Crope felt bad about that, but it didn't prevent him from going out. Most nights he took Town Dog and it was their great mutual pleasure to walk the streets of Spire Vanis side by side, Town Dog taking eight steps to every one of Crope's.

The night when the strange thing had happened, Town Dog wasn't feeling up to going out though. Crope thought she may have eaten a bad rat, for her tummy was swollen and she'd refused food. He left her with some water and a stem warning about being a good girl. When he returned two hours later she wasn't in her place and the length of string that bound her to an iron ring on the wall had been severed. Crope checked the strange warren of rooms that Quill had secured for them; the peat cellar that still held the moldering remains of ancient bricks of turf, the star-shaped servants' chapel with its six stone mortars for grinding amber, the cold room for hanging game that still had hoists and brain hooks suspended from its ceiling, the room with the bathing pool sunk into the floor that was filled with crusty black water, and the cavernous space with the iron racks, iron wheels, and iron tables whose purposes Crope had no wish to guess.

Town Dog was nowhere to be found. Crope worried about the bathing pool, wondered how a man would set about dredging a body of water. Deciding he'd better check on his lord first, he headed back to the stockroom.

The door was open. The door was never open. He had closed it himself on the way out. Immediately Crope felt the bad pressure behind his eyes as the giant's blood moved at force through his brain. Muscles engorged and his sublungs which normally lay dormant beneath his major lungs sprang open to suck in air.

Baralis.

Crope threw himself through the doorway. Head whipping around to take in the details of the room, he saw his lord lying quietly on the bed, his body curled in its normal position, his broken and swollen-jointed hand resting on Town Dog's neck.

"Calm yourself," came Baralis' beautiful smoky voice. "We have been here all along."

Crope had stood there, heart thudding like a hammer against an anvil, his entire body vibrating with power that needed to be discharged, and stared at his lord and his dog. Town Dog raised her head a little and stared back, but quickly losainterest. Tucking; herself against Baralis' arm, she headed off to sleep.

Baralis' darkly distorted gaze was steady, though his skin had that sheen to it that meant the poisons he was taking to kill the pain were sweating out. "I called her. She is not to blame."

She had chewed through the rope to get to him. And what of the door? Crope glanced back at it accusingly. His lord could move himself, but very slowly and at great cost, using his arms and shoulders to drag his weight. Crope did not believe he could have made it across the room.

"You did not close it," Baralis said, perfectly tracking Crope's thoughts. "It was ajar. The dog pushed through."

Crope took the door in his hand and tested its swing. Yes, it did catch a little at the last moment. Pushed without an extra spin offeree it would not close. Crope nodded, satisfied. It had always been easy to agree with his lord.

That had been about five days back, and it had now become habit for Town Dog to spend a portion of her day sleeping or lying quietly on Baralis' bed. After the first shock of it, Crope was glad. They were three now, and there were times when they were all in the stockroom together, when Crope was mending a piece of clothing or mixing up a batch of medicine or just sitting under the window shafts to get some light that he felt content. If the moments could be caught and spun out they would make an agreeable life.

Baralis had grown stronger since they had moved from Quill's house. Some of it was the superior medicine, foods and comforts now brought regularly by Quill. The most expensive medicines were those that dulled pain—blood of poppy, skullcap and devil's claw—and Crope had been sparing in their use. Now his lord could be given sufficient skullcap to insure he slept through most of the night. Better rested, his health had improved. The open wounds on his back and shoulders were slowly drying up as flesh knitted itself into puckered ridges. Bedsores had been eased by the new mattress, and now that Baralis' muscles were a little stronger he could shift his weight when they began to bother him. The damp air of the stockroom appeared to suit him better than the dryness of Quill's attic and his breaths were less labored, and there were fewer panics brought on by his failure to take in sufficient air. He had started to eat a little solid food—oatmeal with marrow butter, and raw eggs and that made him more robust. Even his sensitivity to light had improved, and he no longer called for blankets to cover the window shafts at midday. Not that it was ever bright in the stockroom—sunlight rarely found a way in.

Little improvements in his lord's health encouraged Crope. He knew his lord would never be able to walk or properly use his hands, but now he had hope that some kind of life was possible. There had been days in the attic when Crope had feared his lord would lapse into unknowing and die.

Now Crope dreamed of leaving the city, of buying a horse and cart and heading off in one of the good directions and not stopping for a very long time. Once Spire Vanis was far behind them they would find a good piece of land with well-drained meadows, a hard standing for milch cows and a field hoed for beans, and purchase it from an obliging farmer who would be so pleased at the offering price that he'd throw in his barn goat for free. Then he, Crope, would set about fixing and planting and milking, and Town Dog would be at his heels and his lord would be on the back porch, in the shade, beneath a warm blanket, looking up from his book now and then to tell them all what to do.

Crope glanced from the windows to his lord. Baralis was resting not sleeping, though his eyes were closed. Quill had brought fresh linens a few days back, and the sheets were clean except for a few sweat rings and some dog hairs. A series of small dark stains on the pillow might have been blood of the poppy or simply blood. Baralis' breathing moved the tan blankets at a steady rate, and because they were pulled high around his neck a casual observer might assume the man lying beneath them was whole. If you were to look closer, though, you would notice the old white scars on his eyelids and the burn circles around his nostrils, and the melted cartilage in each ear.

They shut down his senses, Quill had said once with a small shudder. Deprived him of sight, sound and smell to break him.

"'The thief comes," Baralis said, opening his eyes.

Disconcerted, Crope nodded; there didn't seem much else for him to do.

"Do not leave while I speak with him."

Crope repeated the words back to himself so he would not forget them. His lord was different now, harder and purer like a metal that had gone through the fire. Only words that needed to be said were spoken, and the very few items he requested were necessary for survival. Crope had the sense that he was both less and more. Less of body and less of self. More of mind.

It upset him if he thought about it too much. How could his lord ever sit on a porch and take part in a normal life?

Crope resisted the answer and busied himself with the small attentions Baralis required. Pillows and bedding had to be straightened and Baralis himself had to be gently elevated to a more upright position. Muscles in his lord's jaw tightened like wires as he was moved, yet he made no reference to the pain. Crope lightly combed his hair and drew a short wool cape across his shoulders. Satisfied that his lord had his dignity, but not sure how much that now mattered to Baralis himself, Crope stepped back and prepared to wait.

It was just past midday, and a failure in light told of an approaching storm. Belowground all was still and warm. The pig-shaped stove, set on the side of the stockroom opposite from Baralis' bed, radiated heat through its thick iron casing. Town Dog, who had been ratting in the big room, began to bark. Crope went to silence her and greet the thief.