"Not into my dreams, damn you!" He took the second mug from the fiend without aflinch, downing it as he had the first.

"More beer? Good beer for the gentleman?" the fiend inquired. "Snapper Jo getsgood beer for the gentleman. Snapper Jo remembers this gentleman, this soldier.Mistress made sure Snapper always remember... Tempus."

Tempus's hands were on Snapper Jo's throat; Molin's were on a long, wickedlyefficient knife but the fiend only smiled. He knotted the muscles in his wartyneck and belched his way to freedom.

"Just where is your Mistress?" Tempus demanded, rubbing his knuckles.

The creature shrugged and crossed its eyes. "Don't know," he admitted. "Snapperwent looking for her. Nice dark lady asked Snapper to look for the Mistress."

"Did Snapper Jo find his Mistress?" Molin asked.

"No, not find. Look everywhere-look in hell itself. Not find. No Mistress!Snapper Jo free!"

The notion overwhelmed Snapper Jo. He hugged himself, trembling with joy, andwent back to the bar without another thought for the two men watching him.

"If we believe him, then she's not dead," Tempus admitted. "If I'd believe afiend," he corrected himself. "Torch, I talked to Niko about all of this. Hesays he's free of her-free like he hasn't been in years. I believe Niko, Torch.There's nothing left of Roxane except memories-and bad habits."

It was Molin's turn to bury his head in his hands. "Niko and the fiend: bothfree of Roxane. Thank you, Riddler-I'll believe the fiend. He says he looked inhell and didn't find her; Ischade sent him to hell looking for Roxane and hedidn't find her there. Now, Niko, I'll wager he not only told you that he wasfree of Roxane but that all our precautions were unnecessary. I'll wager he toldyou that he could take care of the Stormchildren all by himself."

"All right. Torch. We'll tell Niko we're moving the globe and the kids-and thenwe'll watch him. We'll even send a little procession out past the walls to oneof the estates. But by Enlil, Vashanka, Stormbringer, and every other soldier'sgod-you're wrong. Torch. Niko's free of her-she's nothing but nightmares to him.Maybe there's something still after the Stormchildren-or the globe-but notRoxane and not through Niko."

Tempus set his ambush for the night of the next full moon. Walegrin muttered anumber of choice, unreproducible words when half of the garrison was pulled offduty to shovel dirt, patch roofs, and in other ways make a tumble-down estatenorth of the city walls look like the prospective home for what Tempus calledhis "vulnerables." His muted protests erupted into a full-scale tirade when, bynoon of the appointed day, it was clear that any advantage to having the charadeon the night of the full moon would be offset by one of Sanctuary's three-daytorrents.

The palace parade ground was an oozing morass which had already foundered threegood horses-and it was clear sailing compared to any other street, road, orcourtyard. It would be well nigh impossible to get the carriage from the stablesto the gate much less up the slopes to the estate. Walegrin pointed this out toCritias as they huddled down under oiled-leather cloaks and slogged across theparade ground on foot.

"He says, use oxen," Crit replied impassively.

"Where am I supposed to get a team of oxen before sundown?"

"They're being provided."

"And who's going to drive them? Has he thought of that? Oxen aren't horses, youknow."

"You are."

"The bloody hell I am, Critias."

They had reached the comparative shelter of the stable doorway, where the watergushed off the eaves in streams that could, with care, be avoided. Critiasremoved his dripping rain helmet and wrung it out.

"Look, pud," he said, tucking the hat into his belt, "I don't make up theorders. Orders come from the Riddler and your man, Torchholder. Now when thoseoxen get here, you hitch them to the carriage and drive them out to the estate.If they're," he pointed a thumb back toward the palace, "sitting tight withtheir gods, everything will go according to plan-somehow. And if they're notthen you could be the best bloody drover in the world and it wouldn't make awhore's heart's bit of difference."

Thus, some hours after nightfall, Walegrin found himself still in his oiledleathers standing beside the ungainly rumps of a pair of oxen. Randal was slowlymaking his way down the rain-slicked stairs clutching the skull-sized packagecontaining his Nisibisi Globe of Power. The mage wore a ludicrously oldfashioned panoply which hindered his already over-cautious progress. Tempuslooked uncomfortable as he waited under the stone awning with a child tuckedunder each arm.

"Almost there," Randal assured them, glancing back toward the torchlight and, asluck would have it, overbalancing himself just enough to slip down the lastthree steps.

There wasn't a person, living or dead, within Sanctuary who hadn't heard a rumoror two about the witch-globes. Walegrin dropped his torch and lunged for thepackage. His efforts were, however, unnecessary as the package hung politely inmid-air until Randal stumbled to his feet and reclaimed it. The effect was notlost on Walegrin or any of the dozen or so others detailed to escort the oxen-oron Tempus who came down the stairs behind Randal to deposit his silent, unmovingbundles within the ox-cart.

The mage and the mercenary commander exchanged whispers which Walegrin couldn'thear above the sound of the rain. Then Tempus shut the door and came up besideWalegrin.

"You know the route?" he inquired.

Walegrin nodded.

"Then don't move off it. Randal can-take care of the magic regardless but if youwant protection from anything else you stay in sight of the spotters."

With a noncommittal grunt Walegrin loosened the long whip from the bench besidehim and tickled the oxen's noses. Tempus stepped quickly to one side as the cartlurched into motion. The beasts had no halters or reins, responding only to thewhip and the voice of their drover. Walegrin figured he'd try to keep everythingmoving from the driver's bench but he imagined, accurately as it turned out,that he'd be in the mud beside the oxen before they cleared the old Headman'sGate and lumbered onto the nearly deserted Street of Red Lanterns.

"It'll be dawn before we get there," Walegrin cursed when the rightside oxpaused to add its own wastes to the sludge in the street.

But the man-high solid wheels of the cart kept turning and the oxen were asstrong as they were slow and stupid. Straton and a pair of Stepsons joined theprocession where it cleared the last of the huge, stone-walled brothels. Strat,a lantern dangling from the pike he carried in his right hand, brought his bayhorse alongside the ox-cart. Walegrin gripped at a dangling saddle-strap forsome security in the treacherous footing.

It was nearly impossible to keep the torches lit. The men on horseback werehaving a harder time of it than Walegrin and his team. Walegrin watched the muddirectly in front of them and lost track of how many checkpoints or spottersthey had passed. They halted once, when the undergrowth cracked louder than therain, but it was only a family of half-wild pigs. Everyone laughed nervously andWalegrin touched the oxen with his whip again. Another time Strat spottedshadows moving above them on the ridge, but it was only their own men breakingcover.

They had reached the stony trail leading to the estate when the oxen bellowedonce in unison, then sank to their knees. Walegrin dropped the saddle-strap andwent racing back to the cart where his sword was stashed. The horses panicked,rearing up and collapsing as much from the bad footing as from the metallicdrone every man and beast was hearing, feeling, between his ears.