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It was a measure of the decline in Sanctuary's fortunes that the scriptorium ofMaster Melilot occupied a prime location fronting on Governor's Walk. Thenobleman whose grandfather had caused a fine family mansion to be erected on thesite had wasted his substance in gambling, and at last was reduced to eking outhis days in genteel drunkenness in an improvised fourth storey of wattle anddaub, laid out across the original roof, while downstairs Melilot installed hisincreasingly large staff and went into the book - as well as the epistlebusiness. On hot days the stench from the bindery, where size was boiled andleather embossed, bid fair to match the reek around Shambles Cross.

Not all fortunes, be it understood, were declining. Melilot's was an instance.Then years earlier he had owned nothing but his clothing and a scribe'scompendium; then he worked in the open air, or huddled under some tolerantmerchant's awning, and his customers were confined to poor litigants from out oftown who needed a written summary of their case before appearing in the Hall ofJustice, or suspicious illiterate purchasers of goods from visiting traders whowanted written guarantees of quality.

On a never-to-be-forgotten day, a foolish man instructed him to write downmatter relevant to a lawsuit then in progress, which would assuredly haveconvinced the judge, had it been produced without the opposition being warned.Melilot realized that, and made an extra copy. He was richly rewarded.

Now, as well as carrying on the scribe's profession - by proxy, mostly - hespecialized in forgery, blackmail, and mistranslation. He was exactly the sortof employer Jarveena of Forgotten Holt had been hoping for when she arrived,particularly since his condition, which might be guessed at from his beardlessface and roly-poly fatness, made him indifferent to the age or appearance of hisemployees.

The services offered by the scriptorium, and the name of its proprietor, wereclearly described in half a dozen languages and three distinct modes of writingon the stone face of the building, a window and a door of which had been knockedinto one large entry (at some risk to the stability of the upper floors) so thatclients might wait under cover until someone who understood the language theyrequired was available.

Jarveena read and wrote her native tongue well: Yenized. That was why Melilothad agreed to hire her. No competing service in Sanctuary could offer so manylanguages now. But two months might go by - indeed, they had just done so without a single customer's asking for a translation into or from Yenized, whichmade her pretty much of a status symbol. She was industriously struggling withRankene, the courtly version of the common dialect, because merchants liked tolet it be thought their goods were respectable enough for sale to the nobilityeven if they had come ashore by night from Scavengers' Island, and she wasmaking good headway with the quotidian street-talk in which the poorer clientswanted depositions of evidence or contracts of sale made out. Nonetheless shewas still obliged to take on menial tasks to fill her time.

It was noon, and another such task was due.

Plainly, it was of little use relying on inscriptions to reach those who weremost in need of a scribe's assistance; accordingly Melilot maintained a squad ofsmall boys with peculiarly sweet and piercing voices, who paraded up and downthe nearby streets advertising his service by shouting, wheedling, and sometimesbegging. It was a tiring occupation, and the children frequently grew hoarse.Thrice a day, therefore, someone was commanded to deliver them a nourishingsnack of bread and cheese and a drink made of honey, water, a little wine orstrong ale, and assorted spices. Since her engagement, Jarveena had been leastoften involved in other duties when the time for this one arrived. Hence she wason the street, distributing Melilot's bounty, when an officer whom she knew byname and sight turned up, acting in a most peculiar manner. He was Captain AyeGophlan, from the guardpost at the corner of Processional Way.

He scarcely noticed her as he went by, but that was less than surprising. Shelooked very much like a boy herself - more so, if anything, than the chubbycheeked blond urchin she was issuing rations to. When Melilot took her on shehad been in rags, and he had insisted on buying her new clothes of which,inevitably, the price would be docked from her miniscule commission on the workshe did. She didn't care. She only insisted in turn that she be allowed tochoose her garb: a short-sleeved leather jerkin cross-laced up the front;breeches to mid-calf; boots to tuck the breeches into, a baldric on which tohang her scribe's compendium with its reed-pens and ink-block and water-pot andsharpening knife and rolls of rough reed-paper; and a cloak to double ascovering at night. She had a silver pin for it - her only treasure.

Melilot had laughed, thinking he understood. He owned a pretty girl a year shyof the fifteen Jarveena admitted to, who customarily boxed the ears of his boyapprentices when they waylaid her in a dark passageway to steal a kiss, and thatwas unusual enough to demand explanation.

But that had nothing to do with it. No more did the fact that with her tannedskin, thin build, close-cropped black hair, and many visible scars, she scarcelyresembled a girl regardless of her costume. There were plenty of ruffians - someof noble blood -who were totally indifferent to the sex of the youngsters theyraped.

Besides, to Jarveena such experiences were survivable; had they not been, shewould not have reached Sanctuary. So she no longer feared them.

But they made her deeply - bitterly - angry. And someday one who deserved heranger more than any was going to pay for one at least of his countless crimes.She had sworn so ... but she had been only nine then, and with the passage oftime the chance of vengeance grew more and more remote. Now she scarcelybelieved in it. Sometimes she dreamed of doing to another what had been done toher, and woke moaning with shame, and she could not explain why to the otherapprentice scribes sharing the dormitory that once had been the bedroom of thenoble who now snored and vomited and groaned and snored under a shelter fitrather for hogs than humans the wrong side of his magnificently painted ceiling.

She regretted that. She liked most other companions; some were from respectablefamilies, for there were no schools here apart from temple schools whose priestshad the bad habit of stuffing children's heads with myth and legend as thoughthey were to live in a world of make-believe instead of fending for themselves.Without learning to read and write at least their own language they would be atrisk of cheating by every smart operator in the city. But how could she befriendthose who had led soft, secure lives, who at the advanced age of fifteen orsixteen had never yet had to scrape a living from gutters and garbage piles?

Captain Aye-Gophlan was in mufti. Or thought.he was. He was by no means so richas to be able to afford clothing apart from his uniforms, of which it wascompulsory for the guards to own several - this one for the Emperor'sbirthday, that one for the feast of the regiment's patron deity, anotherfor day-watch duty, yet another for night-watch duty, another for funeraldrill... The common soldiers were luckier. If they failed in their attire,the officers were blamed for stinginess. But how long was it since there hadbeen enough caravans through here for the guard to keep up the fineryrequired of them out of bribes? Times indeed were hard when the best disguise anofficer on private business could contrive was a plum-blue overcloak with a holein it exactly where his crotch-armour could glint through.