Crit asked, as Tempus was leaving the dark and comforting common room for thelast time, whether any children's bodies had been found - three girls and boysstill were missing; one young corpse had turned up cold in Shambles Cross.

'No,' Tempus said, and thought no more about it. 'Life to you. Critias.'

'And to you, Riddler. And everlasting glory.'

Outside, Jihan was waiting on one Tros horse, the other's reins in her hand.

They went first southwest to see if perhaps the witch or her agents might befound at home, but the manor house and its surrounds were deserted, the yardcriss-crossed with cart-tracks from heavily laden wagons' wheels.

The caravan's track was easy to follow.

Riding north without a backward glance on his Tros horse, Jihan swaying in hersaddle on his right, he had one last impulse: he ripped the problematical StormGod's amulet from around his throat, dropped it into a quaggy marsh. Where hewas going, Vashanka's name was meaningless. Other names were hallowed, and otherattributes given to the weather gods.

When he was sure he had successfully cast it aside, and the god's voice had notcome ringing with awful laughter in his ear (for all gods are tricksters, andwar gods worst of any), he relaxed in his saddle. The omens for this venturewere good: they'd completed their preparations in half the time he'danticipated, so that he could start it while the day was young.

Crit sat long at his customary table in the common room after Tempus had gone.By rights it should have been Straton or some Sacred Band pair who succeededTempus, someone ... anyone but him. After a time he pulled out his pouch andemptied its contents on to the plank table: three tiny metal figures, a fishhookmade from an eagle's claw and abalone shell, a single die, an old fielddecoration won in Azehur while the Slaughter Priest still led the originalSacred Band.

He scooped them up and threw them as a man might throw in wager: the little goldStorm God fell beneath the lead figurine of a fighter, propping the man upright;the fishhook embraced the die, which came to rest with one dot facing up Strat'swar name was Ace. The third figure, a silver rider mounted, sat square atop thefield star - Abarsis had slipped it over his head so long ago the ribbon hadcrumbled away.

Content with the omens his private prognosticators gave, he collected them andput them away. He'd wanted Tempus to ask him to join him, not hand him fiftymen's lives to yea or nay. He took such work too much to heart; it lay heavy onhim, worse than the task force's weight had been, and he'd only just begun. Butthat was why Tempus picked him - he was conscientious to a fault.

He sighed and rose and quit the hostel, riding aimlessly through the foetidstreets. Damned town was a pit, a bubo, a sore that wouldn't heal. He couldn'ttrust his task force to some subordinate, though how he was going to run themwhile stomping around vainly trying to fill Tempus's sandals, he couldn't say.

His horse, picking his route, took him by the Vulgar Unicorn where Straton wouldsoon be 'discussing sensitive matters' with One-Thumb.

By rights he should go up to the palace, pay a call on Kadakithis, 'make nice'(as Straton said) to Vashanka's priest-of-record Molin, visit the Mageguild ...He shook his head and spat over his horse's shoulder. He hated politics.

And what Tempus had told him about Niko's misfortune and Janni's death stillrankled. He remembered the foreign fighter Niko had made him turn loose - Vis.Vis, who'd come to Tempus, bearing hurt and slain, with a message from Jubal.That, and what Straton had gotten from the hawkmask they'd given Ischade, plusthe vampire woman's own hints, allowed him to triangulate Jubal's position likea sailor navigating by the stars. Vis was supposed to come to him, though. He'dwait. If his hunch was right, he could put Jubal and his hawkmasks to work forKadakithis without either knowing - or at least having to admit - that was thecase.

If so, he'd be free to take the band north - what they wanted, expected, andwould now fret to do with Tempus gone. Only Tempus's mystique had kept them thislong; Crit would have a mutiny, or empty barracks, if he couldn't meet theirexpectation of war to come. They weren't babysitters, slum police, or palacepraetorians; they collected exploits, not soldats. He began to form a plan,shape up a scenario, answer questions sure to be asked him later, rehearsingreplies in his mind.

Unguided, his horse led him slumward - a bam-rat, it was taking the quickest,straightest way home. When he looked up and out, rather than down and in, he wasalmost through the Shambles, near White Foal Bridge and the vampire's house,quiet now, unprepossessing in the light of day. Did she sleep in the day? Hedidn't think she was that kind of vampire; there had been no bloodless, nopunctures on the boy stiff against the drop's back door when one of the streetmen found it. But what did she do, then, to her victims? He thought of Straton,the way he'd looked at the vampire, the exchange between the two he'd overheardand partly understood. He'd have to keep those two quite separate, even ifIschade was putatively willing to work with, rather than against, them. Hespurred his horse on by.

Across the bridge, he rode southwest, skirting the thick of Downwind. When hesighted the Stepsons' barracks, he still didn't know if he could succeed inleading Stepsons. He rehearsed it wryly in his mind: 'Life to all. Most of youdon't know me but by reputation, but I'm here to ask you to bet your lives onme, not once, but as a matter of course over the next months ...'

Still, someone had to do it. And he'd have no trouble with the Sacred Bandteams, who knew him in the old days, when he'd had a right-side partner, beforethat vulnerability was made painfully clear, and he gave up loving the deathseekers - or anything else which could disappoint him.

It mattered not a whit, he decided, if he won or if he lost, if they let himadvise them or deserted post and duty to follow Tempus north, as he would havedone if the sly old soldier hadn't bound him here with promise andresponsibility.

He'd brought Niko's bow. The first thing he did - after leaving the stables,where he saw to his horse and checked on Niko's pregnant mare - was seek thewounded fighter.

The young officer peered at him through swollen, blackened eyes, saw the bow andnodded, unlaced its case and stroked the wood recurve when Critias laid it onthe bed. Haifa dozen men were there when he'd knocked and entered - three teamswho'd come with Niko and his partner down to Ranke on Sacred Band business. Theyleft, warning softly that Crit mustn't tire him - they'd just got him back.

'He's left me the command,' Crit said, though he'd thought to talk ofhawkmasksand death squads and Nisibisi - a witch and one named Vis.

'Gilgamesh sat by Enkidu seven days, until a maggot fell from his nose.' It wasthe oldest legend the fighters shared, one from Enlil's time when the Lord Stormand Enki (Lord Earth) ruled the world, and a fighter and his friend roamed far.

Crit shrugged and ran a spread hand through feathery hair. 'Enkidu was dead;you're not. Tempus has just gone ahead to prepare our way.'

Niko rolled his head, propped against the whitewashed wall, until he could seeCrit clearly: 'He followed godsign; I know that look.'

'Or witchsign.' Crit squinted, though the light was good, three windows wide andafternoon sun raying the room. 'Are you all right - beyond the obvious, I mean?'

'I lost two partners, too close in time. I'll mend.'