Ischade drew herself to her feet, walked over to the window and unshuttered itby hand, considerate of her guests. There were some things they might bear within the dark of night; but by day - that seemed unkind, and she felt washed cleanthis morning. A bird was perched on the untouched hedge. It was a carrion crow;it hopped down out of sight, in a fluttering of unseen wings.

Mradhon Vis strode along the street in the silence of the morning free, inhalingair that had, even with its stench, a more wholesome quality than that withinthe riverhouse.

Haught, Moria, Mor-am - they were afraid. The Stepson slept, unharmed, inIschade's silken bed, while the witch herself - gods knew where she was.

'Come on,' he had pleaded, with Haught - with Moria, even. Mor-am he had notasked. Even the Stepson: him he would have gotten out of there if he could. Butmaybe it would be a corpse he was carrying before he had gotten to the street.

'No,' Moria had said, seeming shamed. Haught had said nothing, but a hell was inhis eyes, so he had it bad. 'Don't - touch her,' Mradhon had said then, shakinghim by the shoulders. But Haught turned away, head bowed, passed his hand overone of the dead candles. A bit of smoke curled up on its own. Died. So Mradhonknew what hold Ischade had on Haught. And he went away, went out the door withno one to stop him.

She would find him if she wished. He was sure of that. There was a long list ofthose who might be interested to find him - but he walked the street past thebridge by daylight in the town. Traffic had begun, if late. There were walkerson the street, folk with unhappy, hunted looks.

'Vis,' someone said. He heard rapid steps. His heart turned in him as he lookedback and saw a man of the garrison. 'Vis, is it?'

He thought of his sword, but daytime, on the streets - even in Sanctuary - wasno time or place for that kind of craziness. He struck an easy stance, impatientattention, nodded to the man.

'Got a message,' the soldier said. 'Captain wants to see you. Mind?'

A large blackbird perched on the awning of the small jeweller's shop, its headcocked to fix the approaching trio with an unblinking eye, as if it knew of thedrama about to unfold.

'There it is. Bantu, just like I told you. I'm sure it wasn't there last week.'

The leader of the group nodded curtly, never taking his eyes from the smallsymbol scratched on one of the awning posts. It was a simple design: ahorizontal line curved downward at the left, with a small circle at its lowerright end. No rune or letter of any known alphabet matched it, yet it spokevolumes to those in the know.

'Not last week,' Bantu said, his jaw muscles tightening, 'and not next week.Come on.'

The three were so intent on their mission within that they failed to note theloiterer across the street, who regarded them with much the same carefulscrutiny that they had given the symbol. As they vanished into the shop, thewatcher closed his eyes to evaluate the details of what he'd seen.

Three youths ... well monied from the cut and newness of their clothes ...swords and daggers only ... no armour ... none of the habitual wariness ofwarriors about them ...

Satisfied that the facts were clear in his mind, the watcher opened his eyes,turned, and made his way quickly down the street, suddenly aware of thepressures of time in the performance of his duties.

There was a middle-aged couple in the shop, but the youths ignored them ascompletely as they did the displays. Instead they moved to confront theshopkeeper.

'Can ... may I show you gentlemen something?' that notable inquired hesitantly.

'We'd like to know more about the sign scratched on the post outside,' Bantuproclaimed bluntly.

'Sign?' the shopkeeper frowned. 'There's no sign on my posts. Perhaps thechildren ...'

'Spare us your feigned innocence, old fool,' the youth snapped, swaggeringforward. 'Next you'll be telling us you don't even recognize Jubal's mark.'

The shopkeeper paled at the mention of the ex-crimelord's name, and shot a quickglance at his other customers. The couple had drawn away from the disturbanceand were attempting to appear unaware that anything was amiss.

'Tell us what that mark means,' Bantu said. 'Are you one of his killers or justa spy? Are these goods you're selling stolen or merely smuggled? How much bloodwas paid for your stock?'

The other customers exchanged a few mumbled words and began edging towards thedoor.

'Please,' the storekeeper begged, 'I...'

'That black bastard's power has been smashed once,' the youth raged. 'Do youthink honest citizens will just stand by while he spreads his web again? Thatsign ...'

The shop door flew open with a crash, cutting off the customers' escape. Half adozen figures crowded into the limited space, swords drawn and ready.

Before Bantu had finished turning, the newcomers had shoved his comrades roughlyagainst the walls of the shop, pinning them there with bared blades againsttheir throats. The youth started to reach for his own weapon, then thoughtbetter of it and let his hand fall away from his sword hilt.

These men had the cold, easy confidence of those who make their living by thesword. There was near-military precision to their movements, though no soldierever worked with such silent efficiency. As confident as he was at terrorizingstorekeepers, Bantu knew he was now outclassed; there was no doubt in his mindwhat the outcome would be if he or his comrades offered any resistance.

A short, swarthy man came forward with a step that was more a glide. He leanedcasually in front of the storekeeper, yet never took his eyes from Bantu. 'Arethese boys bothering you, citizen?'

'No, these ... men were just asking about the sign on my post outside. They ...seemed to think it was Jubal's mark.'

'Jubal?' the swarthy man repeated, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.'Haven't you heard, lad? The Black Devil of Sanctuary's dead now, or soeverybody says. Lucky for you, too.'

A knife glinted suddenly in the man's hand as he advanced on Bantu, a glint thatwas echoed in his narrowed eyes.

'... because if he were alive, and if this shop were under his protection, andif he or his men caught you coming between him and a paying customer, then he'dhave to make an example of you and your friends!'

The man was close now, and Bantu's throat tightened as the knife moved up anddown in the air between them, gracefully serving as a pointer during the speech.

'Maybe your ears should be cut off to save you from hearing troublesome rumours... or your tongue cut out to keep you from repeating them ... Better still thenose ... yes, chop off the nose to keep it out of other people's business ,..'

Bantu felt faint now. This couldn't be happening. Not in broad daylight on theeast side of town. These things might happen in the Maze, but not here! Not tohim!

'Please, sir,' the shopkeeper interrupted. 'If anything happens in my shop ...'

'Of course,' the swarthy man continued, as if he hadn't heard, 'all this is pureconjecture. Jubal is dead, so nothing need be done ... or said. Correct?'

He turned away abruptly, summoning his men back to the door with a jerk of hishead.

'Yes, Jubal is dead,' he repeated, 'along with his hawkmasks. As such, no oneneed concern themselves with silly symbols scratched on shopfronts. I trust wedid not interrupt your business, citizens, for I'm sure you are all here topurchase some of this man's excellent stock ... and you will each buy somethingbefore you leave.'