She clutched his arm; he winced. "Do not offer me a sinecure," she said. "And,consider: I will have you, too, should I stay."

Promise or threat, he was not certain, but he was reasonably sure that he coulddeal with her, either way.

Hanse did not want to be a soldier or a member of the Sacred Band ofTempus, theStepsons, and most especially not a Stepson-in-training or any other dam' thingin-training. He wanted most definitely and most desperately to be Shadowspawn;to be Hanse. That remained elusive. It was a problem, just being. He did notknow that many spent their lives looking for whoever or whatever it was thatthey were or might be, and if he had known it would not have helped a midgeworth. He was Hanse, by Ils! Not Hons or Honz or Hanz; I am Hanse?

The problem was that he was not sure what that meant.

Who was Hanse? What was Hanse?

0 Cudget, if only they had not slain you! You'd have shown me and told me,wouldn't you?

It had used to be so simple. Life was simple. There was the city calledSanctuary, and in it were empty bellies, and some that were full. That wassimple: it described lions (or jackals, but never mind that) and prey. And therewas Cudget Swearoath, and Hanse his apprentice in whom he was well pleased, andthere were the marks-the human sheep. And the shadows, to facilitate theirfleecing.

It was all the world there was or needed be; a microcosm, a thieves' world.

And now! Now there were the Rankans who swaggered and Prince Kadakithis whoreally did not but who ruled, governed; and Tempus-0 ye gods, there was Tempus!and his mercenary friends, who swaggered-and nothing was simple.

Now a god had spoken to Hanse-Hanse!- and then another, and Hanse had ratherthey just kept to themselves. The business of soldiers was killing and thebusiness of Prince-Governors was ruling and killing and the business of gods wasgodding and the business of one smallish dark thief of thieves' world wasthieving.

But now Shadowspawn was agent for gods.

Sword clanged on sword and well-guided blade slid along brilliantly interposedblade with a screech as loud as the grinding of a personal ax. That shrillugliness was punctuated by a grunt chorused from two throats.

"Stopped me again, Stealth," one combatant grunted, stepping back and twitchinghis head sharply to the side. Sweat crept like persistent oil from his black mopunder the blood-red sweat-band and into his eyebrows. He jerked his head to sendit flying; the gesture carried all the constant impatience of youth.

"Barely," the other man said. He was bigger though not much older and in a wayhis face was more boyish than that of his opponent, who had for years cultivateda mean, menacing look he knew made him look older, and dangerous. The bigger manwas fair in contrast to the other. His hair was as if splashed or streaked withsilver so that it was cinerous.

"I own it, Shadowspawn: you are good and you are a natural. Now. Want to work abit from the saddle?" His enthusiasm showed in his face and added bright colorto his voice.

"No."

The one called Stealth waited a moment; the one called Shadowspawn did notembellish on that word which, when spoken flat and unadorned, was one of thefour or five harshest and most unwelcome words in any language.

The man called Stealth masked his disappointment. "All right. How about...your stones, then?"

His last words emerged in a shout as the paler man moved, at speed. His swordwas a silver-gray blur, up-whipping. It rushed on up, too, for the wiry fellowin the dust-colored tunic pounced up and aside, not quite blurring. He simplywas not present to receive the upward cut at the source of progeny he mightproduce, like more bad virus upon the world. The other man arrested his movementto prepare alertly for a counter-stroke.

No counter-stroke was attempted. It did not come. Shadowspawn had quit the game.They looked at each other, the expert teacher called Stealth and the superbstudent he called Shadowspawn.

The latter spoke. "Enough, Niko. I'm weary of the sham."

"Sham? Sham, you weed-sprout? Had you not moved you'd be a candidate for thetemple choir of soprano boys, Hanse!"

Hanse called Shadowspawn smiled little and when he did he smiled small, andoften the smile was a sneer that fitted and mirrored his inner needs. It was asneer now. Still, it was not of disdain or contempt for this member of the socalled Sacred Band, the Stepsons, who had taught him so much. He had been anatural fighter and unusually swift. Now he was a trained one, with knowledgeand ways of combative science that made him even swifter.

"But I did move, Niko; I did move. Tell Tem-pus how I move, you he set to teachme to be a bladesman. And tell him that still I have no desire to be a soldier.No desire to do murder, 'nobly' or no."

Niko stared at him.

Damned... boy, he mused. Oh, but I'm weary of him and his sneers and hissnot. I have known only war. He, who has never known it, dares sneer at it andits practitioners. Neither of us had a father-I because mine was slain-in warwhen I was a child; this posturing backstreet blade-bristling night-thiefbecause his mother and his father were nodding acquaintances at best. Nor wouldI change places with this . . . this little gutter-rat, so happy in hisprovincial ignorance and his total inconsequence. I had rather be a man.

And I have made him a fighter, a real fighter, so that now he swaggers evenmore!

"And look you to keep your valuables 'neath your pillow, Niko. Stealth, for I amshadow-spawned stealth, and have seen even the bed of the Prince-Governor . . .and of Tempus."

Niko of the Stepsons showed nothing and did not respond. Inside, he seethed onlya little. Petty insults were cheap, cheap. As cheap as barely nubile yetexperienced professional girls in the shadowy Maze that spawned this naive youthand served him as nest and den. Niko stepped back a pace, formally. Holding hisblade up before squinting eyes, he turned it for his examination before puttingit away in one swift smooth motion.

The Sanctuarite was not so insolent as to keep his weapon naked in his hand. Hetoo held it out and turned it for inspection at the squint, and took hold of hisscabbard with his right hand, and turned his blade toward himself without evermoving the dark, dark eyes that now gazed at his teacher. And he housed theblade 'neath but not through the hand on its sheath. With pride.

"Nicely done," Niko could not quite help saying.

Not because he felt the need to compliment, or enjoyed it; but because there wasboth edge and gratification in reminding both of them who had taught this wearerof so many blades the maneuver he had just demonstrated.

(A man might draw at an untoward sound or to dispatch an enemy, Niko had toldHanse. And having done, see to the housing of his blade at his side. At thatmoment, while he held scabbard and looked down to see to its filling, he wasvulnerable. It was then the clever maker of the "innocent" noise or the hiddenconfederate of the new-slain man might pounce, and there was an end to sheathingand unsheathing, all at once. Thus a sensible man of weapons learned to bringhis blade up and over and back, its point toward himself, and guide it into itssheath with a waiting off-hand. Meanwhile his eyes remained alert for the suddencharge.

(Yes, Nikodemos called Stealth had taught even that to Hanse. For Tempus owedhim debt, and yet he and Tempus were no longer quite frinds. And so Niko paid asTempus's agent: he trained this wiry, cocky hawk-nose called Hanse.)