"Then, who?" the storyteller frowned.

"That's the mystery," Omat scowled. "The ship was far off, but from what I couldmake out it was unlike any ship I've ever seen, or heard of. What's more-itwasn't following the coast or making for the smuggler's island. It was puttingout straight into the open sea."

"Did you tell this to the authorities?" Hakiem asked.

"The authorities," snorted the fisherman. "Tell them what? That my friends werestolen away by a ghost ship out of legend that sailed off over the horizon intouncharted waters? They would have thought I was drunk, or worse- added me to thecollection of crazies that Kitty-cat's been gathering. I've told them too muchas it is, though I've told you even more. Beware, storyteller, I'd not likelosing another day's fishing because you put my name to one of your yarns andstirred the curiosity of those do-nothing guards."

Hakiem would have liked to inquire further about the "ghost ship out of legend,"but it was apparent he was on the verge of overstaying his welcome. "I tell nostory before I know its end," he assured his glaring host. "And what you've toldme is barely the beginning of a tale. I'll hold my tongue until I've learnedmore, and even then I'll give you the first telling for free in payment for whatyou've given me now."

"Very well," Omat grumbled, "though I'd rather you skipped the tale and bought around of drinks instead."

"A poor man must guard his coinage," Hakiem laughed, rising to go, then hehesitated. "The Old Man's wife... ?" he asked.

Omat's eyelids dropped to half-mast, and there was a wall, suddenly, between thetwo men. "She'll be taken care of. In the Fisherman's Quarter, we look after ourown."

Feeling awkward, the storyteller fished a small pouch of coins from within hisrobes. "Here," he said, setting it on the table. "It isn't much, but I'd like tohelp with what little I can afford."

The pouch sat untouched.

"She'll not take charity from cityfolks."

For a moment the diminutive storyteller swelled to twice his normal appearance."Then you give it to her," he hissed, "or give it to those who are supportingher ... or rub it in a fish barrel until it reeks-" He caught himself, suddenlyaware of the curious stares from the neighboring tables. In a flash the humblestoryteller had returned. "Omat, my friend," he said quietly, "you know me. I amno more of the city than I am a fisherman or a soldier. Don't let an old woman'spride stand between her and a few honest coppers. They'll spend as well as anyother when pushed across the board of a fishstall."

Slowly the fisherman picked up the pouch, then locked eyes with Hakiem. "Why?"

The storyteller shrugged. "The tale of the Old Man and the giant crab has paidme well. I would not like the taste of wine bought with that money while hiswoman was without."

Omat nodded and the purse disappeared from view.

It was dusk when Hakiem emerged from the Wine Barrel. Lengthening shadows hidthe decay he had noticed earlier, though it was also true that his outlook hadimproved after his gift had been accepted. On an impulse, the storytellerdecided to walk along the piers before returning to the Maze.

The rich smells of the ocean filled his nostrils and a slight breeze snatched athis robes as he digested Omat's story. The disappearance of the Old Man and hisson was but the latest in a series of unusual occurrences: the war brewing tothe north; the raid on Jubal's estate; and the disappearance and laterreappearance of both Tempus and One-Thumb-all were like the rumble of distantthunder heralding a tempest of monumental proportions.

Omat had said the storm season was months off, but not all storms were forged bynature. Something was coming, the storyteller could feel it in the air and seeit in the faces of the people on the streets-though he could no more have put aname to it than they could have.

For a few moments he debated making one of his rare visits to a temple, but asalways the sheer number of deities to be worshipped, or appeased, daunted him.With petty jealousies rampant among gods and priests it was better to abstaincompletely than risk choosing wrong.

The same coins he could have given as an offering might also buy a glimpse ofthe future from a bazaar-seer. Of course, their ramblings were often so obscurethat one didn't recognize the truth until after it had happened. With a smuggrin, Hakiem made up his mind. Instead of investing in gods or seers he wouldquest for insight and omen in his own way-staring into a cup of wine.

Quickening his step, the storyteller set his course for the Vulgar Unicorn.

There must be trouble. Saliman had been gone far too long for his mission to begoing smoothly. Some might have had difficulty judging the passage of timeduring the period of time between sundown and sunrise, but not Jubal. His earlyyears as a gladiator in the Rankan capital had included many sleepless nightsbefore arena days, or Blood Days as those in the trade called them; he knew thedarkness intimately. Each phase of the night had its own shade, its own textureand he knew them all ... even with his eyes blurred with sweat and tears of painas they were now.

Too long. Trouble.

The twin thoughts danced in his mind as he tried to focus his concentration, toformulate a contingency plan. If he was right; if he was now alone and woundedwhat could he do? He couldn't travel far pulling himself painfully along theground with his hands. If he encountered one of those who hunted him, or even arandom townsperson with an old grudge, he couldn't defend himself. To fight, aman needed legs, working legs. He knew that from the arena,

too. The oft-repeated words of his arena instructor sprang into his mind,crowding out all other thoughts.

"Move! Move, damn you! Retreat. Attack. Retreat. Circle. Move! If you don'tmove, you're dead. If I don't kill you myself, your next opponent will! Move! Astill fighter's a dead fighter. Now move! move?"

A half-heard sound wrenched Jubal's fevered thoughts back to the present. Hishand dropped to his dagger hilt as he strained to penetrate the darkness withhis erratic vision.

Saliman?

Perhaps. But in his current state he couldn't take any chances. As his ally knewhis exact location, the information could have been forced out of him by Jubal'senemies. Sitting propped against a tree with his legs stretched out before him,Jubal cast about looking for new cover. Not two paces away was a patch of kneehigh weeds. Not much, but enough.

The ex-gladiator allowed himself to fall sideways, catching himself on one handand easing his body the rest of the way to the ground. Then it was reach, pull;reach, pull, slowly making his way towards and finally into the weed patch.Though he used his free hand to maintain his balance, once one of the brokenarrowshafts protruding from his knees scraped along the ground, sending a sheetof red agony through his mind. Still, he kept his silence, though he could feelsweat running off his body.

Reach, pull. Reach.

Safely in the weeds now, he allowed himself to rest. His head sank completely tothe ground. The dagger slid from its scabbard and he held it point down, hidingthe shine of its blade with his forearm. Trembling from the efforts of hismovement, he breathed through his nose to slow and silence his recovery. Inhale.Exhale. Wait.

Two figures appeared, patches of black against deeper black, bracketing the treeagainst which he had recently lain.