"What was her information?"

"She is worried about the globes and their owners."

"Globes, owners: plural? Aren't we left with globe, singular, and owner,singular?"

Molin smiled and shrugged as he dragged Hoxa's stool across the room to sitbeside his guest. "I suppose you'd have to ask an owner."

"Why haven't you? You're supposed to be Randal's apprentice."

"Haven't seen our long-eared Hazard since he left to find you sometime afterlast midnight. It seemed young Niko had some sort of relapse."

Tempus put a mild edge on his voice: "I haven't seen Randal in days and I sawNiko just before I came here. He was up and complaining about Jinan. No onementioned any 'relapse'."

"Well, our little mage is a bit naive about these things, chaste and virgin-pureas he is. He saw something he didn't want to see, though, something he called a'relapse', and went running from the room like he'd seen a ghost. You put ittogether, Riddler."

The edge, and some of the confidence, faded from Tempus's voice: "Roxane. Deathdoesn't stop Death's Queen. She reaches me where I cannot defend myself. Hasn'tNiko suffered enough?" he asked a god who no longer listened.

"We never did find Roxane's body, you know. And by your own reports she couldsteal a body as easily as a soul. She pacted with demons that night; she had thepower to slip inside his skull like a whisper-and we'd never know!"

"But Jihan would. She says there's not one iota of Niko that isn't pure. Purepain. I tried to make him hate me once, and he suffered more."

"Damn you, man! He wasn't suffering when I saw him last night," Molin shouted,slamming his fist on the table to get the mercenary's attention. "If Roxanehasn't possessed Niko, then he's calling her back himself with these dreams. Wecould have a serious problem on our hands."

"I'd go to hell itself to set him free of her," Tempus resolved, starting torise from his chair.

"Roxane's not in hell-she's in Niko. In his memories. In his lusts. He'sbringing her back, Riddler. I don't know how but I know what I saw."

"The curse won't have him."

"Which curse? Yours, hers, or his? Or hasn't it occurred to you that Niko lovesthe witch-bitch far better than he loves you?"

"It is enough that he loves me at all."

"Very convenient, Riddler. This Bandaran adept, reeking of moat, brings theworld's own chaos in his wake and it's all because he has the misfortune toadmire you. I suppose you'll tell me Vashanka's gone because he loved you, tooafter his fashion."

"All right," Tempus roared, but he sat down again. "My curse-all mine-on thepeople I love. Does that satisfy you?"

"Well, at least I should be safe from it," Torchholder replied with a smile.

"Don't play games with me, priest. You're not in my league."

"I'm not playing with you; I'm trying to set you free. How many years have youbeen dragging that around with you? You think the universe spins in your navel?The only curse you've got is the arrogance of believing yourself responsible foreverything." It was sudden death to provoke Tempus's wrath- everyone in theRankan Empire knew that-so the priest's audacity left the immortal mercenaryflat-footed and muttering • about magicians, love, and other things that passedthe understanding of ordinary, uncursed, men.

"Let me tell you what I do understand, Riddler. I understand that a curse isonly a threat-a potential. No wizard-no, more than that: no god-can curse adisbelieving man. No acceptance-no curse: it's as simple as that, Tempus Thales.You made some backwater mage's curse a prophecy. You rejected love in all itsforms."

The shock was beginning to wear off; Tempus stiffened, his lips a taut line ofdispleasure across his face. Molin rocked back on the stool until its front legswere off the floor and his shoulders rested against the worktable: a posture sovulnerable it was insolent. "In fact," the priest said amiably, "a mutualacquaintance of ours-the highest authority in these matters, as it were-assuresme that your curse is, shall we say, all in your mind. A bad habit. He says youcould sleep like a babe-in-arms if you wanted to."

"Who?"

"Jinan's father: Stormbringer," Molin concluded with a smile.

"You? Stormbringer?"

"Don't look so surprised." The stool thumped back to its normal alignment withthe floor. "We were both, in a sense, orphans. I..." Molin groped for theappropriate description, "-experience him quite regularly. Now that is a curse.Our paternal ancestor is head-over-heels in lust with the Beysib's MotherGoddess-except they don't have a matching set of heads, heels or whatever."

"Torch, you push me too far," Tempus warned, but the power wasn't there. "TheEmpire's coming back. Vashanka's coming back." His voice was more hopeful thancommanding.

Molin shook his head, tsk-tsk'ing as if he spoke to a child. "Open your eyes,Riddler. Unbelievable as it might seem, the future is here in Sanctuary. There'san empire coming, and a war-god as well, but it won't be Rankan and it won't beVa-shanka. You came here, I imagine, to tell me to toe the line when theimperial ship arrives. Let me make a counter-proposal: Make your commitment toyour son-keep Brachis, Theron, and all Ranke alive only until Sanctuary isready to conquer it."

"You'll see your guts spinning on a windlass for that, priest," Tempus hissed ashe stood up and headed for the door.

"Think it over, Riddler. Sleep on it. You look like you need some sleep."

The big man said nothing as he disappeared into the darkness beyond Molin'sapartments. If he could be brought into line, or so Stormbringer said, theultimate triumph of the Storm-children would be ensured. There were things eventhe primal war-god didn't know, Molin mused as he closed the window, but hemight be right about Tempus.

"I tell you-she's gone mad. She's lost control. She's gathering her dead-but shecan't find them all."

The young man wrung his hands together as he talked; his words slurred and brokein a constant agitation of pain and chronic drunkenness. The fog of his breathin the cold, damp air was enough to intoxicate a sober, living man. Both witchesraised better looking corpses, better smelling ones for that matter, but Mor-amwasn't dead-yet.

"S-She's l-l-lost c-control. S-she's l-l-looking for s-someone to k-k-k-k-" hegasped and coughed his way into incoherence.

Walegrin sighed, poured two-fingers of cheap wine, and slid it across the barrelhead. In a backwater town renowned for its depravity and despair, this one-timehawkmask had drifted beyond the pale. Mor-am needed both white-knuckled hands toget the mug to his lips; even then a dirty stream oozed out the comer of hisruined mouth. The garrison captain looked away and tried not to notice.

"You mean Ischade?" he asked when the wine was gone.

"Seh!" Mor-am's back straightened and his eyes cleared as he uttered the Nisicurse. "Not Her name. Not aloud. S-She's l-l-looking for s-someone to k-k-killsomeone p-powerful. I c-could find out h-his name."

Walegrin said nothing.

"I s-saw Her w-with T-T-Tempus-at m-m-my s-sister's h-h-house. S-She w-w-wasangry."

Walegrin studied the stars overhead.

Mor-am gripped the cup again, throwing his head back, sucking loudly, futilelyon the rim. He made a supreme effort to control his wayward tongue. "I knowother things. She's looking for the witch. Got to have power-have her focusback. I can follow Her-She trusts me."

A flock of the white Beyarl made their way to the palace. A falcon's cry echoedacross the rooftops. The white birds swooped back toward the harbor. Walegrinwatched their slow-circling patterns and Mor-am lurched forward across thebarrel head to grip his wrist with moist, sticky hands.