The two women locked gazes, and their eyes betrayed their mutual hostility anddistrust. However, this night was Chenaya's. Shupansea might have learned aboutthe threat to the Prince, but it was she, a Rankan, who prevented its success.The fish-eyed warriors at the Beysa's back were just so many spectators toadmire her kills.

"My thanks and those of your cousin for your exertions on his behalf," Shupanseasaid stiffly. She waved a hand, and half her guards began to carry the bodiesaway. "Now, it is a little late to entertain visitors, don't you think? Ibelieve you can find your way out." The Beysa turned away and reentered thepalace.

"Keep the grapples," Chenaya said lightly to the guards as she headed down thewalkway. "I shouldn't need them again."

"A red one-Papa, I want a red fly now!" - Lalo looked down at his small son,sighed, and picked a crimson chalkstick from the pile. Deftly his hand sweptover the paper, sketching a head, a thorax, angled legs, and the outlines oftransparent wings. He exchanged red for gold and added a shimmer of color, whileAlfi bounced on the bench beside him, a three-year-old's fanatic purpose fixinghis gaze on each move.

"Is it done. Papa?" The child squirmed onto the table to see, and Lalo twitchedthe paper out of the way, wishing Gilla would get back and take the boy off hishands. Where was she, anyway? Anxiety stirred in his belly. These days, violencebetween the Beysib invaders and a constantly mutating assortment of nativefactions made even a simple shopping trip hazardous; their oldest son, Wedemir,on leave from his caravan, had volunteered to escort her to the Bazaar. TheBeysib honeymoon was over, and every day brought new rumors of resistance andbloody Beysib response. Gilla and Wedemir ought to be back by now....

Alfi jiggled his arm and Lalo forced his attention back to the present. Lookingdown at the boy's dark head, he thought it odd how alike his firstborn and hisyoungest had turned out to be-both darkhaired and tenacious.... For a moment,the years between were gone; he was a young father and it was Wedemir whonestled against him, begging him to draw some more.

But of course there was a difference to Lalo's drawing now.

"Papa, is the fly going to be able to see?" Alfi pointed at the sketched head.

"Yes, yes, tadpole, just wait a minute now." Lalo picked up his knife to sharpenthe black chalk. Then Alfi wriggled, Lalo's hand slipped, and the knife bit intohis thumb. With an oath he dropped it and put his finger to his mouth to stopthe bleeding, glaring at his son.

"Papa, do it now-do the trick and make it fly away!" said Alfi obliviously.

Lalo repressed an urge to throw the child across the room, sketched in antennaeand a faceted eye. It was not Alfi's fault. He should never have started thisgame.

Then he grimaced, picked up the paper, and shut his eyes for a moment, focusinghis awareness until he could-Lalo opened his eyes and breathed gently upon thebright wings....

Alfi stilled, eyes widening as the bright speck quivered, expanded itsshimmering wings, and buzzed away to join the jewel-scatter of flies that werealready orbiting the garbage-basket by the door.

For a blessed moment the child stayed silent, but Lalo, looking at the insectshe had drawn into life, shuddered suddenly. He remembered-a scarlet Sikkintairthat soared above the heads of feasting gods, the transcendent splendor of theFace of Ils, the grace of Eshi pouring wine... and beside him had sat Thilli, orwas it Theba-oh gods, could he be forgetting already?

"Papa, now make me one that's green and purple, and-" A small hand tugged hissleeve.

"No!" The table rocked as Lalo surged to his feet. Colored chalks clatteredacross the floor.

"But Papa-"

"I said No-can't you understand?" Lalo shouted, hating himself as Alfi gaspedand was still. He extricated himself from behind the table and started for thedoor, then stopped short, trembling. He couldn't leave-he had promised Gilla-hecouldn't leave the child in the house alone! Damn Gilla, anyway! Lalo broughthis hands to his eyes, trying to rub the ache behind them away.

There was a small sniff behind him. He heard the faint clicking as Alfi began,very carefully, to put the chalks into their wooden box again.

"I'm sorry, tadpole-" Lalo said at last. "It's not your fault. I still love youPapa's just very tired."

No-it wasn't Alfi's fault.... Lalo moved stiffly to the window and opened theweathered shutters, gazing out over the scrambled rooftops of the town. Youwould think that a man who had feasted with the gods would be different, maybehave a kind of shining about him for all to see- especially a man who could notonly paint a person's soul, but could breathe life into his imaginings. Butnothing had changed for him. Nothing at all.

Lalo looked down at his hands, broad-palmed, rather stubby in the fingers, withpaint ingrained in the calluses and under the nails. Those had been the hands ofa god, for a little while, but here he was, with Sanctuary going to hell aroundhim at more than its usual speed, and there was nothing he could do.

He flinched as something buzzed past his ear, and saw the colored flies he hadcreated spiral downward toward the richer feeding-grounds of the refuse heap inthe alleyway. For a moment he wondered wryly if they would breed true, and ifanyone in Sanctuary would notice the winged jewels hatching from their garbage;then a shift in the wind brought him the smell.

He choked, banged closed the shutters, and stood leaning against them, coveringhis face with his hands. In the country of the gods, every breeze bore adifferent perfume. The robes of the immortals were dyed with liquid jewels; theyshone in a lambent light. And he, Lalo the Limner, had feasted there, and hisbrush had brought life to a thousand transcendent fantasies.

He stood, shaken by longing for the velvet meadows and aquamarine skies. Tearswelled from beneath shut eyelids, and his ears, entranced with the memory ofbirds whose song surpassed all earthly melodies, did not hear the long silencebehind him, the stifled, triumphant giggle of the child, or the heavy tread onthe stairs outside.

"Alfi! You get down from there right now!"

Dreams shattering around him, Lalo jerked back to face the room, blinking asdizzied vision tried to sort the image of an angry goddess from the massivefigure that glared at him from the doorway. But even as Lalo's sight cleared,Gilla was charging across the room to snatch the child from the shelf over thestove.

Wedemir, a dark head barely visible above piled parcels and bulging baskets,stumbled after her into the room, looking for somewhere to set his burdens down.

"Want to make it pretty!" Alfi's voice came muffled from Gilla's ample bosom. Hesquirmed in her arms and pointed. "See?"

Three pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger toward the ceiling above thestove, where the soot was now smudged with swirls of blue and green.

"Yes, dear," said Gilla evenly, "but it's all dark up there, and the colorswon't show up very well. And you know that you are not to meddle with yourfather's colors-you certainly know better than to climb on the stove! Well?" Hervoice rose. "Answer me!"

A small, smudged face turned to her, lower lip trembling, dark eyes fallingbefore her narrowed gaze. "Yes, Mama...."

"Well, then-perhaps this will help you to remember from now on!" Gilla set thechild down and smacked his bottom hard. Alfi whimpered once and then stoodsilently, rubbing his abused rear while the slow tears welled from his eyes.