And Hanse went on, not in shadows now for there were no shadows; all the landwas one vast shadow. Out of Sanctuary. Past lovers who neither saw nor heardthis son of Shalpa the Shadowed One. On, to the beautifully tended gardenssurrounding the house of a pasty-faced walking skeleton called Kurd and worse.The little crescent of moon pretended to return. It was only a ghost strugglingweakly against clouds like restless shadows blotting the sky.

The well-tended, scented gardens provided a pleasant if un-needed cover. Agliding anthropomorphic shadow amid herbaceous shapes like looming shadows.Hanse went right up to the house. It too was dark.

No one wants to visit Kurd. No one considers trying to steal from Kurd. Whyshould it not be easy, then? Kurd must think he needs no precautions ordefenders!

Still, he kept his lips over his teeth when he smiled. He glided into thefragrant shrubs, odd deciduous shrubs with long thin branchlets, set up closeagainst Kurd's house, exulting in how simple it was, and then the bush'strailing tendrils moved, rustling, and turned, and twined, and clutched. Andclamped. And Shadowspawn understood then that Kurd was not without exteriordefences.

Even as he struggled - fruitlessly, against frutescence - he knew that theknowledge was gained too late. Whether this thing was bent on strangling him ortwisting his limbs until they broke or merely holding him until someone came, itwas more horribly effective than human guards or three watchdogs. Amid silentrustling horror Hanse tugged at the tendril more slender than a brooch-pin, andonly cut his fingers. His knife he only dulled, sawing at a purposeful tendrilthat gave but refused to be cut. And they moved, twining, rustling, insinuatingthemselves between his arms and body and around his legs and arms and torso and-throat!

That one he fought until his fingers bled. It was relentless. Oye gods, no, no,not like this - he was going to die, silently strangled by a damned skinnyplant's tendril!

He was, too. His 'N-' disposed of his last breath. He could not draw another. Ashis eyes started to bulge and a dull hum commenced to invade his ears on the wayto becoming a roar and then eternal silence, it occurred to him that Kurd'sgarden could do more than strangle him. If it continued to tighten, it wouldslice in and in until it beheaded a strangled corpse.

Hanse fought with all his strength and the added power of desperation. As wellhave resisted the tide, or the sand of the desert. His movements became morerestricted as his limbs were more and more constricted. Dizziness began to buildlike storm clouds and the hum rose to the roar of a gale.

So did the clouds above, and great big drops of water commenced to fall from theladen sky. That was just as eerie and impossible, for rain in Sanctuary fell inaccord with the season, and this was not that season. The land was weeks awayfrom the time called Lizard Summer, when lizards fried or were said to fry intheir own juices, out on the desert.

What matter? Plants loved rain. And this one loved to kill. And it was killingHanse, who was losing consciousness and feeling while his hearing becamerestricted to the roar inside his head. More rain fell and Hanse, dying, triedto swallow and could not and did what he thought he could never do: he beganto give up.

Memory came like a white flash of late summer lightning. He heard her words asclearly as he had hours ago. 'Hanse - take the crossed brown pot with you.'

Even that blazing flare of hope seemed too late, for how could his bound armsdetach the bag from his belt, open it, open the crock inside, and give thispredatory plant a message it might understand?

Answer: he could not.

He could, however, dying, jerk his forearm four or five inches. He did, againand again, breathless, dying, losing consciousness but still moving, puncturingthe leather bag again and again and banging the point of his knife off the potwhich was smooth, glazed, well made, and 0 damn it all too damned hard\

It broke. Shards punched through knife holes and widened them to let quicklimespill down in a candent stream. Hanse was sure it hissed in the moist grassabout the moist base of the strangler plant - but Hanse could not hear thathissing or anything else save the roar of a surf more powerful than life couldwithstand.

He slumped, dead now with streamers of caustic steam rising above his legs - anda suddenly frenetic shrub began waving and snapping its tendrils about as ifcaught by the very Compass Bag itself, whence issues the wind of every directionat once. In those whipping throes it not only released its prey, it hurled himseveral feet backwards. He lay sprawled, away from the plant and clear of thesmoking corrosive death about its base, and the soles of his buskins smoked.Rain pelted his face and he lay still, still, while the killer plant died.

It was not raining in Sanctuary but out of a clear night sky came a sizzlingbolt that hardly rocked the structure that grounded it. The graven nameVASHANKA, however, abruptly disappeared from the facade of that structure,which was the Governor's Palace.

4

Oh damn, but my damned head aches!

Pox and plague, that's rain on my face and I'm getting soaked!

Holy cess- I'm alive!

None of these thoughts prompted Hanse to move, not for a longish while. Then hetried opening his mouth to let rain assuage a sore throat, and choked on thefifth or sixth drop. He sat up hurriedly. His grunt was not from his head, whichfelt fat and swollen and stuffed to bursting. He rolled swiftly leftward off asource of sharper pain. He had been lying on his back. Under him, thonged to hisbelt, had been the ruins of a nice leathern bag of broken pottery.

If I don't bleed to death I'll be picking pieces of pottery out of my tail for aweek!

That thought made him angry and with a low groan he rose to glare triumphantlyon the faintly smoking remnant of a destroyed shrub. Its neighbour looked almostas bad. Shadowspawn took no chances with it. Avoiding shrubs and indeed anythingherbaceous that was larger than a blade of grass, he went to the nearest window.Just as he completed his slow slicing of the sheet of pig's bladder stretchedover the opening, he heard the awful sound from within. A groan, long and waveryand hideous. Hanse went all over gooseflesh and considered heading for home.

He did not. He peeled aside the ruined window and peered into a dark roomcontaining neither bed nor person. Mindful of his punctured and laceratedbuttock, he went in. There was nothing to do about his head. He had, after all,been strangled to death. Or come so close that the difference wasn't worthconsidering -save that he was alive, which was absolutely all the differencethat mattered.

After a long measured while of standing frozen, listening, staring in effort tomake his eyes see, he moved. He heard nothing. No groan, no movement, no rain.The moon was back. It was not in line with the window, but it was up there and alittle light sneaked in to aid a thief.

He found a wall, a jamb. Squatted, then went lower, wincing at rearward pain, toensure that no light showed under the door. The latch was a simple press-downhook. He took his time depressing it. He took more time in slowly, slowlypulling open the door. It revealed a corridor or short hall.

While he wondered whether to go right or leftward, that ghastly sound of agonycame again. This time a pulpy mumble underlay the moaning groan, and once againHanse felt the icy, antsy touch of gooseflesh.