She knew ghosts when she saw them: this one was a spirit of supernal power, afabled strength, a glossy being of such beauty that tears came to Ischade's eyeswhen it sat down beside Niko, ruffling his hair with a fawn-colored hand.

"I am Abarsis," it smiled in introduction, and she saw the wizard blood there,ancient lineage, and love so strong it made her heart hurt: she'd given up suchoptions as this ghost had thrived on, long ago.

"We need Janni's soul in heaven; it's earned its peace. Give it that, and wewill restore you totally-all you were, all you had... including this northernpair of witches ... this amalgam behind you of all their hate-if, as Niko asks,you show them mercy, then the gods will be well pleased."

"And if not?" This was no place for Ischade-she had no truck with gods or ghostsof dead priests. Damn Tempus, who muddled all the sides and made ridiculousdemands.

"That's done long since," said the ghost, unabashedly reading her mind. "We'rehere for Janni only, and to give a gift for your safekeeping him until we couldtake him home. Now name it, Ischade of Downwind. Choose well."

She wanted only to get out of there, to be whole and well and fighting on herown terms, dealing with her own kind. And before she could say that, or think ofsomething better, Abarsis, one arm around Niko, raised his other hand to her,saying: "It is done. Go with strength and purpose. Life to you, Sister, andeverlasting glory."

And the rest-place went out like a light. The icy stream of colored water, thepillar of fire which aped reality, the snuffling horror at her back which she'dnever truly glimpsed but only felt-and the two fighters, one spirit, one man ofbalance: all were gone as if they'd never been.

She was standing on the dry floor of Tasfalen's house and Haught was tauntingher to come up the stairs.

Mercy, Niko had asked of her. She wondered if she knew, still, what it was andhow to show it to creatures like these.

"Ischade... Mistress, aren't you curious?" Haught was rubbing the ring and shecould feel the feedback of magic twisted, a deadly loop fashioned by a brash andfoolish child.

Temptation made her shift from foot to foot. She was stronger, she could feelit: Niko and his guardian spirit had given her that. She could end them, hereand now-Haught and whatever animated Tasfalen. For, though she hadn't seen himyet, she knew he must be here: the rest-place revelation was like a map, aschematic, a design which fit over human ones. So he was here, reborn, animatedby some power. And Niko had wanted mercy for Roxane....

Two and two fit together with a snap.

Ischade whirled on her heel and fled out the door. For a moment it resisted, buther strength prevailed.

Haught, behind her, came running down the stairs with a shout.

But she was faster: she wrenched the door open, slipped through, and bolted itwith magic from the farther side.

Then, stepping back, Ischade considered mercy in all its meanings: if Tasfalenand Roxane were with Haught, in any stage of being whatsoever, mercy could onlytake one form.

And with strength loaned her from the rest-place of a mystery she didn'tunderstand and under the benediction of the high priest of a god in whom she hadno faith, Ischade began to weave a spell so strong and fast she had no doubtabout it holding.

All about Tasfalen's house she wove the ward-a special one, one that would keepthe house sealed and keep those within locked up until they learned what mercymeant.

When it was over, she realized she had worked her spells in the midst of adownpour which had soaked her to the skin.

Picking up her heavy robes, she headed homeward. Perhaps she should have foundthe Riddler and told him what she'd done. But there were Crit and Strat to thinkof, and she didn't want to think of Strat-who was with Tempus by now, alive ordead.

She wanted to think only of herself for now. She wanted things to be just asthey always had been before. And she wanted to think about mercy, a qualityquite strained and strange, but strengthening, in its way.

In Tasfalen's house, what had been Roxane lay abed in Tasfalen's body, halfconscious, rent in memory and power, a mere fragment knowing only that it wantedto survive.

"Duuu," it mumbled, and tried again to move the lips of a corpse twiceresurrected. "Dusss." And: "Dusssst. Haughttt... dussst."

The ex-slave was rattling windows barred by magic, cursing horrid spells thatcouldn't get outside, but bounced around the comers of the house and back uponhim like ricochets, so that each one was more trouble than it was worth.

Eventually his panic ebbed and he stalked over to the bedside, looking down atthe fish-white pallor of the man who'd brought him here.

Snatched him from somewhere-from elsewhere ... perchance from oblivion. Someoneelse might have been grateful, but Haught was too wise, too angry: he knew thatall witches took their price.

He'd thought to win; he'd lost. He was captive now, captive in a mansion withfine stuffs around him, true. But he was caged like an animal by his formermistress. And he was here only because of Tasfalen.

Nothing else could have done it. So he crouched down, thinking of ways to killthe already-dead, ways to get the Roxane out of Tasfalen, where it was bodilessand weak.

But then he began to listen, to try to understand what the thing on the bed wassaying: "Duuussss, duuussss, duuussss..."

"Dust?" he guessed. "Do you mean dust?"

The eyes of the revivified corpse blinked open, startling him so that he fellback and caught himself on his hands.

"Duuussss," the blue lips said, "on tonnnn."

"Dust. On your... tongue?" Of course. That was it. The dust. It wanted the dust.

Not ordinary dust, Haught realized: the hot dust, the bright dust, the fragmentsof the Nisi Globes of Power. And the corpse was right: the dust was their onlyhope-his as well as... hers.

For the first time, Haught thought about what it meant, being caged with Roxane,the Nisibisi witch-in-man's-body-or what was left of her. If she perished, thosewho held her soul would come for her. And Haught might be embroiled. Entangled.Taken. Swallowed. Absorbed like interest payments.

His skin hompilated: there was enough intelligence in that body to have seen theanswer before he did.

What else was there, he was in no hurry to find out. And he had a long, tryingtask ahead of him: the dust in question must be collected, mote by mote.

It was going to be arduous: the place was full of dust, most of it nonmagical.It might take days, or weeks, or years, to gather enough-especially when he hadno idea how much was enough.

And when he had it, what would he do with it? Give it to the invalid ex-corpse?Or find a way to make use of it himself? He didn't know, but he knew he hadplenty of time to decide. And, since he had nothing better to do, he thought, hemight as well start collecting what dust he could, mote by mote by mote....

The storm pelted Sanctuary with all the fury of affronted gods. Rain sheeted sohard that it punctured skin windows in the Maze; it ran so thick and wild in thegutters that the tunnels filled up and sewers overflowed in the better streetswhile, in the palace, servitors ran with buckets and barrels to place underleaks that were veritable waterfalls.

On the dockside, everything was awash in tide and downpour, which gave Tempusthe perfect opportunity to suggest that Theron, Emperor of Ranke, Brachis, HighPriest, and all the functionaries forget protocol and begin their processionnow, to higher ground and drier quarters.