Jim Baen's Universe

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Serials - parts and parts.

Blade Light, Episode One

Written by Michaele Jordan

CHAPTER ONE

The children danced like daffodils in a spring breeze; Tuck gazed with horror at his impending doom. The young priestess who stood poised on the steps of the Temple beamed radiantly. "Please come up, sir," she called down to him, "Come up and greet the Goddess."

Tuck turned up to her a look of deep entreaty. "Holy Sister, this is not what your cordial invitation led me to expect."

A hint of an embarrassment flickered in her smile. "Nor is this quite what I originally had in mind." She shrugged slightly. "But I am a daughter of the Goddess, and cannot refuse Her service. Now, do come up, please. It's not so very dreadful as you suppose."

Tuck glanced about, half thinking he might turn and run. But there were other Sisters scattered around the great entry, and doubtless more behind him in the street. They were only women, of course, and might not even as a group be able to overpower a strong man. But Hertha only knew what mystic powers they commanded.

Slowly he mounted the stairs—very slowly, for they were large and he was not eager to reach the top. The imposing slabs ascended the flank of a great multitiered building whose spires and columns thrust up still further into the sky.

The Temple was carved from one gargantuan rock, known affectionately as Hertha's Toadstool, a lone spiny outcrop of the mountains that ringed the city. Parts of its exterior were not shaped at all, but reflected the formations imposed by nature. Other walls were elaborately carved in designs and shapes more regular but only slightly less peculiar than those of the unworked stone.

The door was, without the slightest doubt or exaggeration, the largest in the entire city of Bar-Jahnek. The brassbound oaken timbers stood open so that the daylight might reach the dark interior, and so that the crowd of children—even greater than he had initially supposed—could exit without trampling on itself.

The children—all dressed alike in simple gray tunics, not entirely unlike the more elaborate robes of the priestesses—were darting about, jumping up and down the top steps and generally cavorting in the sunshine. Each wore a Temple sash, indicating that they were children of Mother Hertha, which in practical terms meant they were orphans. They did not, however, look too dreadfully burdened by their misfortune. None looked hungry, a few were fat and almost all were chattering or laughing. The noise was awesome.

Tuck approached the young priestess with reluctance, and turned to her a face of wounded betrayal. She had the grace to blush slightly, and avert her eyes. "It seems I too am summoned to the service of the Goddess, Holy Sister. It was a dark day I answered Her call, and now I only pray She may release me again."

"Now, Tuck." She batted her eyelashes at him. Priestesses had no right to such long, thick eyelashes. "There's no need to take on so. Why, anyone would think you were destined to be sacrificed upon the altar."

"It might be the greater kindness at that, " he muttered.

"What a pity, then, that Hertha despises sacrifice." The priestess met his eyes quite directly, and the apology, and even the warmth, had had gone entirely out of her voice.

Tuck knew when enough was enough, and attempted a faint smile. "Well, perhaps I am exaggerating," he admitted. "But, sweet Aryanu, you have to admit that She has been less than merciful or just with me today. I was lured here by the promise of your personal kindness, and what do I find?" He gestured around him to the many, many children. "You and Hertha together are busy minding the babes, and neither of you has any kindness left over for me?"

She spread out her hands and cocked her head. "You have me there, sir. But this was not my doing, I swear. Truly, I meant to go to Festival with you today. But this morning the Temple summoned me to render back some service for my keep. So I must accompany our little ones to Festival instead."

He sighed. He took care to make it a deep, wounded sigh. "Your promise to me means nothing in comparison."

"Consider, please. I was one of these once," she gestured out toward the crowd of children. "With no Mother but Hertha and no family but my Sisters. But I never knew want or hardship, for all of that." She took Tuck's hand and smiled up at him. "Surely you are not suggesting I should flounce off with a friend instead? Should the children be denied the chance to see the Festival because I had a previous engagement?"

Tuck rolled his eyes. Truly, she made an art form of her virtue. Nor was he entirely convinced that every orphan in the city would be deprived if Aryanu should happen to slip away from watching them. He saw plenty of priestesses about. "So I am to trundle off and find some other companion for the Festival?"

"Unless you care to come along with us?" She had an uncommonly sweet smile, most particularly when she was suggesting the unthinkable.

"With all these little ones? What joy."

"Well, not all of them." He discovered that the fluttering eyelashes had been restored to play. "I am not the primary keeper today, only a support Sister." She grinned. "See—I've been appointed to guard the treasure!"

She grasped the rail of a little cart, and pulled it about to display its contents to Tuck. It was filled with layers of little trays; the top tray was laden with a variety of bowls containing nuts, crackers and the like, all clustered about a great jug that slopped over slightly with some sort of drink. An innocent children's drink, such as water or juice, beyond doubt. Tuck had rather hoped for something a trifle stronger. Not that he was given to overindulgence—but it was, after all, Festival.

Apparently he deliberated the question rather too long for Aryanu's liking. She nestled in under his arm—which opened entirely of its own accord to receive her—and inquired very softly, "Do you hate children, Tuck?"

Tuck was wise enough to know that no woman could endure the sight of a man who hated children—nor did he hate them. He wished them all the very best. It was only that he wished them to enjoy that best at something of a distance. "Of course not," he assured the pretty priestess, with every indication of wounded innocence. "I'm just afraid the responsibility would be too much for me."

She smiled a trifle indulgently. "Perhaps if we shared the burden it would seem lighter." Tuck sighed. He had not once in his entire life contrived to look a pretty woman in the eye and say her nay. In his heart he sensed today was not the day.

He managed a rueful smile and took over the rail of her little cart. But when he attempted to drop it gently over the lip of the top step, she laughed and pulled his arm. "No, no, good Tuck, this way." She led him back away from the stair into the dark interior. Tuck looked uneasily up at the cavernous ceiling and into the unfamiliar distances of the Great Hall. It was not that he had never come to worship, just less than often. Bur Aryanu did not proceed down the enormous aisle, but rather selected one of the many smaller side passages.

"Have we forgot something?" He noticed that there were a handful of priestesses and children ahead. "Or do we intend to . . . give thanks to Hertha before we go?"

She looked at him with pious eyes. "But of course. We could hardly depart the Temple without our Mother's blessing. So we must hold a small service first. But it will not take long, only an hour or so." Seeing his face she laughed out loud. "Silly man, I mean only to take you to the back entrance. Or did you want to wheel that cart down all those steps?" The priestesses ahead, Tuck belatedly noticed, were escorting only the smallest of the children, and—now that he looked carefully—were themselves quite elderly.

He had to laugh along. "It seems a I am trifle over-conscious of this sacred place." Almost as he spoke, the corridor intersected with a much larger hallway. The junction was adorned with a large niche containing a sculpture of the Goddess. Tuck blinked. It was a sculpture he knew better than he cared to admit to Aryanu, depicting the Goddess in Her most dangerous aspect. "This very sacred place," he continued, turning his eyes righteously ahead to their chosen path, and not down that other great corridor to Mistress Grotto.

Their path sloped down and emerged quite suddenly through a small door into a series of gardens and playgrounds extending to the public street. Tuck made a great show of having trouble with the wheels of the cart on the graveled path, and soon he and Aryanu had fallen some distance behind their companions. Aryanu naturally tried to assist him with the cart which provided a perfect opportunity to lay an arm around her shoulders.

She smiled up at him as they turned up the street toward the plaza in front of the Temple, and he dared to hope that he might salvage something of his expectations for the Festival. But as she reached out toward the cart—not to escape his arm but only to steady the jug—she suddenly stiffened, and he heard her suck in her breath hard. He looked ahead. At the corner stood a man facing away from them and toward the plaza, apparently engrossed in a conversation with someone still out of sight. "Who is that?" he inquired with some concern.

She glared ahead with more venom than which he had thought her capable. Then she tugged sharply on his arm and on the rail of the cart, so that they all had to turn across to the other side of the street. "His name's Margrote," she hissed. Tuck could not resist a quick glance back. The man was very ordinary-looking, of middle height and dun colored hair, dressed in a light half robe not unlike those favored by the guilds.

All in all, the robe was of more interest than the man. Expensively tailored and of costly materials, it was well beyond the means of the average guildsman. Whether that indicated an unusually prosperous guild, or simply an extremely successful practitioner, Tuck could not have said with certainty. Something of both, he rather fancied. More to the point, the robe was solid black with diagonal scarlet slashes, and Tuck had never seen that particular guild marking before. He was very sure. He had made a study of such things.

As they drew up toward the plaza and his angle of view shifted, Tuck saw that Margrote was speaking earnestly with a priestess. She was no lay-sister like Aryanu, but a Mother-Adept, the highest rank Temple Service offered. She looked as unhappy at being in Margrote's company as Aryanu had been at being near him on the street.

Having swung well around Margrote, Aryanu turned in toward the plaza, and Tuck lost sight of him. Fortunately Temple Plaza proved worthy of his entire attention. Although the day was still young, and the ceremonies not yet underway, it was already thronged with jugglers, dancers, food vendors and merrymakers. Only a very thin aisle—which had been roped off for the procession—remained clear, and even that was often invaded by youngsters ducking across from one entertainment to another.

The great flower-decked litter from which Hertha would survey Her city had not even left the entrance of the Temple. Unlike Tuck, the Goddess would not be spared the steps—indeed, it was counted good fortune to lend a hand as She was carried down. There was already considerable jockeying for position on the stairs. It would be some while before the procession actually got moving.

Tuck had once raised a hand to support the litter, years before. His father had died anyway, but he still abandoned the cart to Aryanu and mounted a few stairs to join Hertha's escort. He could tell by the shouting when She emerged from the great doors and was lifted reverently to Her litter. But he failed to penetrate the tightly packed ranks of the most devout, and lingered instead in the outer fringes of the crowd.

Contemplating the sight of the faithful, all lunging forward with their arms upraised, he could not help but note that very few of them were paying much heed to the swing of their money chains. So little attention, in fact, that some chains occasionally dropped to the ground, to be buried unnoticed in crushed and broken blossoms. Such a shame, and on Festival day. Well, Hertha was occasionally cruel.

Seeming to despair of reaching the litter, he loped back down, swinging out sideways, away from the slowly descending procession. He thus avoided the worst of the crowd, and came easily to a group of food vendors whose clients had deserted them for the Goddess. He purchased a jug of wine—taking some pains with the selection, for Tuck was particular about good wine. He paused also to acquire a small sack of some very sumptuous imported candies that promised to be more to his liking than the simple treats provided by the Temple.

Aryanu was just dispatching a little one back to his place in line. The children of the Temple naturally followed after their Mother in the procession, and the litter was already nearing the bottom step. Tuck popped a candy in her mouth. Her eyes opened wide and then closed as she turned her entire attention to rolling the sweet around in her mouth. When it was gone, she sighed ecstatically. "Oh, Tuck, that was wonderful—wherever did you find snowflower kisses? But you shouldn't have! They cost so much!"

He waved the little sack before her eyes. Then when she reached for it he pulled it away and extracted another for himself. She sighed, "Oh, Tuck, a whole bag! Could I please have another?" Her smile was irresistible and he surrendered the treats at once. She pulled the sack open greedily. "And to think I thought you were penniless."

He grinned. "Oh, I'm not rich, but I can generally manage to pick up something." There was a childish shriek behind them, which he would have ignored as a part and parcel of Festival, save that Aryanu clearly recognized the voice and turned. A small redheaded girl was fleeing the processional line to chase after a strolling juggler.

"Look, it's magic!" squealed the little girl and Aryanu darted over to intervene.

"No, dear, it's only tossing balls. They're very pretty but they are not magic. Now please, you must go back or Hertha will depart without you." And, indeed, now that it was on level ground, the procession was beginning to pick up speed. The little redhead made an anxious face, picked up her skirts and ran as fast as her sturdy little legs would carry her.

The child made it back to the procession in the nick of time, for it seemed her place in line was toward the front and the litter was moving at a good pace. Watching her run drew Tuck's eyes to the Goddess, and he smiled.

Whatever his views on worship, he had loved that marvelous, ever-changing avatar all his life. No sooner had he lifted his eyes than the countenance and form of the demure, mystic Maiden faded from view to be replaced by the dancing, nearly naked Mistress. He made a point of watching out the whole Triad and was warmed—as he always was—when She became the serene, tender Mother.

As a child he had sworn it was an authentic miracle, repeated annually only by virtue of Hertha's love. As a teen he had scoffed that it was nothing more than a trick of mirrors. Now that he was older and knew quite a bit about tricks with mirrors, he had to admit he could not guess how it was done.

No single image of any Aspect was ever repeated, so that the Goddess was not merely three, but infinite, encompassing all women. He guessed it was probably magic, but if so it was a profound and powerful magic indeed. The images all looked alive, and not the least bit artificial—indeed, almost human except for their transcendent grace and charm.

The priestesses all swore they had little actual magic at their disposal. Nor would the Temple have paid a sorcerer; the Temple never paid for anything. But it took donations cheerfully enough. Perhaps, hundreds of years ago, some ancient sorcerer had loved Hertha enough to enchant Her image forever.

He thought of asking Aryanu but suspected she would assure him it was just as he had supposed as a child, divine intervention. Then he would be treated to a very pretty little lecture on the differences between mere magic and the miracles worked by Hertha's love. He had heard the lecture before, and it did not entirely make sense to him.

Aryanu might almost have heard her name in his thoughts, for she drew a little closer. Or perhaps she had seen him looking at the Goddess, for she was glancing upwards also. She whispered in his ear, "If you do not want to follow the procession, we could cut ahead to Council Plaza."

"Oh, heresy," he murmured. "And from a priestess, too. Are you sure we will not be needed on the way?" He offered her his jug of wine, and relieved her again of the little cart.

She sipped and smiled and took his arm, setting the jug down on top of a bowl of nuts. "We will meet up with them soon enough at Council Plaza."

Their progress through the city was slow, for the streets grew ever more congested. But Aryanu proved a delightful companion, being of a cheerful disposition, easily pleased and seeing humor in every little thing. She laughed at all his witticisms, so that within the hour he was in grave danger of losing his heart entirely, for all that he had been warned all his life never to fall in love with a priestess. His own father had said it first: "The Temple teaches Her daughters much charm, but in the end they always go back to their Mother."

They came to Council Plaza at last, and were beset by a crowd of youngsters, seemingly starved from their arduous march across town. It was providential that simple treats had been provided (only simple ones, for Tuck had slipped the snowflower kisses discretely into his sash) for the children descended on the food like locusts. Tuck caught himself wondering just how much it might cost to feed every orphan in the city, not to mention any children born from Mistress Grotto.

However some of the children were not fed forever. Several priestesses led a group of children up onto the dais in front of Council House. Other children and other priestesses remained below to watch. The division was simple: the boys mounted the dais; the girls stayed below. Although there were girls of many different ages, the boys were all comparatively small.

Tuck was surprised the group of boys was not larger. When he was a child it had always looked like a very large crowd to him, but now he found himself hard pressed to recall if there had really been more children on the block back then or if it had only seemed so to his young eyes. Doubtless, he told himself, the number varied from year to year.

The Mother-Adept mounted the dais also and, stepping to the front, raised her arms. In each hand she held a large enameled bell, one white and one black. From the handle of each dangled several long ribbons, and to each ribbon there were attached dozens more tiny little bells. When she raised her hands, she gave them a little shake and their ringing filled the air. This was taken by the crowd as a cue for something very like silence. "Who loves the Goddess?" cried out the priestess in a great voice.

The shout came back from everywhere. "We do!"

"Who would serve the Goddess?" called the priestess, shaking the bells again.

And again the crowd answered as one. "We would!"

For the third time the priestess cried out. "Who would serve the Goddess here and now?" On this occasion, she somehow contrived to shake the bells in a fashion that caused the clappers of the large bells to ring only once, and the little ones not at all.

Just as the bells did not all ring, the audience did not all answer. Rather, a group of men separated out of the crowd and started up the steps on the north side of the dais. Only one of them—a man dressed in a Glassblowers' Guild tunic—replied aloud, "I would, Reverend Mother." The priestess extended her right hand—that hand which clasped the white bell—towards him. This time the little bells all chimed, but not the great one.

He gulped and stepped forward. "I never meant to take a prentice, ma'am. I had four sons. But Vanni and Yosh both died. And Maru ran off. And Sul is already nicely settled as a lawyer's clerk—it'd be a cruelty to pull him back now. There's folks that asked to prentice their boys to me, and offered a handsome fee, but I don't much like the look of their boys. I'm doing well enough when it comes to the money, and I figure it's Hertha's blessing I'm most in need of."

The Mother-Adept turned back to the huddle of little boys, still holding out her right hand. This time the little bells rang and kept on ringing. Tuck could not tell which child she reached to—it seemed to him rather that she reached toward them all. But after a few seconds, some of the boys melted back and back until suddenly one boy—pale and tall for his age—was definitely in front of all the others. He blinked and looked around him, as if surprised to find himself chosen.

Surprised he might be, but he did not look unhappy about it. He strode up to the priestess and placed his hand with hers so that they were both holding the white bell. Together, they gave it a shake, and only the large clapper rang out. Tuck had wondered for years how she contrived to keep the little bells from tinkling, despite the interference of the child's hand. She smiled down at boy. "Are you willing, Toma?"

He grinned up at her. "Yes, ma'am, I surely am. I'm tired of always having to play with girls." The glassblower laughed out loud at that, and Toma laughed with him.

The priestess did not laugh, but she smiled. She raised both hands up high and shook the bells mightily. Strangely, although each bell had only one note to play, their many tones combined into something very close to a tune. Orchestrated by their ringing, the priestess sang her sacred charge over the glassblower, employing those strange, haunting melodics that characterized all Temple prayers. Her voice was uncommonly sweet.

"Here is Jahnek, son and beloved of Hertha. He carries the blessing of the Goddess wherever he goes. Let him enter your house as a son, not a servant, and he will carry Her blessing to you." The musical phrasing was irregular, and arranged to accommodate the text, rather than vice versa as in secular song. "Mistreat him not, for the heavens themselves will not hide you from Hertha's wrath." She paused, and gave the bells a last shake, before lowering them. But she was still singing when she concluded, "Do you swear?"

The glassblower crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. "He comes to my house as a son, not a servant. I swear it before Hertha."

The boy ran to him as soon as the words were spoken. "My name's not really Jahnek, it's Toma. What's yours, sir?" The glassblower picked up Toma just as if the boy truly were his son. His answer was lost in an approving roar from the crowd. He walked with the child in his arms across the dais to the southern steps.

Another man stepped up to the dais, but Tuck turned away to whisper to Aryanu. "What happens if there aren't enough volunteers? Could an unclaimed boy still go back to the Temple?"

She blinked at him and opened her mouth, then closed it again to think. Then she opened her mouth again, and again changed her mind about whatever she had planned to say. At last she answered, "I've never seen that happen. I've never even heard of it. But I'm sure the boy could come home if he had to."

"Never?" he teased. "Never, ever, ever? Even with prentice fees so high, there's always somebody will take on a boy for free?"

"Truly, Tuck." She crossed her arms over her breast as a sign of her honest intent. "I've never seen or heard of it. Just the opposite. Sometimes we turn the volunteers away."

"Really? Why?" But Aryanu had returned her attention to the dais and did not answer him. Glancing over the line of volunteers, he was startled to see Margrote waiting in line for an apprentice, and wondered if he might soon find out first hand. But then a quick head count disappointed him. The group of boys was indeed small this year, and the volunteers waiting in line were surprisingly numerous. Unless several volunteers were refused, then the boys would all be claimed before Margrote reached the dais.

There seemed little chance of that. Again and again a man stepped forward to explain why he was willing to forego the prentice fee to take a Temple child. Some, like the glassblower, had lost sons. Others had never had sons to lose. Some enjoyed a profession requiring an unusual degree of integrity. Others hoped a child sent by Hertha might be blessed with more talent than was ordinary. One old man was simply lonely, now that his family was grown and scattered, and wanted a child to love.

It was certainly plain to Tuck that all the volunteers were sincere—good and honest men who for this or that reason were genuinely prepared to take in a homeless boy and treat him like a son. What puzzled him more—for there were always good and honest men about, thank Hertha—was that the little boys also all seemed goodhearted and genuine. Some were timid, and some bold. Some giggled like the children they were. Others wore solemn little faces like miniature old men, but they were all charming.

Tuck remembered clearly from his own childhood that many little boys were bullies or louts, and it strained his credulity to suppose that none of the less attractive children should ever be orphaned. Perhaps the Temple had some secret for teaching them virtue, or at least manners. Aryanu would doubtless say it was Hertha's blessing.

There was a scuffle in the line of volunteers, and he observed with great interest that Margrote, having presumably contrived a head count of his own, was pushing his way forward in the line. Rather than let Aryanu witness something so unseemly he distracted her with a question. "Why is it only boys on the block? Why don't you find homes for the girls?"

He was just in time. Her head was turning toward the commotion, but instead she looked back to smile at Tuck. "Why, the girls are already prenticed to the Temple. They need never fear for their livelihoods, even if they choose not to marry." It was common knowledge that lay-sisters were free to leave the Temple and marry, but Tuck reflected again on the legend that they rarely chose to do so. "And we do sometimes prentice out girls. If one shows some marked talent or inclination, a place is found for her. But that's only particular girls so they need not go on the block."

The sound of the scuffle grew too loud to ignore and almost drowned out the sound of the bells on the dais, but just as Aryanu turned her head, it subsided. None the less, she gasped at what she saw. Margrote now stood quietly—humbly one might almost have said—next in the line of volunteers, and behind him stood several bewildered looking citizens. One of these sported a rapidly blackening eye.

It occurred to Tuck that at least two of the men displaced from their proper positions were of a large and muscular build, and ought by rights have been able to defend themselves against a man of Margrote's size. They might have been constrained by the precarious footing of the stairs, or the sacred nature of the occasion. Or perhaps Margrote possessed unusual fighting skills.

A chubby, cheerful looking baker descended from the dais, accompanied by one of the smallest of the boys, a sweet faced creature with hungry eyes who looked up to his new protector almost with adoration. Margrote stepped up and forward to state, "I, too, would serve the Goddess."

The crowd had been largely quiet, barring a few whispered comments and some public encouragement, for the prenticing of the Temple's boys was a popular attraction of Festival. But when Margrote stepped on stage a hush of almost supernatural proportions fell. Apparently there were some in the city who knew what guild his tunic signified. Tuck hated being the last to know anything.

The Mother-Adept stared at Margrote with an impassive face. The little boys behind her drew themselves into a huddle and stepped back nervously. Then the priestess raised up her left hand and shook the black bell once. It had a very rich tone which continued to sound for several seconds. "The Goddess thanks you for your offer, but She does not require your service at this time."

There was a long pause. Margrote was clearly supposed to exit the block quietly. But instead he called out loudly, "But why am I rejected, Mother Sophya?" He had taken pains to keep his tone polite, and indeed the overall effect was almost plaintive. Nonetheless, there was an anxious murmur from the crowd. Margrote was not dissuaded. "There are boys still needing homes, I see. And I offer a good home, a very good home. Surely one of your boys would be glad of such a place."

The boys did not look glad. They drew back further still. A growl rose up from the crowd. Tuck might not be the only man in the city whose faith was a little thin, but there were few indeed who did not respect the Temple and none who liked to see a Mother-Adept challenged.

Strangely, Mother Sophya showed no irritation at all. She spread out both bells toward the crowd in a calming gesture, letting the little bells jingle sweetly. Then she answered Margrote in a gentle voice. "Sir, Jahnek's place in the world is destined, and Hertha will see him to that home which She has appointed for him, and no other. It reflects nothing on you for good or ill that your offer is refused. Doubtless the Goddess will reward you for your intentions." Both her hands dropped to her sides without a sound.

Aryanu appeared to see a double meaning in the words, for she burst into a giggle which she struggled, with only limited success, to suppress. Margrote looked less than satisfied, and Tuck wondered if he had hoped to make his quarrel with the Temple public. If that was his intent, he clearly suffered second thoughts now, looking out over a very large crowd that was beginning to boo and hiss. At last he folded his arms over his chest and bowed stiffly. "May She grant me service at some other time."

As Margrote descended the northern stair, Aryanu whispered in Tuck's ear, "And that is that. Mother Sophya is the wisest woman in the world, is she not?" She paused to sigh with satisfaction. "Would you like to move on now? We could slip back and cut around to the wharf, and be ready and waiting when the Procession comes round for the Pageant."

"Not quite yet, if you don't mind. I'd like to see a few more boys launched from the block." Aryanu turned to him, clearly surprised by his pious preference for the spectacle of religious service over the rowdier entertainment that was surely already assembling on the wharf. He gave her his sweetest smile. "I came very near to standing on that block myself, once." Her eyes grew tender and sympathetic, and she laid her hand on his shoulder.

In fact, Tuck would have been happy to move on had he not suspected that the prenticing of the boys would yet provide even more drama. Tuck had a keen eye for faces, and he had noted an interesting detail of the scuffle on the stairs. Three places behind Margrote, there now stood a man who had previously been so far at the bottom of the steps that it had not been entirely clear if he were a volunteer or an onlooker. Apparently Margrote was not the only one who had cut ahead in line.

It was strange enough for one man to contest his place in line. The most anxious took pains to be at the forefront before the line formed. Thus the volunteers who clustered at the rear were generally those who had not quite made up their minds. And, front or back, they were all believers in Hertha, and therefore inclined to trust Her judgment as to whether they received a child or not. For two to be so unusually eager, and on the same day, seemed to Tuck's mind strange beyond the limits of coincidence. He was therefore all curiosity to see how this second determined volunteer fared.

The man stepped out onto the dais and, with a bow, murmured his willingness to serve Hertha. Tall, good looking and apparently unguilded, he was dressed in a good quality but not quite fashionable outfit. "I have a shop," he announced with smug pride and a thick country accent, "and a very fine shop it is, so busy it's all I can do to keep up with custom, and I've no family to help. I'd be very proud and grateful if a likely lad were to come and help me with the business. I'd treat him well, I swear."

The story sounded no different than all the other stories that had preceded it, and the accent sounded right—or at least almost right—to Tuck's ear. If he had not already had his suspicions, he would have noticed nothing. Indeed, he almost wondered if he had been mistaken, if this were no more than an unusually enthusiastic but honest volunteer who had grasped an opportunity created by Margrote's conduct.

But the black bell rang, its surprising deep note unmistakable. "The Goddess thanks you for your offer, but She does not require your service at this time," intoned Mother Sophya.

The shopkeeper hesitated, and glanced toward the crowd, perhaps remembering how they had reacted to Margrote's refusal to be dismissed. Then he dropped to one knee, and bowed his head. "Please, ma'am, please. I am very much in need of blessing in my house." Tuck could not help noticing that his accent sounded somewhat less countrified when he begged.

Whether or not the priestess noticed, her voice stayed sweet. But she did not relent. "You do well to seek blessing, and are cordially invited to worship, where you may be favored with some other way to serve Her." The shopkeeper paused just a heartbeat too long before he bowed and departed. A great buzz of conversation rose up from the crowd as he crossed the dais, and Tuck knew in his heart that people—even those who knew nothing of Margrote—would be talking for years of the Festival where two volunteers were refused.

He turned to Aryanu who was staring wide-eyed at the block. "Shall we get on to the wharf?" So complete was her amazement that he had to take her arm and very gently steer her away from the dais.

At last she turned to him still quite openmouthed. "He was in on it, wasn't he?" she demanded hoarsely. "He was going to turn one of our boys over to Margrote!"

She took him quite aback, for he had not thought her likely to have spotted the little lapse of accent, or to have comprehended that particular sort of cunning necessary for such a scheme. But servants of the Temple were famed for uncanny insights. He nodded, and her eyes glowed quite fiercely. "Fool. Doesn't believe in Hertha, so he thinks She must be stupid." She wrenched the little cart around as if it were a weapon, and charged violently into the crowd, scattering hapless revelers left and right. "Let's go see the Pageant."

It was as well the streets were so crowded; considerable time and distraction were required before Aryanu was able to resume a pleasant demeanor, for all that Tuck plied her with good wine and snowflower kisses all the way. But as they approached the wharf, she managed at last something like a genuine smile.

And well she might. All the dozens of little fishmonger stalls had been swept away—leaving an enormous open expanse which momentarily would fill with worshippers—and the planks scrubbed until their natural odor was quite removed. Even the air seemed unusually fresh, bearing only a faint but inevitable tang of sea-salt and paint (for the ships at harbor were also decked out in Festival finery).

The bared wharf now supported three main stages on each of which priestesses were gathering. The priestesses, too, were decked out for the occasion. Many were absurdly costumed for the plays. Even those who were not had ornamented their gray robes with ribbons and garlands. The Servants of the Mistress had begauded themselves with particular zest, and indeed might not have fulfilled even the bare minimum of dress required in public were it not for their lavish adornments.

But it was not only the priestesses preparing displays. The piers—which were usually empty except for a handful of indolent fisherman—were now lined with stalls almost as if the fishmongers had been politely relocated. These stalls, however, had nothing to do with fish; rather they proclaimed with bright colors their status as Festival participants. Some housed vendors of food and drink and others, games of chance or skill; still others offered puppet shows, sword swallowers and voluptuous dancing girls—although few so enticing as the Servants of the Mistress.

On the western periphery, the streets leading into the wharf from the city were largely blocked by more booths, slightly larger and sturdier than those on the piers, but still clearly temporary. These offered a variety of merchandise, usually Festival goods such as whistles and bells, cheap jewelry, garlands and little figurines of the Goddess. Some, however, were simply shops or soapboxes for candidates for Council, with no more connection to Festival than a sign wishing Bon Voyage to the Goddess as she passed.

The Procession had circled all the way around the city and back. It now burst onto the wharf from Sea Boulevard South, which was indeed the only street left clear enough to permit its passage. The Goddess was marched triumphantly around the wharf three times, and She seemed to smile down at Her assembled worshippers, just as if She could actually see them. The crowd which materialized around her cheered and screamed, and there were many who swore that She had looked directly at them, met their eyes and seen for Herself their devotion.

At last the litter was carried to the edge of the wharf and placed on a prepared platform which overhung the edge to look down on the water. A dozen men leaped to the ropes and slowly, carefully lowered the platform and its precious burden down to the surface of the sea, accompanied by thousands of shouted farewells. The retreating tide bore the Goddess away. According to the faithful, She would journey all the way to Heaven, which was located on the other side of dawn.

Some worshippers wandered away as soon as the Goddess dropped out of sight over the edge of the wharf; others remained at the edge watching Her as She sailed serenely out to the horizon and vanished. Tuck was one of those who watched for some while. The Goddess would not appear in public again for another year. Her shrine in the Temple would be veiled. But when the year was up, and the veil drawn aside, Her image would be there, mysteriously returned from Her lonely pilgrimage.

And yet he was quite sure that it really was the Goddess that was loaded onto the raft each year. The air was crisp and clear, and Her beautiful, ever-changing face was clearly visible for some distance, as She turned and waved to Her people. There could hardly be another such. Perhaps there was a ship waiting in the distance to pick Her up, but if so, it must be very far out, as it was invisible from the wharf.

He was bumped from behind, and then bumped again. He turned to discover that he was in grave danger of being pushed over the edge of the wharf. (Following the Goddess, it was called, and generally the subject of much merriment). Released from the confines of the Procession, the Temple children had descended as one on Aryanu and her "treasure."

A few priestesses hovered around the edge of the mob, gently and inaudibly suggesting order. Tuck thought of assisting them with a strong arm, but a glance at Aryanu's laughing face told him plainly that she would not appreciate such interference. Doubtless, she would laugh all the more if the children accidentally sent her to follow the Goddess. He managed to catch her eye for an instant, long enough raise an inquiring eyebrow. She answered with a shrug and gesture that he should go on without her, and mouthed something inaudible that might have been, "Catch you up later."

Traffic was moving toward the stages; the Temple players had completed their assemblage and were beginning their programs. Stories of the Goddess would be acted out thereon for the remainder of the day. To some extent the plays would be tailored to the stage on which they appeared; the stage of the Maiden would present innocent fare—sweet, doomed romances or children's tales—while the stage of the Mistress presented bawdy comedies and heroic adventures featuring Jahnek and a great deal of swordplay. There was simply no guessing what offerings the Mother might host—they were different every year.

The audience would wander away in time—for there were many, many stories about the Goddess—but for now Tuck found passage away from the stages quite easy. He had spotted a couple of booths that looked to be out of the ordinary and was eager to check out their wares.

On a northeastern street, not far from Sea Boulevard, he smiled to see a magic booth. Magicians—even lesser ones as this must surely be—were rare. A graceful little clown in rainbow robes was dancing in front of the booth to attract custom, and indeed had already acquiredan appreciative, coin-tossing audience. The young clown was whistling a peculiar jig and juggling a dozen large Bon Voyage medallions picturing Hertha in a variety of Aspects—but without actually touching any of the medallions. Tuck could not help but wonder if the little redheaded Temple child had learned of this spectacle yet.

But he did not allow himself to be distracted, whatever the temptation. Aryanu would doubtless be happy to accompany him to the magic booth later, and he did not know how much time he had now before she rejoined him. He was therefore determined to get straight to the two large booths on Main Street (which entered the wharf from a little bit north of west) that he suspected would not be to her liking.

They were so large that the two together blocked the street completely, leaving only barely room enough for pedestrians to pass. Further, they were of such similar construction that it appeared they had been built as a unit, for all that their decorations varied greatly. It was the second that Tuck had been particularly eager to investigate, for it was manned by a gentleman in a black and red tunic. But even so, the first booth startled him sufficiently to give him pause.

It was hung with white damask draperies and decked with a great banner on which was lettered in gold leaf, "The Danaan extends Festival greetings to the Goddess." The legend arced over an image of the Danaan's seven-pointed star, outlined in gold thread and embroidered across its entire surface with diamonds. Large diamonds. Good quality stones. The polished cloth of this ensign fluttered only a little in the sea breeze—doubtless it was heavy—but even that small movement was enough to set the gems flashing in the sunlight.

Tuck could not remember a previous Festival when the Danaan had troubled to greet the Goddess, let alone so lavishly. It was scarcely expected, as the Danaan and his Capitol were known to worship some male desert god whose name Tuck could not recall. Nor did Bar-Jahnek generally solicit even secular greetings from the Danaan. Despite the many years since the conquest, there was still lingering resentment. Certainly Bar-Jahnek was more than willing to leave their titular overlord in peace, hoping that if they just paid their annual tribute they also would left in peace.

The man within the booth was unusually tall and dressed in a white robe of a foreign cut, secured with a golden brooch in the shape of the seven-pointed star. Behind him, ranks of shelves bore a variety of sample goods, presumably available for importation from the City of the Danaan. Laid out on a counter at the front of the booth were plates and bowls of a variety of foodstuffs.

These all seemed to fall into obvious categories: fruits, nuts, cheeses, dried meats and baked goods; nevertheless none of them looked genuinely familiar. The white-robed man noted Tuck's interest, and proffered him a bowl of berries. Tuck consented to try one. In fact, he consented to try all of the free snacks. The berries were a bit sour for his taste, but the little round yellow things were delicious.

"Good, don't you think?" murmured the booth keeper to Tuck, sliding the bowl a little further forward. "You look to be a man of taste, sir. Do you think there might be a market for these here in your fair city?"

It seemed only polite to select another tidbit, and so he did, remarking, "They are delightful, sir. I am sure that many of my fellow citizens would be happy to purchase them. Are you planning to set up shop among us?"

The other smiled but shook his head, "Not me, myself, no. I simply represent a number of gentlemen that might wish to do so." He gestured behind him to the stacks of goods. "It is time we shared some of the Empire's riches with our fellow citizens in Bar-Jahnek."

Tuck struggled to maintain a straight face. "What a generous offer. I am sure I hope that Bar-Jahnek will share some of our riches with you in return."

His companion laughed out loud. "Well, that is the general idea. Make money, not enemies, that's my motto."

Tuck was just opening his mouth to respond when a hand clapped him on the back, and a hearty voice exclaimed, "Hey, there and welcome, friend. Are you liking our goods?"

Tuck froze, utterly and completely, all except for three tiny little hairs at the base of his spine that jumped up and screamed, "Danger!" He turned around slowly, taking enormous care to smile. "Is there a problem, sir?" he inquired before he even saw the face of the man behind him. Belatedly, it occurred to him that his response had little to do with what had actually been said to him.

There was a long pause, and then everybody started to laugh: the man at the booth (who had stepped out from behind the counter), the two men that had come up behind Tuck and—on seeing how general the merriment had grown—Tuck himself.

He guessed the two newcomers were from the next booth over, as they were both dressed in that mysterious black and red guild tunic. The one who had clapped Tuck on the back laughed the hardest of anyone. He was large—tall, dark-skinned and well built, with curly hair. In fact, he was very large and very tall. He was also armed, as was his companion. Armed men were rare in Bar-Jahnek. "There, I thought you were a likely one," he remarked with a smile.

Tuck did not entirely care for being thought likely, and wondered uneasily just what it was for which he was supposed to be so likely. He did not have to ask. "You wouldn't happen to be looking for work, would you, son?" The big guy was at least five years older than Tuck. "The Assassins Guild's always got an opening for a likely lad."

Tuck grew almost dizzy from the ringing of internal alarm bells. He did not want a job, he did not like the idea of assassins and he did not like being surrounded by three men, two of whom were bigger than he. And armed. He continued to smile. "Really? I thought you took apprentices?"

From the rear the smaller, elder of the two Assassins answered quite seriously, "Why, yes, we do. You're quite right. But we're growing, and we need to expand our ranks quickly. We are particularly in need of adventurous young men who are already in reasonably good condition, and who know this area. We expect to be protecting the . . . the . . . I believe it's called 'Jahnek's Ladder.'"

Strangely, Tuck found himself almost interested. "The pass through the mountains? But it's scarcely more than a campground for bandits."

"Exactly," agreed the Assassin. "Our friend," he gestured to the man in the white robe, "can hardly share the riches of the Empire with Bar-Jahnek if his trade caravans keep getting sacked."

"So you're going to clear out the bandits?" It was not that Tuck objected strongly to the idea, for all that the Temple might disapprove. Indeed, Council had promised to do as much a dozen times. But Council had never actually got around to trying. The bandits were very deeply entrenched. They had little towns, and scrubby , terraced farms and everything. Called themselves Mountain Folk.

"Well, not at first," admitted the Assassin. "That would be very expensive. For now, we will simply escort the caravans." Tuck blinked at the man's choice of words. Expensive. The Temple would have said wicked, and the Council, impossible. Tuck was almost embarrassed to admit that the Assassin's attitude sounded practical to him. But why did they have to call themselves Assassins? Was it bravado, or did they provide services less conspicuous than organized escorts?

The big guy clapped Tuck on the back again. Tuck really hated being clapped on the back. "Well, what do you say, son? It's a great opportunity."

"Er, could I have a few days to think it over?" Tuck tried to slide a few paces away from the big guy. This brought him very close to the man in white robes but that one, at least, was slender and unarmed. "I'm not sure I want to quit my job yet."

The senior Assassin appeared to note the effect his companion was having, and intervened. "Of course, of course." A startled look crossed the big guy's face, and he fell back a little. Possibly his superior had kicked him. "We're not looking to recruit fools. Our offer will be open for some while, and it's a good enough offer to bear up to some thinking over."

He looked Tuck over critically and smiled. "We have an office further up Main, toward the Council Plaza; come see us when you're ready. The pay is good—better than you're getting now, I wager—and there's plenty of opportunity to move up." He offered Tuck his hand. Tuck found himself almost liking the smaller Assassin, and accepted the hand in a firm shake. Aryanu need never know.

From behind them came a scream. It was not the short, amused scream of an astonished merrymaker. It was a long, shrill, terrified scream that rose up over the hubbub of the Festival and continued on and on. Tuck, the Assassins and the man in the white robe all turned toward the sound—as did, indeed, virtually everyone on the wharf.

The little magician clown was suspended in thin air fifteen feet above the ground. He was struggling fruitlessly, in a weird parody of his previous dance, reaching out in all directions for some sort of purchase. It was not a performance; the boy was clearly frantic with fear and his screams grew progressively more shrill.

Without even thinking, Tuck ran toward the hovering clown. His passage was easier than he might have expected, as most of the crowd were moving nervously away from the disturbance. A circle—a growing circle—had been cleared around the screaming boy.

Most of the medallions of Hertha lay scattered about but one rolled around the wharf in an ever decreasing circle, leaning precariously inward until at last it tumbled over. In the center of the cleared area, almost directly under the clown, stood the little redheaded Temple girl who had wanted so badly to see some magic. She was clapping her hands ecstatically and loudly whistling the same jig to which the clown had previously been dancing.

Several priestesses burst from the crowd into the cleared circle. But there they paused, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed. Only Aryanu ran toward the child without hesitation. Casting Tuck a glance of alarm, she knelt by the girl and wrapped her arms gently around the child's shoulders. "There now, Dreysa, stop, please. Put the poor boy down."

The girl turned to Aryanu with wide eyes, and protested, "But I'm not doing anything to him, Sister. It's magic making him fly!"

The instant the little girl stopped whistling and spoke, the hovering clown dropped toward the ground like a stone. His scream rose up a few notes higher and cracked. Tuck stepped forward with outstretched arms and caught him. The impact staggered him, so that he dropped to his knees and fell forward. But he and the boy came down harmlessly, if a bit roughly.

Aryanu turned her attention to the youth, who had clearly fainted. Tuck clambered to his feet, brushing himself off, and looked at the little redhead. She had cocked her head, and was regarding Aryanu and the boy with an expression of bewildered dismay. "Is he all right? The magic didn't hurt him, did it?"

Aryanu rose up and smiled down on Dreysa, "No, dear, don't fret. He's fine. Just scared is all." And indeed, the boy was clearly rousing. He looked more embarrassed than hurt, although he cast a very nervous glance at Dreysa while climbing to his feet. Dreysa laughed out loud and clapped her hands again, but to everyone's relief nothing in particular came of it. Aryanu sighed very deeply and whispered to Tuck, "I dare say we'll have to prentice out this one."

Tuck nodded, and almost absent-mindedly slipped a small, imperial-quality diamond into his sash. "She does seem to show a particular talent or inclination."

CHAPTER TWO

 "Particular talent or inclination," Dreysa muttered to herself, never taking her eyes off the little toy sitting on a stool in front of her. The doll was, in fact, seated more comfortably than Dreysa, who was cross-legged on the rough stone floor, but Dreysa was long accustomed to stone floors and walls. "Aryanu said so." The words had become almost a mantra over the years, repeated so often that they had lost all meaning, remaining only an expression of faith and spiritual readiness.

The doll was a little stuffed figure of the Goddess as Maiden. It had been given to Dreysa as a farewell gift when she prenticed out of the Temple. The reason that Dreysa was regarding it so intently was that she was trying to do magic.

The first time she had tried to do magic, she had felt a little uneasy about using her doll as the object. It could, she admitted, be construed as disrespectful. But she had to use something, and she had very few material possessions with which to work. The Goddess had not struck her down for impiety yet—unless, of course, her prolonged and continued failure were viewed as divine recompense. Dreysa tried not to think about that.

She breathed and settled her mind, then sang over her favorite prayer, and after that repeated her morning voice exercises. When she felt ready, she started to sing a little tune without words. It was a tune she had heard at the last Festival she had attended before leaving the Temple. She knew it was magic because she had heard a magician whistling it.

After so long, she only half remembered it. Sometimes, when she slipped away to practice, she could not get it right at all (even though it sounded a little like a couple of phrases from her exercises) and nothing whatsoever came of her singing it. But today, the little Maiden sailed into the air and smiled down on Dreysa as if in blessing. The problem was that Dreysa had not been attempting to make the doll levitate. She had been hoping to make it vanish.

She tried varying the tune just slightly. Nothing in particular occurred. The doll turned slightly, but that was probably the result of a draft. Here in the caves, there were many peculiar little drafts. She varied the tune a little more. The doll plummeted toward the earth. Dreysa leapt up to catch it, stroked it apologetically and set it gently back on the stool. Then she plunked back down on the floor with a scowl. She had been so certain.

"You are not ready." The words dovetailed so neatly into her train of thought that she did not think to wonder where they might have come from.

"But I am, sir, I am," she answered her master, and only then recalled that she had not expected him to be there. She failed to suppress a nervous glance about her room but it was, of course, too late to hide or alter anything inappropriate. Anyway, he could hardly deduce much from a doll sitting on a stool.

Perhaps he had not read her mind, for the wizard replied only to her words. "Indeed? I had rather expected a clean robe, but perhaps that is a personal matter between you and the Goddess."

Dreysa scolded herself internally, and with some severity. She had known very well—but somehow forgotten—that today was the occasion of her regular visit to the Temple. She did not, however, much care to share her inner misgivings. She searched fruitlessly for an alternative. She also glanced down. Her robe was, indeed, less than fresh. "I am very sorry, sir. I must have lost track of the time. I do still need to change."

He glanced pointedly to the pile of scrolls—all still neatly furled—on the table where she generally studied. "Doubtless you were engrossed in your lessons." He returned his gaze to Dreysa. "Dare I hope that the breakfast dishes are washed?"

Dreysa suspected his tone contained a note of irony, and declined entirely to answer. "If you will step out of my room, sir, I will change."

He eyed her suspiciously. "I will turn my back." He did so. "So that, should you fall prey to an unexpected attack of slumber, your snores will alert me that you are in need of rescue." Dreysa turned, and immediately discovered her best robe lying on the floor. Dimly she recalled throwing it there after her last visit to the Temple. Uneasily she looked about. She had only the three. "What a pity the wash was not done this week," reflected the wizard, as if he were speaking to himself. "But I seem to recall the child had one clean robe remaining."

Dreysa turned around and glared at her master's back. "It would be in the chest, I dare say," he continued. She walked to the chest, and lifted off the top. Her master did not approve of a lot of expensive fripperies like hinges. There was, however, a clean robe folded within. Dreysa searched mentally for a clever retort. She did not find one.

She peeled off her robe, and pulled on the clean one. She had to glance about several times before she spotted her sash. It was mostly buried under the robe on the floor, or rather under that robe which had already been on the floor before she dropped the second one beside it. The sash, once retrieved, was less than perfectly white. But that posed no real difficulty; the Temple would be happy to give her a new one when she got there. She needed only to pat at her hair, which was heavy enough to stay largely in place, and could never be made entirely orderly anyway.

"I'm ready now, sir." And before he could find time to criticize her rather minimal grooming, she added, "I washed up earlier. Shall I be on my way?"

The wizard turned and nodded. "Yes, at once. And do not wander off to see the sights along the way. Just go straight to the Temple. You are quite late enough already." He paused as if expecting argument, but she offered none. "Once you've reported to Mother Sophya you're to come directly back," he continued sternly. "I hope that's clear, chit. There's to be no loitering and lazing, not with your chores unfinished and your lessons undone."

Dreysa bowed with crossed arms and smiled beatifically while picturing just how her master might look if bound to a raging pyre of all her undone lessons. To complete the image she tossed her broom and dish cloth into the fire. "As you wish, sir," she replied.

Once safely on the street, she let slip a snarl. "Lessons undone, indeed. And whose fault is that, if he sets me such lessons? Copying over a thousand worthless, boring old scrolls such as no fit mind ought to read, let alone write, and scarcely a word about magic in any of them. I'd study in a minute if I thought he'd ever teach me a jot. But no, he never means to teach me real magic, not ever in the world. He'll just keep me as a house slave till I die of old age." It did not occur to her that at fourteen she was rather a great distance from old age.

She was distracted from her thoughts when she glanced down a side street and noted a fruit stall laden with the year's first peach crop. Her steps faltered and her mouth watered. She had no money, of course, for the stingy old wizard would have died sooner than grant her a little coin. But surely the taking of one little peach would not truly be stealing.

From behind there came a shriek of accusation, as if her thought were heard. Flushing and guilt-wracked, she whirled to see a small animal—familiar but nonetheless hideous—standing manlike on its hind legs with its tiny fists planted fiercely on its nonexistent hips. At the sight of it, her emotion shifted to one of righteous wrath.

"You're spying on me!" she announced in horror, loudly enough that several bystanders cast her startled glances. "Well, I won't have it. You can just get home this instant, and tell the old tyrant that I'm going straight to the Temple, and if he can't even trust me that far he ought to get himself a new apprentice." With enormous dignity she turned back to her designated path and marched forward.

She naturally disdained to glance behind but she watched from the corner of her eye in the faint hope that the animal might actually have obeyed her. It had not, of course, and she soon spotted it trailing her steps. The revolting creature was even munching on a peach. "Thieving filth," she muttered. She progressed some while in silent rage, moving slowly and looking about her defiantly as if challenging her master to deny her that much freedom.

And eventually the simple excitement of being out and about caught up her heart and soothed her wounded feelings. Bar-Jahnek might not be the largest city in the Empire, but it was probably the prettiest. Color and bustle assaulted her senses, accustomed as they were to the torch-lit quiet of the wizard's caves; the milling crowds thrilled her to such an agitated state that she stared openly at every other passing stranger.

She tried to guess the guild of those that wore trade-signs, carefully checking off a memorized list of appropriate markings and colors. For the rest, she imagined little histories, supposing this one to be truly unguilded and that one to be on holiday, while yet another was indubitably disguised for a love tryst.

She spotted a man ahead who wore a sort of half robe which was mostly black, but of an unfamiliar cut and an unusually lush material. Even viewed from some distance, the man was handsome—very handsome—and Dreysa decided he could be nothing less than a foreign prince. She was half launched into a delightful daydream concerning his mysterious origin and urgent errand before she registered the scarlet slashes adorning his robe. Her heart and her feet stopped short. He wore Assassin's colors.

She glanced about hastily for an alternate route to the Temple not involving the street on which he stood and saw with alarm there was none. She could at most cross over the street and so walk a little farther from him—and were she to do that, he might notice and take offense. Uneasily, she looked back to see if her master's monkey-like pet were still following. It