The Witch wailed. She had killed him with her interruption. While they yetfought, before death claimed its prize, she wove her greatest spell ever, binding them in timelessness. Someday she would bring back the man she loved, when she found the way.

She finished. In pain, as she collapsed, she cried, "AZEL!" The summons rolledthrough the citadel but there was no answer. Nakar had sent his right hand faraway, to work his will in another land. There would be no help.

It was too late. For now.

The avalanche of rain faded as fast as it had come. The clouds blew away fromQushmarrah like the souls of men newly dead. Throughout the city men began tolay down their arms. Nakar was gone.

In the Shu the stillness yielded to the cry of a newborn. And a moment laterits cries were joined by those of another entrant into the lists of life.

The war ended. The wheel turned. A new story began.

The boys came up Char Street in a mouthy pack. The hazy turquoise of the baybacked them. There were twenty of them, ranging from three to eight years old.

The pretend they were playing reflected their parents' private rejection ofhistory. They were soldiers returning victorious from Dak-es-Souetta.

Their rowdiness caught the old woman's ear. She looked up from her mending. Ascowl deepened the wrinkles webbing her dark leather face. She thought theirparents ought to whip some sense into them.

One of the boys kicked something the size of a melon. Another raced forward, snatched it up out of the dust, shook it overhead, and shouted.

The old woman's frown deepened. Wrinkles became gullies of shadow. Where hadthey gotten a skull?

The boy dropped the headbone and booted it. It ricocheted off a man's leg.

Another man kicked it past the old woman. It vanished in a canebreak of legs.

That was a busy street.

The old woman saw char marks on the skull before it disappeared.

Of course. They were razing the ruins near the Gate of Winter where, afterbreaching the wall, several hundred invaders had perished in a fire touchedoff by errant sorceries. The area would be rich in treasures for small boys.

The pack raced after their plaything, disrupting commerce and generatingcurses both good-natured and otherwise. One boy, about six, stopped in frontof the old woman. He was very formal as he said, "Good afternoon, GrandmotherSayhed."

The old woman smiled. She had teeth missing. With equal formality, shereplied, "Good day, young Zouki. You've been exploring where they're tearingthe old buildings down?"

Zouki nodded and grinned. He was missing teeth, too.

At the beginning and at the end, toothless, the old woman reflected. LikeQushmarrah.

The boy asked, "Can Arif come out?"

"No."

Zouki looked startled. "How come?"

"It wouldn't be safe. You boys will be in big trouble in a few minutes." Theold woman put her mending down. She pointed in the direction of the bay.

The boy looked, saw the eight black riders swaying like the masts of shipsabove the turbulent human sea. The leader rated a horse. The others rode camels. They came straight up the hill, leaving it to the mob to get out oftheir way. Dartar mercenaries.

They were in no hurry to get anywhere. They were after no one. Just a routinepatrol. But if they saw the boys abusing the skull ...

Zouki gawked.

The old woman said, "Get along now, Zouki. Don't bring the heathen to ourdoor."

The boy spun and plunged after his friends, throwing a shout ahead. The oldwoman continued to stare at the riders. They were close now.

They were young. The leader was the eldest. He might be twenty-three. None of the others had reached twenty. They wore black veils to mask their features, but those were not heavy. One could not have been more than sixteen.

As the Dartar riders came abreast of her, that youngest's eye met the oldwoman's. Her stare was hot and sharp, accusing. The youth blushed and lookedaway. The old woman muttered, "Well you might be ashamed, turncoat."

"Oh, Mother. He's not responsible. He was a child when the Dartar tribesbetrayed us."

"Dak-es-Souetta," the old woman hissed as she looked up at her daughter, whohad come from the house with a child on her hip. "Never forgiven, neverforgotten, Laella. Herod is a passing wind. Qushmarrah is eternal. Qushmarrahwill stand when the invader is dust. Qushmarrah will remember the Dartartreachery." She spat toward the mercenaries.

"Why don't you go burn a memorial tusk at the gate of the citadel of Nakar theAbomination, Mother? I'm sure the Witch will appreciate the gesture."

Laella retreated into the house. The old woman sputtered curses under herbreath. Another symptom of the conquest. Children showing no respect for theirparents.

She glanced uphill. The citadel of Nakar the Abomination could not be seenfrom her vantage. Even so, chills tramped her spine.

Some good had come of the occupation. Even she would admit that much. Even shethought Ala-eh-din Beyh a hero. Before his sacrifice no one would have daredcall Nakar "the Abomination" in any voice but the most breathless whisper.

The old woman pointed and Zouki's gaze followed the spearthrust of herwithered arm.

The Dartar riders were like something out of the nighttime monster stories theolder boys told to scare their little brothers. All in black, with nothing buthard eyes and a bit of dark, tattooed cheek showing.

He spun and ran into the crowd, alternately yelling, "Yahoud!" and apologizingto the adults he jostled. With everyone taller, and the dust so thick at hislevel, it was impossible to see his friends. He thought he heard his name.

Baml He ran into Yahoud, who had just lifted the skull from the dust. "Youdope!" Yahoud said. "Look out where you're going."

"Yahoud. Dartars." "What?"

"Dartars are coming. Right back there."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Yahoud looked at the skull a moment. "Here, Zouki. Go throw it into thatalley."

Zouki held the skull in both hands and wove through the press. The alley wasnot far away. Before he reached it several boys were following him, alerted by Yahoud.

He was about to step into the alley when he saw the vague shape back in theshadows. He paused.

A voice just loud enough to be heard said, "Bring it here, boy. Give it tome."

Zouki took three steps, paused. He did not like this.

"Will you hurry it up?"

Zouki responded to the authority in the voice, taking another three steps.

That was one too many. The man leaped. A hand slammed down on his shoulder, aclamp of agony. "Yahoud!"

"Are you Zouki, son of Naszif?"

"Yahoud!"

"Answer me, brat!"

"Yes! Yahoud!"

Children crowded the alley mouth, shouting. The man shifted his grip toZouki's arm and dragged him deeper into the shadows. Zouki screamed and kickedand struck out with the skull he still clenched.

Yoseh fought the awe that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he left theDartar compound. So many people. So many thousands of people, more than hecould have conceived of as inhabiting the whole world a year ago. And the bay?

Who cold conceive such a sprawl of water, vast as an arm of the Takes, but theblue of heavenstone? With far vaster expanses of sea beyond the Brothers, theheadlands flanking the strait that led into the bay.

And the buildings! He did not believe he would get used to the buildings, ever. In his native mountains there were no builded things at all, exceptancient fortresses that had begun their fall to ruin centuries ago.

There was an eddy and swirl in the mass of humanity ahead. An exuberant crywent up.

"Medjhah," Yoseh said. "That's the mudha-el-bal." Though that battle cry wasstill heard in the canyons of the Khadatqa Mountains, here even Dartars weredenied it.

"And we should go cut them down, Yoseh?" his brother asked. Medjhah was an oldQushmarrah hand after a year in service. "Eight of us meting out capitalpunishment to kids amongst a couple thousand of their relatives? If theferrenghi want them punished, let them see to it themselves. Let them bear thehatred."