'See what love is worth,' Ischade said, smiling without love at all. 'Andloyalty, of course.' She walked a pace nearer, on the slanted stones. 'Mor-am'sloyalty, now - it's to himself, his own interests; he knows.'

'Don't,' Mor-am said, with more earnestness than ever Mradhon had heard from thehardnosed, streetwise seller of his friends; for a moment the face seemedtwisted, the body diminished, then straightened again - a trick of the light,perhaps, but in the same moment Moria's arm went limp and listless in his hand.

'You'd live well,' Ischade said in her quiet voice, an intimate tone which yetrose above the river-sound. 'I reward - loyalty.'

'With whatT Mradhon asked.

She favoured Mradhon with a long, slow stare, ophidian and, at this moment,amused.

'Gold. Fine wines. Your life and comfort. Follow me - across the bridge. I needfour brave souls.'

'What for? To do what for you?'

'Why, to save a life,' she said, 'maybe. The bumed house. I'm sure you know it.Meet me there.'

The light went, the shadow rippled, and in the half-dark between the pilings andthe flagstone bank, one shadow deserted them. The second started then to follow.'TTie patrols -' he said to the dark, but she was gone then. Mor-am stopped,abandoned, his voice swallowed by the river-sound. He turned hastily, facingthem.

'Moria -1 had a reason.'

'Where have you been?' The knife was still in Moria's hand. Mradhon rememberedand took her by the sleeve.

'Don't,' Mradhon said, not for love of Mor-am, the gods knew; rather, a deepunease, in which he wished to disturb nothing, do nothing.

'What's this about?' Moria asked. 'Answer me, Mor-am.'

'Stepsons - They - they hired her. They sent - Moria, for Ils' sake, they hadme locked up, they used me to bargain with - with her.'

'What are you worth?' Moria asked.

'She works for Jubal.'

That hung there on the air, dying of unbelief.

'She does,' Mor-am said.

'And you work for her.'

'I have to.' Mor-am turned, amorphous in his cloak, began to vanish among thepilings.

'Mor-am -' Moria started forward, brought up short in Mrad-hon'sgrip.

'Let him go,' Mradhon said, and in his mind was a faint far dream of doingsomething rash, breaking with sanity and heading for somewhere safe. To theStepsons, might be. But that was, lately, no way to a long life.

Haught was on his way - why, he had no idea, whether it was despair orensorcelment. 'Wait,' he called to Haught, losing control of things, but he hadlost that when he had come out here, blind-sotted as Moria at her worst. He lether draw him up the stone facing, among the pilings, chasing after Haught at thefirst, but then joining him in the open, where anyone might spy them.

There was the empty guard station, the pole standing vacant.

'They got him down,' Haught said.

'Someone did,' Mradhon muttered, looking about. He felt naked, exposed to view.The rain spattered away at the board surface of the bridge, a shadowed spanleading through the dark to Downwind, to Ischade. A distant, solitary figureflitted like illusion at its other end, lost itself into Downwind, among itsshuttered buildings. Here they stood, neither one place nor the other, neitherin the Maze of Sanctuary nor in the Downwind, belonging now to no one.

And there was no hiding now.

Haught started across the bridge. Mradhon followed, with Moria beside him, andall he could think of now was how long it took to get across, to get out of thisnakedness. Someone was coming their way, a shambling, raggedy figure. Heclutched his cloak about him, gripped his sword as this beggar passed; he darednot look when the apparition had gone by, but Moria swung on his arm, feigningdrunkenness like some doxy.

''Sjust a beggar,' she said in full voice, hanging on him, terrifying him withthe noise. Haught spun half-about, turned again, and kept walking like somehonest man with disreputable followers - but no honest man crossed the bridge.

'Beggar,' Moria whined, leaning on Mradhon's arm. He jerked at her and cursed,knowing this mentality, this bloody-minded humour that he had had beside him inthe field, soldiers who got this affliction. Heroes all. Dead ones. Soon.'Straighten up,' he said, knowing her, knowing her brother, knowing that thiswas a game both played. He twisted at her arm. 'You see your brother? You seewhat games won him?'

She grew quiet then. Subdued. She walked beside him at Haught's back, past thetall end-pilings that themselves bore nail-holes from the time that hawkmasks,not Stepsons, were the prey.

To the right, a huddle of blackened timbers, of tumbled brick, was the burnedshell of a house. Haught went that way, entering the shadow of Downwind, andthey came after, out of choices now.

Erato slipped back into shadow, his pulse beating double-time, for a shadow hadpassed that disturbed him. He felt a presence at his shoulder, where itbelonged, but he trusted nothing now. He scanned the figure at near range, hisheart still thumping away until he had (pretending calm) resolved his left-handman still beside him, and not some further threat, some shape-changer, nightwalker. He had no taste for this witch-stalking. 'They're across,' the partnersaid.

'They're across. We're not the only ones moving. Get back along the bank. Getthe squad in place. Get a message back to base.' Erato moved back along thealley, headed towards the river house.

It smelled of double-cross, the whole business. His partner jogged off, holdinghis cloak tight to him, muffling his armour. They kept well away from thegrounds, wary of traps. This was the place to watch. Here. He was sure of that.He settled in then, watching the storm clouds lose themselves on the seawardhorizon in the dark, down that split that divided Downwind from Sanctuary, poorfrom rich, that division no bridge could span. He had been smug once, had Erato,well-paid, well-armed as he was, convinced of his own skill, of the reputationthat would keep challenges off his neck. And somewhere in Downwind that bluffwas called, and they dared not go in, dared not pass the streets except by dayhad effectively lost nighttime access to their own base beyond the Downwind, theslaver's old estate, and relied more and more on the city command. And theirenemies knew it.

It would be a long, cold wait. It eroded morale, that view of the bridge, theriver, the Downwind. The realization came to him that he was sitting now in thesame kind of position the bridge guard had been in, alone out here. Sounds cameand went in the streets, rustled in the thin line of brush that rimmed theriver-shore. Wild fears dawned on him, to wonder whether the others were there,whether those sounds masked murder, creepings through cover, throats cut, orworse, his comrades snatched away as Stilcho had gone. He wanted to call out, toask the others were they safe; but that was craziness. He heard the rustlingagain near himself.

Some vermin creeping about; they grew rats large here on riverside. So he toldhimself. Something feeding on the garbage that swept down the sewers, thegutters, some choice tidbit brought down from the dwellings of the rich, totempt the rats and snakes. And the fear grew and grew, so that he eased hissword from its sheath and crouched there with his back pressed to the stones andhis eyes constantly scanning the dark that he had view of.

There was nothing anywhere but the splash of rain, the steady drip off eaves ofbuildings that still had eaves. Beside them, the shell, the timbers, the loosepiles of brick.