The village of North Ledopolus was even more unassuming than Sorak had expected. It was little more than a scattering of small, flat-roofed, one-story adobe buildings clustered along a few narrow, dirt streets. The village was situated on a bend in the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, separated from its sister village, South Ledopolus, by about ten miles of ugly brown silt. In the middle of the estuary rose the craggy, volcanic peaks of Ledo Island, dominating the view for miles around.

North Ledopolus was smaller than its sister village, which had grown because of its position on a caravan route. The northern village was smaller in another way, too: it had been built by dwarves and for dwarves. South Ledopolus, on the other hand, had many structures built to human scale to accommodate caravan crews.

Sorak could see little reason for a village to be situated on the north shore of the estuary. There were no trade routes running past, no natural resources there. North Ledopolus stood completely isolated, bounded by the estuary on one side and the Great Ivory Plain on the other.

Its only reason for existence was the causeway the dwarves sought to build across the estuary. If they could complete the project and successfully defend it from the giants who lived on Ledo Island, it would open a new trade route, connecting Balic to Gulg and Nibenay. There was also the possibility of a second trade route, northeast to the gambling city of Salt View.

Though far removed from major trade routes, Salt View was a popular destination for adventurers and pleasure seekers. Situated in the southern slopes of the Mekillot Mountains, it was a freewheeling gambling mecca where virtually any sort of entertainment could be found—for a price. Those who sought its expensive, libertine diversions paid handsome fees to join small, well-protected caravans from Gulg or Nibenay to Salt View. Such a trip was not without its hazards, however. Aside from the dangers of the harsh and inhospitable terrain, there was the added risk of an attack by marauders, who lived in the foothills of the Mekillots and preyed on travelers and raided the caravan routes to the west.

A trade route from North Ledopolus could skirt the southern edge of the crystal plain and run across the desert to the oasis where they had camped the previous night. From there, it could continue around the great silt basins to the east, following their shores before turning north, toward the Mekillots, crossing the salt plain at its narrowest point. It would make for a much easier and safer journey to Salt View then approaching it from Nibenay or Gulg.

If the bridge across the estuary could be completed, Sorak was sure the governing council of Salt View would share the expense of establishing the new trade routes, and North Ledopolus would quickly grow from a small village to a large and thriving caravan town. Knowing this, the dwarves had labored ceaselessly for years to bridge the estuary, carrying the burden of the elaborate construction and doing battle with the giants.

The merchant houses of Altaruk could easily have supported the dwarven venture with additional construction crews and mercenaries. For that matter, Sorak thought, any of the great houses could have raised an expeditionary force to drive the giants out of Ledo Island. However, for undertaking such a costly enterprise, they would doubtless expect a proprietary share in the causeway, and that would reduce the potential profits to the dwarves.

It seemed to Sorak that the dwarves were going about it the hard way. If they had cut one of the merchant houses in for a proprietary share of the causeway, the estuary would have been bridged by now, and any losses the dwarves might have sustained from a merchant house taking a percentage of the tolls would have been offset by the increased revenues.

But dwarves were uncommonly stubborn, and once they had determined their focus, nothing would deflect them from it. They wanted full ownership of the causeway and would settle for nothing less. As a result, nothing was exactly what they had, even after years of struggling to complete the project.

Well, not quite nothing, perhaps. They had clearly made some progress. The construction that extended into the estuary from South Ledopolus reached almost halfway out to Ledo Island. From North Ledopolus, another section of the causeway stretched across the silt, extending about two miles from the shore.

The giants could not wade out from the island to attack the bridge at just any point. In some places, the silt would rise over their heads and drown them, so they could destroy only whatever sections they could reach. This meant the dwarves made progress with one section while the giants attacked another. Then the silt would shift along the estuary bottom and the situation would be reversed.

Where the sections of the bridge began, near either shore, the dwarves had widened the causeway considerably, not only to allow for the eventual passage of large caravan vehicles, but also to accommodate defensive fortifications, including catapult emplacements and towers for archers.

Those recently constructed sections of the causeway that extended farther out across the estuary were narrower and not yet fortified. Consequently, they were more vulnerable to attack.

For the dwarves, the trick was to take advantage of the estuary's shifting depth, extending new construction as quickly as possible when the giants could not reach it and gambling that there would be time enough to widen and fortify those sections before the giants could wade out to destroy them. Little by little, the dwarves made headway, but progress was excruciatingly slow, and one successful attack by the giants could undo months of work.

Apparently, that was exactly what had happened recently, for a large section of the bridge extending out from North Ledopolus was newly wrecked, and dwarven work crews labored to repair the damage.

With each new catapult emplacement and each new defensive tower built along the causeway, the giants' assault retreated. But before those works could be extended, more pilings had to be driven down into the silt and reinforced, and new sections of the span constructed. More effort was expended in widening and fortifying the causeway than extending it. The dwarves had learned the hard way that it was pointless to extend the causeway beyond the protective reach of the catapults and towers. As a result, the bridge was slowly taking on the appearance of an elongated fortress, complete with battlements and crenelated towers constructed from thick adobe brick. Eventually, both sections would reach the island in the middle, and then the giants would find themselves under siege. The dwarves were already grimly preparing for that final battle.

As Sorak's grandfather had written in his journal, each year, as a result of steadily increasing revenues, the dwarves' mercenary force grew a little larger. However, the dwarves paid a price for building and maintaining their private little army, and it wasn't just a matter of monetary expense. Mercenaries were a rough and unruly lot, and discipline had never been one of their virtues. Mixed in with a standing army under the command of seasoned officers, they could be controlled. But with a force composed entirely of mercenaries, who chose their own officers, discipline was a serious problem. While North Ledopolus was a quiet, sleepy dwarven village, South Ledopolus had become a rowdy, rough-and-tumble desert town where mercenaries did pretty much as they pleased.

The dark sun was sinking on the horizon as Sorak and Ryana booked passage on the last ferry of the day, paying with one of the silver coins they had brought back with them from Bodach. They could easily have loaded up their packs with gold and precious jewels from Bodach's vast treasure hoard, but such wealth would attract too much attention. Ceramics made up by far the largest percentage of the world's coinage, followed by silver and then gold. An aristocrat with purseful of gold coins would raise no eyebrows, but it would be decidedly unusual for two plainly dressed pilgrims to be paying in such currency, so they had taken only silver. They packed away no more than they could comfortably carry, but enough to see them through for a quite a while. And more than enough to tempt any would-be robbers, so they were discreet in how they carried it, keeping only a few coins in their purses and the rest hidden in their packs.

The ferry they boarded was constructed of blue pagafa wood, held aloft by the exertions of a floater—a psionicist specially trained to keep boats afloat on the shifting silt. It was a long, flat, open-decked boat about thirty feet from end to end and about twelve feet in the beam, with low gunwales and ten oarlocks to each side, with low bench seats for the dwarven rowers. There was a heavy mast set forward toward the bow, with a gaff-rigged sail stitched from dark green lizard hide. But despite the rising night wind coming in off the Great Ivory Plain and filling the patchwork, triangular sail, the oarsmen still needed to row. Even with the wind, the ferry made slow progress across the thick brown silt.

There was no place for them to sit, except on the deck. As they dropped down cross-legged among the other passengers, a mixture of dwarves and mercenaries heading across to South Ledopolus, Sorak tried to imagine what it must have been like in the ancient times, when the estuary was filled with water, when boats had plied it with the speed of the wind.

Ryana glanced at him curiously. She was well accustomed to his silences, but until recently, those silences had often indicated he was listening to his inner voices. Now, she was no longer sure quite what they meant. She knew it must be very difficult for him to learn how to accept the change. "What were you thinking of just now?" she asked.

"I was wondering what it must have been like in the old days, when boats sailed upon water," he replied. "I think I would have liked to be a sailor."

Ryana smiled. "It would have been a fitting occupation for a nomad."

"We shall have to try it someday," he replied.

She frowned. "But... how could we?"

Sorak smiled, something he did not do very often these days. "We may be going back again, one day."

She said, "Ah," and nodded in sudden comprehension. He meant Sanctuary, of course. In the ancient time where the Sage had magically established his retreat, the world was still green and water filled the seas. It flowed swift and cold in the estuaries and the rivers, and the wind that blew over it was richly laden with its scent and moisture. In the time of Sanctuary, Athas had not yet become the dying world of the dark sun.

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence as the muscular dwarven rowers bent to their oars, laboring to pull the ferry through the silt. Sorak's thoughts went back to the brief time they had spent in Sanctuary. It seemed more like a dream now than reality, but it had been real, and that brief taste of a lost reality had fed his hope that perhaps, one day, it could be found again, and the fate that had befallen the world at the hands of the defilers could be reversed.

He wanted to discuss it with Ryana, but could not speak of it without risk to the Sage. Only among the Veiled Alliance, who fought the same secret war against the dragon kings, could they ever speak of it, for the Alliance, too, awaited the avangion. But no one, not even the Sage, knew how long the metamorphosis would take.

With each painfully completed stage of the complex transformation, an immense amount of energy was expended, and no further progress could be made until recuperation was complete. Then, once more, the whole process would begin again. In a way, thought Sorak, it was like dying and being reborn, over and over and over.

He wondered what his grandfather would look like when the transformation was complete. Exactly what sort of creature was an avangion? Its name appeared only in a few half-forgotten myths, and in none of them was the avangion described, for no one had ever seen one. In all the long history of Athas, there was no record of a living avangion. Still, the world's history was shrouded in myth and legend. Much was unknown about the ancient days, and it was almost impossible to separate fact from folklore.

Most likely, the avangion was a creature that existed only in potential. The spells to create an avangion were what existed in fact, but they had never been successfully employed before. Until now. It took a mage of a very advanced level even to attempt those spells, and great skill in magic was not all that was required. To undertake the long and arduous process of the metamorphosis required a degree of dedication, discipline, and self-sacrifice few people would possess.

In many ways, the process was similar to that followed by the sorcerer kings in their transformation into dragons. Each step in the long and complex metamorphosis required the casting of many intricate spells, even the simplest of which took weeks or months to prepare. The casting of each of those many spells had to be performed in an exacting, flawless manner, linking them together to initiate each separate stage of the transformation. It drained the adept almost to the point of death, and when the final spell in each stage was cast and the activating invocation spoken, there came the incandescent pain of the incremental transformation as the powerful magic went to work, restructuring the body, tearing it apart and reconfiguring it in ways that would leave the adept writhing on the floor and screaming in agony for days on end. And the pain never went away completely. Once the metamorphosis was under way, there could be no turning back, and the adept had to resign himself to living with the pain until the transformation was complete—a process that took many years.

Sorak remembered how the Sage had looked when they finally came face to face. His grandfather had seemed able, and in good humor, but was in great pain. Sorak could not imagine what it must be like, living through each day in constant pain, knowing that at best, there would be periods during the recuperative stages when it lessened in intensity, but never went away completely. He did not know if he would have the strength for that. He had thought his quest to find the Sage had taxed him, but now he knew that it was nothing compared to what his grandfather had to live with every day.

Sorak had not seen any family resemblance. His grandfather's appearance had changed greatly as a result of the transformation. His tall, lean elven frame had become even thinner beneath the loose, floor-length robes he wore. His hands had grown frail and delicate, the wrists astonishingly thin, the fingers long and almost skeletal, like talons... birdlike. Yes, that was it. His grandfather's nose was aquiline, and the facial bone structure was sharp and prominent, the skin stretched taut, the brow ridge more pronounced, the eyes sunken and hooded, like those of a desert hawk. He walked in a shuffling manner, slightly stooped over due to his shoulder blades, which had protruded as if they were growing... sprouting into wings.

Sorak looked out at the evening sky as the dark sun disappeared over the horizon and imagined an avangion in flight, a huge, hawklike creature, part bird, part man. Or, in this case, part elf. And he thought, what better fulfillment to the elven prophecy? The Crown of Elves, indeed. Sorak had not been a king, but a kingmaker. How could the tribes fail to unite behind such a potent symbol?

The ferry captain's cry of "Raise oars!" interrupted his reverie. The drummer stopped, raising the small cudgels he used to beat out the pace, and the rowers raised their oars. Almost immediately, the ferry slowed, then drifted to a stop in the thick brown silt. The passengers, who had been conversing among themselves, fell silent and stared out into the darkness. The rowers sat utterly still. The sudden atmosphere of tension on the boat was palpable.

"What is it?" asked Ryana, and was immediately shushed by the other passengers.

"Silence!" said the dwarven captain. "Listen!"

And then Sorak heard it, unmistakable, a sound cutting through the darkness, slowly growing louder. It was a swishing sound, punctuated at intervals by a curious sucking noise followed by a low, deep, muted thud.

Something was moving through the silt, something very large...

... the sound of footsteps.

The ferry captain screamed out, "Giant off the starboard side! Full ahead, double the beat!"

The drummer instantly pounded out the new pace with his cudgels, two beats to the second, and the rowers bent to their oars with urgency, their muscles straining as they pulled the ferry through the silt. They dipped their oars to the first beat, then the heavily corded muscles on their arms and backs stood out in sharp relief as they pulled with the second.

The passengers, a mixture of dwarves and mercenaries, were all standing now, staring off to the right, straining to catch a glimpse of the approaching threat. Some of the mercenaries had their hands on the pommels of their swords, while those who carried crossbows immediately snatched them up and fitted bolts.

The giant was off to the right, somewhere in the darkness. The first of the twin moons, Ral, had risen already, but it was only in its first quarter, a crescent that cast almost no light. Now, as they waited apprehensively, Guthay rose, adding a slight amount of illumination. The only sounds were the steady beats of the drum and the swishing, thudding, sucking noises of the giant's footsteps as he waded through the silt. They were steadily growing louder.

Ryana unslung her crossbow from her shoulder and fitted a bolt. She pulled back the string and waited, tensely, staring out into the darkness off the starboard side.

"Let me have that," said Sorak.

Wordlessly, she handed him the crossbow, knowing his elfling night vision was far superior to her human sight.

"Triple time!" the captain cried, and the drummer increased the beat, gritting his teeth with tense anticipation as the rowers fought to make headway against the resistance of the silt. Sweat stood out on their faces and poured down their bare, muscular backs.

The mercenaries were all staring silently and intently out into the darkness off the starboard side, holding their bows ready, while the dwarves nocked arrows to the strings of their short, double recurve pagafa bows.

The sounds of the giant's approach were much louder now, practically drowning out the drumbeats as huge feet struck the soft bottom of the estuary with deep, muffled thuds, then pulled free from the silt with unsettling sucking noises and swished through the thick, resisting powder.

Sorak saw him first.

The giant's shadowy form appeared off the starboard side, about thirty yards away. Sorak could not yet make out his features, but the creature was huge, with a wide chest that looked like a thick slab of rock moving through the darkness. The silt reached to the giant's waist, so it was difficult to tell his height, but appeared to be between twenty and thirty feet tall, weighing six to eight tons. The giant's massive arms were like tree trunks raised over his head, and Sorak could see that he was carrying a huge boulder. It was all too clear what he intended to do with that boulder. If it struck the ferry, they would all be smashed to pieces.

There was no time to lose. Sorak did not know how far the giant could throw the stone, but he looked perfectly capable of reaching them from where he was. And with each huge step, he came closer. Sorak raised the crossbow, aiming for the giant's face, estimating where his eyes might be. At the same instant, the creature's powerful arms bent to throw the boulder. Sorak released the arrow, and it whistled through the darkness, striking home just as the giant threw the boulder.

A deafening bellow of pain filled the night and, an instant later, the huge rock struck the silt off the starboard side, missing the ferry by mere feet. The displacement of the silt raised the ferry sharply, almost tipping it over on its side, but it quickly settled once again, and the dwarves resumed their frantic rowing as the passengers all started letting bolts and arrows fly, aiming them toward the giant's screams. For once, Sorak was grateful it was silt that they were rowing through, not water, for if it had been water, the splash from the boulder would surely have swamped them.

He fitted another bolt and shot again. He was rewarded by another scream of enraged pain as the shaft struck home, and he now saw the giant claw at his face. The other warriors let arrows fly as fast as they could shoot, firing over the heads of the rowers, who strained at their oars with all their might. The drummer relentlessly pounded out the beat, eyes wide with fright, breaths coming in gasps. The silt undulated as the giant beat at it with fury and frustration, and then, without warning, another boulder struck the surface of the silt just off the port bow.

"Another one!" someone shouted, pointing toward a huge silhouette looming in the darkness.

There was no question how far the giants could hurl their boulders. The one who had just thrown was some twenty-five yards off the starboard bow, and he had overshot them. As Sorak's elfling gaze penetrated the darkness, he could see at least three others coming up behind him.

"Row, damn your eyes! Row!" the captain shouted hoarsely.

He couldn't raise the beat any more; the oarsmen were already rowing as fast as they could. They were now roughly parallel with Ledo Island, halfway out across the estuary, and the giants were wading out to cut them off. The captain stood at the tiller, bending over it and steering to the left. The bow of the boat slowly swung around, describing a wide arc as the captain tried to put more distance between them and the giants.

With no way to tell how deep the silt was, the boat's path was anything but sure. The silt rose up around the giants' chests as they approached, so the bottom fell off sharply at this point. The question was, would it continue to deepen or level off?

There were three giants up ahead, closing on the starboard bow. The fourth giant, the first they had encountered, had now been left behind, but despite his wounds, he had not given up pursuit. With any luck, thought Sorak, he'd been blinded. Enraged, the creature slogged steadily through the silt, bellowing in pain and fury as he tried to catch up to the ferry.

The captain's change of course was taking them obliquely away from the giants because he was still making for the opposite shore. But the giants were just ahead of them and closing. Their footsteps made a chorus of loud swishing, thudding, and sucking noises as they struggled through the silt.

Sorak looked out into the distance, ahead of the boat, and he could see torches flaring up along the partially completed section of the causeway extending out from South Ledopolus. The flames from some of those torches rose in a spiralling course, carried by mercenaries that climbed up onto the defensive towers to man the catapults. But were they in range?

The bow of the boat rose sharply as another boulder struck the silt just ahead of them. Every archer aboard was shooting bolts and arrows as fast as possible. The other passengers held tensely to swords, praying they wouldn't have to use them. If they did, it would already be too late.

Sorak shot another bolt and was rewarded by an enraged scream of pain that shook the night. It was so loud, his ears rang. The giants were getting closer, and it looked as if the ferry might not make it.

The mercenaries on the defensive works of the causeway knew their trade. They brought the catapults into play quickly. Sorak saw trails of fire arcing through the night, illuminating the frightening tableaux of men scrambling over war machines. It took only a few shots to find the range, and then the flaming projectiles were coming down upon the giants.

Four beasts remained, counting the one still lumbering behind them through the silt, and all were now clearly visible. They were huge, ugly brutes, with dark red skin and matted hair reaching to their shoulders. Their powerful upper arms were thicker than Sorak's torso, and their hands were large enough to crush the boat to splinters. Their facial features were misshapen; brow ridges protruded sharply over their eyes, and their noses resembled snouts. Several of them had grotesque canine teeth that grew outward, curving into tusks.

The creatures were close enough now that Sorak could smell their stench, and it made him gag. Another boulder struck the silt just off the starboard bow, landing close enough to scrape the hull as it fell. The boat heeled over sharply, and part of the gunwale broke away with a loud, cracking sound of splintering agafari wood.

They were over a deeper part of the estuary now, for the silt was coming up almost to the giants' collarbones. Still they pursued, refusing to give up with their quarry so close at hand.

Several of them batted at the falling missiles as if at annoying insects, but one of the projectiles struck home, hitting a giant directly on the head. He cried out with pain and staggered, almost going under, and his oily, thickly matted hair caught fire. The giant's panic-stricken screams rent the night as he batted wildly at his hair, trying to put out the flames. It apparently did not occur to the dim-witted creature to duck his head under the silt, which would have put the flames out in an instant. He simply stood there, screaming and swatting at himself with his huge hands.

The ferry captain was screaming, too. He was shouting himself hoarse as he urged on the rowers, who needed no urging, with death so close at hand. A giant loomed up just off the starboard bow, almost close enough to seize the prow of the boat. Sorak raised the crossbow and took careful aim. The bolt whizzed through the air and struck the giant right between the eyes, penetrating his skull and killing him instantly. He immediately sank beneath the surface, and the swell of the silt raised the prow of the boat high as he went down with a hideous sound. The other passengers cheered as the giant fell, but the rowers were oblivious to everything except the frantic drumbeat as they pulled for their lives.

One of the mercenaries was struck squarely in the chest by a spear the size of a small tree trunk. It pierced his upper body completely and carried him over the side, dead before he struck the silt.

The flaming missiles continued to fall, lighting up the night sky. The giant whose hair had caught fire had managed to put out the flames at last, but he had given up pursuit and was staggering back toward Ledo Island, holding his head in his hands and moaning with pain. The giant they had first encountered had also given up pursuit and was wading unsteadily back toward the island, crying out his defiance as he stumbled toward the shore. One giant was dead, but that still left one more, and that last one was a bit more canny than his comrades. As the missiles from the catapults fell all around him, he ducked beneath the silt and disappeared from view.

"Row, curse you, row!" the captain screamed at the top of his lungs. The passengers waited tensely, their eyes scanning the surface of the estuary.

For a moment, the only sounds were the steady, rapid beating of the drum, the creaking of the oarlocks as the rowers pulled with all their might, and the hissing of the flaming missiles falling into the silt.

Then the giant broke the surface, right beside the boat, and Sorak found himself staring into a monstrous, silt-encrusted face with red-rimmed eyes that burned with hatred. One powerful blow, and the ferry would be smashed to kindling.

Sorak did not hesitate. He jumped between two of the oarsmen and leapt onto the gunwale, launching himself off the side and directly onto the giant's head. In one motion, he unsheathed his sword and grabbed a fistful of the giant's hair in his other hand, twisting it around his wrist.

"Sorak!" Ryana screamed.

Sorak leaned over and swung his sword, slashing into the giant's neck and severing the large jugular vein. The giant roared as blood fountained from his neck, gushing powerfully out for a dozen yards. The giant clapped one hand to his neck to stop the massive flow of blood and, with his other hand, tried to sweep Sorak from his head, but Sorak anticipated the move and swung down from the giant's head, holding onto his hair.

He dangled at the nape of the creature's neck, bracing his feet against the giant's spine, and with a powerful blow, chopped into the vertebra where the spinal column met the skull. The giant grunted and died, falling forward and barely missing the boat, which pulled past him.

As the giant sank beneath the silt, Sorak found himself struggling to stay up. It was like trying to swim through quicksand.

"Sorak! Catch the rope!" Ryana shouted.

A line arced out from the ship and struck the surface of the silt about a foot from Sorak. He grabbed it at, still holding onto his sword with one hand, and twisted it around his wrist.

"I have it!" he shouted.

"Hold on, stranger!" he heard the captain cry. The rope went taut, and Sorak felt himself pulled through the silt. He swallowed hard. Another second and the boat would have been out of reach. Several of the passengers, including the captain, pulled hard on the rope, drawing him in. Moments later, they were leaning down and lifting him over the side. He collapsed, coughing, onto the deck and felt several hands on him, raising him to his feet. His body was encrusted with silt and caked with giant's blood. His hair was thick with it, matted down and plastered to his face and skull.

The passengers gathered around him, patting him on the back and congratulating him. The oarsmen cheered, though without pausing in their rowing. They would not be completely out of danger until they were well past Ledo Island.

Ryana put her arms around him and crushed her lips to his, heedless of the crusty silt covering him from head to toe. "If you ever do anything like that again, I'll kill you," she said.

He grinned. "I'd sooner face a dozen giants than a scornful Ryana."

The passengers around them, both dwarves and mercenaries, laughed. With the danger past, they were all giddy with relief.

The captain stood before him. "That was the most foolhardy thing I've ever seen," the powerfully built dwarf said, "and the bravest. You saved all our lives. What is your name, stranger?"

"Sorak. And thank you for throwing me the rope."

The captain nodded. "I feared you were lost. We could not have turned around in time, and in truth, I must confess I would not have risked it."

Sorak nodded. "I understand."

The captain frowned. "Sorak. Are you by any 1 chance the one they call the Nomad?"

"That is the elvish meaning of my name," said Sorak.

"Then I have heard of you," the captain said. I "And I would be pleased if you and your companion would dine with me tonight."

"The pleasure would be ours," said Sorak. "But I shall have to find a place to bathe first, and make myself presentable."

"Then allow me to extend to you the hospitality of my humble home," the dwarf replied. "Then I'll treat you to the finest night of entertainment my village has to offer. Now please, sit down and rest. Give him room, the rest of you!"

Sorak gratefully sank to the deck and stretched out.

"Here, rest your head in my lap," Ryana said, sitting down beside him.

"No," said Sorak, shaking his head. "I am filthy, and I stink with giant's blood."

"Here, take this," one of the mercenaries said, offering him a waterskin. "You can at least rinse off your hair and face."

"My thanks," said Sorak. He leaned over the side while the mercenary poured the water over his head and Ryana helped him scrub the filth off. A few moments later, he was relatively clean from the neck up.

"Are you injured?" the mercenary asked, looking him over.

"No, just a little tired," Sorak said.

"You were lucky," said the mercenary. "Either that or very skilled." He smiled. "Which was it?"

"A bit of both, I think," Sorak replied with a slight smile.

The mercenary grinned. He had perfect teeth, unusual for a man in his midthirties. The usual remedy for a toothache was to pull out the offending tooth and, if the patient could afford it—which most could not—replace it with an artificial one made of obsidian or silver. Most people took poor care of their teeth and suffered the consequences.

This man was an exception. His teeth and well-muscled physique showed he took good care of himself, and kept well groomed. His skin was clear and tanned, his shoulder-length blond hair clean and glossy, his face clean shaven. Few mercenaries bothered to take such scrupulous care of their appearance. He was a handsome man, and he knew it and took pride in his good looks.

Out of habit, Sorak glanced toward the man's weapons. Two long, stiletto daggers were tucked into his belt, and he wore a heavy sword in an elegantly crafted and embossed leather scabbard. The crossguards were simple, straight, functional, and made of iron, as were the daggers. The hilts of all three weapons were wrapped with silver wire. Weapons made of iron were uncommon and expensive. This mercenary had not stinted on his equipment.

Neither had he stinted on his wardrobe. His feet were shod in well-made drakeskin boots cuffed at the knee, expensive not only because drakes were dangerous reptiles, but also because their hard black-and-red pebbled hide was extremely tough and difficult to work. A true craftsman had made those boots. The black-and-gray striped kirreskin breeches and the matching forearm bands were equally expensive, as was the mercenary's sleeveless, laced-up tunic, made from the brown speckled hide of a cloud ray and studded with black onyx.

Everything the man wore was made from highly dangerous game. The only way he could afford such apparel on a mercenary's salary was if he had provided the skins himself, and that spoke volumes about his prowess as a hunter.

"A bit ostentatious, perhaps," said the mercenary, noting Sorak's scrutiny, "but I find that flamboyance makes a strong impression. A poorly dressed mercenary is a poorly paid one. I am

called Kieran."

"Sorak." They shook hands.

"I know. I heard you tell the captain. Apparently, your reputation precedes you. He seemed impressed when you gave him your name."

Sorak shrugged uncomfortably. "Whatever reputation I may have is much exaggerated."

Kieran smiled. "Oh, I doubt that, judging from the way you handled that giant." He glanced toward Ryana.

"Oh, forgive me," Sorak said. "This is Ryana."

"It is an honor, priestess," Kieran said, inclining his head respectfully. "The reputation of the villichi sisterhood is known far and wide."

"You are most gracious," said Ryana.

"Are you seeking employment in South Ledopolus?" Kieran asked Sorak.

"I have not yet decided," Sorak replied.

"Ah, well in that case, perhaps I may tempt you with an offer. I am on my way to Altaruk, where I have accepted a post as the new captain of the guard for the merchant house of Jhamri. I could use a man of your abilities, and the merchant houses pay top wages, as you doubtless know."

"Thank you, I shall consider it," said Sorak.

"Take your time," said Kieran. "The caravan of Jhamri is even now in South Ledopolus, but it is not scheduled to depart for another day or two, and you can leave word for me with the captain."

"Thank you, I shall," said Sorak.

Kieran nodded. "I will let you rest," he said, then moved off to give them some privacy.

"Why did you agree to consider his offer?" asked Ryana. "We do not even know if we are going to Altaruk."

"I did not wish to seem impolite, after his courtesy," Sorak replied. "Besides, the merchant houses pay very well."

"But we are not in need of money," said Ryana, glancing at their packs sitting on the deck beside her.

"Yes, but it would not be wise to advertise that fact," said Sorak.

She nodded. "I see your point. Good thinking." She looked up toward the bow. "It seems we have a welcoming committee."

The boat was pulling up to the dock at South Ledopolus, where an anxious crowd was waiting with torches, having seen the battle from the shore.

"Well, it seems your arrival in South Ledopolus is destined to cause quite a stir," the ferry captain said, gazing at the crowd as they approached the dock. "By tomorrow morning, the whole village will have heard of your battle with the giant. It's likely you won't have to pay for any of your drinks during your stay."

Sorak sighed wearily. "I was looking forward to a bath. The last thing I want now is to be peppered with questions."

The captain grinned. "A lot of men in your position would relish the prospect of an audience eager to hear a tale of battle. But never fear, I will have one of my crew escort you to my house while I distract the crowd. Please make yourselves at home, and I will join you after I am finished here."

"You are very kind," said Sorak.

"Nonsense. You saved my boat. I am happy for the chance to show my appreciation. Make ready the bowlines!"

The lines were thrown out to waiting hands on the dock as the rowers stowed their oars and the boat drifted gently up against the moorings.

"This way," said the captain's mate, coming up beside them. "We will disembark from the stern while the others file down the gangplank. That way, we can lose ourselves quickly in the crowd and make our way into the village. I will take you to the captain's house."

"Thank you," Sorak said, lifting his pack.

"No need," the dwarf replied. "It is we who are in debt to you. Come, let's go."

As the crowd on the dock surged around the gangplank, anxious to hear firsthand reports of the battle, the mate jumped off the stern and landed lightly on the dock. Ryana followed, then Sorak, and they quickly made their way around the outer fringes of the crowd and down a narrow side street of the village.

It occurred to Sorak that he and Ryana were forever either sneaking out of a town or sneaking into one. This time, however, a welcome awaited them and there was no one on their trail. It made for a refreshing change. It would be nice if things remained that way for a while.

Perhaps that was too much to hope for.

Chapter Four

The ferry captain's home was much larger than they had expected. It was a two-thousand-square-foot adobe house built around an atrium, with a walled courtyard entrance. It had been constructed to human rather than dwarven scale, as were most buildings in the central part of the village. The floors were flagstoned with attractive, pale pink slate, and throughout the house, the doors were made of beautifully figured, hand-carved pagafa wood. Inside, everything was neatly arranged. Most dwarves liked order, and the ferry captain was no exception. His home was elegant, yet simple, with well-made, functional wood furniture and few decorations save for some house plants and some exquisite black-fired dwarven pottery. He was unmarried but had two servants, an elderly dwarven couple who kept his house and cooked for him. His job was hazardous, but judging by the way he lived, his pay reflected that accordingly.

Sorak luxuriated in a heated bath while his clothes were taken to be cleaned. As he washed, Ryana relaxed by the fireplace and enjoyed some herbal tea and fresh-baked biscuits with kank honey. Soon afterward, the ferry captain arrived, bringing Sorak a change of clothing, which he had borrowed from one of the mercenaries.

"I think these should fit you," he said, laying them out while Sorak bathed. "Your own clothes should be clean and dry by tomorrow morning."

"That was considerate of you, Captain," Sorak said. "Thank you."

"It was nothing. And please, call me Tajik." He sat on a wooden chair while Sorak bathed. "You will pardon my curiosity, but I can see you are not a full-blooded elf. Yet, you look different from most half-elves I have seen."

"My father was a halfling," Sorak said. "Half-elves are part human. I am an elfling."

Tajik's eyebrows went up. "Indeed? I had heard something of the sort, but thought it merely a fanciful embellishment."

"Embellishment?"

"Of the song," said Tajik. "The Ballad of the Nomad."

Sorak rolled his eyes and shook his head. "It hardly seems possible it could have spread so quickly," he said.

Tajik chuckled. "Bards travel widely and steal each other's songs as readily as they compose new ones. Tell me, is it true you single-handedly saved a caravan from a host of marauders?"

"Nothing quite so spectacular, I fear," said Sorak with a wry grimace. "I merely learned of a marauder plan to ambush a caravan from Tyr and passed on a warning to the merchant house."

"I see. And what of the tale of your crossing the Stony Barrens and rescuing a princess of the royal house of Nibenay?"

"That one is true," admitted Sorak.

"Really? Then the Shadow King is in your debt?"

"Hardly," Sorak said. "The princess in question had taken preserver vows and been exiled as a result. An ambitious nobleman from Gulg had seized her and planned to force her into marriage so he could lay claim to kinship to the royal house of Nibenay. The girl asked for my help, and as a fellow preserver, I could not refuse."

"And so you stole her from the nobleman and fled across the Barrens?" Tajik asked.

Sorak nodded.

"Incredible," said Tajik. "They say no one has ever tried to cross the Barrens and survived."

"It was not an experience I would care to repeat," said Sorak.

"And what of the nobleman?"

"He died," said Sorak simply.

"And the princess? What became of her?"

"She returned to Nibenay and joined the Veiled Alliance."

"So that part of the story is true, then," said Tajik. "I would never have believed it. A daughter of the Shadow King enlisted in the Veiled Alliance!" He shook his head in amazement. "That must have made the old dragon king absolutely furious."

"He does not hold me in very high regard."

"And this does not frighten you?"

Sorak shrugged. "There is no love lost between preserver and defiler. Simply being what I am has made me the enemy of the dragon kings. I knew that when I chose to take my vows."

"Yes, but taking preserver vows is not the same as making a personal enemy of the Shadow King."

"Perhaps not," said Sorak. "But there is little use to being afraid. Nibenay has tried to kill me several times. As you can see, I am still alive, so perhaps the dragon kings are not all-powerful, as they would have everyone believe."

"Still, being marked for death by a sorcerer king is the sort of thing that would terrify most men."

"Perhaps, but I should think that I would find your job much more dangerous," said Sorak. "Nibenay's primary concern is to complete his dragon metamorphosis. I may have aroused his ire, but he will not spare much energy to snuff out the life of one insignificant preserver. You, on the other hand, face death every time you board your ferry. So which of us has more to fear?"

Tajik smiled. "I have always thought the rewards of my job justified the risks. What justifies the risk for you?"

"Well, to put it in dwarven terms," said Sorak, "the satisfaction of staying true to my focus. Accepting the risk and living with it is a sort of compromise."

"I suppose we all make compromises and take the good with the bad," said Tajik, taking the hint and not pressing his inquiries. "Well, I shall let you finish your bath. I will have some more water heated for Ryana. She did not go swimming in the silt, as you did, but I am sure she would appreciate a good, hot soak. And then you shall be my guests for dinner, and afterward, I hope you will accept the hospitality of my home for the night."

"That is very generous of you," Sorak said. "But it is really not necessary to go to so much trouble."

"Do not concern yourself. It is no trouble at all. I rarely have company and will enjoy showing you my village. We may not have the luxuries of a city such as Tyr or Balic, but we do know how to entertain our guests."

After they had both bathed and dressed, Tajik took them to dinner at an eating house that boasted "the best larder in South Ledopolus." It was a short walk from his home in the center of town, and Sorak marveled at the difference between the streets of South Ledopolus and those of Tyr or Nibenay. In most towns and cities, and even in most villages, there was no shortage of beggars. Not so South Ledopolus. Since the town was situated on a caravan route, and well isolated from any other settlements except North Ledopolus, the only transient traffic was that brought by the caravans, and beggars could not afford to book passage.

The streets of the village were also remarkably clean, reflecting a dwarven obsession with neatness and order. Even though the streets were hard-packed dirt, Tajik told Sorak with a sense of pride that they were regularly swept and graded by kank beetles pulling weighted drags through town once every two weeks and after each rain. There was a narrow ditch for runoff at the side of each street, and well-planed wooden sidewalks had been constructed on both sides of the street, shaded from the desert sun by overhangs made from wood planks or cactus ribs.

The buildings were freshly plastered, painted in muted tones of reds and pinks and tans. Tajik told them that the owners of the buildings were responsible for maintaining a clean facade. Chipped or flaking exteriors resulted in fines levied by the council. It was a remarkably pleasant looking village, with gently winding streets and well-groomed pagafa trees providing shade and color. With its tidy shops and inviting hostelries, it did not look at all like the rollicking, wide-open caravan town Sorak had expected.

On the other hand, the mercenary presence was very evident. Everywhere he looked, Sorak saw lean and muscular, hard-bitten and well-armed men mixing with the dwarven population. Some were human, some were half-elves, but all looked tough. Sorak wondered about the women. Men such as these had needs to satisfy, and they often liked to satisfy them without any encumbrances. Yet, he saw no women of easy virtue wandering the streets. It probably meant that there were pleasure houses where such things were kept discreetly out of sight.

The ferry captain was clearly respected in the community. He was were greeted effusively and given the best table in the house. The whitewashed adobe walls were painted with murals of desert scenes, and the tables were covered with clean white cloths, unusual even in cities. The dwarven staff gave them prompt and courteous attention, and Tajik suggested that they order braised erdlu steaks with herb sauce and wild rice and baked, honey-glazed gava root. He flushed and immediately apologized, realizing his error.

"Forgive me," he said, glancing at Ryana awkwardly. "I had forgotten that villichi priestesses do not eat flesh. I did not mean to give offense."

"None was intended, and none taken," Ryana replied with a smile. "I am not offended by others eating flesh. For myself, I would prefer some simple vegetables. The wild rice and gava root sound perfect."

Tajik looked relieved. "In that case, may I also suggest the spiced bread, which they do very well here, and the mulled ale, which is excellent."

"It sounds delightful," said Ryana.

"And what of yourself, my friend?" asked Tajik, turning to Sorak. "Do you also abstain from meat?"

Ordinary, Sorak would have answered yes.

Though elves were omnivorous and halflings were carnivorous, even to the extent that they often ate human flesh, he had been raised in the villichi convent and had always followed the villichi ways. However, his other personalities had remained true to his origins. They had craved the taste of meat, which he had forsworn. To avoid a conflict, he had reached a compromise of sorts with his more predatory personalities. Though he had refrained from eating flesh, after he went to sleep, his other personalities would assume control of his body, and would go out to hunt. They would stalk and make their kill as halflings did, consuming the flesh still raw and bloody.

Though divested of his other personalties, Sorak felt an unfamiliar craving brought on my the smells from the kitchen. Since leaving Bodach, he had eaten only wild desert plants and a mixture of nuts and dried fruits. Though he had taken vows as a preserver, those vows did not specifically prohibit him from eating meat. Ryana's vows as a villichi priestess did, and though she had broken those vows by leaving the convent, she still kept to the spirit of them. He was neither priest nor villichi. He knew that his body had eaten meat regularly in the past, though he had no memory of it.

"I think I shall try the erdlu."

Ryana glanced at him curiously, raising her eyebrows.

"Excellent choice," said Tajik, beaming.

Ryana pursed her lips and said nothing.

When the meal came, it was delicious. Sorak ate ravenously. His first taste triggered a craving for more. He had never felt anything like it before.

"You must have been hungry," Tajik said with a grin, watching him eat. "Here, try some of this ale."

"Thank you, but I prefer water," Sorak said.

"Water?" Tajik said with surprise. "You prefer water to ale?"

"I do not drink spirits," Sorak said.

"Not even wine?"

Sorak shook his head. "I have no taste for it."

"Pity," Tajik said, shaking his head sadly. Like most dwarves, he loved to drink, and he quaffed the ale as quickly as the serving girl refilled the pitcher. Sorak had heard that dwarves could out-drink anybody, and watching Tajik swill the ale, he believed it.

"So, have you come to South Ledopolus in search of employment, or are you just passing through?"

Sorak hesitated. "I have not yet decided," he replied after a moment.

"Ah. Well, if you choose to stay, for however long, perhaps I could be of assistance. I am not without influence here, and would be pleased to give you a recommendation."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," Sorak said. "But for the present, we would simply like to rest from our journey before making further plans."

"Where were you traveling from?" asked Tajik. "Most people come to South Ledopolus by way of the caravan route, yet you came across the estuary.

Don't tell me you walked all the way from the Mekillots?"

"That is the way we came," said Sorak, which was the truth, though not the whole truth.

"A long, hard journey," Tajik said. "But not really a surprising one, for two people who had crossed the Barrens. You came from Salt View then?"

Ryana nodded. "Yes, we spent some time there." Which was also true.

"The gaming houses of Salt View are not the sort of place one would expect to find a villichi priestess," Tajik said.

"Our pilgrimages take us all over the world," Ryana replied. "Besides, why preach to the converted? Wherever there is hope of spreading the preserver cause, that is where you'll find us."

Tajik nodded, apparently satisfied, but Sorak had a feeling the ferry captain suspected they were withholding information. Without his telepathic personalities, though, Sorak could not know. He saw no reason to distrust Tajik, but prudence advised against being completely frank with him.

"What can you tell me of a mercenary named Kieran?" Sorak asked, to change the subject.

Tajik frowned and shook his head. "The name is not familiar to me."

"He was the one who gave me his water on the boat," said Sorak.

"Ah, the one dressed like a walking catalog of rare hides?" asked Tajik.

"That's him," said Sorak.

The ferry captain shook his head. "I noticed him. Who could not, with clothes like that? But I have never seen him before. His name is Kieran, you say?"

"Yes, that was the name he gave me."

"Hmm. Well, I could ask around. Is there a particular reason for your curiosity?"

"He offered me employment," Sorak said. "He said he was on his way to Altaruk to accept a position as captain of the guard with the House of Jhamri."

"Indeed?" said Tajik, raising his eyebrows "That speaks highly of his capabilities. Jhamri hires nothing but the best for senior officers. If this Kieran has offered you employment, perhaps you should accept. You will not find anything in South Ledopolus that could compare with the salary you would receive working for a merchant house in Altaruk."

"I told him I would consider it," said Sorak. "But I should like to know something of a man's background before I agree to work for him."

"Quite understandable," said Tajik, nodding. "Well, I know where we can probably find out. If he has been recruited for such a post, he must have a reputation. His fellow mercenaries would know, and since most of them have just been paid, I know where we can find a good sampling to ask. But perhaps we should escort Ryana back to my home first."

"Why?" Ryana asked, puzzled.

"Because the Desert Damsel is not the sort of place to take a priestess," Tajik replied.

"And why is that?" she asked again.

Tajik cleared his throat. "Well... the Damsel is a pleasure house, the most popular attraction in South Ledopolus, where women dance and, uh, artfully remove clothing. One can go there simply for the show, but there are also rooms upstairs where, for a price, one can enjoy a, uh, 'private dance,' if you get my meaning."

"How very interesting," Ryana said. "I would like to see it."

Tajik looked scandalized. "You would?"

"Yes, very much. Can we go there after dinner?"

Tajik swallowed hard. "I... uh... really do not think it is a proper place for a lady like yourself."

"Why not?" Ryana asked.

Tajik glanced at Sorak, helplessly.

"Don't look at me," said Sorak. "Ryana makes her own decisions."

"I have never seen a pleasure house," Ryana said. "I'm curious to know what it is like."

"It is much like any other place where mercenaries drink, only much more so," Tajik said. "I don't think you would enjoy it much."

"I should like the opportunity to judge that for myself," Ryana said.

Tajik sighed with resignation. "Well, if you insist..."

 

*****

 

"It is a rather rowdy crowd tonight," said Edric as he came into the dressing room, rubbing his temple where a thrown bottle had struck him. It had shattered and cut the skin, and a thin trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. The spot was already swelling, and there would be a nasty bruise.

Cricket was up out of her chair at once. "Here, let me see," she said.

"It's of no consequence," said Edric. "This is my last night."

Cricket moistened a clean cloth and gently washed the cut. "Those brutes," she said vehemently.

Edric winced as she cleaned the cut. "Well, they did not come to hear my ballads. I do not know why Turin even bothered hiring me."

"To build up their anticipation," Cricket said. "He likes a dull act to open the show." And then she realized what she had said and bit her lower lip. "Forgive me. That came out wrong. I did not mean that I found you dull myself."

Edric chuckled. "No, I understand. The pleasure of your company has been the only thing that has made this engagement bearable. And you have been a most appreciative audience, for which I thank you."

"I cannot wait to leave this place," said Cricket. "I've booked passage on the caravan. I only wish it would leave tonight."

"Tomorrow will be soon enough," said Edric. "Turin still does not suspect your plans?"

"I do not think so," Cricket said. "If he does, he's shown no indication of it. Still, I would not put it past him to attempt something to make me stay."

"What could he do?"

"Hire some mercenaries to detain me while the caravan departs," she said. "He probably wouldn't even have to pay them. He would merely offer them inducements."

"Mmmm, yes, I can imagine what sort of inducements he would offer," Edric said. "Still, he can't force you to dance."

Cricket shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I have wanted to leave here for so long, it hardly seems possible that the time has come at last. I keep thinking something will go wrong."

Edric patted her shoulder. "Nothing will go wrong," he said. "By this time tomorrow, we'll be on our way to Altaruk."

"I want it to be now," she said anxiously.

"Try to put it out of your mind," said Edric. "You don't want Turin to wonder why you seem distracted. Go out there and put on a good show. It'll be the last time they'll ever see you in this pestilential dump. Give them something to remember."

She smiled. "That I can do."

 

*****

 

Walking into the Desert Damsel was like entering another world. Outside lay the quiet, picturesque and orderly dwarven village of South Ledopolus, with its immaculate streets and well-tended shade trees and desert gardens. Inside was the raucous South Ledopolus the Wanderer had described in his journal.

Tajik, Sorak, and Ryana entered through a small antechamber where a dwarf seated at a high podium collected the cover charge of ten coppers, which included a token for one drink. He also gathered all weapons, in exchange for numbered tokens that would allow the owners to claim them on the way out. Just past the podium was an arched, curtained entry where a muscular human bouncer stood at his post, thick arms folded across his bare, barrel-shaped chest.

Tajik led them through the beaded curtain and into the interior of the Desert Damsel—a single, large, open room with booths built around the perimeter and small round tables with wooden chairs filling the space beside the long bar against the right wall. Behind the bar and in the center of the room, at the rear, were two large stages with four smaller stages on square risers on the right and left sides of the room. No matter where one looked, there was a stage in view, and atop each of those stages, including the one behind the bar, nearly naked women danced.

There was a small band playing, set up on a small stage at the right rear corner of the room, just beyond the bar, and a woman gyrated on the stage in front of the band, as well. The band consisted primarily of drummers, bell ringers, and cymbal players. The melody, what there was of it, was carried by several flutists, but the music was mostly beat and the jangle of bells and cymbals.

The place was packed, mostly by mercenaries, though there were also some dwarves and humans who came in on the caravan from Balic. The lighting was dim, provided by a few lanterns hanging from the ceiling above the stages. The tables were full, and there were stools around each stage, as well.

Men crowded the edges of the stages, staring up at the undulating dancers and shouting encouragement as they held out coins. The dancers would gyrate over to the men and take the coins in some creative way, either bending over backward and grabbing them with their teeth or allowing the men to slip them inside their girdles. Each dancer carried a small coin purse tied to her belt, and presumably at the end of each dance, she would empty the purse so it could be filled afresh.

As Tajik, Sorak, and Ryana stood at the entrance, a fight between a couple of mercenaries broke out in front of them. Before more than a few blows could be exchanged, several large human bouncers separated the combatants and promptly escorted them outside.

"Fascinating," said Ryana, looking around. "The atmosphere seems... primitive and energetic."

"Well, I suppose that's one way of putting it," said Tajik. "Come, let's sit at the bar. From there, you can see the entire room."

An attractive young human female wearing practically nothing came up and led them to the bar, then departed with a smile.

"Greetings, Tajik," the burly barkeeper said, leaning over and raising his voice above the music. "It's been a while. What'll you have?"

"A tankard of your best ale, Stron," said Tajik. He turned to Ryana.

"I'll have the same," she said.

"Some water, please," said Sorak.

"What?" the barkeeper said, as if unsure he had heard correctly.

"Water," Sorak repeated.

"Water?"

"Yes, please. Water."

"I'll have to charge you for it," said the barkeeper.

"I will be glad to pay," said Sorak. "How much?"

"Stron... just give my friend some water," Tajik said.

"Well, seeing as how he's a friend of yours..."

"Thank you, my friend," said Tajik.

"Water," repeated the barkeeper, shaking his head and grimacing. "Two ales and one water, coming up."

Sorak glanced up at the stage behind the bar. The woman dancing there wore nothing save a skimpy girdle that consisted of a thong and a piece of cloth no bigger than an eye patch. Her long red hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a large and perfectly shaped pair of breasts. She came down a short flight of wooden steps leading to the bar from the stage, moving slowly and swaying her hips.

She stepped down onto the surface of the bar and the patrons hurriedly moved their drinks to give her room. As they held out their coins, she knelt on the bartop before them, with her back to them. Most of the customers were apparently well familiar with her routine. They placed the coins between their teeth as she bent over backward, leaning back so that her face was just below theirs, then they bent their heads down so that she could take the coin from them in her own teeth. As the exchange was made, their lips barely brushed hers, then she straightened, turned around, and gently caressed each man on the cheek or ran her ringers through his hair. She would finish by looking at each man suggestively as she briefly slipped the coin inside her girdle, then dropped it into her purse before moving on.

One customer became a bit carried away and spat the coin out before she could take it from him, then crushed his mouth to hers. Instantly, two large and muscular bouncers appeared behind him and carried him away as the others cheered and shouted.

"This is what men like?" Ryana asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Some men, apparently," said Sorak.

"Not you?" she asked.

"I would never put money in my mouth," he said.

"Yes, one has no way of knowing where it's been," Ryana replied dryly.

The barkeeper brought them their drinks and then the dancer moved in front of Sorak. She stood over him atop the bar, swaying her hips in time to the music, and slowly came down to her knees before him, facing him. Sorak looked up into her eyes. She smiled, parted her lips, and ran her tongue around them. He shook his head slightly and placed a coin down on the bar. She raised her eyebrows, then glanced briefly at Ryana. She mouthed a kiss at her, glanced briefly back at Sorak, picked up the coin, dropped it in her purse, and moved on.

"I think she likes you," Tajik said with a grin.

"I think she likes his money," Ryana replied.

"I wasn't speaking to him" said Tajik with a slightly mocking smile.

Ryana cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I thought we came here to find out some information."

"I thought you came because you were curious to see a pleasure house," said Sorak, keeping a perfectly straight face.

"Well, now I've seen it," she said.

"Oh, you haven't seen the best part yet," said Tajik. "You haven't seen the star attraction."

"I can hardly wait," Ryana said with a grimace.

The music stopped, and the dancers left the stage, then a red-haired dwarf stepped up in front of the musicians as everybody clapped and shouted. Raising his voice above the din, the dwarf called out, "Are you ready for more?"

There was a resounding chorus of assent.

"Well, more you shall have!" the dwarf shouted. "Remember, the girls dance for your enjoyment, and for your tips, so please be generous! They all have sick old mothers to care for!"

There was laughter and shouting, then the dwarf raised his hands for silence, which he didn't get. "Don't forget," he shouted over the noise, "you can ask your favorite girl for an exclusive, private dance, and she will be happy to oblige! They are all very obliging!"

There was more laughter and the dwarf signaled the musicians. They started a new song, which sounded much like the previous one, and a fresh shift of dancers took the stages.

Tajik saw someone that he knew and waved him over. A mercenary joined them at the bar and greeted Tajik with a hearty back slap that made the ferry captain's teeth rattle.

"Tajik, you old scoundrel! Why aren't you home counting your money?"

"Because I'm here, buying you a drink," Tajik replied.

The mercenary threw an arm around his shoulder. "That's the kind of talk I like to hear! Barkeeper! Ale!"

The barkeeper set a drink in front of the mercenary, and Tajik paid.

"I hear you had some trouble earlier this evening," said the mercenary.

"Yes, an encounter with some giants," Tajik said. "It was close. They almost sank me this time."

"So they say," the mercenary said. "Everyone is talking about it, exaggerating as usual. I even heard some ridiculous nonsense about one of your passengers jumping overboard and killing a giant with his sword."

"Neither ridiculous nor nonsense," Tajik replied. He pointed to Sorak. "This is the very passenger. He saved all our lives."

The mercenary turned to stare at Sorak. "Truly? You killed a giant, hand-to-hand?"

"I was fortunate," said Sorak.

"Well, then let me shake your hand, stranger," said the mercenary.

"Sorak, Drom," said Tajik, performing the introductions, "and the lady is Ryana."

As the somewhat inebriated mercenary focused his gaze on Ryana, his eyes grew wide. "Gith's blood!" he said. "I'd like to see you up there on the stage!"

"Mind your manners, you great oaf!" said Tajik, sharply. "Are you so blind drunk you can't see she is a priestess of the villichi sisterhood?"

The mercenary's jaw dropped, then he blushed, bowed his head, and stammered an apology. "F-forgive me, my lady. I—I am a fool. Truly, it was not drink but your beauty that had blinded me."

"Nice save," said Sorak, lifting his goblet to his lips.

"Tajik is right, I am an oaf," the mercenary said. "I have offended you both. How may I make amends?"

"Well, perhaps you can help with some information," Tajik said.

"Yes," said Sorak, "do you know of a mercenary by the name of Kieran?"

"Kieran of Draj?"

"I do not know where he hails from," Sorak replied, "but he is a blond, good-looking man, blue eyed and clean shaven, about my height, very muscular, and dresses expensively, in rare hides."

"That sounds like him," said Drom, nodding. "He carries iron weapons, a sword and two stiletto daggers, the hilts wrapped with silver wire?"

"That's the man," said Sorak. "What do you know of him?"

"Good blade," said Drom emphatically. "One of the very best. A seasoned campaigner. Served with the Drajian army—joined up as a boy, they say— and worked his way up through the ranks to regimental commander. Might have made general, too."

Sorak frowned. "What happened?"

"I'm a little dry," the mercenary said, rubbing his throat. Sorak took the hint and ordered him another ale. When it arrived, Drom was distracted for a moment by a dancer who stopped before him on the bar and reached out with her foot to brush her toes against his chest. Drom kissed her foot and tossed her a coin, which she caught adroitly. She bent down and pecked his cheek lightly, then moved on. "Where was I?"

"Why did Kieran fail to make general?" Sorak prompted.

"Ah, yes. Well, he killed a Drajian nobleman."

"You mean he murdered him?" Ryana asked.

"No, it was a duel," said Drom.

"Let me guess," said Tajik. "They quarreled over a woman."

"You might say that," Drom replied, "but it isn't what you think. The girl was the nobleman's daughter."

"Ah," said Tajik. "And Kieran's attentions were unwelcome?"

"They were more than welcome," Drom replied. "They were in love and planned to marry. But the girl's father disapproved. He refused to allow his daughter to wed a soldier, and a commoner at that. The way the story goes, she argued with her father, and he beat her. When Kieran learned of it, he publicly called the man a craven coward—and a few other names, besides—and struck him. Well, that was enough right there to put an end to his career, but the nobleman lost his temper and challenged him on the spot. Kieran killed him, for which he was arrested and sentenced to death. When the girl heard of it, she took her own life by swallowing poison."

"How awful!" said Ryana.

"How did Kieran survive the sentence?"

"Friends interceded for him," Drom replied. "And his regiment threatened mutiny. The death sentence was commuted to exile for life, and his estate was confiscated. When Kieran left Draj, without a copper to his name, almost a third of his regiment left with him. The rest had families and other ties, or else they might have gone as well.

They formed their own company of mercenaries and hired out to whatever kingdom needed fighting men to fill out their armies for campaigns. In time, attrition thinned their numbers until only a few were left. Eventually, the ones who survived all went their separate ways."

"You seem to know a great deal about him," Sorak said.

"I should," said Drom. "I served with him in the army of Raam during the war with Urik. By then, he had only half a dozen men from the original regiment. They were fierce fighters, to a man, and intensely loyal. Where did you encounter him?"

"He met him on my boat," said Tajik. "Kieran was there when Sorak slew the giant. He offered him employment."

Drom looked surprised. "Kieran, here? In South Ledopolus?"

"He said he was on his way to Altaruk, to accept a post as captain of the guard for the House of Jhamri," Sorak said.

"Ah," said Drom. "Well, they can afford him, certainly. But it is a pity to see a top blade such as Kieran reduced to service with a merchant house guard. Truly, it is a waste of talent. Ah... it seems my goblet's empty."

"Another round for my friend," said Sorak, to the barkeeper.

"Well, if Kieran offered you employment, you must have made a strong impression," Drom said, as another drink was set before him. "You could do far worse. I would accept the job if I were you.

You will be paid well, and you will learn much in the bargain."

"Thank you," Sorak said. "I appreciate the advice."

"When you see him, tell him Drom of Urik sends his regards. Most likely, he'll not remember me. I am not a memorable man."

"I will be sure to pass on your regards," said Sorak.

Drom nodded, suddenly looking depressed. "Thank you for the drinks, friend," he said. "And for the conversation. Sometimes, it is good to remember the old glory days." He belched. "And sometimes, not so good." He turned to Ryana and bowed, unsteadily. "My lady..."

Sorak watched him stagger off.

"He used to be a good man," said Tajik as he watched Drom weave away into the crowd. "But drink has got the better of him. He fought in over a dozen wars, and now he guards the construction of a bridge in a small village stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Think on that, my friend. The trade of mercenary can be rewarding for a young man with some skill, but do not remain in it too long."

The music stopped and the dwarf took the stage again, raising his arms for silence. "I know what you've all been waiting for!" he shouted. "The time has come! The Desert Damsel proudly presents... the lovely, the incomparable... Cricket!"

The crowd roared, and the drummers rattled off a fast tattoo, then stopped abruptly and started a slow and steady, gently rolling beat, accentuated by the bells and cymbals. The crowd fell silent as the beaded curtain at the back of the main stage parted, revealing the backlit silhouette of a tall, slender, beautifully proportioned woman in a sheer, transparent gown.

She moved sinuously in the backlight, swaying slowly to the beat, tantalizing the audience with the silhouette of her body showing through the gown, then she stepped into the light, and Sorak caught his breath. She was breathtakingly beautiful, a young half-elf girl with long, dark, silver-streaked hair almost to her waist; a heart-shaped face with slanted, dark eyes; delicately arched eyebrows; high, pronounced cheekbones; full lips and a slightly pointed chin. Her body was slender yet curvaceous, with a slim and narrow waist and long, exquisite legs. The other dancers had all been greeted with raucous shouts and cheers when they came on, but Cricket's entrance brought utter silence as the men watched, mesmerized.

"That's the star attraction," Tajik said softly.

Unlike the other girls, who writhed provocatively and assumed seductive poses in time to the music, Cricket danced. Her muscular control was impressive as she undulated her upper body in time to the music, her belly rippling like the surface of a gently flowing stream and her arms stretched over her head moving languidly, like the wings of a graceful bird. Slowly, the musicians picked up the tempo and she began to whirl, bumping and twisting her hips in time to the beat, moving on tiptoe as she twirled and spun. She sank down slowly into a perfect split, her upper body swaying, bending over first to touch one leg and then the other. Then she twisted on the floor and crouched upon her knees, slowly bending backward until she touched the floor with the back of her head, her arms raised over her chest and intertwining like snakes coupling as her hips rose and fell rhythmically. It was beautiful, sensuous, and blatantly erotic.

"Worth the wait, eh?" Tajik said with a grin. Sorak glanced over at him and saw Ryana watching him curiously.

"I... uh... have never seen anyone dance like that," said Sorak.

"Nor have I," Ryana said in a neutral tone. "She's very beautiful, isn't she?"

"Yes," said Sorak, turning back toward the stage, "she is."

Cricket slowly raised herself up and got to her feet, and the gown fell away from her as if removed by unseen hands. Somehow, she managed to shrug free of it without ever appearing to remove it, allowing it to slowly slip down her body until it was bunched at her feet. Gracefully, she stepped out of it, now dressed only in the smallest of girdles and a halter consisting of thongs and two tiny pieces of lizardskin. She wore a thin silver chain around her waist and another around her left ankle, with a tiny silver bell hanging from it. Around her thigh, she wore a lizardskin garter with a small pouch sewn into it, only large enough for one coin at a time.

As the men crowded the stage, holding out their coins, she pirouetted toward each of them, stopping and undulating her stomach muscles as she put one leg forward, bent slightly at the knee, her bare foot arched gracefully with only the toes touching the floor, and the men would slip their coins into the garter pouch. A few of them tried to run their hands up her leg, or kiss it, but she twisted away adroitly, snatching up the coins with her hand as she spun away, then turning back toward them and smiling with a slight shake of her head.

Sorak glanced at some of the other dancers. Some of the women were gazing at her with obvious envy or resentment. Others watched her with open and undisguised lust. And those were just the women. She drove the men absolutely wild. Half a dozen were carried out as they tried to climb up on the stage, and the rest were shoving and elbowing each other, trying to get closer.

"She's pulling out all the stops tonight," said Tajik, shaking his head as he watched her dance. "If she doesn't watch out, she'll start a riot."

The music reached a crescendo, though it was barely audible in the roar, and with a graceful flourish, Cricket finished and curtsied low, bowing to the crowd. Coins rained upon the stage. The overworked bouncers moved in to restore order, pushing the crowd back.

"A round of drinks for everyone, courtesy of the Desert Damsel!" the dwarf shouted, and he looked relived as everyone immediately surged toward the bar.

Cricket started picking up the coins. As she crouched by the lip of the stage, a hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist.

"How about a private dance, my lovely?" a powerfully built mercenary said.

"I do not perform private dances," Cricket replied. "Please, let go."

"Come on, now, I've already paid for the room."

"Then ask one of the other girls," said Cricket. "Now let me go."

"You're the one I want," the mercenary insisted. "Now get down here." And he yanked her right off the stage onto the floor.

At once, two bouncers moved in, but without letting go of Cricket's wrist, the mercenary kicked out at the first one, breaking his knee, and smashed the second one in the jaw. Both men went down, the first one screaming with pain, the second unconscious.

Sorak started to rise from his stool, but felt Tajik's hand on him. "Keep out of it," the ferry captain said. "Turin pays these men well for their pains, and they know their business."

Indeed, they seemed to, for even as Tajik spoke, Sorak saw three more bouncers move in, this time with three-foot agafari fighting sticks.

The brawny mercenary knew his business, too. He released Cricket, shoving her against the stage behind him and turned to meet the bouncers. As the first one came in with an overhanded blow of the fighting stick, the mercenary took it on crossed forearms, catching it on the muscle rather than bone, and then deftly wrenched the stick out of the bouncer's grasp while kicking him in the groin. Without pause, he pivoted, sidestepped a blow from the second bouncer, and cracked the stick against the side of his head.

As the second bouncer went down, the mercenary quickly dropped to the floor and swept the third bouncer's legs out from under him. He, too, fell, and the mercenary brought the heel of his booted foot down hard on the man's throat, collapsing his larynx and trachea. The bouncer made a horrible gargling sound and thrashed several times, then choked on his own blood.

Moving swiftly and smoothly, the big mercenary got back to his feet, snatching up the third bouncer's fighting stick as well, so that he now had one in each hand. Cricket tried to crawl away, but he saw her and hooked a stool with his foot, sending it crashing against the stage, just missing her. She cried out and stayed huddled where she was. Two more bouncers moved in, and by now the crowd had gathered round, watching and cheering the combatants.

The fighting sticks whirled in the mercenary's hands as he met the two remaining bouncers and, moments later, both were lying senseless and bleeding on the floor.

The crowed cheered, and the mercenary dropped the sticks and turned back to Cricket. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

Sorak got up off his stool, shaking off Tajik's hand, and Ryana rose beside him.

"I'd say I've earned a lot more than just a private dance," the big mercenary said. And as he turned to drag her upstairs, he found Kieran blocking his way, standing there with his arms folded across his chest.

Sorak paused, holding out his arm in front of Ryana. The crowd fell silent.

"You're in my way," the big mercenary said to Kieran.

"Yes, I suppose I am," Kieran replied.

"Move."

"I don't believe I will."

"Well, well," the big mercenary said, derisively. "So you want to play the gallant, eh? You think the whore is worth it?"

"Oh, I'm not doing it for her," said Kieran, casually. "I'm doing it for you."

The big mercenary stared at him. "What?"

"It's for the benefit of your education. You require a lesson in manners. You seem pretty good with those sticks. You want to find out just how good you are?"

The big mercenary grinned unpleasantly and shoved Cricket back to the floor, then picked up the two fighting sticks he'd dropped. "You're the one who's going to get a lesson," he said with a sneer, as he twirled die fighting sticks in his hands.

Kieran bent to pick up one of the fighting sticks, but before he could grab a second one, the big mercenary moved quickly and kicked it away into the crowd.

"Kieran!" someone in the crowd shouted, and in the next instant, a fighting stick came sailing toward him.

Kieran snatched it out of the air and glanced to see who had thrown it. He spotted the man and nodded his thanks, then smiled.

"It's been a few years," he said. "The war with Urik, wasn't it?"

Sorak saw Drom break out in a surprised grin.

Kieran looked down and experimentally hefted the sticks. "These really aren't balanced very well," he said, and in that moment, the big mercenary struck. Kieran raised his sticks, almost casually, without even seeming to look, and they moved in a rapid blur, with an accompanying rat-a-tat-tat of wood as he blocked the mercenary's blows. The big man retreated quickly, and Kieran looked up, as if with surprise. "Oh, have we started?"

The big mercenary snarled and came back at him. The sticks moved so quickly it was almost impossible to make out the individual blows as both men struck and parried, crossing their arms in front of them as it they were batting away insects, and the clatter of the sticks against each other sounded like a rapid drum roll. Then they sprang apart as the crowd cheered in approval of the display.

"You're good, I'll give you that," the big mercenary said grudgingly.

Kieran shrugged. "I'm a little out of practice."

With a growl, the mercenary came at him again. There was a blur of sticks, a clattering tattoo of wood on wood, and then one of the mercenary's sticks flew from his grasp. The big man sprang back, shaking his hand with pain.

"You dropped something," Kieran said. He pointed with one of his sticks. "It's over there. Go on, pick it up. I'll wait."

The mercenary stared at him with loathing, then went to pick up the dropped stick.

Kieran shrugged his shoulders several times, rolling them as if working out some kinks. "Bit stiff, but I think I'm starting to warm up."

"You bastard," the mercenary said, and moved in again. The sticks whirled, clattered, moving with blinding speed, and then there was the sharp crack of a stick on bone and the mercenary cried out and staggered, bringing one of his hands, still clutching the stick, up to the side of his head.

"Sorry," Kieran said. "Clumsy of me."

Roaring, the mercenary charged him. Kieran sidestepped the rush, simultaneously sweeping the mercenary's legs out from under him and rapping quickly on his head as he fell.

"Watch out for that spilled ale," he said. "It makes the floor slippery."

Stunned, the mercenary slowly got back up to his feet, pure murder in his eyes. With a sudden motion, he hurled one of the sticks at Kieran, who raised both his sticks and, with a quick flourish, batted the missile away.

"You want to use just one?" he asked, then shrugged. "Suits me." And he tossed one of his sticks away.

The mercenary screamed with rage and charged once again, bringing his stick down in a vicious, sweeping blow. Kieran parried with a circular motion and hooked his stick under the charging mercenary's arm as he sidestepped and somehow the man was suddenly flipped and flying through the air. The crowd parted quickly as he landed on his back with a loud crash on a table, which broke under his weight. The crowd broke out in cheers and applause.

Kieran looked at the motionless figure of the mercenary for a moment, shrugged, and tossed his stick aside, then went over to Cricket and offered her a hand, helping her up. Turin came rushing up to them.

"Magnificent!" he said, effusively. "Truly magnificent! I have never seen anything like it! Whatever you wish, it's on the house tonight! And I'm sure Cricket will be happy to give you a private dance in one of our comfortable rooms upstairs, won't you, Cricket?"

"No, I won't," she said, firmly. "I quit!"

Turin chuckled awkwardly. "There, there, now, you're upset, and I can certainly understand, under the circumstances, but this gentleman has just fought on your behalf and surely you wouldn't be so ungrateful as to refuse him?"

"The lady owes me nothing," Kieran said. "Scum like that give my profession a bad name. I acted on my own behalf."

"Well, it is very gallant of you to say that," Turin replied, "but I am certain once Cricket gets over her shock and has some time to think things over, she'll want to be properly appreciative."

"Do not misunderstand," Cricket said to Kieran, "I am very grateful for what you did, and if there is some way I can repay you, I will try. But not... that way. I... I cannot."

"I understand," said Kieran. "I would never wish a woman to lie with me out of a sense of obligation. And, as I said, I did not do it for you. You owe me nothing."

"I owe you my thanks, at the very least," said Cricket, "but I am leaving this place tonight. The caravan is departing for Altaruk tomorrow and I am going with it."

"Then I will look forward to the pleasure of your company. We shall be traveling together."

"Now, Cricket, there is nothing to be served by making hasty decisions," Turin said. "You're upset now, and—"

"I had already booked passage before this happened," Cricket interrupted him. "I am leaving, Turin, so don't try to stop me. I am already packed."

Turin's jaw dropped. "Is this how you repay me, after all I've done for you?"

"After all you have done for me?" said Cricket angrily. "I have made you a great deal of money, Turin! I have earned every copper I have made in this place, and more, but at least I have done it without compromising my virtue!"

"Your virtue?" Turin said. "Oh, really! Isn't it a bit ludicrous for you to put on the airs of an affronted virgin?"

"I am a virgin!" she shouted at him.

Everyone fell silent. Turin simply stared at her with shock.

"Damn you, Turin," she said softly as tears flowed down her cheeks.

"May I escort you home, my lady?" Kieran asked, offering her his arm.

"I... I have to get my things," she stammered.

"I will bring them to you," an elven bard said, stepping up beside her. He patted her on the shoulder. "Go on, now," he said, handing her his cloak. "It will be all right." He smiled. "You've certainly given them something to remember you by."

She smiled through her tears. "Thank you, Edric," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Please," she said to Kieran, "I want to go home now."

The crowd parted for them as they turned to leave.

Behind them, the big mercenary regained consciousness and sat up groggily. His gaze focused on Kieran, and he reached behind his neck, pulling a stiletto from a concealed sheath on his back, under his tunic. He drew his arm back...

"Kieran, look out!" Drom shouted.

Kieran spun around just in time to see a ceramic bottle come flying through the air and shatter against the big mercenary's temple. The man grunted and collapsed, dropping the knife. Kieran looked quickly to see who had thrown it. His gaze fell on Sorak. Sorak simply nodded at him.

Kieran smiled. "That's two I owe you, Sorak," he said. "My thanks. I won't forget."

Edric turned to stare at Sorak intently.

"Well, I think I've had enough entertainment for one night," Ryana said.

Sorak offered her his arm. "In that case, my lady, will you allow me to escort you home?"

She took his arm and snuggled up against him. "Would you like a private dance, as well?"

"I didn't know you could dance," said Sorak with surprise.

"I can't," she replied, batting her eyelashes.

"Tajik," Sorak said, "we're leaving now."

"Well, I must say, it's certainly been an interesting night," said the ferry captain as he led them toward the door. Behind them, Edric continued to stare at Sorak. Then he turned to Turin. "I will return for Cricket's things," he said.

"Aah, do as you like, and good riddance to you both," said Turin, sourly. But Edric was already heading for the door.

Chapter Five

"That girl was very beautiful, wasn't she?" Ryana asked.

Sorak ran his fingers lightly down her bare thigh. "Yes, she was."

They lay together wrapped in a blanket on a rug in front of the fireplace. After they had returned to Tajik's home, the captain had diplomatically withdrawn, saying he would see them in the morning. The servants had prepared a spare room for them, lit a fire, and brewed a pot of tea, then retired to their own quarters, wishing them goodnight. And Sorak and Ryana had made love.

Though they had known each other almost all their lives, they were still only recent lovers, still discovering things about themselves in their new physical relationship. The first time they made love, in Sanctuary, it had been a gentle, tentative, profoundly emotional experience. This time, it had been passionate and energetic. Ryana had showed a side of herself Sorak had never seer before. And he thought he knew why.

"Did you find her desirable?" Ryana asked, her face inches from his own as they lay with legs intertwined.

"I was affected by her beauty," Sorak replied.

"And her dancing?" asked Ryana.

"She was very good," said Sorak.

"You found her exciting."

"Yes. She was beautiful, and I thought her dancing very sensual and seductive."

Ryana sighed. "At least you're honest. I wish I could dance for you like that."

"You don't have to," Sorak said, kissing her.

"But I'd like to," she replied. "I saw the way you were watching her."

"I've seen women dance before," said Sorak, "but never like that. She's very skilled. She has a gift."

"Do you recall her name?"

"Cricket."

"I was going to call you a liar if you claimed not to remember," said Ryana wryly.

"I would never lie to you." He kissed her lips and squeezed her leg between his own. "Besides, it's an unusual name."

"And I suppose that is the only reason you remembered it."

"Are you jealous?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No," she replied. Then grimaced and said, "Yes."

"You have no reason to be," Sorak said. "Besides, she left with Kieran."

"Mmmm. He's very handsome, isn't he?"

"Yes, I suppose he is."

"And a great body."

"I agree."

"And he's very dashing."

"I can see that, yes."

"A girl could do far worse."

"Undoubtedly."

"Damn you," she said, poking him.

Sorak chuckled. "I have no reason to feel jealous. I do not doubt your love. Do you doubt mine?"

"No," she said, snuggling against him and kissing his neck. "But I still wish I could dance for you the way she did."

"I would enjoy seeing you dance."

Ryana made a face and shook her head. "My body would not move like hers. I am too muscular and lack the flexibility. Besides, I do not have her skill. If I tried, I would look foolish and clumsy. You would only laugh at me."

"Never."

She sighed. "In a way, it was easier before, when your female aspects prevented you from lying with a woman. I knew you could never lie with me, but neither would you lie with others. Now, I cannot help but wonder if I will be enough for you."

"You are more than enough woman for me," said Sorak.

"But I'm the only woman you have ever been with."

"And I'm the only man that you have ever been with," he replied. "Unless there's something you have kept from me."

She poked him again. "You know better. But it's different with a man. A woman loves. A man has appetites."

Sorak frowned. "Who told you that?"

"It's what the sisters always said."

"Ah, and they, of course, are vastly experienced in such matters," he said in a gently mocking tone.

"They are not all virgins. You know that."

"Yes, I know," he agreed, "but those who are not have experienced only the physical side of love, and that merely as a curiosity. When it came their turn to make a pilgrimage, they took the opportunity to find a man and satisfy their curiosity, and they did so in a manner that only validated their preconceptions."

Ryana frowned. "I don't understand."

"What prevented me from experiencing physical love before is what helps me understand it better now," he said. "I used to resent the interference of my female aspects, but in a way, I'm grateful for it now. I wanted you, but my female aspects would not allow it, because if I made love to you, they would have experienced it with me. They would have been repelled by it, as I would have been had one of them made love with a man. Well, perhaps not all of them would have been repelled. Kivara always found the possibility intriguing."

"Yes, I remember," said Ryana with a smile. "She was always a creature of sensation, entranced with excitement, attracted to the unpredictable."

"And so, through her, I knew that side of female behavior," Sorak said. "With the Guardian, I knew the stable, maternal, nurturing side. The Watcher taught me yet another side of women, that which observes and protects and evaluates. I may be male, but because of them, I also know what it's like to be female. To say that women love while men have only appetites is to deny that women also have appetites and men can also love. And the sisters stand as living proof of that."

"They do?" Ryana asked, with surprise.

"Of course," said Sorak. "If a sister goes out on a pilgrimage and takes a man to bed to satisfy her curiosity, then is that love? Or is it not an appetite she is indulging?"

"But... doing it merely to find out what it's like, that is not really lust," Ryana said.

"Perhaps not, but if curiosity must be indulged and satisfied, then it's an appetite, just as lust is. And if you were to take a man to bed without loving him, merely to satisfy your curiosity, then how would that be any different from my taking Cricket to bed simply because she aroused me with her beauty and her dancing? Those sisters who spoke to you of men so knowledgeably, did any of them ever say they were in love?"

"No, they didn't," Ryana admitted.

"So, if women love and men only indulge their appetites, then what were they doing?"

"I never really thought of it that way," Ryana said. "I never questioned it."

"If I were a young girl, listening to my older sisters, I probably would not have questioned it, either," Sorak said with a shrug. "But I was a young boy, and though the sisters never spoke to me of such things, I heard them talk among themselves, and saw them give me sidelong glances, and it did not sit well with me. So I consulted with my female aspects, especially the Guardian, for she was the oldest and the wisest. And she helped me see that what the sisters said was not entirely true."

"How did she do that?" Ryana asked.

"Well, she rather irritably pointed out that I could have seen it for myself if I had only thought more clearly," he replied. "I loved you long before I ever felt desire for you, not because I wanted you, but because of who you are. I felt frustration and regret because I believed my love for you could not be consummated, but I still loved you nonetheless. The Guardian said an appetite diminishes with satisfaction, but love never does. If it is truly love, then it grows stronger. And now I know that she was right. And, in a way, so were you. You will never be enough for me. I shall always want more... of you."

"I love you," said Ryana, hugging him.

The fire flared abruptly, unnaturally. The thick wood normally burned steadily, but slowly. Even when the flames hit pockets of the resinous sap, they did not normally flare up, they merely sparked and burned a little faster, with a crackling and popping sound. But the flames in the adobe brick fireplace shot up suddenly with a whoosh, several feet high, turning a bright blue and licking up the chimney, and a cloud of blue-green smoke appeared, shot through with tiny, shimmering lights. It did not go up the chimney, but hovered over the brightly burning flames, then moved out into the room and started to spread out like mist.

Sorak and Ryana sat up as the cloud hovered over them, sparkling with dancing pinpoints of energy. As they watched, a brightly glowing shape appeared within the cloud, indistinct, shifting and transparent. It started to resolve into a face, then flowed and shifted once again, moving and sparkling with bright lights, like tiny stars, only vaguely suggesting features. The glow emanating from it was too bright to make out any detail. And then a voice spoke.

Sorak... The voice spoke with a ghostly echo, and it seemed to come from all around them. It was a voice Sorak knew, though it had never spoken to him before. He felt the familiar ethereal presence, serene and powerful. Several times before, it had descended on him and possessed him, but now it served the Sage.

"Kether," he said, softly.

You are needed in Altaruk, Sorak. Go there. Contact the Alliance. Waste no time. They are in grave danger. Guard yourself. Trust no one. Death comes across the desert. Go. For the avangion.

The glow faded and the cloud started to dissipate.

"Kether, wait!" said Sorak, but even as he spoke, the cloud dissolved until there was only a sprinkling of bright pinpoints in the air, like fireflies seen from a distance, and then those, too, were gone. The flames in the fireplace burned normally once more, and all was as before.

"What was that?" Ryana asked.

"A message," Sorak said. "A message from the Sage."

"But... I heard nothing," said Ryana.

"You did not see the glowing cloud? You did not hear Kether speak?"

"I saw the cloud, but I heard no one speak."

"Strange," said Sorak.

"What was the message?" Ryana asked, staring at him.

"That I must go to Altaruk and contact the Alliance. They are in danger. Death comes across the desert."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I do not know. But it seems I shall be accepting Kieran's offer, after all. We will go and see him first thing in the morning. We must be on that caravan when it departs."

 

*****

 

Edric the bard stood out in the street, staring at the house. All was quiet. He had seen them go in, and then he had found out whose house it was. It belonged to Tajik, captain of one the dwarven ferries that plied the estuary. He had heard some of the mercenaries talking in the club earlier that night, about how the giants had attacked Tajik's boat and how one of the passengers had saved everyone aboard with an incredible feat of bravery.

Could he be the one?

That mercenary who had gone with Cricket called him Sorak. Sorak. Elvish for nomad. And he traveled with a villichi priestess.

For a long time, Edric simply stood out in the street and watched the house. He was tempted to go and knock upon the door, but could not bring himself to do it. What could he say? "Are you the one? Are you the Nomad? Are you the one they call the Crown of Elves?"

What would he be doing in a place like South Ledopolus? Perhaps he came to join the caravan to Altaruk. Yes, that had to be it. And if he had crossed with Tajik from North Ledopolus, then he must have come across the desert, from the Great Ivory Plain. What would he be doing out there? There was nothing... unless he came all the way from the Mekillots. A long, harsh journey. Yet, there was nothing else out that way except...

Bodach. The city of the undead.

Edric swallowed hard. Only fools would go to Bodach. Only fools... or heroes. What could be in Bodach that the Crown of Elves would want? Edric moistened his lips as he stood there, thinking. The lost treasure, obviously. That was the only reason anyone would go to Bodach, and even so, they would have to be insane. No one in his right mind would willingly face an army of undead.

But the Nomad was said to be no ordinary man. Part elf, part halfling, and the living embodiment of an ancient prophecy. A prophecy the fulfillment of which might be hastened if he had the lost treasure of Bodach to finance it.

Edric leaned back against a wall, thinking. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. He thought about how he had sung the Song of Alaron for Cricket only the previous night. He had always liked the myth, the charming sentiment of it, but he had never believed in the prophecy. That a Crown of Elves would arise to reunite the tribes after all these years... it did not seem even remotely possible.

The elves had been scattered for too long. Few were even tribal anymore, and those that were competed violently among themselves. It was the way of survival in the desert. The rest all lived in towns and cities now, and each year, more and more interbred with humans. Cricket was a lovely girl, but half-elves weren't really elves. Full-blooded elves looked down on them, even in the cities, where they had fallen from the old ways and were merely shadows of their ancestors.

Most elves had no use for a king. Not anymore. Still, there were many who believed the myth. Or wanted to believe it. It gave them hope. And now that this Nomad had appeared....

Was it really possible that the prophecy was true? Or was it more likely that this Nomad was merely some adventurer who chose to take advantage of it? No, thought Edric, he would be no mere adventurer. To put a scheme like this into effect required boldness of an unprecedented nature. And if only half the things they said of him were true, then he had more than amply demonstrated his courage and abilities. But then, it would take someone like that to even consider such an audacious scheme. Especially given the odds against its succeeding.

Galdra. What of Galdra? He would need a sword to pass off as the legendary blade of elven kings. That would be no easy task. The legend gave a good description of the sword, so that part would be no problem, but it also said the blade was made from elven steel, which had not been seen in over a thousand years. At the same time, however, that very fact would make it easier to fake. Who would know the genuine article anymore?

With a steel blade that could be passed off as Galdra, what remained was the getting of a reputation. Some daring feats would have to be performed to capture the imagination of the people— feats such as rescuing a princess of the Royal House of Nibenay and taking her across the Barrens and back to Nibenay, where he could tweak the noses of the templars and their city guard in a very public way. Yes, it certainly required boldness, perhaps even a death wish, but if the plan succeeded...

What could be his final goal? Was it possible that he really aspired to reunite the elves under his kingship? No, thought Edric, that would be insane. Even if he could accomplish such a thing, which did not seem possible, it would take many years, and the dragon kings would never stand for it. Then he would truly bring down their wrath. So it couldn't possibly be that. What then?

And then it hit him. Of course. The lost treasure of Bodach. It all came back to that. If this Nomad had somehow stumbled on the secret of the treasure's location, he would need help in removing it. He would never be able to do it by himself. Even a heavily armed party would risk death. The only way it could be done would be if he knew exactly where the treasure was. Then he could go in with a party large enough to load it and remove it, working swiftly during the daylight hours so they could be out again before then sun went down, when the undead of Bodach would attack with a frightening, unrelenting fury.

And to be sure of success in such a task, he would have to be certain of the loyalty of those he took with him, because the treasure would tempt anyone to seize it once it was safely removed from Bodach. And how better to command such loyalty than to go in with a small army of elves who had been duped into thinking he truly was the king the prophecy foretold?

He could tell them that the treasure would be safely hidden, or perhaps invested with a merchant house to grow in value and finance the coming kingdom. Something like that, anyway. And then the riches would be his, converted into merchant bonds he could take anywhere on Athas and use to buy himself a title and a palace and private guard of mercenaries to protect him from those whom he had duped.

It was plausible, thought Edric, but could that really be what he intended? If the Nomad joined the caravan—well, of course he would do that; why else come here—Edric could observe him. And when they arrived in Altaruk, if he went directly to one of the great merchant houses....

The treasure. It came back to that again. If he really knew where the treasure was hidden, he would have brought out some piece of it to show the merchant houses. Which meant that he was probably carrying it with him.

Edric took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He could be wrong, of course. All this was merely supposition. But what if he was right? The trip to Altaruk just might let him find out for sure. Perhaps he could arrange for some distraction somewhere along the way, so he could examine what this Nomad carried with him.

He hurried back to the Desert Damsel to fetch Cricket's belongings. The caravan would be leaving in the morning, and it promised to be a very interesting journey.

Chapter Six

Shortly after sunrise, Sorak and Ryana arrived at the camp on the outskirts of the village. The campsite was already a bustle of activity. The caravan captain had been up for several hours before dawn, cracking the whip and having the roustabouts light the cookfires for breakfast, then mustering the kank handlers and making sure the giant beetles were well fed before the journey.

Kanks were docile creatures, especially those raised in captivity, and were the preferred means of caravan transport. Otherwise, the merchant houses employed large and fully enclosed armored wagons drawn by mekillots, usually in paired teams. Each mode of transport had its advantages and disadvantages.

With the kank beetles, a caravan could make much better time, but the caravan crew and passengers were exposed to the elements and were more vulnerable to attack. Consequently, a larger force of mercenaries was usually employed to guard a kank caravan against desert predators and raiders.

The armored wagons drawn by mekillots were large enough to hold the complement of the entire caravan, in addition to the cargo, and they were nearly impregnable to attack. However, the huge, six-ton mekillot lizards that pulled the heavy armored wagons—the only creatures on Athas capable of such a task—were slow moving and difficult to control.

Only skilled handlers adept at psionics could deal with the beasts, and their job was the most hazardous of all, for the giant lizards had long and powerful tongues that could snare a handler for a snack if his control slipped even for an instant. The passengers and crew were well protected, but even with the roof vents of the wagon open, the heat inside became oppressive, and the stench of sweaty bodies crammed together inside the dark enclosure made for a very long, unpleasant journey.

Kanks, on the other hand, could manage a surprisingly rapid pace for creatures of their size, even loaded down with cargo, but they grew stubborn and recalcitrant when they were hungry. Getting a four-hundred-pound beetle to move when it didn't want to was not only difficult, but potentially hazardous. Kanks were vegetarian, and domesticated ones did not attack, but they indicated their hunger by clicking their powerful pincers together, and if an unwary handler happened to come too close, he could be severely injured, or even killed. Consequently, the welfare of the kanks was the first priority of the caravan captain, after the safety of the cargo. The passengers came last.

It took several hours to feed the kanks, and while the handlers were seeing to that task, the roustabout crew loaded up the cargo pouches, strapping down the large hide bags and cinching them tight on the chitinous backs of the creatures. Others worked at taking down the camp, furling the tents and packing all the gear away for travel.

Once he had issued orders to feed the kanks and strike the camp, the captain of the caravan mustered the guard. The supply clerk took careful inventory as the cargo was loaded, making sure none of it had gotten sidetracked since the previous night's inventory. If any of the cargo turned up missing, the guards who had been on watch the night before would have to answer for it, so they stood anxiously by the supply clerk, making sure each item on the manifest was systematically checked off.

The few hours before the caravan moved out were profitably used by the captain to make sure all his men were present and accounted for, which sometimes took a bit of doing, particularly when a caravan stopped at a place like South Ledopolus. Mercenaries were drifters by nature, and despite the high salaries paid by the merchant houses, they sometimes drifted off before the caravan reached its final destination. Others had gotten deep into their cups the previous night and had failed to make the muster. If some of the guard turned up missing, the captain sent a flying squad through town for a quick check of the taverns and the pleasure houses and the back alleys in their immediate vicinity.

If the missing guards were found, the flying squad would sweep them up and return them to the campsite. If they were not found, or were discovered too injured or hung over to make their way back to the camp, then they were simply left to fend for themselves, and new men were recruited from among those who got up before the crack of dawn and gathered at the campsite in the hope there would be vacancies they could fill.

It didn't take long for Sorak to find Kieran, who was conversing with the caravan captain when they arrived. As the new captain of the house guard for the House of Jhamri, Kieran would be the caravan captain's superior when he arrived in Altaruk to assume his duties, so the caravan captain's desire to impress was evident in his posture and demeanor. As Sorak and Ryana approached, they saw the captain nod to Kieran and clap his right fist to his left breast in salute, then hurry off to resume his duties. Kieran turned and, when he saw them, grinned broadly.

"I was hoping you would come," he said, holding out his hand in greeting. "So, you've decided to accept my offer?"

Sorak clasped forearms with him, in the mercenary fashion. "Well, it's a tempting offer, and I have no other prospects at the moment. But before I give you my answer, I would like to know a little more about the terms and conditions of my employment."

"Fair enough," said Kieran, nodding. "I will be your immediate superior. A man of your courage and abilities should not be wasted in the ranks, so if you accept, I shall make you my lieutenant. I pride myself on being a good judge of character, and you strike me as the sort of man I can depend on. You will draw an officer's pay of one hundred silvers a month."

"One hundred silvers? That is very generous."

"The House of Jhamri can afford to pay its soldiers well," Kieran replied. "However, you will not be paid for the first two weeks of your employment. You'll receive those wages at the termination of your service. This is to discourage you from leaving the service of the house without giving adequate notice. Should you choose to leave without serving two weeks notice, those wages will be forfeit."

"That seems fair," said Sorak. "But what if I am short of funds during those first two weeks?" He did not wish to give the impression he had money. The last thing he wanted was for Kieran to know what they carried in their packs.

"As an officer, you will be paid an adequate allowance for your room and board, in excess of your wages, which you may draw upon as soon as we arrive in Altaruk," said Kieran. "If you are reasonably frugal, it should allow you to secure comfortable lodgings and enjoy three meals a day, if at least one of those meals is a light one. The enlisted men live in the barracks, but I think you would prefer private quarters." He said this casually, with no obvious inference regarding Ryana. "Besides, I do not approve of officers living in the barracks with enlisted men. It encourages familiarity."

"Room and board and one hundred silvers?" Sorak was impressed.

"As I said, the House of Jhamri pays its soldiers well. But they do not do so merely out of the goodness of their hearts." He grinned. "Merchants have no hearts. The high salaries they pay ensure that they attract top men and keep their loyalty. Should you fall ill during your service, or become wounded, you will have free access to a healer. Should you become crippled in the service of the House, you will receive a pension that should keep you from resorting to the beggar's cup. And should you die while in the service of the House, a onetime cash benefit shall be paid to your assigns, or they may accept the equivalent value in House shares."

"With such terms, it is amazing they have any vacancies at all," said Sorak sincerely.

Kieran indicated a large group of men milling around near the entrance to the camp. "As you see, there is never any shortage of applicants. However, the work can be hazardous, as I am sure you know, and while the terms are generous, the conditions are equally strict. After leaving service with the House of Jhamri, you may not enter into service with a competing merchant house for at least five years."

Sorak frowned. "I suppose I can understand the reasoning, but how could they enforce that?"

"Violating that condition of your employment results in a bounty placed upon your head," said Kieran. "A bounty lucrative enough to ensure that you will be looking over your shoulder for the remainder of your days, as there is no time limit to the bounty. Once offered, it is not rescinded."

"I see," said Sorak.

"This is to discourage you from accepting a better offer with another merchant house and, in the process, divulging any secrets you may have learned," said Kieran. "Still interested?"

"Continue," Sorak said. "Anything else?"

"Yes, one more thing," said Kieran. "The word of your superiors is law. Pure and simple. In other words, my word. The punishment for disobedience to orders, whether direct or indirect, can be quite severe."

"How severe?" asked Sorak.

"That is entirely up to my discretion as captain of the house guard," Kieran said. "It could be as mild as extra duty and a dock in pay, if I felt the infraction a minor one and unintentional, or as severe as fifty lashes, possibly even death."

"What sort of offense would merit a sentence of death?" asked Ryana.

"Murder; desertion or direct disobedience to orders in the field or under conditions of combat; sabotage or espionage for a competing merchant house; and striking a superior officer in the field or under conditions of combat. Under other circumstances, the normal penalty is fifty lashes. However, it is possible to die from that, as well. Those are the rules of the House of Jhamri. I have a certain amount of latitude in how I choose to interpret them."

"Which means?" said Sorak.

"Which means I consider fifty lashes for striking a superior officer an excessive penalty," said Kieran. "I can easily imagine conditions under which an officer might well deserve to be struck. I would judge such matters under individual circumstances."

"And if someone under your command struck you?" asked Ryana.

"Under conditions of combat, my lady, I would kill him instantly," said Kieran. "Otherwise, I would simply strike him back. Repeatedly." He glanced at Sorak. "Have you a problem with any of those conditions?"

Sorak shook his head. "No, they seem straightforward."

"Good. Then you accept?"

"I accept," said Sorak with a nod.

"Excellent! Raise your right hand."

Sorak did so.

"Repeat after me," said Kieran. "On my oath and on my life, I hereby swear to abide by the terms and conditions of service with the House of Jhamri, which have been explained to me and which I My understand."

Sorak repeated the words.

"That's it," said Kieran. "You are now the executive officer and my second-in-command of the House Guard of Jhamri. Congratulations, Lieutenant. Henceforth, except in private, you will address me as Captain."

"Second-in-command?" said Sorak, with surprise. "But... we have only just met! You barely even know me!"

"I know what I need to know," said Kieran. "Your past does not concern me. In the present, you have demonstrated your courage and saved my life not once, but twice—once indirectly, on the boat; and once directly, in the Desert Damsel. And I feel confident that in the future, I shall not regret my decision."

"But... with all due respect, Captain," Sorak said, "is this wise? Surely, there is already a senior officer in service with the house guard whom my appointment will displace. Will this not incur resentment?"

"It is a commander's privilege to appoint his own second-in-command," said Kieran. "Every officer knows and understands this, or should. If not you, then I would have recruited a new man from outside the house guard for this position."

"May I ask why?" said Sorak in a puzzled tone.

"Certainly. A senior officer already in place will inevitably have certain prejudices or predispositions, and an established relationship with those under his command. When taking a new post, I always prefer to start fresh, with a man I do not have to break of old habits and routine, and one who has not yet established any sort of a relationship with the rank and file. A new broom sweeps clean, in other words. And a man who has already killed a giant in single combat is not likely to be regarded as unqualified by those under his command."

"I see," said Sorak. "Well, I shall try to justify your confidence in me."

"No, Lieutenant, you shall not try," said Kieran. "You will do it. Understood?"

"Understood, Captain," said Sorak with a smile.

Kieran clapped him on the back. "Good. And now that you have been sworn in, your first two weeks of service begin as of today. You will have no duties to perform until we reach Altaruk, but in the meantime, we can discuss what will be expected of you, and this way, you will not have to wait as long to draw your pay. And since you have already joined my command, you will receive free passage on the caravan, and I shall be honored to extend the same courtesy to you, my lady."

"Thank you. That is very kind of you," Ryana said.

"I would do so in any case," Kieran said, with a slight bow, "out of respect to any cleric or priestess."

"Even a templar?" asked Ryana.

"Especially a templar," Kieran said. "It is wise to show respect to any cleric, whether preserver or defiler. And since templars exert considerable influence of a political nature, it is prudent to be politic with them."

"And where do your own sympathies lie, Captain?" Ryana asked.

"Close to my vest, my lady, which is where I prefer to keep them," Kieran replied. "And now, if you will permit me, it would please me if you would join me for some morning tea. Our caravan captain strikes me as an able fellow, and I am sure he would be relieved to go about his duties free of the concern that I am watching him. I seem to make the poor man nervous."

Before long, they were ready to get under way. It was normal for a caravan to travel with a string of spare kanks, and Kieran had the chief handler select one for them. Some caravans traveled with light carriages drawn by kanks, a luxury afforded to well-heeled passengers and dignitaries, for a carriage offered a more comfortable ride and shade from the searing sun, but this caravan lacked such amenities. There were no aristocrats among the passengers, and the caravan captain had not wished to burden himself with carriages when he could make better time without them. As a result, the passengers and roustabouts all rode mounted in pairs upon the backs of kanks, as did about half the mercenary force. The outriders rode solo upon crodlu.

The lizard-hide kank saddles were specially crafted for the merchant houses, providing some welcome padding between the hard, chitinous shells of the beetles and sensitive posteriors. They also had high backs that provided support, allowing the riders to lean back and relax with the slightly rolling gait of the giant, six-legged beetles. Sorak found it a much more comfortable way to ride than bareback.

He found the crodlu mounts of the mercenaries of greater interest. They were large, bipedal, flightless birds, covered with reddish-gray scales instead of feathers. Their cousins, erdlu, were raised for their large eggs, one of the staple foods of Athas, and their scales were used for shields and armor. The birds were also slaughtered for food when they became mature, and erdlu meat prepared in tenderizing marinade was regarded as a delicacy.

Erdlus weighed up to two hundred pounds and stood around seven feet tall, with long yellow necks and small heads with large, wedge-shaped, powerful beaks. Their rounded bodies had small, vestigial wings which were kept folded to the sides and which the erdlu flared when they grew agitated. Their long legs ended in four-toed feet with strong, razor-sharp claws. If threatened, the birds defended themselves with powerful kicks which were easily capable of killing a man; but domesticated, herd-raised erdlu were mostly passive creatures that rarely became aggressive. Crodlu were a rather different breed.

Crodlu were specially bred for aggression by a small group of master herdsmen. Their eggs still made a good food source, though they were smaller, and their powerful beaks and claws were often fashioned into spearheads and daggers.

Crodlu scales were stronger and thicker, so armor made from them was more expensive, and it was readily identified by its darker, brick-red color. But primarily, crodlu were valued as fighting mounts.

Unlike the gentler erdlu, crodlu did not spook easily and in an attack they were more than merely mounts. A trained crodlu would kick upon command, and they would strike opponents with their deadly beaks at any opportunity. Erdlu could run very quickly, sprinting for up to half a mile, but crodlu had greater powers of endurance and could run much faster. For this reason, the mercenary outriders were all mounted on these birds, and Sorak was hoping he would have a chance to try one out.

The dark sun was quickly warming up the desert, as the caravan prepared to set off. For protection from the sun's potent rays, the riders wore loose, hooded cloaks, and most also wore turbans with extra lengths of cloth hanging down that could be used as veils to protect their faces. Each passenger carried his or her own waterskin, slung from the saddle, and there were spare skins strapped to the cargo kanks, as well, but the caravan captain made it clear the water would be rationed, so the passengers would be responsible for conserving their supply between stops. Those passengers mounted in front on each individual kank could control the reins if they wished, but there was no real need: the kanks instinctively followed those in front of them, and the kanks leading the caravan were ridden by handlers, who also rode the cargo kanks and those bringing up the rear.

"It's the first time I have ever traveled with so large a caravan," Sorak said, glancing down the line of huge, restive black beetles. Kieran had insisted that they ride together, and he rode at the front, mounted on a crodlu, just behind the handlers who rode point. "Does it present many problems on the trail?"

"It actually presents fewer problems than with smaller caravans," said Kieran. He turned and pointed. "To keep things organized, the captain has the formation drawn up five abreast, with the cargo kanks positioned single file in the center, a file of passenger-bearing kanks to either side and the two outer ranks of kanks bearing mercenaries and roustabouts.

"This way," he continued, "the formation is kept closely grouped, except for the mercenary outriders, who range out ahead and to the rear, as well as scouting to the left and right for a mile or more, always within sight of the caravan. They ride the faster crodlu, of course, so they can quickly return to the main body and give warning in case they spot any raiders or natural hazards such as dust storms or rampaging antloids."

Ryana frowned. "But the instincts of the kanks, even domesticated ones that have been raised by herdsmen, are to organize into hives, with a hierarchy of soldiers, food producers, and brood queens. Unless they're separated, as in the case of kanks used as individual mounts or to draw light carriages, large groups of kank beetles that remain together for any length of time tend to fall into the organization of a hive."

"You are quite correct, my lady," Kieran replied, inclining his head toward her, "which is why food producers and brood queens are invariably used as cargo bearers, with young soldier kanks used as mounts for the mercenaries and older ones for passengers. Since the natural instinct of the soldier kanks is to protect their brood queens, that means they will never stray far from the cargo and will fiercely fight away predators or raiders."

"That makes good sense," said Ryana, "but what prevents the brood queens from nesting?"

"The interruption of their cycle," Kieran said. "Brood queens used as cargo bearers are sterilized. It does not cause them any harm, and actually increases their life span and renders them more manageable. The food producers and soldiers cannot tell the difference, and so they continue to react the same way to the sterile queens as they do to fertile ones." He saw the caravan captain ride out to the side of the formation, giving it one last check. "Ah, it seems we are about to get under way."

The captain raised his baton, from which several bright red streamers waved, symbolizing the House of Jhamri. "Out-ri-ders!" he called, stretching it out into three syllables. "Move out!"

The mercenaries taking the first shift of outrider duty prodded their crodlu into a fast trot and moved out to take their posts on the flanks, while the forward scouts rushed to the head of the main caravan. Sorak noted that all the mercenaries in service to the House of Jhamri wore red turbans, except Kieran, perhaps because he had not yet officially assumed his duties.

The caravan captain raised his baton once more. "Car-rak-vannnn..." he called out loudly in a sing-song voice, "... ho-ohhhhh!" He circled the baton over his head and wheeled his kank as the point riders urged their mounts forward and the caravan moved out.

They started down the trail, leaving the campsite and South Ledopolus behind, and gradually picked up speed. The caravan captain, mounted on a crodlu, rode out along the flanks, keeping an eye on things and making sure the formation did not string out. Ryana looked behind her to see how far the caravan was stretching out and spotted Cricket some distance back, sitting astride one of the passenger kanks, behind the elf they had seen in the Desert Damsel.

Ryana glanced over at Kieran. Riding at the very front, behind the two point riders, they had no cargo kanks between them, so they could converse easily. "I see your dancer friend made good her threat to leave."

"Yes, surprisingly," said Kieran.

"Why surprisingly?" Ryana asked.

"I did not really expect to see her," Kieran said. "Despite whatever resolutions these girls may make, they rarely leave such places as the Desert Damsel. And Cricket was the star attraction, after all."

Ryana frowned. "But if the conditions were unpleasant..."

"The money usually is not," Kieran replied. "A dancer in a busy pleasure house may easily make in one night what it would take me a month to earn. They become seduced by the money. They may tell themselves they will only do it until they can get out of debt or put enough aside to move on to a better life, but it rarely happens."

"Why?" Ryana asked.

"Because they don't save their money," Kieran said. "They spend it on expensive jewels and costumes, trying to outdo one another in competing for the attention of the customers, or else they start treating themselves to luxuries they could not afford before, better housing, better clothing, more expensive meals, some drugs to induce short-lived euphoria.... They tell themselves they deserve it, because they work hard and besides, they're making plenty of money. Before they know it, they're spending everything they make and become caught up in the life. And it is not much of a life."

"It does not seem so difficult," said Sorak.

"No, the job itself is not so difficult," Kieran agreed, "but the longer they remain, the more it wears them down. They come to think less and less of men, because they always see them at their worst, and because they expect men to behave badly, they often wind up with men who take advantage of them... or else give up on men entirely and seek the company of women. One day, they wake up and find that drugs have ruined their health and their appearance, or else they have simply gotten older and no longer appeal to the customers as much as the younger, prettier ones... and there are always younger, prettier ones.

"They start doing things they would not have done before," Kieran continued, "and as time goes on, they do them for less money. What little self-esteem they may have left soon dissipates and, unless they're fortunate enough to find some man to take them, before long they are no longer attractive enough to keep their jobs and often wind up on the streets. It happens all the time. The young ones see it happen to the older girls, but don't learn. Who knows, Cricket may be different, but chances are she will only go back to the same thing after we arrive in Altaruk."

"You don't seem to have a very high opinion of her," said Ryana. "And yet, you went home with her last night."

"I escorted her home," said Kieran. "And I have no particular opinion of Cricket, one way or the other. I acknowledge that she is young and beautiful and a skilled dancer. Otherwise, I know nothing of her. She claimed to be a virgin, which seems unlikely, but I did not dispute the issue. Neither did I press it. I walked her home, then said good night and took my leave. So you may spare me your disapproving looks. I have done nothing to deserve them."

"I stand corrected," said Ryana. "It is just that men often lack respect for women, yet that does not prevent them from enjoying their favors."

"Just as women often lack respect for men, yet still eagerly accept the contents of their purses," Kieran replied. "Cricket may indeed be what she claims, and she may have chosen her occupation out of sheer necessity, but mark my words, she will yet cause trouble on this journey."

"What makes you say that?" Ryana asked.

"Experience, my lady. There isn't a roustabout or mercenary on this caravan who hasn't seen her dance. Now she travels with them, with no bouncers to look out for her, and that limp-wristed elven bard she rides with will not be much protection."

"Is it not part of your duties to keep order among your men?" Ryana said.

"Officially, I have not yet assumed my duties," Kieran replied with a shrug. "And keeping order on this journey is the caravan captain's job, not mine. But if it were up to me, I would have left her behind."

"Would you have left me behind, as well?" Ryana asked.

"No, my lady. An attractive, unescorted woman on a caravan is always trouble," Kieran said. "You have an escort, and a highly capable one, at that. Aside from which, you are a priestess, commanding respect, and the fighting prowess of villichi are well known. A woman like Cricket, on the other hand, commands little respect, if any, and is unable to protect herself. And her chosen escort is scarcely better than nothing. So... there will be trouble. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will ride down the line and observe the captain's disposition of his guard."

He wheeled his crodlu and urged it to a fast trot, leaving the formation.

"What an infuriating man!" Ryana said.

"I thought you said he was handsome and dashing," Sorak replied, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"He is all that," Ryana conceded grudgingly, "but he is also very irritating."

"He merely speaks his mind," said Sorak. "And I cannot say I disagree with anything he said."

"So you think a woman is merely an encumbrance unless she has a man to protect her?"

"That is not quite what he said," Sorak replied. "He said that an attractive, unescorted woman on a caravan brings trouble. Roustabouts and mercenaries are a rough lot, and they are not known for their gallantry."

"So women must be penalized for men's failure to control their impulses?"

"I admit it is unfair," said Sorak, "but that is the way of things."

"Spoken like a true male," said Ryana with a grimace. "I never thought to hear you of all people speak like that."

"I do not think that is the way things should be," Sorak replied, "but regrettably, it is the way they are. Certainly in Cricket's case. After all, she makes her living by arousing men."

"Then it's all her fault, is that it?" Ryana said irritably. "You are beginning to sound like Kieran.

What would the Guardian have said if she could hear you speak like this?"

"I suspect she would have said that Cricket made her own choices. She was born with the gift of beauty, and she chose to exploit it by dancing in a pleasure house."

"What if she had no other choice?"

"There are always choices," Sorak said. "They may not be pleasant ones, but they exist. Suppose you had not been born villichi. You are also beautiful, and your family was poor. Knowing how much money you could make at a place such as the Desert Damsel, would you have chosen to work there?"

"No," Ryana replied at once. "I would dance for you, if I knew how, but that is hardly the same thing."

"I do not dispute that," Sorak said. "But what might you have done, instead?"

"I would have found a job that I could do without taking off my clothes for strangers and then I would have searched for some way to improve my lot in life."

"Even if it only paid a small fraction of what you could make by dancing in a pleasure house?"

"Even so. I would not wish to spend my days with men leering at me and offering me money to gratify their lusts."

"Then there are other choices," Sorak said. "Not easy ones, perhaps, and not as profitable, but choices nonetheless. I do not hold men blameless, mind you. If there was no demand for pleasure houses, then they would not exist. But at the same time, so long as there are women willing to work in such places, the attitude men have toward them will not change."

"You mean as long as there are women who need money, it is all right for men to exploit them?"

"I never said that," Sorak replied. "It seems to me that both men and women are exploited in such places. The women exploit the baser instincts of the men, and the men exploit the beauty of the women. But in the long run, I think the women get the worst of it."

"I wish I'd never gone to that place," said Ryana. "I was curious to see it, but the more I think about it, the more angry I become."

Sorak nodded. "For a short time, before you joined me after you left the convent, I worked in a gaming house in Tyr. The Crystal Spider, you remember?"

"In the elven quarter?"

Sorak nodded. "I was hired to keep watch for cheats and cardsharps, but gaming was not their only trade. There were girls like Cricket there, as well. People went there for a good time, but there was a feeling of desperation in the air, and hunger." He shook his head. "A lot of money changed hands in the Crystal Spider, but I don't think it ever made anybody happy."

They made good time the first day, without any misadventures, stopping at midday for a rest break and a meal, then continuing on until they were halfway to the oasis called Grak's Pool. The oasis was at the midpoint of their journey from South Ledopolus to Altaruk, a distance of about one hundred miles, though the caravan had already traveled an equal distance to South Ledopolus from Balic.

The plan was for the caravan to stop at Grak's Pool for one day, to allow the passengers and their mounts to rest, relieve the cargo kanks of their burden for a while, and take on more water. But Grak's Pool was still another day's journey away, and they camped that night within sight of the banks of the estuary, which the trade route followed all the way to Altaruk.

They stopped about two hours before sunset to J allow light to pitch the tents, post the watch, and light the fires before darkness fell, and as the roustabouts pursued their tasks, Kieran asked Sorak what he thought of the caravan captain's disposition of the camp.

"He has placed us with the estuary at our rear," said Sorak, "which I would not do with troops, but it strikes me that for a caravan, it could have advantages."

"How so?" asked Kieran.

"Is this a test?" asked Sorak.

"Merely an informal one," replied Kieran with amusement. "I am curious to hear your opinion."

"Well, we are not likely to encounter an opposing army," Sorak said. "If we did, there would be no choice but to surrender. Raiders would be the most immediate concern, and we would not be able to outrun them. We would have to stand and fight. It is doubtful there would be enough of them to push us back into the silt, which would not be their intention, in any case. They would want the cargo. By disposing us with the estuary at our rear, the captain eliminates the possibility of raiders attacking from that quarter."

"Good," said Kieran. "What else?"

"He has placed the cargo in the center of the camp, where it can be most easily protected, and the passengers' tents are pitched between the cargo and the estuary, with the roustabouts and mercenaries in the front and on the flanks."

"Why?" asked Kieran.

"I can think of two reasons," Sorak replied. "One is that with the passengers disposed behind the cargo, they cannot get in the way in the event an attack must be repelled, and the second is that if an attack takes place and the raiders happen to break through, they will reach the cargo before they reach the passengers. Since it is cargo they will want, they will seize that and leave the passengers alone, unless any of them are foolish enough to interfere."

"Excellent. And what of the disposition of the watch?" asked Kieran.

Sorak looked out at the placement of the guards. "Triangular," he said. "One outpost on each flank, two at the front, to the right and left, and one at point, between them and about fifty yards advanced. It seems a practical arrangement."

"Could you improve upon it?" Kieran asked.

"I would detail roving pickets to ride along the left and right sides of the triangle, checking with each guard outpost as they pass. And I would give them watch words, as an added precaution."

Kieran smiled. "I have already made that suggestion to the captain," he said, nodding. "I see we think alike. I do not think I shall regret choosing you for my second-in-command."

"While there is still time, you may wish to reconsider that decision," Sorak said.

Kieran glanced at him inquisitively as they walked back toward the tents, but said nothing, waiting for him go on.

"For one thing, you have no evidence of my ability, or lack of same, to handle men," said Sorak. "For another, while I am not ungrateful, I have never stayed long in any one place. I have a wandering nature. It would seem to mean that you would want someone who offers... greater permanence."

Kieran smiled. "You need have no concern on that account," he said. "When it comes to the ability to handle men, the foremost quality required is character, and I am a good judge of that. After that, a man requires intelligence and thoughtful-ness. When I asked you about the disposition of the guards, you observed, then you evaluated, and you considered before giving your reply. And I have noticed that you do not have the tendency to speak without thinking. As for permanence...." He chuckled. "What is ever permanent in this world? My own appointment shall not last more than a year."

"Only a year?" said Sorak.

"That was the term of the contract," Kieran replied. "I insisted that it be subject to renegotiation every year, and they immediately agreed to it, which tells me they have no interest in a permanent appointment. For that matter, neither do I. But had they wanted me as a permanent commander for their house guard, they would have bargained for a much longer term. They also would never have agreed to my salary demands. I asked for one hundred thousand gold pieces a year."

Sorak stopped and stared at him with astonishment. "One hundred thousand in gold?" he said with amazement.

Kieran chuckled. "Yes, an obscene sum, isn't it? The terms of the contract are supposed to be secret. No soldier in the history of the world has ever been paid as much. I named the figure because I was certain they would never agree to it. Only they did, and I found that fascinating."

"Not to detract from your abilities," said Sorak, "but why would anyone pay such a sum?"

"That is the same question I asked myself," said Kieran. "Why? I have a well-known reputation, true, but only part of it is due to skill. Much of it was due to nothing more than luck. Even the best swordsman can fall in battle. I was merely fortunate enough to have survived more than my share. Ironic, when one considers that at that time in my life, I would have liked nothing better than to get myself killed. However, that is another story. I had retired to an estate outside the village of Salt View, and I had wealth enough to see me through the remainder of my days in reasonable comfort. I had no wish to return to the profession of arms."

"So what changed your mind? The temptation of the salary when they agreed to it?"

"No," said Kieran. "Once I had named the figure and they agreed to meet my price, it would have been bad form to turn them down. There was nothing to prevent me, of course, but my reputation was at stake. And then I was very curious. I felt certain that the House of Jhamri's agents were not empowered to agree to so outrageous a demand, even had they been inclined to do so, but when they agreed I realized that they had been instructed to secure my services regardless of the price. Oh, they tried to bargain, mind you, but when I stood firm, they finally agreed.

"Now, I may have won considerable fame in my profession, but no man is worth that kind of money. They knew it and I knew it. So, I had to ask myself what possible reason they would have for doing such a thing?" He glanced at Sorak. "What would you think if you were in my place?"

Sorak thought it over for a few moments as they walked past the cargo area and approached the tents. "The sum itself would have to be the reason," he said, finally. "The House of Jhamri must want it known that they will stop at nothing to hire the very best, and that they can afford to pay so high a sum. But then you said the terms of the contract were supposed to be kept secret." He shook his head. "It makes no sense.

"It does if they never intended it to be a secret," Kieran said. "Obviously, they plan to leak the information. That way, it will not be seen as ostentatious posturing on their part. But there is surely more to it than that. There has to be. Only for the life of me, I could not imagine what."

"And so you took the job to find out."

Kieran nodded. "I could not resist the mystery. And then, of course, there is the money."

"Yes, there is that," said Sorak with a grin. "You will be known as the highest paid mercenary in history."

"I have just enough vanity to like the sound of that," said Kieran, with a smile. "But something is surely afoot in Altaruk, an intrigue of some sort in which I am meant to play a key role. And it shall not take long to develop, because not even the House of Jhamri would pay me such a salary for a second year. Yes, something interesting is going on there, and I have to find out what it is."

"They say curiosity killed the kirre."

Kieran glanced down at his kirreskin breeches. "Yes, well, I plan to keep my own skin intact. It's possible that someone may want me for a trophy for some reason. I have made my share of enemies. But they will find this cat difficult to skin." He clapped Sorak on the shoulder. "Especially with a good fighter at my back."

"Ah, so now it becomes clear," said Sorak. "I am an insurance policy."

"Paid for by the House of Thamri," Kieran said.

"But with the money they are paying me, I can easily afford to add a bonus. You keep your eyes and ears open, my friend, and watch my back, will make it worth your while."

"Well, now you have me curious," said Sorak.

Kieran smiled. "I told you that we think alike."

Chapter Seven