"And is that the whole of it. Commander?" Crit asked laconically, as if the taskwere simple, not a death sentence or an invitation to mutiny.

Crit saw even Jihan's feral eyes go wide. The Froth Daughter, achinglyattractive to a fighter with her form clothed in scale armor shining like thedusk, looked between the two men and whispered something to the Riddler, thenlooked back at Crit.

The long-eyed Riddler did not, just stroked his gray's arched neck. "It'senough," replied the man Crit served and often had thought he'd die to please.

That evening, later, riding alone through the Common Gate in search of Straton,Critias was^ no longer so sure that an honorable death would be a privilege-notwhen it was here.

Sanctuary hadn't changed, or if it had, the change was for the worse. There werecheckpoints everywhere and Crit had to bully his way through two of them beforefinding a soldier he knew-someone who had an armband he could commandeer.

By then he'd skirted the palace, green-walled because some sort of fungus ormoss was growing there, and entered the Bazaar where illicit drugs, girls andboys, and even lives were hawked openly in twisting streets.

His back unguarded, his sorrel spooked and dancing, he was heading for the Maze,a deeper slum than this one, against his better judgment because he didn't wantto look for Strat where his erstwhile partner probably could be found-lying inwith the vampire woman who held sway in Shambles Cross and used the White Foalto dispose of victims.

From between two produce stalls Critias heard a hiss and a low whistle-oldnorthern recognition signs. Adjusting the armband (a dirty rainbow of clothspecked with long-dried blood), he looked about: to his right was a fortuneteller's tent-a S'danzo girl, Illyra, worked there. He saw her standing in thedoor.

They'd never met, yet she waved-a hesitant gesture, part warding sign, partblessing.

The last thing Crit wanted was his fortune told: he could feel it in his pouch,where amulets grew heavy; on his neck, where hairs stood on end; in his gut,which had frozen solid when Tempus had calmly ordered him to his death on aflimsy pretext. Crit had never thought the Riddler'd held a grudge about hisdaughter and her miscarried child. But there was no other reason to sendStepsons up against a witch like Roxane.

Was that, then, what Abarsis had come to say to him? That it was time a few moreSacred Banders made their way to heaven? Was Abarsis lonely for his boys? BeforeTempus had led the Band, Crit had fought for the Slaughter Priest. But in thosedays Abarsis had been of flesh and blood, even if obsessed with tasks done forthe gods.

"Psst! Crit! Here!"

Between the stalls, opposite the fortune-teller's tent, were too many shadows.Crit sat his horse, arm crooked over his pommel, and waited, watching where hismount's ears pricked like dowsing rods.

Out from the gloom came a hand, white and long-a woman's, despite the leatherbracer.

Crit squeezed with his right knee and the sorrel ambled forward-one pace, two.Then he said, "Hello, Kama. What's that you've got there, friend or captive?"

Beside the woman half in shadow was a waif-a flat-faced boy with almond eyes andscruffy beard who wore a black rag bound across his brow.

The boy didn't matter; the woman, crossbow pointed half to port so that itsflight would skewer Crit's belly if she pulled its trigger mechanism back,mattered more than Crit liked.

Tempus's daughter laughed the throaty laugh that had gotten Crit in trouble longago. "Looking for someone?" Kama never answered stupid questions. She was assharp as her father, in her way. But not as ethical.

"Strat," he said simply, to make things clear.

"Our 'acting' military governor, now that Kadakithis lies abed with Beysibs? Theleader of the militias and their councils? The vampire's fancy man? You know theway-down on the White Foal. But do take an unfortunate or two to appease herhunger-for old time's sake, I'll warn you."

Crit didn't react to Kama's acid comments on Strat's faring-for all he knew, itmight be true; and he'd never show her she could still reach him, let alone hurthim. He said, "How about this pud you've got here? Will he do?" For the signs ofsomething intimate between the woman and the street tough were clear to see-hipsbrushed, though Kama held the crossbow; whispers went back and forth throughmotionless lips.

And the youth was armed-slingshot on one wrist, dagger at his hip. The slingshotwas arrogantly aimed at Crit's eyes by the time Kama said, "Don't make themistake of thinking you understand what you're seeing, fighter. You'll needhelp. If you're smart, you'll remember where and how to get it- Strat's part ofSanctuary's problem, not its solution."

Everyone found comfort where they could in wartime, and Sanctuary was war'swomb, a microcosm of every horror man could foist upon his brother-worse nowwith factions holding checkpoints and militias ruling blocks whose inhabitantswere never certain. The idea of Strat being a part of Sanctuary's problem nearlymade him draw his own bow-Crit knew Kama well enough to know, if quarrels wereloosed, his would find its mark first: her woman's hesitation would be her last.

And he might have, right then, no matter what her provenance, but for the pudwho didn't know him and didn't like any northern rider, especially one talkingto his girlfriend. The slingshot grew taut, the boy's eyes steady as his stancewidened.

So there was that-a deadly interval of stalemate broken only when a drunkcaromed off a nearby doorway and knelt down, retching in the street.

Then Crit cleared his throat and said, "If you're still a member of theStepsons, woman, I'll want you at the White Foal bridge two hours before dawn.Spread the word among the Third Commando, too; I'll need some backup on this-(/the Third's still led by Sync, and if he's not succumbed to Sanctuary's blight,I should be able to expect it."

"Old debts? Words of honor?" Kama rejoined. "Honor's cheap in thieves' world.Cheapest this season, when everyone has a power play to field."

"Will you take my message, soldier?" He gave her what she wanted-recognition,though he'd rather call her whore and take her over bended knee.

"For you, Crit? Anything." Teeth flashed, a chuckle sounded, and he heard hermutter, "Zip, relax; he's one of us," and the youth behind her grumbled a replybefore he slouched against a daub-and-wattle wall. "Before the break of daywe'll be there.... How many would that be you'll need?"

And Crit realized he didn't know. He hadn't a plan or a glimmer. What would ittake to wrest the Globe of Power from Roxane, the Nisibisi witch? "Randal'llknow-if he's still our warrior mage. Don't ask questions woman-not here. Youknow better. And Niko, find him-"

"Seh," the young tough behind her swore. 'This one's walking wounded, Kama.Niko? Why not ask the-"

"Zip. Hush." The woman stepped out a pace from shadows, smiling like her fathera show of teeth with no humor in it. "Critias... friend, you've been away toolong, doing what high-bom officers do in Rankan cities. If not for... pastmistakes ... I'd ride with you and explain. But you'll find out enough, soonenough, from your beloved partner. As for Niko, if you want him, he's in thepalace these days, playing nursemaid to kids the priesthood loves."

Before he could escalate from shock to anger, before he thought to move hishorse in tight and take her by the throat and shake her for playing women'sgames when so much was on the line, she melted back into her shadows and therewas a grating sound, followed by scrabbling, a square of light that came andwent, and when his horse danced forward, both Kama and the boy called Zip weregone-if they'd ever been there.