A pair of Stepsons-mercenary special forces whom the prince's marshal, Tempus,commanded-was caught out in the storm, but it could not be said that the weatherkilled one: the team had been investigating uncorroborated reports that awarehouse conveniently situated at a juncture of three major sewers was beingused by an alchemist to concoct and store incendiaries. The surviving partnerguessed that his teammate must have lit a torch, despite the cautions ofresearch: human wastes, flour, sulphur and more had gone in through those nownonexistent doors. Though the problem the team had been dispatched toinvestigate was solved by a con-cussive fireball that threw the second Stepson,Nikodemos, through a window into an intersection, singeing his beard and browsand eyelashes, the young Sacred Band member relived the circumstances leading tohis partner's death repeatedly, agonizing over the possibility that he was toblame throughout the night, alone in the pair's billet. So consumed was he withgrief at the death of his mate, he did not even realize that his friend hadsaved his life: the fireball and ensuing conflagration had blown back the mistand made an oven of the wharfside; Wideway was freed from the vicious fog forhalf its length. He had ridden at a devil's pace out of Sanctuary home to theStepsons' barracks, which once had been a slaver's estate and thus had roomsenough for Tempus to allow his hard won mercenaries the luxury of privacy:ten pairs plus thirty single agents comprised the team'score group-until thisevening past....

Sun was trying to beat back the night, Niko could see it through his window. Hehad not even been able to return with a body. His beloved spirit-twin would bedenied the honor of a hero's fiery bier. He could not cry; he simply sat,huddled, amputated, diminished and cold upon his bed, watching a sunray inch itsway toward one of his sandaled feet.

Thus he did not see Tempus approaching with the first light of day haloing hisjust-bathed form as if he were some god's own avatar, which at times-despite hisbetter judgment-his curse, and his battle with it, forced him to become. Thetall, autumnal figure stooped and peered in the window, sun gilding his yarrowhoney hair and his vast bronze limbs where they were free of his army-issuewoolen chiton. He wore no arms or armor, no cloak or shoes; furrows deepened onhis brow, and a sere frown tightened his willful mouth. Sometimes, theexpression in his long, slitted eyes grew readable: this was such a time. Thepain he was about to face was a pain he had known too well, too often. Itbrought to features not brutal enough by half for their history or professionthe slight, defensive smile which would empty out his eyes. When he could, heknocked. Hearing no reply, he called softly, "Niko?" And again. ...

Having let himself in, he waited for the Stepson, who looked younger than thequarter-century he claimed, to raise his head. He met a gaze as blank as hisown, and bared his teeth.

The youth nodded slowly, made to rise, sank back when Tempus motioned "stay" andjoined him on his wood-framed cot in blessed shadow. Both sat then, silent, asday filled up the room, stealing away their hiding place. Elbows on knees, Nikothanked him for coming. Tempus suggested that under the circumstances a biercould still be made, and funerary games would not be out of order. When he gotno response, the mercenary's commander sighed rattlingly and allowed that hehimself would be honored to perform the rites. He knew how the Sacred Ban-derswho had adopted the war name "Stepsons" revered him. He did not condone orencourage it, but since they had given him their love and were probably doomedto the man for it-even as their original leader, Stepson, called Abarsis, hadbeen doomed-Tempus felt responsible for them. His instructions and his curse hadsent the gelded warrior-priest Abarsis to his death, and such fighters as thesecould not offer loyalty to a lesser man, to a pompous prince or an abstractedcause. Sacred Bands were the mercenaries' elite; this one's history under theSlaughter Priest's command was nearly mythical; Abarsis had brought his mento Tempus before committing suicide in a most honorable fashion, leavingthem as his parting gift-and as his way of ensuring that Tempus could notjust walk away from the god Vashanka's service: Abarsis had been Vashanka'spriest.

Of all the mercenaries Rankan money had enabled Tempus to gather forPrince/Governor Kadakithis, this young recruit was the most singular. There wassomething remarkable about the finely made slate-haired fighter with his quiethazel eyes and his understated manner, something that made it seem perfectlyreasonable that this self-effacing youngster with his clean long limbs and hisquick canny smile had been the right-side partner of a Syrese legend twice hisage for nine years. Tempus would rather have been doing anything else thantrying to give comfort to the bereaved Stepson Nikodemos. Choosing a languageappropriate to philosophy and grief (for Niko was fluent in six tongues, ancientand modern), he asked the youth what was in his heart.

"Gloom," Niko responded in the mercenary-argot, which admitted many tongues, butonly the bolder emotions: pride, anger, insult, de-claratives, imperatives,absolutes.

"Gloom," Tempus agreed in the same linguistic pastiche, yet ventured: "You willsurvive it. We all do."

"Oh, Riddler... I know.... You did, Abarsis did-twice," he took a shiveringbreath; "but it is not easy. I feel so naked. He was... always on my left, ifyou understand me-where you are now."

"Consider me here for the duration, then, Niko."

Niko raised too-bright eyes, slowly shaking his head. "m our spirits' place ofcomfort, where trees and men and life are one, he is still there. How can Irest, when my rest-place holds his ghost? There is no maat left for me . . .doyou know the word?"

Tempus did: balance, equilibrium, the tendency of things to make a pattern, andthat pattern to be discernible, and therefore revivifying. He thought for amoment, gravely, not about Niko's problem, but about a youthful mercenary whospoke offhandedly of adept's refreshments and archmagical meditations, whoroutinely transported his spirit into a mystical realm and was accustomed tomeeting another spirit there. He said at last:" I do not read it ill that yourfriend waits there. Why is it bad, unless you make it so? Maat, if you have hadit, you will find again. With him, you are bound in spirit, not just in flesh.He would be hurt to hurt you, and to see that you are afraid of what once youloved. His spirit will depart your place of relaxation when we put it formallyto rest. Yet you must make a better peace with him, and surmount your fear. Itis well to have a friendly soul waiting at the gate when your time comes around.Surely, you love him still?"

That broke the young Stepson, and Tempus left him curled upon his bed, so thathis sobs need not be silent, and he could heal upon his own.

Outside, leaning against the doorjamb, the planked door carefully closed, Tempusput his fingers to the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. He had surprisedhimself, as well as the boy, offering Niko such far-reaching support. He was notsure he dared to mean it, but he had said it. Niko's team had functioned as theStepsons' ad hoc liaisons, coordinating (but more usually arbitrating disputesamong) the mercenaries and the Hell-Hounds (the Rankan Imperial Elite Guards),the Ilsig regular army and the militia Tempus was trying to covertly make out ofsome carefully-chosen street urchins, slit purses, and sleeves-the real rulersof this overblown slum and the only people who ever knew what was going on inSanctuary, a town which might just become a strategic staging area if war didcome down from the north. As liaisons, both teammates had come to him often foradvice. Part of Niko's workload had been the making of an adequate swordsman outof a certain Ilsig thief named Hanse, to whom Tempus had owed a debt he did notcare to personally discharge. But the young backstreeter, emboldened by his easyearly successes, had proved increasingly irascible and contentious when Nikoaware that Tempus was indebted to Hanse and Kadakithis inexplicably favored thethief-endeavored to lead him far beyond slash-and-thrust infantry tactics intothe subtleties of Niko's own expertise: cavalry strategies, guerrilla tactics,western fighting forms that dispensed with weaponry by accenting surprise,precision, and meditation-honed instinct. Though the thief recognized the valueof what the Stepson offered, his pride made him sneer: he could not admit hisneed to know, would not chance being found wanting, and hid his fear of failurebehind anger. After three months of justifying the value of methods andmechanics the Stepson felt to be self-explanatory (black stomach blood, brightlung blood, or pink foam from the ears indicates a mortal strike; yarrow rootshaved into a wound quells its pain; ginseng, chewed, renews stamina; mandrakein an enemy's stewpot incapacitates a company, monkshood decimates one; green ormoldy hay downs every horse on your opponents' line; cheese wire, the righthandhold, or a knife from behind obviates the need for passwords, protracteddissembling, or forged papers) Niko had turned to Tempus for a decision as towhether instruction must continue. Shadowspawn, called Hanse, was a naturalbladesman, as good as any man wishing to wield a sword for a living needed tobe-on the ground, Niko had said. As far as horsemanship, he had added almostsadly, niceties could not be taught to a cocky novice who spent more timearguing that he would never need to master them than practicing what he wastaught. Similarly, so far as tradecraft went, Hanse's fear of being labelled aStepson-in-training or an apprentice Sacred Bander prevented him fromfraternizing with the squadron during the long evenings when shop-talk andexploits flowed freely, and every man found much to learn. Niko had shrugged,spreading his hands to indicate an end to his report. Throughout it (the longestspeech Tempus had ever heard the Stepson make), Tempus could not fail to markthe disgust so carefully masked, the frustration and the unwillingness to admitdefeat which had hidden in Nikodemos' lowered eyes and blank face. Tempus'decision to pronounce the student Shadowspawn graduated, gift him with a horse,and go on to new business had elicited a subtle inclination of head-anagreement, nothing less-from the youthful and eerily composed junior mercenary.Since then, he had not seen him. And, upon seeing him, he had not asked any ofthe things he had gone there to find out: not one question as to the exactcircumstances of his partner's death, or the nature of the mist which hadravaged the Maze, had passed his lips. Tempus blew out a noisy breath, grunted,then pushed off from where he leaned against the whitewashed barracks wall. Hewould go out to see what headway the band had made with the bier and the games,set for sundown behind the walled estate. He did not need to question the boyfurther, only to listen to his own heart.