothian numerical signs as he counted, tallied, and took his own inven shy;tory of the provisions gathered in the military offices.

The quartermaster scarcely took heed when the officer left, busy as he was with an order for a thou shy;sand pairs of legionnaires' boots and as many water-skins.

Nor did the armorer in the shop three streets away pause to notice when an acrobat entered his estab shy;lishment, dressed in the black tunic of tumblers and fire-dancers. After all, festival performers often came to the armory, searching for old throwing knives, older darts, and other dramatic blunt weapons to lend a certain edge of danger to the torchlit midnight productions. Bent over a used sword he was hammering into shape for a sergeant in the Twelfth Legion, the stocky craftsman did not notice the acrobat's eye stray to the spearheads, arrowheads, and the new short swords requisi shy;tioned by the garrisons of the city.

Had he looked closer at the acrobat, the armorer might have noticed the metal band peeking through the violet ruffle at the performer's neck.

The silver collar was the sign of a Temple slave, and would have caused suspicion and alarm.

The barracks keeper, four streets away, also did not think to be suspicious. He noticed the fortune shy;teller stroll by the barracks, his conical hat tilted comically, his long red robe unable to cover the fact that he was barefoot, no doubt penniless and des shy;perate to augur and forecast his way to a festival meal. When the man stopped in front of the barracks and weaved drunkenly, he appeared to be talking to himself, and the keeper snickered and shook his head, assured by the sighting of his first drunken wizard that the Shinarion was about to begin.

Had he been closer to the fortune-teller, he might have seen the man counting quietly, estimating the beds freshly set in the vacant barracks. And had he watched intently and followed the augurer, he no doubt would have seen the man slip into a shadowy alcove and hoist a large sack, bulging with well-worn clothing, then make his way along half-deserted streets west through the city, past the Banquet Hall and the Welcoming Tower toward the sound of the roaring crowd as the first gladiatorial contest of the festival began.

Had these three servants of the city-quartermas shy;ter, armorer, and barracks keeper-met in a tavern that first festival night, had they compared notes and curious observations over the last several days, they might well have placed together that all three passersby-mercenary, acrobat, and fortune-teller- were exactly the same height, age, and coloring.

Indeed, the Shinarion was a time of commerce and coincidence.

There was one other similar visit in the central city-the last of the four-in a large stable not far from the School of the Games. In the shadowy, musty-smelling barn, a solitary groom mucked out a stall amid the whicker of horses and the buzz of bottle flies. He scarcely noticed when a slave appeared-a dark young man, wearing the white tunic of the Inner Temple.

Balandar's servant, the groom observed dimly, his mind neither on nor off his work.

No doubt the old priest was set to buy another mare.

The young slave nodded to the drowsy man and passed between stalls quietly, as though shopping for horses. The groom left him alone, no more inter shy;ested in his business than the quartermaster, armorer, or barracks keeper had been earlier in the day. Finally, the groom fell asleep over his broom, dreaming of winning a hefty wager at the First Games of Josef Monoculus, and spending it … spending it…

All on beer.

Vincus, meanwhile, moved from stall to stall, looking for anything odd or out of place. Most of the animals were familiar to him:-the roan that belonged to young Trincera, a priestess of Mishakal, the two mares that his master Balandar owned, and

the Kingpriest's half-dozen stallions.

There were others, however, less familiar. Vincus approached one, then another. The great beasts were calm and steady beneath his confident hand, as the young slave quickly checked ears and flanks and teeth.

The brands on the flanks of two geldings clearly indicated that they were the property of merchants from Balifor. Nothing surprising there.

The braided mane of the pony indicated its Tho-radin origins. Vincus smiled to imagine a dwarf rid shy;ing the creature, unsteady in the saddle, cursing and muttering and pulling at his beard.

It was the fourth mount that caught and held the young man's eye. A strong, spirited gray mare, weathered but well tended, stood in the far stall, eyeing Vincus defiantly. An old, long scar creased her withers, and her right flank was pocked with four arrow wounds, healed years ago as well.

As Vincus approached, the mare lowered her head and snorted once, menacingly.

Vincus slowly extended his hand. The slice of apple, an offering of truce, settled the animal's tem shy;per. A bit skittishly, the mare let him stroke her long dark mane, let him examine her flanks and hooves for identifying markings.

Nothing. The horse was unmarked.

Making a soothing, clicking sound, Vincus reached up and opened the mare's mouth. There, on the pink of her inner lip, was the blue tattoo.

The hexagon. Glyph of the Sixth Legion.

Vincus sucked in his breath. The Sixth Legion was the stuff of legends. Istar's finest, a tough, relentless group of veterans trained by Solamnics and schooled in the Siege on Sorcery and in innumerable raids against the ogres. They were noted for their swiftness and endurance …

And utter lack of mercy.

Now they camped on the borders of Kern. At least that was what he had heard in the taverns and the School of the Games-the information he had brought back to Vaananen in their weekly visits.

His thoughts racing, Vincus examined the lip of the black gelding in the adjoining stall, and the chestnut mare near the entrance to the stables. The blue hexagon marked them both.

The Sixth Legion was in Istar.

Quickly the young man's mind rushed over the gatherings of the day. New provisions, new weaponry, and now a horse that named the stranger. The Sixth Legion, under cover of darkness and dis shy;guised as acrobat, dancer, and merchant, had been recalled to Istar.

The Kingpriest was preparing for the rebels.