Tempus had agreed with the pleasant-looking Syrese agent and they had gone on toother business: Prince/Governor Kadakithis was insistent upon contacting Jubal,the slaver whose estate the Stepsons sacked and made their home. 'But when wehad the black bastard, you said to let him crawl away.'

'Kadakithis expressed no interest.' Tempus shrugged. 'He has changed his mind,perhaps in light of the appearance of these mysterious death squads your peoplehaven't been able to identify or apprehend. If your teams can't deliver Jubal orturn up a hawkmask who is in contact with him, I'll find another way.'

'Ischade, the vampire woman who lives in Shambles Cross, is still our best hope.We've sent slave-bait to her and lost it. Like a canny carp, she takes the baitand leaves the hook.' Crit's lips were pursed as if his wine had turned tovinegar; his patrician nose drew down with his frown. He ran a hand through hisshort, feathery hair. 'And our joint venture with the Rankan garrison isimpeding rather than aiding success. Army Intelligence is a contradiction interms, like the Mygdonian Alliance or the Sanctuary pacification programme. Thecutthroats I've got on our payroll are sure the god is dead and all the Rankanssoon to follow. The witch - or some witch - floats rumours of Mygdonianliberators and Ilsig freedom and the gullible believe. That snotty thief youbefriended is either an enemy agent or a pawn ofNisibisi propaganda - tellingeveryone that he's been told by the Ilsig gods themselves that Vashanka wasrouted ... I'd like to silence him permanently.' Crit's eyes met Tempus's then,and held.

'No,' he replied, to all of it, then added: 'Gods don't die; men die. Boys diein multitudes. The thief, Shadowspawn, is no threat to us, just misguided, semiliterate, and vain, like all boys. Bring me a conduit to Jubal, or the slaverhimself. Contact Niko and have him report - if the witch needs a lesson, Imyself will undertake to teach it. And keep your watch upon the fish-eyed folkfrom the ships -I'm not sure yet that they're as harmless as they seem.'

Having given Crit enough to do to keep his mind off the rumours of the godVashanka's troubles - and hence, his own - he rose to leave. 'Some results, byweek's end, would be welcome.' The officer toasted him cynically as Tempuswalked away.

Outside, his Tros horse whinnied joyfully. He stroked its mist-dappled neck andfelt the sweat there. The weather was close, an early heatwave as unwelcome asthe late frosts which had frozen the winter crops a week before their harvestand killed the young sets just planted in anticipation of a bounteous fall.

He mounted up and headed south by the granaries towards the palace's north wallwhere a gate nowhere as peopled or public as the Gate of the Gods was set intothe wall by the cisterns. He would talk to Prince Kitty-Cat, then tour the Mazeon his way home to the barracks.

But the prince wasn't receiving, and Tempus's mood was ill -just as well; he hadbeen going to confront the young popinjay, as once or twice a month he was surehe must do, without courtesy or appropriate deference. If Kadakithis was holedup in conference with the blond-haired, fish-eyed folk from the ships and hadnot called upon him to join them, then it was not surprising: since the gods hadbattled in the sky above the Mageguild, all things had become confused, worsehad come to worst, and Tempus's curse had fallen on him once again with its fullforce.

Perhaps the god was dead - certainly, Vashanka's voice in his ear was absent.He'd gone out raping once or twice to see if the Lord of Pillage could be rousedto take part in His favourite sport. But the god had not rustled around in hishead since New Year's day; the resultant fear of harm to those who loved him bythe curse that denied him love had made a solitary man withdraw even furtherinto himself; only the Froth Daughter Jihan, hardly human, though woman inform, kept him company now.

And that, as much as anything, irked the Stepsons. Theirs was a closedfraternity, open only to the paired lovers of the Sacred Band and distinguishedsingle mercenaries culled from a score of nations and diverted, by Tempus'sservice and Kitty-Cat's gold, from the northern insurrection they'd driftedthrough Sanctuary en route to join.

He, too, ached to war, to fight a declared enemy, to lead his cohort north. Butthere was his word to a Rankan faction to do his best for a petty prince, andthere was this thrice-cursed fleet of merchant warriors come to harbour talking'peaceful trade' while their vessels rode too low in the water to be filled withgrain or cloth or spices - if not barter, his instinct told him, the Burekfaction of Beysib would settle for conquest.

He was past caring; things in Sanctuary were too confused for one man, even onenear-immortal, god-ridden avatar of a man, to set aright. He would take Jihanand go north, with or without the Stepsons - his accursed presence among themand the love they bore him would kill them if he let it continue: if the god wastruly gone, then he must follow. Beyond Sanctuary's borders, other Storm Godsheld sway, other names were hallowed. The primal Lord Storm (Enlil), whom Nikovenerated, had heard a petition from Tempus for a clearing of his path and hisheart: he wanted to know what status his life, his curse, and his god-bond had,these days. He awaited only a sign.

Once, long ago, when he went abroad as a philosopher and sought a calmer life ina calmer world, he had said that to gods all things are beautiful and good andjust, but men have supposed some things to be unjust, others just. If the godhad died, or been banished, though it didn't seem that this could be so, then itwas meet that this occurred. But those who thought it so did not realize thatone could not escape the intelligible light: the notice of that which neversets: the apprehension of the elder gods. So he had asked, and so he waited.

He had no doubt that the answer would be forthcoming, as he had no doubt that hewould not mistake it when it came.

On his way to the Maze he brooded over his curse, which kept him unloved by theliving and spurned by any he favoured if they be mortal. In heaven he had abrace of lovers, ghosts like the original Stepson, Abarsis. But to heaven hecould not repair: his flesh regenerated itself immemorially; to make sure thiswas still the case, last night he had gone to the river and slit both wrists. Bythe time he'd counted to fifty the blood had ceased to flow and healing hadbegun. That gift of healing - if gift it was - still remained his, and since itwas god-given, some power more than mortal 'loved' him still.

It was whim that made him stop by the weapons shop the mercenaries favoured.Three horses tethered out front were known to him; one was Niko's stallion, abig black with points like rust and a jughead on thickening neck perpetuallysweatbanded with sheepskin to keep its jowls modest. The horse, as mean as itwas ugly, snorted a challenge to Tempus's Tros - the black resented that theTros had climbed Niko's mare.

He tethered it at the far end of the line and went inside, among the crossbows,the flying wings, the steel and wooden quarrels and the swords.

Only a woman sat behind the counter, pulchritudinous and vain, her neck hungwith a wealth of baubles, her flesh perfumed. She knew him, and in seconds hisnose detected acrid, nervous sweat and the defensive musk a woman can exude.

'Marc's out with the boys in back, sighting-in the high-torque bows. Shall I gethim. Lord Marshal? Or may I help you? What's here's yours, my lord, on trial oras our gift -' Her arm spread wide, bangles tinkling, indicating the rackedweapons.