Now, walking unseeingly Mazeward, toward the Vulgar Unicom for the first of manydrinks, he did: the Rankan 3rd Commando were rangers with a very bad reputationsince the real Stepsons had left town, filling their ranks with locals, to fightthe Wizard Wars in the north, there had been no force on the side of Empireworth rallying round. If the 3rd Commando was here, then the Empire hadn't givenup on Sanctuary, all was not lost, and resistance was really possible.

Of course, given the stories about the 3rd's brutality and their provenancethey'd been formed by Tempus long ago to quash just such a revolt as might bebrewing in Sanctuary-the cure for Sanctuary's Beysib ills might well be worsethan the disease.

Straton wasn't at all sure this was going to work. He hadn't seen Ischade, thevampire woman who lived down by the. White Foal, since before the war forWizardwall, when he'd been an on-duty Stepson, with the whole cadre behind himand Critias beside him, and the only troubles in Sanctuary were sorcery andrefractory death squads and the occasional assassination: all standard stuff.

Strat wished Crit was here, then slid off his horse before Ischade's oddlyshadowed house and, crossbow at the ready, tethered his big bay horse outside.Crit would be along, one of these days. The whole unit was drifting in, a manhere, a pair there; along with Sync's 3rd Commando, they had a good chance ofputting things to rights-if they could just figure out what "rights" were. Syncthought they should put every Beysib in town on one big funerary pyre and give'em to the gods, for starters.

Straton wasn't taking orders from Sync: with Crit still upcountry and Niko intransit with Tempus, Straton was in charge of the Stepsons, who wanted only tokill every idiot who'd made the unit designation "Stepson" a slur and a cursehere while they'd been gone.

But Kama had prevailed on Strat to try enlisting the vampire woman's aid. Kamawas Tempus's daughter; Strat still respected her for that-not for anything she'ddone or earned, just for being his commander's progeny.

So he'd come back here, despite the fact that Ischade the vampire woman was moredangerous than a bedroom full of Harka Bey, to "invite" Ischade to the littleparty Sync and he were throwing at Marc's.

He'd probably have come anyway, he told himself: Ischade was dangerous enough tobe interesting, the sort of woman you never forget once you look into her eyes.And he'd looked into them: deep, hellhole eyes that made him wonder what kind ofdeath she offered her victims....

Nothing for it but to knock on the damn door and get it over with, then.

He pulled on his leather tunic and assayed the walk up to her threshold; as hedid, the interior lights flickered and dimmed weirdly. The last time he'd beenhere, his eyesight had been bothering him. It wasn't, anymore, thanks to abenign spell cast during his northern sortie.

So he'd really see her, this time.

On her doorstep, he hesitated; then he muttered a prayer that consigned his soulto the appropriate god should he die here, and knocked.

He heard movement within, then nothing.

He knocked again.

This time, the movement came closer and the lights in her front windows winkedout.

"Ischade," he called out gruffly, a dagger in hand to pick the lock or slice itsthong or pound upon the wooden door with all his might, "open up. It's-"

The door seemed to disappear before him; off balance, for he'd been about tothump on it hard with his dagger's hilt, he took a stumbling step forward.

"I know," said a velvet voice coming from a wraithlike face cowled in inkyshadows, "who you are. I remember you. Have you tired of giving death? Or haveyou brought me another gift?" Her eyes lifted up to his, her hood fell back, andyet, somehow, backlit in her doorway, her face was still in shadow.

Her eyes, however, were not.

Straton found himself forgetful of his purpose. He wasn't a womanizer; he wasn'tan impressionable boy; yet Ischade's gaze was like some drug which made theworld recede and all he wanted to do was look at her, touch her, brave thedanger of her, and do to her what he was nearly certain none of the sheep she'dfed upon had ever managed to do.

He said, "Invite me in."

She said, "I have a visitor, within."

He replied, "Get rid of him."

She smiled: "My thought exactly. You will wait here?"

He agreed: "Don't be long."

When her door closed, it was as if a bond had broken, a leash been snapped, adrug worn off.

He found that he was shivering, and it wasn't anywhere near as cold in autumnalSanctuary as it had been on Wi-zardwall; despite his shaking hands, there wassweat beading on his upper lip. He wiped it and regretted shaving for this courtenterprise.

Either he was lucky, and she'd be sated by whatever meat she had in there, sothat he could talk to her, convince her, make some sort of deal with her, or hewas walking into serious trouble, without Crit or any of his team to get him outif he got in too deep.

About the time he was deciding that no one would ever think the worse of him ifhe just walked away from this one, left Ischade's stone unturned, and said shehadn't been at home, the door reopened and a delicate, white hand reached out tohim: "Come in, Straton," said the vampire woman. "It's been a long timesince one such as you has come to me."

Sync had saved the fabled crimelord Jubal for himself. The Sanctuary veterans hehad on staff had warned him about the vicious squalor of Downwind, but he hadn'tbelieved them.

Now he believed, but he believed more in his good right arm and theattractiveness of the offer he had to make.

This Jubal was black and stout as a gnarled tree, older than Sync had been ledto believe by half, and sporting a fey blue hawkmask that would have botheredSync more if the sycophants around the ex-slaver weren't verifying Jubal'sidentity by every deferential move they made.

The head bootlicker here was named Saliman; the hovel was reasonably commodiousonce you got inside, but the band of pseudo-beggars ranged around it would giveSync a strenuous afternoon if he had to cut his way through them to get out.He'd unbridled his horse as a precaution: if he whistled. Sync was going to havetwelve hundred Rankan pounds of iron hooves and snapping jaws to back him up.3rd Commando training told him he didn't need more than that: one man, onehorse, one holocaust on demand.

Sync wasn't a politician; he was a field commander. But he wasn't in thisDownwind potty to fight; he was here to talk.

Jubal, in a flurry of feathered robes, sat down on something very like a throneand said-in a muffled voice through his mask: "Talk, mercenary."

Sync replied: "Get rid of the mask and your playmates, and we'll talk. This isbetween us, or not at all."

Jubal responded, "Then perhaps it's not at all. But then you've wasted our time,and we don't like that. Do we?"

Ten scruffy locals made threatening noises.

"Look here, slumlord, are you in the pay of the Beysibs? If not, let's getserious. I didn't come here to give your staff combat lessons. If they need 'em,I've got trainers in the 3rd Commando who specialize in making silk purses outof sow's ears."

Three of the ten were edging forward. Jubal stopped them with a raised hand.From under the mask came what might have been a rattling sigh. "3rd Commando?Should I be impressed?"

Sync said, "I don't know what you're supposed to be, Jubal, in that damnfeathered cape and mask. Is everybody in this town in drag?" He crossed hisarms, thinking he should have sent a Sanctuary veteran to bring this black manin by the ear. He had to remind himself forcefully not to call Jubal a Wrigglyto his face. It was a damned shame, having to join forces with an enemy you'dthoroughly beaten years ago-and on equal terms. The misfortunes of war wereneverending.