The months of waiting were nothing now, compared to the coming triumph. Ashnazai's revenge hung before him like a heavy, promise-filled fruit, almost ripe and soon to be within his grasp, a fruit that would ooze with the sweet liquor of blood when pressed.

Two short nights, and all would be in place.

She would be here.

The stars stood out like glittering eyes against the midnight vault of the sky.

Standing beside Mardus on the beach, Ashnazai could hear Tildus' men moving through the trees that fringed the little cove, and the nicker of the horses that were tethered, ready for the night's ride. Other men patrolled the woods beyond the gully where an unlucky peddler lay face down in a brackish pool of water. There would be no witnesses.

They hadn't been waiting long when a black presence suddenly coalesced out of the darkness in front of them.

Ashnazai bowed gravely to the dragorgos.

"We will be with you presently," it announced in its hollow, wind-filled voice.

"All is prepared," Mardus replied. "We await you here."

Soon the light splash of oars came to them from across the water. Tildus and his men tensed, weapons drawn, as the black outline of a longboat came into view. Two sailors pulled the oars, while their two passengers sat motionless in the bow.

Reaching shore, one of the oarsmen jumped out and pulled the prow up onto the beach so that his passengers could disembark dry shod. The first to climb out was the gaunt, grey-beaded necromancer, Harid Yordun.

"Welcome, my brother," Ashnazai said, clasping hands with him, "and to Irtuk Beshar, our most esteemed lady."

Yordun gave a terse nod, then lifted his companion out onto the shore. Silent and invisible behind her thick veils, Irtuk Beshar extended a leathery, blackened hand in benediction.

27

At week's end Seregil and Alec lurked for the last time in the evening shadows across from the smith's tenement. "You don't think he'll, change his pattern, now that the job's finished, do you?" Alec asked for the third time that day. His new cronies at the Hammer and Tongs had passed on the news that the sewer contract had been fulfilled. So far, there was no word of Master Quarin awarding his nephew more work, or of Rythel requesting it.

Seregil stifled an impatient remark.

"Wait another few minutes and we'll know. Hold on, there he is, and dressed fit for a ball, too!"

As Rythel paused by the lantern over his door, they saw the glint of gold embroidery on the coat beneath his fur-trimmed mantle.

"Looks like we guessed right," Seregil whispered.

Under his black cloak he wore one of his finest claret-colored coats, white doeskin breeches, and a weighty purse.

A boy brought Rythel his mount and the man headed off in the usual direction.

"Luck in the shadows," Seregil whispered, quickly clasping hands with Alec. "See you at the prison."

Flashing him a happy grin, Alec ghosted off toward the tenement's back stairs.

Seregil let Rythel round the corner down the street, then mounted Cynril and set out to arrange a chance meeting with his quarry.

Tonight Rythel bypassed his usual haunts and made straight for the Street of Lights.

They must have given you a nice bonus today, Seregil thought, shadowing him to a gambling house called the Golden Bowl.

Perhaps you're even thinking of setting up in a new line of work with the proceeds. I wouldn't make too many plans just yet, my dear fellow.

Reestablishing contact proved an easy enough matter.

Seregil had hardly stepped inside the card room where Rythel was playing before the man was hailing him like an old comrade.

"Sir Rythel, how good to see you again!" Seregil greeted him, shaking hands warmly as he joined him at the table.

This was clearly a triumph of sorts for Rythel; Seregil could see him scanning the other nobles at the table, gauging their reaction to his reception by one of their own.

"Well met, Lord Seregil," Rythel exclaimed, taking up his cards again. "We'll be getting up a game of Coin and Sword next. Perhaps you'd partner me?"

With the subtlest of winks Seregil nodded, bidding his time.

As before, Seregil talked a great deal during the game, interspersing his gossipy chatter with casual references to various business ventures. He could see Rythel rising to the bait; another few rounds and he'd suggest they retire for a quiet drink somewhere. A private room here would do nicely.

Seregil had just broached the suggestion when a ragged lad appeared with a message for Rythel.

Laying his cards aside, Rythel scanned the scrap of parchment and then tucked it carefully away inside his coat.

"You must excuse me," he said, sweeping his winnings into his purse. "I have a small matter to attend to, but I shouldn't be long. Could we meet here in, say, an hour or two?"

"I expect I'll be here most of the night," Seregil replied, nodding cordially. Then, to set the hook, he gave him a rakish wink and added, "There's a small matter I would appreciate your assistance with. Small but quite possibly lucrative. We can discuss it when you return."

"I'm at your service, my lord." Giving Seregil and the others a bow, he hurried out.

"And since my partner has deserted me, I think I'll take a moment to freshen up." Leaving the table, Seregil retrieved his cloak and hurried outside.

To his surprise, he saw Rythel strolling away on foot. Keeping well back, Seregil followed.

It was a warmish night. The last grimy remnants of snow steamed in the damp night air, mingling with the light fog rolling up from the harbor. Early spring was fast coming to Skala; the dank, rotted smell of it was on the air.

Rythel whistled softly through his teeth as he left the Street of Lights and skirted the Astellus Circle to Torch Street. This soon led them to the narrower streets of the nearby merchants district.

Where in Bilairy's name is he headed to? Seregil wondered.

Ahead of him, Rythel passed out of sight around a corner. Seregil was hurrying to catch up when the quiet of the evening was shattered by the screams of maddened horses. Running to the corner, he saw Rythel some thirty feet away, standing frozen in the middle of the lane as a team of draft horses charged out of the mists at him, the heavy wagon they pulled fishtailing wildly behind them. The lane was desperately narrow; even if Rythel managed to dodge the horses, he would almost surely be crushed by the cart.

With a nightmarish feeling of impotence, Seregil could not even shout as Rythel just stood there, hands raised as if he meant to halt the beasts.

The lead horse struck him full on, cutting short his ragged scream and trampling him beneath its huge hooves. Then the cart jolted sideways and a leg spun out from beneath it, severed by one iron-rimmed wheel.

Seregil leapt back to the safety of the corner and watched the wagon thunder by. Foam hung from the horses" mouths; their eyes rolled in panic.

There was no driver on the bench. One long rein whipped uselessly across their backs.

As the wagon hurtled past, he saw several large hogsheads lashed in the back.

A brewer's wagon, out on the nightly rounds?

Like a nightmare vision, it vanished again into the fog with a thunder of hooves and jangling harness.

Crouched in the shadows, sword drawn, Seregil waited until the clamor had died away, watching to see if anyone would come. When no one did, he ran to where Rythel lay crushed against the wet cobbles.

Bile stirred bitterly at the back of his throat.

It was as bad a mess as he'd ever seen made of a man. The torso was smashed. Pressing the back of one hand over his mouth, he recognized a familiar sourness amid the horrid stench that rose from the mangled flesh.