Though Sanctuary had never been so prosperous, every guild and union andcitizens' group had sent representatives to the palace at sunrise to complain.

Lastel, a.k.a. One-Thumb, could not understand why the Sanctuarites were sounhappy. Lastel was very happy: he was alive and back at the Vulgar Unicorntending bar, and the Unicorn was making money, and money made Lastel happy,always. Being alive was something Lastel had not fully appreciated untilrecently, when he had spent aeons dying a subjective death in thrall to a spellhe had paid to have laid upon his own person, a spell turned against him by thesons of its deceased creator, Mizraith of the Hazard class, and dispelled by heknew not whom. Though every night he expected his mysterious benefactor to sidleup to the bar and demand payment, no one ever came and said: 'Lastel, I savedyou. I am the one. Now show your gratitude.' But he knew very well that somedaysoon, someone would. He did not let this irritation besmirch his happiness. Hehad got a new shipment of Caronne krrf (black, pure drug, foil stamped, a fullweight of it, enough to set every mercenary in Sanctuary at the kill) and it wasso good that he considered refraining from offering it on the market. Havingconsidered, he decided to keep it all for himself, and so was very happyindeed, no matter how many fistfights broke out in the bar, or how high thesun was, these days, before he got to bed ...

Tempus, too, was happy that morning, with the magnificent Tros horse under himand signs of war all around him. Despite the hour, he saw enough rough hoplitesand dour artillery fighters with their crank-bows (whose springs were plaitedfrom women's hair) and their quarrels (barbed and poisoned) to let him know hewas not dreaming: these did not bestir themselves from daydreams! The war wasreal to them. And any one of them could be his. He felt his troop-levy moneycuddled tight against his groin, and he whistled tunelessly as the Tros horsethreaded his way towards the Vulgar Unicorn. One-Thumb was not going to be happymuch longer. Tempus left the Tros horse on its own recognizance, dropping thereins and telling it, 'Stay.' Anyone who thought it merely ripe for stealingwould learn a lesson about the strain which is bred only in Syr from theoriginal line ofTros's.

There were a few locals in the Unicorn, most snoring over tables along withother, bagged trash ready to be dragged out into the street.

One-Thumb was behind his bar, big shoulders slumped, washing mugs while watchingeverything through the bronze mirror he had had installed over his stock.

Tempus let his heels crack against the board and his armour clatter: he haddressed for this, from a box he had thought he might never again open. Thewrestler's body which Lastel had built came alert, pirouetted smoothly to facehim, staring unabashedly at the nearly god-sized apparition in leopard-skinmantle and helmet set with boar's tusks, wearing an antique enamelledbreastplate and bearing a bow of ibex-horn morticed with a golden grip.

'What in Azyuna's twat are you?' bellowed One-Thumb, as every wakingcustomer he had hastened to depart.

'I,' said Tempus, reaching the bar and removing his helmet so that hisyarrow honey hair spilled forth, 'am Tempus. We have not chanced to meet.' Heheld out a hand whose wrist bore a golden bracer.

'Marshal,' acknowledged One-Thumb, carefully, his pate creasing with his frown.'It is good to know you are on our side. But you cannot come in here ... My -'

'I am here, Lastel. While you were so inexplicably absent, I was often here, andreceived the courtesy of service without Charge. But now I am not here to eat ordrink with those who recognize me for one who is fully as corrupt as are theythemselves. There are those who know where you were, Lastel, and why -and onewho broke the curse that bound you. Truly, if you had cared, you could havefound out.' Twice, Tempus called One-Thumb by his true name, which no palacepersonage or Maze-dweller should have known enough to do.

'Marshal, let us go to my office.' Lastel fairly ramped behind his bar.

'No time, krrf-dealer. Mizraith's sons, Stefab and Marype; Markmor: those threeand more were slain by the woman Cime who is in the pits awaiting sentence. Ithought that you should know.'

'What are you saying? You want me to break her out? Do it yourself.'

'No one', said the Hell Hound, 'can break anyone out of the palace. I am incharge of security there. If she were to escape, I would be very busy explainingto Kadakithis what went wrong. And tonight I am having a reunion here with fiftyof my old friends from the mercenaries' guild. I would not want anything tospoil it. And, too, I ask no man to take me on faith, or go where I have notbeen.' He grinned like the Destroyer, gesturing around. 'You had better order inextra. And half a piece ofkrrf, your courtesy to me, of course. Once you haveseen my men when well in hand, you will be better able to conjecture what mighthappen should they get out of hand, and weigh your alternatives. Most men Isolicit find it to their benefit to work in accord with me. Should you deem itso for you, we will fix a time, and discuss it.'

Not the cipher's meaning, nor the plan it shrouded, nor the threat that gaveit teeth were lost on the man who did not like to be called 'Lastel' inthe Maze. He bellowed: 'You are addled. You cannot do this. I cannot do that!As for krrf, I know nothing about... any ... krrf.' But the man was gone,and Lastel was trembling with rage, thinking he had been in purgatory too long;it .had eroded his nerves!

4

When the dusk cooled the Maze, Shadowspawn ducked into the Unicorn. One-Thumbwas not in evidence; Two-Thumbs was behind the bar.

He sat with the wall supporting him, where the story-teller liked to sit, andwatched the door, waiting for the crowd to thicken, tongues to loosen, somecaravan driver to boast of his wares. The mercenaries were no boon to a thief,but dangerous playmates, like Kadakithis's palace women. He did not want tobe intrigued; he was being distracted moment by moment. As aconsequence, he was very careful to keep his mind on business, so that he wouldnot come up hungry next Ilsday, when his funds, if not increased, would run out.

Shadowspawn was dark as iron and sharp like a hawk; a. cranked crossbow, loadedwith cold bronze and quarrels to spare. He wore knives where a professionalwears them, and sapphire and gold and crimson to draw the eye from his treasuredblades.

Sanctuary had spawned him: he was hers, and he had thought nothing she did couldsurprise him. But when the mercenaries arrived as do clients to a strumpet'shouse, he had been hurt like a whore's bastard when first he learns how hismother feeds him.

It was better, now; he understood the new rules.

One rule was: get up and give them your seat. Hanse gave no one his seat. Hemight recall pressing business elsewhere, or see someone he just had tohasten over to greet. Tonight, he remembered nothing earlier forgotten; hesaw no one he cared to bestir himself to meet. He prepared to defend hisplace as seven mercenf aries filled the doorway with plumes and pelts and hiltsand mail, and looked his way. But they went in a group to the bar, thoughone, in a black mantle, with iron at chest and head and wrists, pointeddirectly to him like a man sighting his arrow along an outstretched arm.

The man talked to Two-Thumbs awhile, took off his helmet with its horsehaircrests that seemed blood-red, and approached Hanse's table alone. A shivercoursed the thief's flesh, from the top of his black thatch to his toetips.