Let's hope, Crit thought but didn't say, watching Niko's expressionless eyes. 'Isaw to your mare.'

'My thanks. And for the bow. Janni's bier is set for morning. Will you help mewith it? Say the words?'

Crit rose; the operator in him still couldn't bear to officiate in public, yetif. he didn't, he'd never hold these men. 'With pleasure. Life to you. Stepson.'

'And to you. Commander.'

And that was that. His first test, passed; Niko and Tempus had shared a specialbond. .

That night, he called them out behind the barracks, ordering a feast to beserved on the training field, a wooden amphitheatre of sorts. By then Stratonhad come out to join him, and Strat wasn't bashful with the mess staff or thehired help.

Maybe it would work out; maybe together they could make half a Tempus, which wasthe least this endeavour needed, though Crit would never pair again ...

He put it to them when all were well disposed from wine and roasted pig andlamb, standing and flatly telling them Tempus had left, putting them in hischarge. There fell a silence and in it he could hear his heart pound. He'd beencalmer ringed with Tyse hillmen, or alone, his partner slain, against a Rankansquadron.

'Now, we've got each other, and for good and fair, I say to you, the quicker wequit this cesspool for the clean air of high peaks war, the happier I'll be.'

He could hardly see their faces in the dark with the torches snapping rightbefore his face. But it didn't matter; they had to see him, not he them. Critheard a raucous growl from fifty throats become assent, and then a cheer, andlaughter, and Strat, beside and off a bit, gave him a soldier's sign: all'swell.

He raised a hand, and they fell quiet; it was a power he'd never tried before:'But the only way to leave with honour is to work your tours out.' Theygrumbled. He continued: 'The Riddler's left busy-work sorties enough - hazardousduty actions, by guild book rules; I'll post a list - that we can work off ourdebt to Kitty-Cat in a month or so.'

Someone nay'd that. Someone else called: 'Let him finish, then we'll have oursay.'

'It means naught to me, who deserts to follow. But to us, to cadre honour, it'sa slur. So I've thought about it, since I'm hot to leave myself, and here's whatI propose. All stay, or go. You take your vote. I'll wait. But Tempus wants noman on his right at Wizardwall who hasn't left in good standing with the guild.'

When they'd voted, with Straton overseeing the count, to abide by the rulesthey'd lived to enforce, he said honestly that he was glad about the choicethey'd made. 'Now I'm going to split you into units, and each unit has a choice:find a person, a mercenary not among us now, a warm body trained enough to holda sword and fill your bed, and call him "brother" - long enough to induct him inyour stead. Then we'll leave the town yet guarded by "Stepsons" and that name'senough, with what we've done here, to keep the peace. The guild has provisionsfor man-steading; we'll collect from each to fill a pot to hire them; they'llbillet here, and we'll ride north a unit at a time and meet up in Tyse, nexthigh moon, and surprise theRiddler.'

So he put it to them, and so they agreed.

The wind came from the north tonight, out of chilly distances, sending anunaccustomed rain-washed freshness through the streets of Downwind, along theWhite Foal where traffic came and went across the only bridge. The Stepsons hadfinally done the obvious and set up a guard post here; in these fractious times,things were bad indeed. Previous holders of power in Sanctuary had been contentto watch and gather information. Now (when subtlety is lacking, one tries theclenched fist) they meant to control every move between Downwind and the Maze.

Tonight another guard was dead, pinned to the post beside the guardhouse; thesecond one - no one knew where. The word spread in all those quarters where folkwere interested to know, so that traffic on the bridge increased despite therumbles of oncoming thunder, and those who for a day or two had been caught onone side of the White Foal or the other heard and went skittering, windblown,across the White Foal bridge, some shuddering at the erstwhile guard whose eyesstill stared; some mocking the dead, how whimsical he looked, thus open-mouthedas if about to speak.

For those who knew, the stationing of that corpse was a signature: the Downwindknew and did not gossip, not even in the security of Mama Becho's, which sat, ascruffy, doors-open building, a tolerable walk from the. White Foal bridge. Onlythe fact was reported there, that for the third time that week the bridge guardhad come to grief; there was general grim laughter.

The news found its way to the Maze on the other side and drew thoughtful staresand considerably less mirth. Certain folk left the Vulgar Unicorn with news tocarry; certain ones called for another drink; and if there was gossip of whatthis chain of murders might mean, it was done in the quietest places and withworried looks. Those who had left did so with that skill of Maze-born skulkers,pretending indirection. They shivered at the sight of beggars in the streets, aturchins and old men, who were back again at posts deserted while the bridgeguard had (briefly) stood.

The news had not yet reached the strange ships rocking to the wind inSanctuary's harbour, or the glittering luxury ofKadakithis, who amused himselfin his palace this night and who would not, without understanding more thingsthan he did, have known that the underpinnings of his safety trembled. Thereport did, and soon, reach the Stepsons' Sanctuary-side headquarters, afterwhich a certain man sat alone with uncertainties. Dolon was his name. Critiashad left him in charge, when the senior Stepsons had gone, quietly, band byband, to the northern war. 'You've got all you need,' Critias had said. NowDolon, in charge of all there was, sat listening to the first patter of rainagainst the wall and wondering whether he dared, tonight, the morale of hiscommand being what it was, send a band to the bridge to gather up the oneavailable body before the dawn.

Of even more concern to him was the missing one, what might have become ofStilcho; whether he had gone into the river, or run away, or whether he mighthave been carried off alive, to some worse and slower fate, spilling secretswhile he died. The house by the bridge was a burned-out shell; but burning thebeggars' headquarters and creating a few Downwinder corpses had not solved thematter, only scattered it.

He heard steps outside the building, splashing through the rain. Someone knockedat the outside door; he heard that door groan open, heard the burr of quietvoices as his own guards passed someone through. The matter reached his doorthen, a second, louder rap.

'Mor-am, sir.' The door opened, and his guard let in the one he had sent for,this wreckage of a man. Handsome once ... at least they said that he had been.The youth's eyes remained untouched by the burn-scars, dark-lashed and darkbrowed eyes. Haunted, yes; long habituated to terrors.

The commander indicated a chair and the one-time hawkmask limped to it and satdown, staring at him from those dark eyes. The

nose was broken, scarred across the bridge; the fine mouth remained intact, buttwitched at times with an uncontrollable tic that might be fear - not enviablewas Mor-am's state, nowadays, among latter-day Stepsons.