The gasps of the Vistani and Inza's loudly uttered curse made Ganelon open his eyes. The shadow pooled at his feet. Tentatively, it extended a tendril toward his boots, then recoiled as if burned. The thing was like a dog rooting after a bone that it knew was near but remained tantalizingly out of reach. Finally it grew frustrated and slithered back to its box.

With a cry of frustration, Inza grabbed one of the pokers from the fire. "The Cobbler's plied his trade on you, hasn't he?" She looked to the other Vistani. "He has a dead man's soles. The shadow can't see him."

With her free hand she snapped the box shut and tossed it to Alexi. The man cringed as he caught the captive soul but did not drop it or put it down. Secretly the raunie smiled. Her mother never inspired such unswerving, unquestioning loyalty. Magda's kind heart had always interfered.

That weakness had never plagued Inza. In fact, she intended to demonstrate to this maddening mine rat just how cold her heart really was.

"I'll never give in," Ganelon proclaimed as Inza came close. His fear was gone. The salt shadow's defeat had vanquished it. The young man knew that he was going to die, but he knew, too, that he would not break his oath.

Ganelon heard it first in the hissing of the poker as it approached his face. A voice whispered to him. The susurrus spread to the pine trees and the cookfire, gathering strength. Just before the iron touched flesh, the whisper exploded into an unearthly howl that drove the steaming poker from Inza's hands and scattered the Vistani like frightened birds.

Of all the people in the little camp, only Ganelon saw his rescuer clearly. It reached from the shadow trailing behind the tree to which he was bound and pulled the young man in. At the sight he screamed until there was no breath left in his lungs.

Inza saw only the thing's gangly arm, covered with matted hair, pluck away her victim. Ropes, still knotted and looped, sagged on the tree trunk where they had held Ganelon fast a moment before.

There was no time to lash out with blade or blaze, but the raunie's hatred offered up this parting blow: No love, no light, but that which causes pain. Everything you hold dear will perish by your own hand.

That curse, swift as a vengeful thought, followed Ganelon into the darkness, just as it would hound his every step for the rest of his life.

"It's time," Azrael said cheerfully. "I want you and your little friends down in the pit right now. They're almost done loading the crates. Make certain they don't leave anything behind on the landing, then get started on that other business we discussed. Understand?"

Ambrose did not respond. As the dwarf tromped out of the store, the shopkeep got stiffly to his feet. "You heard him," he said to Kern and Ogier.

The two miners exchanged puzzled looks. "What about the wine?" Kern asked. He held up a half-full bottle of Chateau Malaturno. Its twin stood empty in front of Ogier. "We've enough left for one decent toast. After all the trouble I went through to get this stuff, it'd be a shame to waste it."

Ambrose missed Kern's unsubtle jab. The shop-keep had never looked into finding the bottles for Kern, despite his initial offer to do so. As a result, Kern paid twice the wine's worth in order to fulfill his debt to Ogier.

"'Sides," that white-haired stalwart now chimed, "you said we was going to do another job for Azrael. That meant we wouldn't have to lug crates with everyone else."

"That special duty is still yours," Ambrose said rather sadly.

"A mysterious errand for the homicidal dwarf, and we get to cart boxes besides," noted Kern. He held his empty glass up in salute. "Only a true friend would set us up with that kind of deal."

Ogier elbowed the smaller man. "Leave him be. He's doing the best he can."

Still glowering, Kern filled his glass to the brim, then did the same for Ogier. He went to top off Ambrose's mug with the remaining wine but found that the shopkeep hadn't touched a drop that had been poured for him. With a shrug, Kern handed the bottle to Ogier. The big man put it to his lips and drained it in two gulps.

Kern raised his glass again, this time in earnest. Solemnly he said, "To absent friends, who leave us shadows until their return. May it be soon."

Nodding his approval, Ogier tipped back his glass. After a moment's hesitation, Ambrose raised his mug. "Friends and shadows," the shopkeep said flatly.

The statement was no more cryptic than anything Ambrose said these days. Ever since the night Helain and Ganelon disappeared, he'd been acting strange. Kern dismissed it as the man's way of mourning. In his own childlike fashion, Ogier noticed a deeper change in Ambrose. His voice was stronger now, missing the wheeze that had softened every word he'd uttered since the accident. He was more forceful, too, even cruel. Ogier knew that this was not the stuff of mourning. The murders of those politskae had changed him. Something grim and loveless had taken hold of Ambrose's heart.

Faces flushed from the wine, the three made their way from the store up to the mine. A hundred torches lit the grounds around the pit. Workers from both shifts carried boxes from the lift and loaded them onto heavy wagons, then trudged back for another load. The entire process was supervised by Azrael's Politskara. They were everywhere, silver axes at the ready. Whatever Azrael had the men unloading from the mine, it was more valuable than salt.

The dwarf clearly thought so anyway. He'd shut down the mine so everyone could focus on the task of moving the heavy crates. It was an unprecedented event, one that disturbed the workers more than the sudden appearance of the white moon. That was beyond their understanding. They knew what the work stoppage meant: lost wages, maybe even lost jobs. Worse, there were rumors that the mine was going to close down for good. To men with no other skills, that meant starvation and hardship as deadly as any creature lurking in the woods.

As Ambrose and the others got close to the lift, they could see apprehension, even fear, etched on every miner's face. It was not merely concern for their lives and their livelihoods that weighed heavily on the men. They were frightened for their souls.

The dwarf had insisted the work proceed day and night, breaking every rule the miners had established to protect themselves from the salt shadows. Since the damned creatures could not survive in daylight without a host, nothing ever left the mine unless the sun was shining. Even if a shadow had attached itself to someone, a single shift was too short a time for it to completely possess him. Exposing it to sunlight quickly would reveal its presence. The unfortunate host might not be saved, but he could be destroyed before the salt shadow drove him to a life of corruption.

Azrael dismissed it all as superstitious nonsense and ordered the men to keep working after the sun went down. A few of the younger miners agreed, having never seen evidence of the shadows themselves. To them, the creatures were no more real than the Bloody Cobbler or the Whispering Beast. The older workers, though, kept a careful eye on the boxes, in case a shadow should be hiding on it. A few had even burned their palms and the soles of their feet, since dead flesh supposedly repulsed the creatures.

Ogier said a little prayer as the last of the boxes was unloaded and he, Kern, and Ambrose stepped into the lift. The big man did not fear the salt shadows, but he was scared of the trip down the pit. One of the lifts had broken free of its cable recently, killing everyone inside. Ogier asked the fates to keep this one safe.

Kern chuckled at the serious expression on his friend's face. He leaned close so the two dour polit-skae in the lift wouldn't hear and whispered, "You should be praying to the dwarf to keep us safe. The lift never falters when it's carrying anything important to him."