The yard was a long, narrow strip of bare dirt, with half a dozen large box stalls on either side, built of rough unpainted wood and roofed with red tile. One end was the archway to the street; the other end was a blank gray stone wall. Against the stone wall was a trough, itself carved from the same gray rock, presumably intended for watering whatever beasts of burden used the stable.

Garth strolled along the yard, peering into the stalls; most were empty, but three contained horses, the creatures that the overmen of the Northern Waste had long considered merely a legend. Garth had encountered such animals once before, far to the east; he had not expected to see them here.

He considered burying the cloak in the straw that lined the stalls, and rejected it; it was too likely to be found, drawing suspicion on the patrons of the inn, and possibly resulting in the conviction and death of whatever innocent happened to be renting the stall he chose.

He reached the end of the row of stalls without striking on any better solution, and saw that the stone trough was empty and apparently had been for quite some time; a spider had spun its web across one corner.

It occurred to him that probably no one had even noticed that the trough was here for years; people became accustomed to their surroundings and forgot the parts that did not concern them. He dropped the bundled cloak into the trough.

There was still a fair chance that some person-perhaps one of the stable-boys-would find it; but the trough was deep, and the cloak was material that would burn, but not too brightly. The flames would not show, and with luck no one would notice another wisp of smoke in this smoke-shrouded city. He had tinder, flint, and steel in a pouch on his belt, as always; it was a moment's work to set the garment afire.

Whatever ashes might remain would not be particularly noticeable in the accumulation of dust and debris in the bottom of the trough, and the bloodstains would certainly not be recognizable; the matter was dealt with. He rose, and started toward the arch.

Before he was halfway down the yard he heard voices approaching; before he was more than a pace or two past Koros' stall four figures appeared, not merely passing by on the street but coming through the arch toward him. He stopped.

Two of the four were the two boys; a third was the girl who had taken him to Tema's temple, and the fourth was a large man, clad in the usual Dыsarran robe, black in this instance, but belted about the waist and with a long, straight sword and sheath hanging from that belt.

"Greetings." Garth spoke politely.

"Greetings, stranger." The foursome stopped, a few feet into the yard. Garth nodded, then started walking again, as if to pass them by and depart.

"Wait, stranger." The man's hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Garth stopped again. The man kept his gaze on the overman as he asked his companions, "Is he the one?"

Both boys replied, "Yes." The girl said nothing.

"Mernalla?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"Could it have been he?"

"No...no, it couldn't. The man was shorter, with a higher voice, and he wore a dirty brown robe."

"You said he was tall."

"For a man, yes."

Garth interrupted, "Might I ask, sir, why you are interested in me?"

"We're looking for a murderer."

"What has that to do with me?"

"You are an armed stranger; naturally, that makes you suspect."

"I suppose it does. When was this murder done? I only arrived in Dыsarra last night."

"A priest was slain early this morning."

"A priest? Could it not have been an internal matter?"

"The priests of Tema do not kill their own."

"Then perhaps some rival cult is responsible?"

The man started to reply, then stopped himself. The girl looked at him as he considered the suggestion, while the two boys continued to stare at Garth. At last, after a long pause, he said, "You have a good point. It could have been them. It could well have been."

Garth was pleased to see that the man was accepting his decoy so readily. "After all," he said, "what cause could a stranger have to commit such a sacrilege? I am in Dыsarra to obtain some goods for my employer; what have I to do with temples, or with murders?"

"Nothing, I am sure." The man smiled. "My apologies for detaining you." He stepped aside, making room for Garth to pass.

One of the boys demanded belligerently, "What have you got that sword for, if you're a trader?"

"What?" Garth looked at his waist in feigned surprise. "Oh. Just habit, I assure you; an adventurer such as myself is accustomed to travelling armed."

The man swatted the boy on the shoulder and said, "Come now, there's no law against wearing a sword, else I'd be a criminal myself. From what I hear, travelling the Yprian Coast without a good blade is akin to suicide." He smiled at Garth again.

Garth smiled back, unenthusiastically, and moved on past the foursome. He turned into the adjacent tavern and found himself an unoccupied table. The swordsman's final comment was bothering him. Why should the fellow assume that Garth had come by way of the Yprian Coast? Why was no one particularly surprised at the presence of an overman in Dыsarra?

Could it be that other overmen came to this city? Could there be an established trade route through the Yprian Coast?

A middle-aged man took his order for a meal and a drink.

If any overmen had come here from the Northern Waste, he should have heard of it; he was, after all, high in the councils at Ordunin, to which all his people swore allegiance. Perhaps there were renegades, along the western shores of the Waste?

His ale arrived, and the innkeeper assured him that his food would soon follow.

Another possibility finally struck him; could there be overmen living outside the Waste? On the Yprian Coast itself, perhaps? That explanation worked quite well; should such overmen exist, Dыsarra would be a natural place for them to trade with Nekutta and the other southern lands. The map showed the coastal plain lying just the other side of this volcanic mountain range; although the road across the mountains would most likely be rougher travelling than the routes east into Eramma, the Yprians, if they existed, would probably not dare to venture into Eramma. The overmen of the Northern Waste had not dared to do so for three centuries; the bitter memories of the Racial Wars had kept them out as effectively as any physical barrier.

Likewise, the northerners had never ventured to the west, across the Gulf of Ypri; their histories taught that the western lands were empty and desolate. Undoubtedly, the Yprians were taught that the Northern Waste was an uninhabited wasteland, as it actually had been until three hundred and fifty years ago.

This was a matter that would bear investigation when he returned home; he considered abandoning his quest and leaving Dыsarra immediately. He could drop off his one piece of booty with the Forgotten King in Skelleth on the way...

No, he couldn't. He could not return to Ordunin yet; he was still bound by his oath. Nor could he reenter Skelleth without first going to Ordunin; the Baron would not tolerate that. He could perhaps sneak into the village, but to skulk about thus, and to bring only one of the items he had been sent for...

No, his pride would not allow that. He would complete his task here in Dыsarra first.

The innkeeper was at his elbow, setting a plate heaped with steaming mutton and those vegetables-potatoes?-before him. He pulled a gold coin from the pouch on his belt and said, "Is there a room available?"

"Oh, yes; my lord. I'll fetch the key." He took the proffered coin and vanished again.

There were six temples remaining; if he recalled the girl's words correctly, one of them was as nocturnal as Tema's, and inasmuch as it would be dark by the time he finished his meal, that would be his next target. The worshippers of darkness, of course; the god with two names. Andhur something. That was the one.