She swooped, caught Multam under the arms, and, with a resounding crack of her wings, carried him aloft. He yelped, and his friends spun around. But they didn't think to look up, not quickly enough, anyway. In a second the angel left them far behind. She soared until she sighted a deserted courtyard two streets over, then deposited her captive on the dry, hard-packed earth.

Multam was a lean man with a saturnine cast of countenance, clad in a gorgeously patterned scarlet caftan. Perhaps paralyzed with fear, perhaps calm and canny enough to realize that if he broke his abductor's grip he'd only fall to his death, he hadn't struggled during the flight. But as soon as his feet touched the ground, his hand leaped to the ruby-pommeled hilt of his scimitar. The weapon was halfway out of the scabbard when Kotara alit before him and he had his first real look at her. His dark eyes widening, he froze, but only for an instant. Then he finished drawing and came on guard. From the facility of his movements it was clear that, the alcoholic stink notwithstanding, he wasn't drunk. Kotara was grateful for that at least.

"So," Multam said dryly, "the milksop Hajeen have a bit more sand than I imagined-at least enough to conjure up an assassin, if not to fight their own battles.

Which one of them sent you, spirit?" His voice assumed a mock lugubrious tone. "Was it poor, bereft older brother?"

"Justice sent me," Kotara replied, repulsed by the pleasure he took in Sabul's grief. "That's all that matters."

"Liar," Multam said, "justice set me free in open court only yesterday. But it's all right. I've never killed a creature like you before. I wonder, if I cut you will your master feel the pain, like in all those old tales?" Quick as a panther, he sprang at her.

Kotara only barely managed to block the cut. The edge of his scimitar rang on her vambrace, and then he surged past her. They pivoted to face one another, and he lashed out with a second slash, which she avoided by stepping back. Now she sensed the magic flaring down his nerves, the enchantments that granted him inhuman speed.

She was thankful for that too. It meant he had some chance, however slim. She allowed him to advance into range and attempt another head cut. This time she avoided the blow with a sidestep, then smote him with her wing.

The impact flung him backward onto the ground. He tried to scramble up, but she launched herself at him- half leaping, half flying-and kicked him in the chest. Ribs snapped, and he sprawled on his back again.

Surely he was all but helpless now. She paused, steeling herself to deliver the coup de grace, and his hand darted inside his silken shirt.

She felt magic, the foul power of necromancy this time, surge as he activated some hidden charm. Dizziness and weakness assailed her, and she crumpled to her knees. The world went dark as her vision failed her.

Croaking words of warding, drawing on her own innate power, she struggled to break the curse. Finally the strength stopped leaking from her twitching, tremulous limbs, and the darkness in her eyes thinned sufficiently to permit a murky view of nearby shapes. A shadow loomed over her, raising its curved sword for a killing stroke.

Kotara jerked up her hand and caught Multam's wrist, arresting the scimitar in its descent. Squeezing, she crushed bone, then wrenched the mortal to the ground, where a strike to the throat put an end to him. She felt the scream of terror and denial locked inside his ruined flesh, and then the yawning vacancy when his life force withered away.

As she knelt beside him, shuddering and waiting for the rest of her strength to return, she reminded herself that Multam hadn't denied murdering Sabul's brother. He'd struck the first blow in his battle with her. He'd ultimately assailed her with that sorcery that, drawing its power from darkness and the grave, was forbidden to all but members of the Shadow Guild. This fact suggested he might well have been a secret worshiper of the fiends from the Abyss.

Yet none of these reflections helped her very much. She was still profoundly sick at heart. In the end, only one thought offered consolation. At least her task was over.

Staring, Sabul listened intently to Kotara's story. When she finished, he sat silently for several moments, during which she studied his thin, weary face, seeking in vain for some sign of joy or contrition.

At last he said, "It sounds as if you dispatched Multam quickly. He didn't suffer very much."

"Suffer?" the angel exclaimed. "He died. I ripped his life away."

"Forgive me," Sabul said quickly. "I wasn't criticizing. You did exactly what I asked. Next time I'll make the instructions more specific."

Kotara stared at him in consternation. "How can there be a next time? You've already punished Axdan's murderer. You've meted out your justice."

"Not true," the magician said, rising restlessly from his stool, his snowy vestments swirling about him. "We've only made a start. It was clear from an examination of the ground that several of the Ilmieras waylaid Axdan in that alley. The others held my brother while Multam tortured and slew him. Obviously, they too must pay."

"Do you know who they are?"

Sabul shrugged. "More or less. Multam had certain boon companions who helped him when he got up to deviltry. From what you told me, I'd guess that you saw four of them tonight."

Four of them? By the Divine, how many were there altogether? "Magician," she stammered, "my sisters and I owe your predecessors a debt, and I am happy to serve you. But I beg you to recall that your fraternity is consecrated to the Divine Will as much as any priesthood. Your art was not created for this purpose, and neither was I."

He scowled. "What are you prattling about?"

"The magic of your guild is holy magic," she replied, "meant to nurture, heal, and protect. I, a child of that same power, defend. In times of war, when an aggressor is at the gate, wizards summon me to stand against him. It's not in my nature to initiate violence."

"It's in your nature to obey me," he snapped, "is it not?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"Then I'll hear no further objections." His face softening, he reached out hesitantly and patted her on the shoulder. "It will be all right. You'll see for yourself that all the Ilmieras are wicked men. It truly is just that they be punished, and surely justice is holy work no less than ministering to the sick or driving back an invading army."

"Perhaps," the angel said.

He smiled. "Then we're in agreement, and all's well. Now, no one should see you here, so perhaps you'd better leave. Return tomorrow night an hour after dusk, and I'll tell you whom to punish next."

Like his cousin Multam, Yirtag possessed the signature lanky frame and long, narrow face of the Ilmieras. They gave him the look of a famished wolf, which Kotara supposed was appropriate. According to Sabul, Yirtag, a poor relation, had followed his kinsman around like a faithful hound, eager to assist in any escapade or crime in exchange for the purses of silver that Multam occasionally tossed him.

At present Yirtag and a friend sat drinking arrack in the former's ramshackle cottage on Leather Street. Judging from Yirtag's silence and sullen expression, he and the other toper were holding a wake of sons, though whether they were lamenting the loss of Multam or his money was an open question.

Kotara skulked behind the house in a cramped, malodorous alley, peeking through a barred window. She needed Yirtag's companion to leave him alone, yet dreaded the moment when he would.

Eventually the fellow rose and exited the room to answer a call of nature. At once the angel gripped the wrought-iron grille and tore it away from the window so she'd be able to carry out her captive.