He awoke slowly, his mind fuzzy; there were voices somewhere nearby. It took him several seconds before he recognized his surroundings as Koros' stall in the inn's stable; more seconds passed before he remembered that he had fallen asleep there unintentionally. His neck ached; he had slept with his head propped awkwardly against the side of the stall. He rubbed it absently and listened to the voices.

There were two of them, both young human males; they were arguing about something, apparently the ownership of some item. A small item, it seemed, since the one who possessed it apparently carried it on his person.

Garth sat up and looked around; it was daylight, and judging by the shadows either very early or very late. He thought for a moment, calculating the orientation of the stable, and decided that it was late afternoon. He had slept most of the day away, which was probably just as well. He had needed the rest.

He recalled the events of the night before, and checked to be sure his loot was still secure; it was. He had thought that the crystal was clear, but looking at it in the sunlight being very careful not to let it trap his attention once again-he saw that it was milky white. Not that it made any difference, he thought; he had no use for the thing. He covered it over with straw again.

The argument outside was winding down; some sort of compromise had apparently been reached.

It was none of his concern. He clambered to his feet, promising himself that never again would he sleep wearing mail; every link seemed to have left a permanent impression on his back, despite the quilting underneath and the breastplate on top. Reminded of the breastplate's presence, he removed it; mail alone should certainly be sufficient for anything he was likely to encounter in the city. He was still wearing his sword as well, he realized when he almost tripped over it.

Koros growled a greeting, and the voices outside suddenly stopped. Then one asked, "What was that?"

The other replied, "I don't know. Dugger said there was some kind of foreign monster in number three, but I figured he was lying as usual."

There was a pause. Garth patted the warbeast's nose, and reached down to his pack for the wire brush he used for cleaning the monster's ears, which had a habit of picking up burrs and other such unpleasant little items. The first voice spoke again.

"Should we check?"

"I don't know."

"I'm going to look. Come on."

"Go look yourself."

"Oh, come on."

"Well, all right. If you want." There was the sound of footsteps approaching; light footsteps. Definitely young humans, Garth thought, as he stood with brush in hand.

A moment later two adolescent faces peered over the stall door, and almost immediately vanished again. Garth grinned to himself. Then, slowly, first one face and then the other inched back into sight.

"Greetings," Garth said.

"Uh...greetings," said the taller of the two boys.

"I hope my beast didn't upset you."

"No." Then, after some hesitation, the lad went on, "You're an overman, aren't you?"

"Yes." There was no point in denying the obvious, since his cloak and hood were lying in disarray on the straw, leaving his noseless, leathery face and black mail in plain sight.

"Oh."

The other boy asked, "What's that?" pointing timidly at Koros.

"A warbeast."

"Oh."

"How'd you get in here? I've been here all day."

Garth shrugged. "I got in."

The boy decided further questions were not in order; instead, he explained, "But I'm supposed to watch the stable and make sure everyone pays their bills."

"You needn't worry; I will pay. I paid the other boy for the first day."

"Dugger? Oh." There was silence for a moment; the two had apparently exhausted their questions for the moment. Garth began cleaning the warbeast's ears with the brush; there were no burrs or thorns visible, but the creature seemed to enjoy it anyway.

When the silence seemed to be becoming uncomfortable, he asked, "What's the news today? I have been busy since dawn."

"Oh! Then you haven't heard! Someone murdered a priest in Tema's temple, and half the city is hunting for him." "

"Who did it?"

"No one knows. Mernalla says she took a stranger to the temple last night, an old man with a funny accent, so they're looking for him, but the priest was killed with a single sword-thrust, so it probably wasn't anyone old. It must have been a warrior."

"Why would anyone kill a priest?"

"I don't know; I think there's some kind of secret about it." Garth noticed from the corner of his eye that the boy who hadn't spoken as much was looking at him strangely, paying altogether too much attention to the sword on his belt. The youth suddenly fell back out of sight, and a moment later, apparently in response to a tug, the other followed.

Inevitable, Garth thought to himself as he put the brush away. Still, there was no proof of any sort against him. No one had seen him clearly. It was interesting that the temple priests had not revealed the loss of the altar-stone.

Perhaps it would be wise to remove himself from the premises, at least for the present; perhaps he should move Koros, too. He was unfamiliar with the city, though, and hiding places might be hard to come by. This stable was convenient, and as yet there was no real evidence against him; with luck he would not be bothered. He reminded himself to do a proper job of cleaning his sword at the first opportunity.

He also reminded himself that he had six more temples to rob. Furthermore, since as a stranger he would automatically be under suspicion, the sooner he finished his task and departed the better. Therefore, he should get on with it.

First, however, he would get himself a meal; he had not eaten since the preceding midnight, more or less, and the sun was now well down the western sky.

He debated whether or not he should wear his cloak; the boys had not reacted negatively to the presence of an overman, but that said nothing about the reaction of adults. He picked up the garment, and saw to his disgust that there were bloodstains on it; he had not seen them in the dim morning light, as they blended with the brown fabric. There was the evidence to convict him of murder and sacrilege. The cloak would have to be promptly disposed of; he rolled it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure the stains were not in any way visible. He would have to do without it; he hoped that overmen were not utterly abhorred in Dыsarra. To the best of his recollection, Nekutta had not fought in the Racial Wars, but of course history had never been his favorite subject of conversation. And even if it had, no word of anything significant had reached the Northern Waste for three centuries; anything could have happened in that time. Still, so far as he knew, no overman had been seen in this part of the world since the wars; the humans would probably be too surprised to do anything much about him.

Besides, he had no choice. He had only brought the one cloak, since he had planned on a trading journey to Skelleth, not a long adventure. With a word of praise to Koros, he opened the stall door and stepped out into the stableyard.

The sun was even lower than he had realized, and the western sky a smoke-streaked expanse of crimson. He could hear the clatter and conversation in the Inn of the Seven Stars, and faintly, in the distance, the sounds of the marketplace; through the archway that was the only connection between the stable and the outside world he glimpsed occasional passersby, hurrying or strolling, striding, ambling, or strutting about their business.

He had seen little of the stable the night before, for want of proper illumination; he looked about him, hoping to see some convenient place to dispose of the incriminating cloak.