He deserved thanks, by the gods. He deserved something besides a partner tryingto murder him.

Come on, Crit, dammit. Not a sound in the straw, not a move.

He turned around and looked. Crit was not there at all; had gone-somewhere.Upstairs again, maybe. Maybe to pass an order.

Straton turned and flung the blanket on the bay, stroked its shoulder. The horsebent its head back and delicately nipped at his sleeve, nosed his ribs. He flunghis arms about its neck, which indignity the bay protested by backing andfidgeting; gave the warm neck a hug and a slap and tried to stop the stingingof his eyes and the pain in his heart by holding onto something that simplyloved him.

She loved him that way. Supported him. Helped him. Never contested with him forcredit for this or credit for that, handed it all into his lap with a whispered:But I don't want that, Strat. You're the mind behind it, you tell me what youneed. I do it for your sake. No other in all the world. Yours is the onlyjudgment in the world I trust more than my own. You're the only man I've evertrusted. The only one, ever.

She was quiet, was safety, she understood what he needed and when he needed it.She was the only woman who knew him the way Crit had known him; knew what hedid, knew he was the Stepsons' interrogator, unraveled his own pretense thatcruelty gave him no sexual thrill at all: took the body-knowledge which was hisskill at interrogation and at lovcmaking and bent him round again till he couldsee the torment he inflicted on himself, inner war against his ownsensibilities. She took all these things and knit them up and let him turngentle and sentimental with her, which was his deepest, darkest secret- it wasthis fragile, inner self she got to, which Crit rarely had. That he coulddeliver himself to her inside and out, and sleep in her arms in a way he neverslept with his lovers-not without an eye and an ear alert, somehow-alert in theway a cynic never sleeps, never trusts, never hopes. Ischade's embrace was adrug, the gaze of her eyes a well in which Straton the Stepson became Strat theman, the young man, Strat the wise and the brave-

Strat the fool to Crit. Strat the traitor to Tempus. Strat the butcher toeveryone else he knew.

He flung the saddle up and the bay which was her gift stood quietly while Crit'sdamn sorrel kicked a stall to ruin and Crit did not come to see to the animal.

He checked the bridle and turned the bay and led it out into the stable aisle,from there to the door.

Perhaps Crit would be waiting there, having known his chances slipping up onhim. Perhaps it would be one fast bolt through the ribs and never a chance atall to tell Crit he was a fool and a blackguard.

Strat leapt up to the bay's back and ducked his head, sending the bay flying outthat door with a powerful drive of its hindquarters. If a bolt flew past henever saw it. The bay scrabbled for a tight turn on the dirt of the little yardand lit out down the cobbles of the alley, never pausing until he reined it to awalk a block away.

Where he was going he had no idea. Stay away, Ischade had said. He had believedher then, the way he believed implicitly when she spoke in that tone to him,that it was something she understood and he did not. It was something to do withRoxane. It was something that brought a wildness to her eyes and meant hazard toher; but it was a witch-matter, not his kind of dealing. Nothing he could helpher with. And he and Ischade had the kind of understanding he had once withCrit, an understanding he had never looked to have with any woman: an unspokenagreement of personal competencies. Witchery was hers. The command of the citywas his. And he would not go there tonight, though that was where every bone inhim ached to go, to reassure himself that she was well, and that it was not somemisapprehension between them that had driven her away. Things had changed. Critbeing back, and Tempus-gods knew what was in her mind.

If this visitor makes an end to what is-was-between us-

It's yours to say-

His to say. His to say, by accepting her command to stay away tonight? or bydefying it?-He suspected one and then the other with equal force; he agonizedover it and called up every nuance of her voice and body and behavior over weeksand months, trying to know what she had meant, whether it was keeping thatunspoken pact with her inviolate or defying it and risking (he sensed) his lifeto pass those wards tonight- that would cancel that doubt he had felt in her. Orconfirm it.

Damn Crit. Damn Tempus's coming now, late, when he had everything virtually inhand. Damn their arrival that suddenly undermined everything he had built andpoisoned the air between himself and Ischade, the only (he suddenly conceived ofit as such), the only unselfish passion he had ever owned, the only peace he hadever conceived of having in the world.

The bay horse picked up its pace again, moved with astonishing quiet over thecobbles and down the long street where the scars of factional violence stilllingered.

Factions and powers. He waked suddenly, as if he had been numb since Ischadeflung him at Crit and Crit flung him away again. He heard Ischade's voicewhispering in his brain: The only man-the only one who understands how fragilethings are-

The only one who stands a chance of holding this city-

The only one who might make something of it yet-truer than the weakling prince,truer than priests and commanders who serve other powers-

You're the only hope I have, the only hope this city has of being more than theend of empire-

You might not have their love, Strat, but you have their respect. They knowyou're an honest man. They know you've always fought for this town. Even llsigisknow that. And they respect you if nothing else of Ranke-

-llsigis! he had laughed.

You are the city's champion. The city's savior. Believe me, Straton, there is noother man could walk the line you've walked, and no other Rankan they knowfights for this town.

... They respect you if nothing else ofRanke.

Tempus counted him a failure. Tempus arrived in the midst of Roxane's deaththroes and laid that chaos to his account.

Let Tempus see the truth, let Tempus see that he could pull strings in this web,let him hand peace with the factions to Tempus and let Tempus deal with gods:Tempus was not inclined to tie himself down to one town, one place; Crit loathedthe place-but one of Tempus's men next in line, one of Tem-pus's trusted mencould find that answer to everything he wanted.

Ischade and Sanctuary.

There had been disturbance downstairs, a door had opened, and Moria hugged thequilts to her in her lonely bed, lay hardly daring to lift her head. The wholenight was terrifying with thunders, with the fitful, fretful character of a skywhich promised no rain and perhaps the renewed warfare of witches. Her with theNisi witch. The full scope of disasters possible in that eluded gutter-bomMoria; Moria the elegant, the beautiful, curled into a fetal ball in the softdown comforters and the satin and the lace of the mansion Ischade provided Hermost pampered (and hitherto least used) servant. But the depth ofMoria'simagination was better than most-who had seen the dead raised, the fires blazeabout Ischade and pass harmless to her- but not to others. And she had everyIlsigi's reason for terror- a dead man had turned up one morning, outside hervery door: the skies arced lightnings overhead, terrible storms hauntedSanctuary nights, and there were wails and scratchings round about the houseand the shutters, thumps in the pantry and the basement which sent eventhe hardened staff shrieking down the halls in terror of ghosts and haunts-amurdered man had lived here; he manifested in the basement all wrapped in hisshroud, to Cook's abject terror and the ruin of a whole jug of summer pickles.A ghostly child sported in the hall of nights and once Moria had wakened to thedistinct and most horrible feeling that something had depressed a body-shapednest on the feather-mattress beside her. (For that, she had sent aterrified message to Ischade, and the manifestations abruptly stopped.) Ifthat were not enough, there were pitched battles in the streets downhill,fires, maimed men carried past in blood-soaked litters-a fiend had rampagedthrough the house of the very Beysib lady Moria had visited on Ischade's orders,and Moria knew all too much about the Harka Bey and their dreadful snakes andtheir way of dealing with people who brought harm to one of their own. Shefeared jars, jugs, and closets of late; she feared packages and basketsbrought in from market (on those days market functioned): she wassure that some viper might lurk there, some Beysib horror come to findIschade's helpless agent in some moment that Ischade was elsewhere occupied-theMistress would take a terrible vengeance for such an attack: Moria believedthat implicitly; but it was also possible that Moria would be dead and unableto appreciate it.