The dog tried to get away, but she flung her left arm around its neck and hauled it closer. Without hesitating, she yanked its head back with her left arm and slashed its throat with her right.

Strength flowed into her like sudden fire; she slashed again, to be sure, and almost removed the dog's head-her arm was already stronger, much stronger.

And that wasn't all. The creature's vitality burned through her with a force that made the strongest oushka seem like a pale shadow, and when it reached her head the whole world seemed to change around her. For a moment all the color drained away, and then it was back, but washed out, like an old, faded tapestry. Meanwhile, outlines sharpened, and the darkness that filled the room seemed suddenly less. The last twitch of the dog's hind leg caught her attention far more sharply than motion ever had before; she almost started at the intensity of it.

And then the smells hit-the hot red stink of the dog's blood, the pungency of its fur, the oily reek of the polish on the wooden floor, the smoky odor of the lamp that was burning upstairs, a hundred, a thousand, a million other scents were spilling through her nose, so clear and sharp and distinct that they were like a painting of the house. It was like a banquet spread before her, each odor unique.

Her hearing was suddenly sharper, too-at any rate, she could hear the woman's voice upstairs say, "Did you hear something?"

The sound was distorted, though; she was unsure whether that was because of the distance and intervening corners and doors, or because something had changed about her hearing.

Whatever had happened, there could be no question that the Black Dagger's magic was not used up. Moving quickly, she rose and headed for the front door, the quickest way out, leaving the dead dog lying on the floor in its own blood.

She knew blood was all over her hands and tunic, as well, but she couldn't afford the time to do anything about it until she was well away from the house. She fumbled with the latch and bolt, then swung the door wide and stepped out onto the stoop.

The smells of the city washed over her like a great storm-driven wave, and she paused for a moment, drinking them in, sorting them out; then she remembered herself and ran.

As she worked her way north through the city streets, staying out of the better-lit areas where her bloodstained hands and clothes would show, she thought through what had happened.

She had killed a dog, and its strength had flooded into her, as she had hoped-but more than that had happened. She had gained the dog's senses, as well-the sensitivity to motion and strong night vision, the incredible sense of smell, and, she realized as she listened to the city around her, better hearing, but only in high pitches.

This was amazing; she had a whole new way of perceiving the city. She could smell things she had never smelled before- but she couldn't always identify them. She knew the salt was the sea, and the smoke came from the lamps and fires of the city; she knew the scents of men and women; but what was that odor like rust, like… she had no words for it.

Would this fade away gradually, she wondered, or was this permanent? The dog was dead, nothing could heal it, nothing could give it back its strength-but could she really keep it forever? She flexed her arms, feeling the power there-not, perhaps, any stronger than a big man, but far stronger than that of the young woman she had been an hour earlier, probably stronger than any woman she had ever known. She could feel it.

She could smell her own excitement, though it took her a moment to recognize it for what it was.

Was that permanent? Would she be able to use her nose like this for the rest of her life? She wasn't sure she would be able to sleep, with that flood of sensory impressions pouring in on her.

And all this came just from killing a dog. Think how strong she would be if she killed a man.

And think what she might be able to do if she killed a magician!

The cat's death did little for Tabaea's strength, but it gave her incredibly quick reflexes, even sharper night vision and movement perception than killing the dog had provided, and perhaps some other abilities-she wasn't sure whether or not those were real, or her imagination at work. She had never heard that cats could speed up or slow down their perception of time and suspected it was simply an illusion. The ability to balance was very hard to judge. And the ability to catnap was probably there all along, just not used.

Still, she was satisfied with the results.

Killing a dove, on the other hand, was a serious disappointment; no matter what she did, Tabaea still could not fly, nor see behind herself without turning her head. Nor, it seemed, did birds have any abilities she hadn't known about.

It was perfectly clear why she couldn't fly, of course-she had no wings. Whatever magic the Black Dagger performed, it did not alter her physical appearance. Her eyes were still on the front of her head, rather than the sides; they had not become slitted like a cat's, either.

Only belatedly did she realize that this was a good thing-otherwise she might have grown fur or feathers or claws and become a freak unable to live a normal life among normal people.

Not, she admitted to herself, that her life was exactly normal. With her improved sense of smell, she could now locate gold by scent alone, and with her cat skills she could now prowl silently in near-total darkness, so her thievery had become markedly more successful-but she still had no permanent home, living instead in a succession of cheap inns; she had no real friends; she saw nothing of her family.

Her new abilities showed no signs of fading, and they gave her the money for a more comfortable existence, but as she sat at a table in yet another inn, staring at yet another six-bit dinner of chicken stew and fried noodles, she found herself profoundly dissatisfied.

She was becoming successful as a thief. But so what?

She had originally taken up a career in theft in order to survive and to put food in her belly without her mother's and stepfather's reluctant help. She had wanted to strike back at the family and the city that had ignored and neglected her. She had wanted to become rich, to have all the things she had been denied. She had wanted everyone to know who she was and to admire her skill and courage and determination.

She had discovered years ago that it didn't work that way. Thieves did not become rich or famous-at least, burglars and cutpurses didn't; there were those who accused various lords and magicians of robbery, but that was an entirely different sort of theft.

In fact, a thief couldn't afford to become rich or famous. Too great a success put one in front of the Minister of Justice, and then on the gallows or in a slaver's cells. Even the limited notoriety of being well known among other thieves was dangerous; Tabaea had, over the past few years, seen virtually every well-known thief arrested or beaten or killed. The world of thieves was not closed; word could always leak out into the larger world of victims and avengers. The less-successful criminals were always ready, willing, and even eager, from jealousy or simple hunger, to sell news of their more prosperous brethren.

So she dared not try for more than a reasonably comfortable existence-and even that was risky.

As for paying back her family and the rest of Ethshar, that didn't work, either. Her family had ignored her before, and they ignored her now. The city had always had thieves and paid no mind to another.

Theft was nothing but a means of survival, a career with no room for advancement. Now that she had the Black Dagger and knew how to use it, Tabaea was not satisfied with that. She wanted more. But what?