The young man began to speak in a rapid, malodorous whisper: "M-Moria's changed.G-G-Got f-friends w-w-who aren't Her f-friends. D-Deads at the P-Peres h-housew-w-who s-should b-b-be in h-hell. T-Taken a 1-1-lover. M-Moria's a th-thief-11-like H-Her. H-He's a m-mage-m-maybe b-b-better th-than H-Her. S-She'll t-ttell you w-w-what e's-"

The captain wrenched his arm away and whistled sharply. A burly soldier emergedfrom the inky doorway where he had been posted.

"Take him to the palace," Walegrin commanded, taking a cloth from a sack at hisfeet and carefully cleaning his hands.

"S-s-she'll know. When I d-d-don't come back. She'll look for me." The exhawkmask's voice was shrill with desperation as he was hoisted to his feet. "Yousaid gold-you said: 'gold for information'."

"It doesn't pay to sell out your family-pud, I thought you'd've learned that bynow," Walegrin replied coldly. "Take him to the palace." He nodded and anothersoldier stepped forward to see that the command was carried out quietly.

Walegrin threw Mor-am's mug into the garbage that lay everywhere in the burnedout, sky-roofed warehouse. It had come this low: Rankan soldiers holding forthin ruins; listening to the ramblings of the city's scum; talking to the dead andthe undead. A delegation was coming from the capital. His orders were to keepSanctuary quiet, to keep it free of surprises and, above all, to keep an ear outfor rumors about the Nisi witch. He rested his hand on his sword hilt and waitedfor the next one.

"He might be right, you know," a voice called from the darkness.

A man separated from the shadows-mounted and armed. He came through a gap in thewalls-the man's head wreathed in shifting moisture, the horse as cool and shinyas a marble statue. Walegrin stood up, his hand remaining on the sword.

"Slow up there," the stranger ordered, swinging his leg over the saddle. "Word'sout you're talking to anybody-even other Rankan soldiers." His words emerged ina plume but the bay horse, though it snorted and shied from the lingering scentof the fire, made no mark on the night air.

"Strat?" Walegrin inquired and received a confirming nod. "Didn't think you cameuptown much these days."

The hawk cried again. Both men glanced up past the charred, skeletal roof-beams,but the sky was empty.

"I was up here the other night at Moria's dinner party." Straton kicked thebroken barrel Mor-am had used for a seat aside and selected another one from therubble. "This place secure?" He glanced around at the gaping walls.

"It's mine."

"He might be worth listening to," Strat said, shrugging a shoulder toward Moram's path.

Walegrin shook his head. "He's drunk, scared, and ready to sell the only oneswho've stood by him. I'm not looking to buy what he's selling."

"Especially scared-especially scared. I'd say he knows something no cheap winecan hide. I've seen the new face Moria's wearing these days; Ischade didn't putit there. I'd talk to him about that-get his confidence. Ease the burden on hismind."

Strat was known to live within the necromancer's curse- and without it, ifcurrent rumor were true. He knew Ischade's household as no other living man knewit. Likewise, he was the Stepson's interrogator-a superb judge of a man'swillingness to talk and the worth of what he said.

"I'll talk to him, then," Walegrin agreed, wishing he had a larger fraction ofMolin's canniness. The Stepson had gotten the upper hand in their conversation.He was sitting, silent and smiling, while Walegrin was sweating. The younger manpondered possibilities and motivations, listened to the lonely hawk, andabandoned all attempts at subtlety. "Strat, you didn't come here to help me domy job with that wrecked hawkmask and it's not safe for a Stepson to be east ofthe processional-so why're you here?"

"Oh, it's about a hawkmask: Jubal." Strat paused, bit an offending fingernail,and spat into the darkness for effect. "He made an agreement with me and I wantyou and yours to honor it."

Walegrin snorted. "Commander-this had better be good. Jubal made an agreementwith the Stepsons?"

"With me," the Stepson said through taut lips. "For peace and quiet. For noconfrontations while Sanctuary has imperial visitors. For business as usual asit used to be. He's pulling back; I'm pulling back. The PFLS will be exposed andwe'll take care of them-permanently. Consider yourself honored that I think weneed your voluntary cooperation."

"What cooperation?" Walegrin snapped. "Are we the ones rampaging through thestreets? Are we running rackets? Strong-arming merchants? Did we turn the townon its ear, then run off to war leaving the locals masquerading in our places?You want to take care of the PFLS-there wouldn't be any PFLS without the highand-bloody-mighty Third Commando and there wouldn't be any Commando without youand yours. Dammit, Commander, I haven't got a headache you didn't cause one wayor another."

Straton sat in stony silence. There'd never been any love lost between theregular army soldiers, enlisted to the service of the Empire, and the elitebands like the Stepsons or the Hell-Hounds, bound only to the interest of thegold that paid them. For Straton and Walegrin, whose orders-keep the peace inSanctuary-were identical and whose positions-military commander-were untenablyidentical, the antagonism was especially acute.

Walegrin, having spent the better part of his life in blind admiration of thelikes of Straton, Critias, or even Tempus, expected the Stepson to blast themout of their conversational impasse. He felt no relief when, after long momentsof staring, enlightenment overcame him: Strat was out of his depth and sinkingfaster than he, himself, was.

"All right," Walegrin began, leaning across the makeshift table, forcing theanger from his voice the way Molin did. "You've got the garrison's voluntarycooperation. What else?"

"We're changing the rules-some of the players won't like it. The PFLS is goingto push-"

Walegrin raised a finger for silence; the hawk's cry rose and fell in a newpattern. "Keep talking," he told the Stepson. "Don't look around-we're beingwatched. Thrush?" he asked the darkness.

"There was one following him-" a voice explained from the shadows behindWalegrin's back. "He's up on the roof over your right shoulder-with a bowthat'll put an arrow through you both. There was another-no weapons that wecould see- came up a bit later. Now the second's seen the first an' he'scircling around."

"Friends of yours?"

"No, I came alone," Strat replied without confidence as a hiss that might havebeen an arrow crossed the open sky above them.

"Let's go," Walegrin ordered, pushing away from the barrel head.

The gods alone might know who had followed Straton, Walegrin thought as hecrouched and ducked into the shadows where Thrusher was waiting for him. EveryStepson had enemies in this part of town and Strat had more than most. He mighteven have enemies who'd kill each other for the privilege of killing him.

Walegrin couldn't indulge in expectant curiosities, though- not with Thrusherpicking a cat's path through the garbage ahead of them. His squads had patroledthese warrens and knew where safe footing lay. He could only follow and hopeStrat had the good sense to do the same. Thrush led them onto the nearbyrooftops in time to see their bow-carying quarry land on the muddy cobblestonesbelow.

"Recognize him?" Walegrin demanded, pointing at the receding silhouette.

"Crit."

Stepsons hunting Stepsons, was it? "After the other one," Walegrin barked atwhichever of his men could hear. There were better ways to get information fromCritias than risking a rooftop confrontation. He turned to follow Thrusher andrealized that Strat hadn't moved since identifying his erstwhile partner.