Strat slid down, looped the reins over the fence, and opened the ridiculous lowgate. There were weeds, gods, everywhere. In so short a time. She grewnightshade like flowers.

His pulse quickened and his mouth went dry as he came up to the paint-peeleddoor and reached out to knock, half-expecting it to do the thing it had donebefore and swing open.

It opened, without his knock, without a sound on the other side. And he wasfacing not Ischade but the freedman Haught, Nisi-complexioned and dressed fartoo well and standing there as if he owned the room.

"Where is she?" Strat asked, vexed.

"I don't give out her business."

Something warned him-about that line that was the threshold. On the brink ofhasty invasion, of drawing his sword and prying it out of pretty-lad, alarmswent off. He stood slouched, hands on hips. "Stilcho here?"-as if that were whathe had come for. He let his eyes focus however briefly on the dim room beyond.He remembered that place, that it always had more size than seemed right. Andthere was no sign of the man.

"No," Haught said.

The pulse was up again. Strat looked the ex-slave in the eyes-remarkable: Haughtnever flinched, and had before. Rage ticked away, a twitching of his mouth;gods, that he was reduced to this schoolboy standoff, eye to eye with a jealousslave who was-dangerous. No wilt, no bluster. Just a cold steady stare, Nisi andRankan. And he thought of Wizardwall, and things that he had seen.

"Try the river," Haught said. "It's a short walk. You won't need the horse.You're late."

The door shut, with no hand on it.

He caught his breath, swore, looked back where his horse stood and snorted inthe dark.

It was not a place for horses, down on Foalside, beyond the house, where thebrush grew thick along the shore.

Fool, something said to him. But he cursed the voice and went.

"Siphinos's son." Molin Torchholder cast a misgiving look at the door andshrugged on his robe with the sense of something gone badly amiss. He waved ahand at the servant who fussed up with slippers while another stirred up thefire. "Move. Move. Let the lad in."

"Reverence, the guards-"

"Hang the guards-"

"-want to search the boy, but being nobility-"

"Send him in. Alone."

"Reverence-"

"Less reverence and more obedience. Would you?" Molin drew his lips to a finehumored line that betokened storms. The servant gulped and fled doorward,returned, and dropped the slippers face-about for him.

"Alone!"

"Reverence," the flunky breathed, and sped.

Molin worked one slipper on and the other, fought off the interventions of theother servant who drew near to fuss with his robe. Looked up suddenly as thefellow desisted. "Liso."

"Reverence." Siphinos's lanky blond son made a bow, all breathless, allcourtesies. "Apologies-"

"It should be good, lad. I trust it is."

"It isn't. I mean, not-good." The boy's teeth began to chatter. "I ran-" Heraked at his strawthatch hair. "Had my father's guard with me-"

"Can you get to it, lad?"

The boy caught his breath and, it seemed, his wits. "The witch-ours; she says-"

Straton shoved the brush aside, more and more regretting this imprudence. He wasnot ordinarily a fool. Such was his foolishness at the moment, he reckoned, thathe was not even capable of knowing for sure he was a fool; and that alarmed him.But the Nisi witch on the prod-that sent alarms of its own crawling up his back.

You're late, the slave had said-as if Ischade had put it all together longbefore; as she would if that kind of alarm was ringing, audible to mages,wizards, and those wizardry had set its mark on-gods, that he tangled himself inthe like, that he picked Roxane for an enemy or the vampire for an ally. Hecould not even remember clearly which way around it had been; except Ischade hadagreed in Sync's case when there had been no other way, and in doing that,marked every Stepson her ally and Roxane's enemy.

Fool. He heard Crit's voice echoing in his mind.

Vis knew. The jolt of that caught up with his befogged wits and he hesitated onthe narrow path, hanging by one hand to a shallow-rooted bit of brush, with onefoot over black water and empty space. Vis knew where he was going.

Damn.

Down the river, beyond the lights of the bridge, a flash of lightnings showed,and, gods knew, with Roxane stirred up, that lightning-flash set a panic in him.He hauled himself back to balance on the narrow path and kept moving.

Faster and faster. No way to go now but straight on. His messengers weredispersed, alerting what wizard-help they had; one had headed the PrinceGovernor's direction, if he got that far. There was no calling back anyone forrethinking.

Another lightning-flash. A sudden wind swept down the black, light-rimmed chasmof the river, stirring the trees on the terraced shore. Brush cracked beneathhis step on the eroded brink, beneath the sickly trees-she would know hispresence, Ischade would; she had her ways. Had said once that she would knowwhen she was needed, which intimation he had seized on with the misery and hopeof all fools: so he was here, trusting a witch no sensible man would have soughtin the first place-ignoring common sense and rules-gods, Crit-Crit would swearhim to hell and back-What was wrong with him?

He feared he knew.

He came on an ancient stone, thrust away from it to fight the incline of thepath. Hard-breathing, he climbed the treacherous slope and crested the top ofit.

And if she had been an enemy, a simple shove could have pitched him backwardinto the Foal. He caught his balance and she gave him room there among theautumn-dead trees, on the river-verge with its strange stones. The night wentaway for him. There was her face, what she wanted, what she might say, nothingelse.

"All sorts of birds," she said, "before this storm."

It made no sense to him; and did. "Roxane-" he said. "Word's out she's on themove-"

"Yes," she said. Her face met the starlight within the confines of her hood.There was quiet in her, perilous quiet, and every hair on him stirred with thestatic in the air. "Come." She took his hand and drew him upslope, following thepath. "The wind's getting up-"

"Not your doing-"

"No. Not mine."

"Vis-" He caught his balance against a waist-high stone, recognized where hewas, and jerked his hand off it. "Gods-"

"Careful of invocations." She caught his arm to pull him further and he stopped,involuntarily face-to-face with her in the starlight: he saw no detail beneaththe shadow of her hood, but only a slantwise hint of mouth and chin; but he feltthe stare, felt the smooth cool touch of her fingers slide to his hand. "That'sbeen days gathering. Are you deaf to it?"

"Deaf to what?"

"The storm. The storm that's coming... .The harbor, man. What if some greatstorm should break the seawall, drive those hulking Beysib ships one against theothers, stave their timbers, sink them down-Sanctuary'd have no harbor. Nothingbut a sandbar founded on rotting hulks. And where'd Sanctuary be then?-Deathsquads, riots, none of these things would matter then. The war's no longer atWizardwall-no longer leagues away. There are ways to use the power for more thanclosing doors."

He was walking. She had him by the arm and the voice compelled, wove spells,though brush raked his face and he forgot to fend it off.

"I've interests here in Sanctuary," said Ischade. "It's been long since I hadinterests. I like it as it is."

Fool, said Crit's voice at the dim, dim, back of his mind, past hers and therising sough of wind.