Thrusher was right-a man could hide in Sanctuary. Walegrin's father had done it,but hiding hadn't improved him any. He'd ended his life reviled in a city thattolerated almost anything, hacked to pieces and cursed by the S'danzo of thebazaar. It was his father's death, and the memory of the curse that hauntedWalegrin's nights.

By rights it wasn't his curse at all, but his father's. The old man was neverwithout a doxy; Rezzel was only the last of a long, anonymous procession ofwomen through Walegrin's childhood. She was a S'danzo beauty, wild evenby their gypsy standards. Her own people foresaw her violent death when sheabandoned them to live four years in the Sanctuary garrison, matchingWalegrin's temper with her own.

Then one night his father got drunk, and more violently jealous than usual. Theyfound Rezzel, what remained of her, with the animal carcasses outside thecharnel house. The S'danzo took back what they had cast out and, by dead ofnight, returned to the garrison. Seven masked, knife-wielding S'danzo carved theliving flesh of his father, and sealed their curses with his blood. They'd foundtwo children, Walegrin and Rez-zei's daughter, Illyra, hiding in the corner.They'd marked them with blood and curses as well.

He'd run away before the sun rose on that night-and was still running. Now hewas running back to Sanctuary.

2

Walegrin patted his horse, ignoring the cloud of dust around them both.Everything, everyone was covered with a fine layer of desert grit; only his hairseemed unaffected, but then it had always been the color of parched straw. He'dled his men safely across the desert to Sanctuary but weariness had settled uponthem like dust and though the end of their travels was in sight, they waited insilence for Thrusher's return.

Walegrin had not dared to enter the city himself. Tall, pale despite the desertsun, his braided hair roughly confined by a bronze band, he was too memorable tobe an advance scout. He was an outlaw as well, wanted by the prince forabandoning the garrison without warning. He had Kilite's pardon, the scrollsstill carefully sealed in his saddlebag, but using it would eventually letKilite know he was still alive. It was better to remain an outlaw.

Hook-nosed, diminutive Thrusher was a man no-one would remember. Able andsingle-minded, he'd never run afoul of the town's dangers nor succumb to itslimited temptations. Walegrin would have a roof over his men's heads bynightfall and more water than they could drink to set before them. Wine too, butWalegrin had almost forgotten the taste of wine.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened, Thrusher appeared on the dunes. Walegrinwaved him safe conduct. He put his heels to his horse and galloped the laststretch of sand. Both man and beast had been cleansed of yellow grit. Walegrinsuppressed a pang of jealousy.

"Ho, Thrush! Do we sleep in town tonight?" one of the other men called.

"With full trenchers and a wench on each knee," Thrusher laughed.

"By the gods, I thought we're bound for Sanctuary, not paradise."

"Paradise enough-if a man's not choosy," Thrusher told them all as he dismountedand made his way to Walegrin.

"You seem satisfied. Is the town that much changed since we left it?" Walegrinasked.

"Yes, that much. You'd think the Nisibisi rode this way. There are moremercenaries in Sanctuary than in Ranke. We'll never be noticed. The usual scumfears to leave the shadows-and if a man knows how to use his sword there's anynumber who'll hire him. Kittycat's gold hasn't been the best for many a monthnow. He's got to rely on a citizen's militia to take up the slack from the HellHounds. Wrigglies-every last one of them: pompous and-"

"What manner of mercenaries?" Walegrin interrupted.

"Sacred Banders," Thrusher admitted with noticible reluctance.

"Vashanka's bastards. How many? And who leads them-if they're led by a man?"

"Couldn't say how many; they camp Downwind. Banders're worse than Hounds; ahandful of 'em's worse than a plague. Some say they belong to the Prince nowthat their priest's dead. Most say it's Tempus at the root of it. They train forthe Nisibisi, but Tempus is building a new fortress Downwind."

Walegrin looked away. He had no quarrel with Tempus Thales. True, he wasinclined to arrogance, sadism and he was treachery incarnate, but he moved inthe elite circles of power and, as such, Walegrin could only admire him. Likeeveryone else he had heard the Tempus-tales of self-healing and psuedo-divinity;he professed to doubt them-but had Tempus gone in search of Enlibar steel, noone would have dared stand in his way.

"They call themselves Stepson-or something like that," Thrusher continued."They're all in Jubal's turf; and neither hide nor hair of Jubal seen these lastmonths. No hawkmasks on the streets either, 'cept the ones found nailed to postshere and there."

"Sacred Banders; Stepsons; Whoresons." Walegrin shared the prejudices of most inthe Imperial army towards any elite, separate group. Sanctuary had been thedead-end of the world as long as anyone could remember. No right-thinking Rankancitizen passed time there. It boded ill if Sanctuary had become home to not onlyTempus but a contingent of Sacred Banders as well. The Empire was in worse shapethan anyone thought.

What was bad for Sanctuary and all of Ranke, though, was not necessarily bad forthe re-discoverer of Enlibar steel. With luck Walegrin would find good men intown, or good gold, or simply enough activity to hide behind. But wheneverWalegrin thought of luck he thought of the S'danzo. They had marked him for illfortune: if he had good luck it could have been better and when his luck turnedsour, the less said about it the better.

"What about that house I asked you about?" Walegrin asked after the conversationhad lulled a moment.

The scout was relieved to speak of something else. "No trouble-it wasn't hidden,though no-one knew much about it. Right off the Street of Armorers, like yousaid it'd be. This metal-master, Balustrus, he must be a pretty strange fellow.Everyone thought he'd died until the Torch-" Thrusher stopped abruptly, slappinghimself on the forehead.

"-Gods takes take me for an idiot! Nothing is the same in Sanctuary; the godshave discovered it! Vashanka's name was blasted from the pantheon over thepalace gate. Vashanka! Sacred Band's Storm God burned clean. The stone steamedfor a day and a night. The god himself appeared in the sky-and Azyuna, too."

"Wrigglies? Magicians? Were the Whoresons involved?" Walegrin asked, but withoutinterrupting the flow of Thrusher's theological gossip.

"The Torch himself was nearly killed. Some say a new god's been born to theFirst Consort and the War of Cataclysm's begun. Officially the priests areblaming everything on the Nisibisi- and not saying why the Nisibisi would wagemagical war in Sanctuary. The Wrigglies say it's the awakening of Ils ThousandEyes. And the mages don't say much of anything because half of them're dead andthe rest hiding. The local doomsayers're making fortunes.

"But our Prince Kittycat, bless his empty, little head, had an idea. He marchesout on his balcony and proclaims that Vashanka is angry because Sanctuary doesnot show proper respect to his consort and her child and that he has blasted hisown name off the pantheon rather than be associated with the town. Then Kittycatproclaims a tax on every tavern-a copper a tot-and says he's going to make anoffering to Vashanka. Sanctuary will apologize by ringing a new bell!"

Walegrin empathized with Sanctuary's naive, blundering young governor. Actuallyhis idea wasn't bad; much better than involving the mageguild or setting theWrigglies against the outnumbered Rankans. That was Kittycat's problem; hisideas weren't half bad, but he wasn't even half the man it would take to havepeople listen to them without laughing.