Zaibar bristled and glared angrily as a passerby jostled his back, nearly dumping his lunch off his lap and over the edge of the wharf where he sat. The Hell-Hound's annoyance went unnoticed, however; the pedestrian continued on his way without a backward glance, picking his way through the crowds. Letting his tight-lipped frown soften into a twisted grimace, Zaibar shook his head with an inward sigh.

He'd have to find another place to eat his lunch in the future if he wanted any peace and quiet during his midday break. It used to be that the wharves were nearly deserted during the day between the time that the fishermen went out with the morning tide and the afternoon when they returned. Now there were trade ships arriving from the Beysib Empire loaded with goods, merchandise as often as not hawked directly from the boats, and the bargain hunters they drew were no different from the noisy, haggling crowds in the Bazaar proper.

Normally, Zaibar avoided tracking, much less participating in, the politics that seemed to thrive in Sanctuary like slime in a stagnant pond, preferring instead the narrow view of a career soldier. By that view, he simply followed his orders without concerning himself with the motivations or machinations of those who issued them. Lately, though, there seemed to be things afoot which affected him directly to a point where he could not purge them from his mind, or avoid speculating on their cause and effect.

One such thing was the town's growing prosperity. Apparently the Beysibs-in-exile who had taken up residence in Sanctuary were approaching some kind of peace or understanding with the powers-that-were in their old homeland. In any case, trade was beginning to develop with Sanctuary as the main port. That, coupled with the new construction (which required constant appraising and reappraising of one's habitual routes through town), was bringing money and jobs into Sanctuary at levels unheard-of when Zaibar first arrived here escorting Prince Kadakithis. Of course, prices on everything from food to women were going through the roof, at a rate that was rapidly outstripping his meager soldier's pay.

Even more noteworthy, however, was what was going on with the Rankan Empire itself, the authority to which the Hell-Hound was ultimately accountable for his actions-

Zaibar had been assigned to Kadakithis, and since that time had received his orders from the local power structure. The chain of command in Sanctuary had become incredibly convoluted over the years, though, with some units answerable only to faceless players in the capital itself, bypassing the prince's authority, and it had all but collapsed completely when Theron murdered his way to the Empire's throne. Now the Empire was in trouble to a degree that it was impossible to ignore, even for those such as Zaibar who would prefer to leave politics to others.

The Hell-Hound shook his head again, remembering with no small measure of disbelief the last briefing he had attended.

The big news of the briefing was that Theron was recalling the Rankan 3rd Commando and the remaining elements of the Stepsons back to the capital "for reassignment to assist in suppressing the civil disorder within the Empire." Even more surprising to Zaibar was the discussion which followed the announcement.

Rather than working out the details of how to effectively police the city in the face of this sudden loss of manpower, the meeting degenerated into an argument as to whether or not the units in question would comply with the Emperor's orders! Even now, there was little sign of them even going through the motions of preparing to leave.

To a career soldier like Zaibar, this was unthinkable ... and a far more chilling commentary on the Emperor's fading power than any idle street or barracks gossip. Once this door was open in his mind, countless little observations and oddities flooded through, turning his thoughts and speculations onto paths normally shunned.

He knew it had been some time since a tribute caravan had been sent from Sanctuary to the capital, as there had been no call for guards for such an expedition. Originally he had shrugged this off, thinking that perhaps the Empire had authorized that the extra tax monies be spent on the new construction in town. Now he wondered if the prince had simply decided to withhold the monies. If Ranke was unable to even collect taxes ...

This had come to a head when someone in the barracks had speculated that the units being recalled were actually going to return as a tax-collecting force. This was, of course, pooh-poohed by the other soldiers. If that was to be the new assignment, then why not give them their instructions while they were still here rather than having them travel all the way to the capital?

No, every indication was that the Empire itself was in dire straits, and in its desperation was turning its back on Sanctuary ... cutting it adrift while it tried to muster its strength and forces elsewhere. With the exception of a few isolated households who were conspicuously noisy in their loyalty and preference to all things Rankan, the Empire's influence was all but gone from Sanctuary ... and the recall of the troops was simply a final, confirming gesture.

It was with no small surprise that Zaibar realized that he no longer thought of the prince ... or himself ... as being Rankan. They had been absorbed into the permanent structure of this strangely addicting town. Sanctuary was their home now, and as much a part of them as they were a part of it. Ranke was just a name, at best annoying when it couldn't be ignored ... and it was getting easier to ignore it.

Realizing he was dawdling with his thoughts rather than eating or returning to duty, Zaibar rose and threw the uneaten portion of his lunch into the water. The scraps rippled the steel-grey water which reflected the blanket of clouds above.

Peace and prosperity had come to Sanctuary, the Hell-Hound thought, but it was like the indeterminate cloud cover which hung over the city. Would the sun burn through and bathe the town with warmth and light, or would the clouds thicken and darken into a storm?

A soldier could only watch and wait ... and adapt.

Hanse believes in very little and perhaps nothing. Therefore he's always ready for anything, particularly the unexpected. It's a trait that has served him well. Because he has to be a pragmatist. Shadowspawn is a pragmatist.-Strick

Wisdom is the ability to believe only what you have to.-the Eye

Shadowspawn ranged through Sanctuary like a hungry tiger on the prowl.

His real name was Hanse and Hanse was mad. Better put, he was angry, but he was mad, too, in a manner of speaking: mad with anger. Shadowspawn was hardly the first or the last person to be driven into a sort of madness by anger. He had done heroic deeds: he had broken into the manse of that sorcerer and stolen the earring that saved Nadeesh's life and enabled Strick to buy the Vulgar Unicorn from the old physician. And then by all gods, by the will of Injustice Himself-that evil gnomish dwarf who was left hand of ever-fickle Lady Chance-the heroic Hanse had been hit by a stagger spell, punched by three big toughs, drugged, bound, gagged, and popped into a big cloth bag. He had been hauled down to the dock, hauled onto a ship, and dumped into its hold. Destination: slavery, in the Bandaran Isles.

Yet that did not happen. The next time Shadowspawn emerged from the shadowless sack and saw light he was in the murky keep of that most sinister of men, Jubal. Jubal had bought him. True, after some smirking and sneering and taunting Jubal had freed him, but not as an act of decency or in exchange for the pitiful price the crime lord had paid. Oh, no. He had named a ridiculous sum, close to sixteen pounds of gold, and Hanse's only choice had been to agree. A ridiculous, monumental sumfive hundred pieces of gold! Ridiculous!