'Not killing wizards, if that's your worry. My business is private, and it neednot intrude on yours.'

'And if I engaged you?'

'In what regard?'

'To spend one night with me.'

'You're mad.'

'I might become so - I don't age, you see. And that's the difficulty.'

'You're not afraid? You're looking to die? Is that the cause of all this?'

'Ah, I'm afraid at times. At times like this, when the shape is good. But itdoesn't last. There are other times... and they come. And I never grow old,Ischade. I can't detect it if I do. And that frightens me.'

She regarded him askance ... he was handsome, very. She wondered if this hadbeen his first shape, when he was young, that brought his trouble on him. It wasa shape fine enough to have done that. The eyes were beautiful, full of pain. Somany of her young men of the streets were full of that pain. It touched her asnothing else could.

'How long has it been,' he asked, setting his hands on her shoulders, touchingever so gently, 'since you had a lover worth the name? And how long since I'vehad hope of anything? We might be each other's answer, Ischade. If I should die,then that's one way out for me; or if I don't - then you're not doomed to losethem all, after all, are you, Ischade? Some of my forms might not be to yourtaste, but others -1 have infinite variety, Ischade. And no dread of you atall.'

'For this you hunted me down? That was it, wasn't it - the amulet, a way to drawyourself to me -'

'It costs you nothing. No harm. So small a thing for you, Ischade...'

It tempted. He was beautiful, this moment, this one moment, and the nights andthe years were long.

And then the other chance occurred to her and she shivered, who had not shiveredin years. 'No. No. Maybe you're set to die, but I'm not. No. Oppose two cursesthe like of ours - half the city could go in that shock, not to mention you andme. The chance of that, the merest chance - No. I'm not done living...'

He frowned, drew himself up with the least tremor about his lips, a look ofpanic. 'Ischade...' The voice began to change, and of a sudden the featuresstarting with the mouth wavered, as if the strain had been too much, toolong and dearly held. The scales were back; and 'No,' he cried, and plungedhis face into hands which were not quite still hands. The draperies billowed,the very air rippled, and 'No...' the air sighed after him, a vanishing moan, asob.

A second time she shivered, and looked about her, distracted, but he was quitegone.

So, well, she thought. He had had his answer, once for all. Her business tookher here and there about the empire, but she discovered a liking for Sanctuaryas for no other place she had known ... and it was well that Yorl took hisanswer, and that it was settled. New tasks might come. But at that moment shethought of the river house. This lodging was too well known for the time; andshe might walk to the river... might meet someone - along the way.

The wine splashed into the cup and such was Hanse's state of mind that he neverlooked to see who served, only hoisted the cup and drank a mouthful.

'That's good,' he said; and Cappen Varra across the table in the Unicorn watchedhim shake off the ghosts and lifted his own cup, thinking ruefully of a songabandoned, a tale best not sung at all, even in the safe confines of theUnicorn. The city would be full of questions tomorrow, and it was well to knownothing at all... as he was sure Hanse planned to know least of all.

'A game,' Cappen proposed.

'No. No dicing tonight.' Hanse dug into his purse and came up with a silverround, laid it carefully on the table. 'That's for another pitcher when this isdone. And for a roof tonight.'

Cappen poured again, topping off the cup - a wonder, that Hanse bought drinks.Hanse flinging money about as if he wished to be rid of it.

'Tomorrow on the game,' Cappen said, in hope.

'Tomorrow,' Hanse said, and lifted the cup.

*

Blind Darous poured, the cup held just so for his finger to feel the cool of theliquid ... measured it carefully and extended the filled goblet towards hisseated master. The breathing was hoarse tonight. A hand took the stem of the cupmost delicately, not touching his fingers at all, for which Darous was deeplygrateful.

And towards the river, a house apart from others ... which seemed oddlydiscontinuous from its surrounds: in squalor, it had a garden, and a wall; andyet had a quaint decrepitude. Mradhon Vis stood outside the gate - sore and muchout of sorts. She was there: she had found herself a young man much the image ofSjekso, who presently held the warmth and the light inside.

He had walked that far.

And finally, knowing what he knew, he did the harder thing, and walked away.

The sun was a full two handspans above the horizon when Hort appeared on theSanctuary docks; early in the day but late by fishermen's standard. The youth'seyes squinted painfully at the unaccustomed brightness of the morning sun. Hefervently wished he were home in bed ... or in someone else's bed ... oranywhere but here. Still, he had promised his mother he would help the Old . Manthis morning. While his upbringing made it unthinkable to break that promise,his stubbornness required that he demonstrate his protest by being late.

Though he had roamed these docks since early childhood and knew them to be asscrupulously clean as possible, Hort still chose his path carefully to avoidbrushing his clothes against anything. Of late he had been much more attentiveto his personal appearance; this morning he had discovered he no longer had anyold clothes suitable for the boat. While he realized the futility of trying topreserve his current garb through an entire day's work in the boat, newlyacquired habits demanded he try to minimize the damage.

The Old Man was waiting for him, sitting on the overturned boat like somestately sea-bird sleeping off a full belly. The knife in his hand caressed thestray piece of wood he held with a slow, rhythmic cadence. With each pass of theblade a long curl of wood fell to join the pile at his feet. The size of thepile was mute testament to how long the Old Man had been waiting.

Strange, but Hort had always thought of him as the Old Man, never as Father.Even the men who had fished these waters with him since their shared boyhoodscalled him Old Man rather than Panit. He wasn't really old, though his face wasdeceptive. Wrinkled and crisscrossed by weather lines, the Old Man's facelooked like one of those red clay riverbeds one saw in the desert beyondSanctuary: parched, cracked, waiting for rain that would never fall.

No, that was wrong. The Old Man didn't look like the desert. The Old Man wouldhave nothing in common with such a large accumulation of dirt. He was afisherman, a creature of the sea and as much a part of the sea as one of thoseweathered rocks that punctuated the harbour.

The old man looked up at his son's approach then tet his attention settle backon the whittling.

'I'm here,' Hort announced unnecessarily, adding, 'sorry I'm late.'

He cursed himself silently when that remark slipped out. He had been determinednot to apologize, no matter what the Old Man said, but when the Old Man saidnothing...

His father rose to his feet unhurriedly, replacing his knife in its sheath witha gesture made smooth and unconscious by years of repetition.

'Give me a hand with this,' he said, bending to grasp one end of the boat.