Mriga could think of nothing to say.

"So." She looked down at them, grave, patient. "Choose. Will you pay the price? And which of you?"

"I will," said Siveni and Mriga simultaneously. Then they stared at each other.

"Best two falls out of three," Mriga said.

"No! You cheat!"

"You mean, I fight all-out!"

Siveni swung angrily on the Queen of hell. But anger could not survive that gaze. After a second of it, Siveni turned and said to Ischade, "This is all your fault!"

Ischade said nothing.

A hand shot from behind Siveni and snatched her spear out of her grasp. Siveni whirled, but not before Mriga had executed a neat reverse-twirl of the spea. ^haft and was holding the sizzling head of it leveled at her heart. "Don't be an idiot," she said. "Harran needs you. And this town is going to need all the aggressive gods it can field on its own behalf in the next year or so, with Ranke dying on the vine and the Beysib and Nisibis pushing in from two different directions. I'm mortal enough to die successfully. And with me gone, you'll get all your attributes back. Siveni, let go-!"

"Harran's right, you are still crazy! Suppose when you die, the attributes are lost forever-confined down here! Then what happens to Sanctuary? Haven't you noticed that I've got the fighting attributes, but you've got the winning ones? "

There were two sets of hands on the spear-haft now, wrestling for control; and no matter what Siveni said, they were very evenly matched. Back and forth the two of them swayed. But, "Peace," said the Queen's low voice, and both of them were struck still. Only their eyes moved and glittered as they looked at her sidewise.

"I would see this paragon over whom goddesses contend," she said. "Skotadi."

Between Mriga and Siveni and the throne, darkness folded itself together into a shadow-shape like that Ischade had cut loose from the girl-corpse and Razkuli and Stilcho. It seemed a maiden's shadow, vague around the edges, wavering but lingering in the dark air like a compact smoke. "Fetch me the shade of a man who was called Harran," said the Queen. "He will be within the walls; he was buried today."

Skotadi swayed like blown smoke, bowing, and attenuated into the paler dark. The hold on Siveni and Mriga loosened, so they could stand up. But the spear was missing. The Queen was leaning it against one arm of her throne, and its head was dead metal, smoking gently in the braziers' gray light. "Since you cannot decide," the Queen said, "he shall."

As she spoke, Skotadi came into being again and bowed before the Queen. "Majesty," she said, "there is no such man within the gates."

Even Ischade looked surprised at that. "Impossible!" Siveni cried. "We buried him!"

The Queen turned dark eyes on her. "If my handmaid says he is not here, he is not."

Mriga was out of her reckoning. "If he's not here, where else could he be?"

"Heaven?" Siveni said, plainly thinking of all the way they'd come, possibly for nothing.

Ischade looked wry. "Someone from Sanctuary'!" she said.

"Everyone who dies comes here," said the Queen. "How long they stay, and what they make of this place while they're here, is their business. But very few are the mortals who don't have something to expiate before they move on. Still ..." She pondered for a moment, looking interested. Mriga thought back to that look of weary interest on Ischade's face, and hope woke in her. "There is only one other possibility."

Tyr leaped up, barking excitedly, and ran a little way toward the great door: then turned and barked again, louder, dancing from foot to foot where she stood.

"Burial enables one to pass the frontier," said the Queen. "It does not compel one to pass ..."

Tyr ran for the door, yipping. Mriga looked in shock at Siveni, remembering how Tyr hadn't wanted to get into the boat ...

The Queen rose from her throne. "Skotadi! My Lord's chariot." Siveni abruptly found herself holding her spear: It was working again, but seemed much subdued. "Madam, goddesses," said the Queen, "let us see where the little one leads us."

Somehow or other the door was only a few steps away this time. Outside it stood a great iron chariot with four coalblack chargers already harnessed, and Skotadi stood on the driver's side, holding the reins. They climbed in and Skotadi whipped up the horses.

The chariot rolled through the courtyard and out the gates in utter silence. Outside in the streets, the cries and lamentation became muted too, and finally ceased in astonishment and dread-for not in many a decade, Mriga's omniscience told her, had the underworld's Queen come out of her dark halls. The only sound was Tyr's merry barking ahead of them as she led the way.

Mriga found it difficult to look at Siveni as they drove westward down Governor's Walk, and Siveni would not look at her at all. It needed no omniscience to hear the anger rumbling like suppressed thunder in her. "Look," she whispered to Siveni, "you know I'm right."

"No, I don't." Siveni paused a moment, watching the dark, familiar streets go by, and then said, "You wrecked it, you know that? You and he would have been out of here by now. And I would have managed: I always manage." She paused again. "Dammit, Mriga, I'm a maiden goddess! He's in love with me, and I can't give him what he wants of me! But you can. And if I stay down here, you get my attributes-all but that one. My priest gets what he wants-me. And you get him-"

Mriga looked long at Siveni, who would not look back, and began to love her crazily, in somewhat the same manner as she had crazily admired Ischade. "I thought you were the one claiming that the attributes would stay down here-"

Siveni ignored this. "I wasn't entirely myself when he called me back," she said. "I made him lose a hand for my sake. The least I could do is make sure he lives long enough to get some use out of his new one."

The chariot turned south, past the tanners' quarter. "You're a full immortal," said Mriga. "You can't die."

"If I really want to ... yes, I can," Siveni said, very quietly. "She did it, didn't she?"

There was no arguing with that, whatever Ischade's opinions on the subject might be. Mriga let out a pained breath.

Ahead of them Tyr was running excitedly past the town animal pens, toward a bridge. It looked exactly like the bridge over the White Foal, where corpses had so often been nailed and gangs had scuffled over their boundaries. Past the bridge crouched the Downwind's ramshackle houses, Ischade's neighborhood. But the river running under the old bridge was that cold, black river that smoked its mists into the thunder-gray day. The ferryman was nowhere to be seen. On the far shore, in the streets among the shanties and rotting houses, milled dark crowds of the dead, but none of them used the bridge.

Tyr galloped up the curved upstroke of the bridge and skidded and galumphed and almost fell down the down-stroke of it, yapping crazily. The chariot followed. Hooves that should have boomed on the planks did not. Tyr was already down off the bridge, arrowing through the crowds like a hound on a line, giving tongue. Confused, the dead parted before and behind her, leaving a road the chariot could follow. And then Tyr went no further, but they saw her jump almost up to head level once or twice, licking in overjoyed frenzy at the face of a dark form burdened with some long awkward object over his shoulders ...

"Harran!"

Mriga was out of the chariot and running without knowing quite how she'd managed it. Beside her Siveni was keeping pace, tucking her tunic up out of the way, the spear bobbing on one shoulder and spitting lightning like fireworks. The dead got hurriedly out of their way. Mriga shot Siveni a second glance: that tunic was more gray than black, suddenly. But Siveni didn't seem to notice or care. And there, there, confused-looking, grimy, shadowed, but tall and fair and bearded, dear and familiar, him ... They managed to slow down just enough to avoid knocking him over, but as soon as his eyes cleared he knew them, and their embrace was violent and prolonged.