The second half of the journey down was less terrible. Otah's mind was

beginning to clear, and a savage hope was lifting him. He was being

saved. He couldn't think who or why, but he was delivered from his cell.

He thought of the armsmen new-slaughtered at the tower's height, and

recalled Kiyan's words. How do you expect to protect me and my house?

They could all be killed, his jailers and his rescuers alike. All in the

name of tradition.

He could tell when they reached the level of the street-the walls had

grown so thick there was almost no room for them to walk, but thin

windows showed glimmers of light, and drunken, disjointed music filled

the air. At the base of the stair, his carriers lowered Otah to the

ground and took his arms over their shoulders as if he were drunk or

sick. The commander squeezed to the front of the party. Despite his

frown, Otah sensed the man was enjoying himself immensely.

They moved quickly and quietly through mare-like passages and out at

last into an alley at the foot of the tower. A covered cart was waiting,

two horses whickering restlessly. The commander made a sign, and the two

bearers lifted Otah into the back of the cart. The commander and two of

the men climbed in after, and the driver started the horses. Shod hooves

rapped the stone, and the cart lurched and bumped. The commander pulled

the back cloth closed and tied it, but loose enough he could peer out

the seam. The lantern was extinguished, and the scent of its dying smoke

filled the cart for a moment and was gone.

"What's happening out there?" Otah asked.

"Nothing," the commander said. "And best we keep it that way. No talking."

In silence and darkness, they continued. Otah felt lightheaded. The cart

turned twice to the left and then again to the right. The driver was

hailed and replied, but they never stopped. A breeze fluttered the thick

cloth of the cover, and when it paused, Otah heard the sound of water;

they were on the bridge heading south. He was free. He grinned, and then

as the implications of his freedom unfolded themselves in his mind, his

relief faltered.

"Forgive me. I don't know your name. I'm sorry. I can't do this."

The commander shifted. It was nearly black in the cart, so Otah couldn't

see the man's face, but he imagined incredulity on the long features.

"I went to Machi to protect someone-a woman. If I vanish, they'll still

have reason to suspect her. My brother might kill her on the chance that

she's involved with this. I can't let that happen. I'm sorry, but we

have to turn hack."

"You love her that much?" the commander asked.

"This isn't her fault. It's mine."

"All this is your fault, eh? You have a lot to answer for." There was

amusement in the man's voice. Otah felt himself smile.

"Well, perhaps not all my fault. But I can't let her be hurt. This is

the price of it, and I'll pay it if I have to."

They were all silent for a long moment, then the commander sighed.

"You're an honorable man, Otah Machi. I want you to know I respect that.

Boys. Chain him and gag him. I don't want him calling out."

They were on him in an instant, pushing him hard onto the rough wood of

the cart. Someone's knee drove in between his shoulder blades; invisible

hands bent his arms backwards. When he opened his mouth to scream, a wad

of heavy cloth was shoved in so deeply he gagged. A leather strap

followed, keeping it in place. He didn't know when his legs were bound,

but in fewer than twenty breaths, he was immobile-his arms chained

painfully behind him at his wrists and elbows, his mouth stuffed until

it was hard to breathe. The knee moved to the small of his back, digging

into his spine with every shift of the cart. He tried once to move, and

the pressure from above increased. He tried again, and the man cursed

him and rapped his head with something hard.

"I said no talking," the commander murmured, and returned to peering out

the opening in the hack cloth. Otah shifted, snarling in impotent rage

that none of these men seemed to see or recognize. The cart moved off

through the night. He could feel it when they moved from the paving of

the main road to a dirt track; he could hear the high grass hushing

against the wheels. They were taking him nowhere, and he couldn't think why.

He guessed it was almost three hands before the first light started to

come. Dawn was still nothing more than a lighter kind of darkness, the

commander's feet-the only part of the man Otah could see without lifting

his head-were a dim form of shadow within shadow. It was something. Otah

heard the trill of a daymartin, and then a rough rattling and the sound

of water. A bridge over some small river. When the cart lurched back to

ground, the commander turned.

"Have him stop," he said, and then a moment later, "I said stop the

cart. Do it."

One of the other two-the one who wasn't kneeling on Otah- shifted and

spoke to the driver. The jouncing slowed and stopped.

"I thought I heard something out there. In the trees on the left. Baat.

Go check. If you see anything at all get back fast."

The pressure on Otah's back eased and one of the men clambered out. Otah

turned over and no one tried to stop him. There was more light now. He

could make out the grim set of the commander's features, the unease in

the one remaining armsman.

"Well, this is interesting," the commander said.

"What's out there," the other man asked, his blade drawn. The commander

looked out the slit of cloth and motioned for the armsman to pass over

his sword. He did, and the commander took it, holding it with the ease

of long familiarity.

"It may be nothing," he said. "Were you with me when I was working for

the Warden of Elleais?"

"I'd just signed on then," the armsman said.

"You've always been a good fighter, Lachmi. I want you to know I respect

that."

With the speed of a snake, the commander's wrist flickered, and the

armsman fell hack in the cart, blood flowing from his opened neck. Otah

tried to push himself away as the commander turned and drove the sword

into the armsman's chest. He dropped the blade then, letting it fall to

the cart's floor, and took a pose of regret to the dying man.

"But," the commander said, "you should never have cheated me at tiles.

That was stupid."

The commander stepped over the body and spoke to the driver. He spoke

clearly enough for Otah to hear.

"Is it done?"