Javin could not believe his eyes. "Mujida," he said, his voice shaking, "where did you find such a book?"

"It dropped from the digger's pack in the fight. They were gone before I could give it back to him. But it is useless-the words are unreadable. The doctor likes antiquities, and it is clearly very old. I will use it to pay him. Should he ever return," she said miserably, eyeing the doctor's horse.

"Please-I would buy it from you, and you may give the doctor money for his efforts. There will be enough left over until you can find more work."

A moment later, for the price of two hundred kohli, Javin had the Collector's priceless Holy Book of the Confessors in his possession. "I have one more favor, please, Mujida," he said. "If you would tell me how the digger and his party travel?"

Vashki pointed west with her chin. "They are fools. They pass the caravan route. You will never see them again, and neither will I. But a thousand blessings upon you, Muje, for your generosity."

"It is I who have been blessed, Mujida." Javin bowed and left her with the horse for company, telling himself that the doctor would be there very soon.

He moved around the corner, sat down, and carefully opened the Book. A bright ray of light struck the pages and made the old words glow before his eyes, their hazy letters pale and red from age. But it was the Book. He closed his eyes and began the prayer that

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had once drawn the Circle together and made the Collector able to read the peculiar, veiled script. But there was no one to draw now, and no answering presence in his thoughts to await the words of the Book's spirit. He opened his eyes and read the first words that he saw: "Fear not." Javin breathed in the words with hunger, and they filled his heart to overflowing with joy of a sort he had never experienced. He sought to read on, but the script had reverted to its unreadable form. Javin closed the precious volume and placed it reverently inside his pack, buckling the straps with extra care. Time to find a horse.

From the shadows of the dark alleyway, through a crack in the old wall, a pair of pale eyes followed him to the livery.

The smell of night-blooming jasmine mingled with smoke from the fire, making it into a sort of incense, and wafted out over the desert on a vagrant breeze. The three sisters had all but disappeared in the pale dawn sky. Tired from their all-night walk, Cheyne trudged clumsily across a high dune, bringing a shower of sand down on Og, who had removed his new boots and walked in his old rope sandals. Miraculously, he had not passed out and died, as he had continually promised to do ever since the little party had left the city and its bountiful, untapped supply of raqa behind them many hours ago. But he was leaving a small trail of blood, dark drops in the dry sand, despite the bandages Claria had applied.

Cheyne shifted his pack, now considerably heavier for the food and other supplies they had scrounged before leaving Sumifa. To Cheyne's great chagrin, since there were now three of them to feed, there had not been money enough for even the worst of droms. They would have to go on foot.

"How far to that oasis, Og? It'll be full day very

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soon. We need to find more water for tomorrow," said Cheyne.

"And a place to rest," said Claria. "We cannot let the face of the sun find us in the desert."

"It should be over those rocks there, the best I remember," obliged Og.

"The best you remember…" Cheyne broke his stride for a moment, letting the little man catch up. Cheyne scanned the horizon. There were no rocks in sight. "Og, do you know where it is or not?"

"Of course I do. Keep walking. It's getting hot."

Cheyne was about to protest when Claria waved her hand excitedly and pointed to their left. "Look! I see the rocks. Come on." Sure enough, a low outcropping of sandstone glinted brightly in the first rays of the morning sun.

Finding new energy, they ran toward the bluff, leaving Og shambling behind, his feet ragged and bleeding from the long walk, the new boots, and a severe lack of raqa, he was sure.

The oasis had been recently used. Or abused, Cheyne thought. While there was plenty of fresh water, the previous travelers had left bits and pieces of their refuse scattered over the green carpet of cress at the edge of the spring, and the remains of a campfire scarred the center of the little clearing in the heart of a grove of date palms.

Claria gently placed her bundle in the mouth of a small shallow cave near the spring, took off her boots, tied up her long skirt, then walked into the cool clear water. She sank into the delicious spring, soft water-grass under her tired, sore feet, her skin drinking in the moisture, relieving the chaff and dryness of the desert air. Cheyne already had one boot off when Og finally managed to join them.

"Not yet. You wait while I go. One of us should stand watch," Og said, heading for the pool, where Claria had found a place deep enough to cover her shoulders. She lay back, her long curls fanning out

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over the water. Bright red-and-green parrots chattered in the trees overhead.

"Why?" said Cheyne, annoyed. There was no one in sight, no tracks, the birds haggled undisturbed over the abundant ripe dates.

Og pointed to something half-buried in the sand by the old fire. Cheyne put his boot back on, walked over to it, and took out his sweep to brush the sand away. Before the broom ever touched the object, he froze, his hand suspended in midair over a long-toothed, lowbrowed, hollow-eyed yellow skull.

"Ore," said Og. "Probably a rival tribe. The Wyrvils eat them. Or if they really respect them, or really hate them, or if they gave good sport in battle, they keep the heads. They build their temples with bones. This fellow must have been old or easy to kill. Skull was too soft to use in construction, so they left it. See that ridge just north of the rocks? The desert turns into scrub and the clouds coming off the inland sea drop their last rain there. That is the beginning of Wyrvil territory."

Cheyne drew his hand back slowly, an odd tingling making its way up his arm. He found a bit of broken bamboo and rolled the skull away into the bushes, then took the little man by the sleeve and led him back to the pool. Claria still lounged in the water, a couple of the parrots' feathers now tucked into her hair.

"How does a raqa-loving vagrant know about the weather and battle customs in Wyrvil territory, Ogwater?" asked Cheyne.

Og sat down on the grassy bank and put his miserable feet into the pool, sandals and all. "Ahhh…" He laid back and closed his eyes blissfully.

"Og." Cheyne persisted.

"Oh, all right," said the little man, his nose pointing skyward like a beacon. "I… was a songmage. A long time ago. Years and years. I was the best. Worked in the Citadel for the royal family. They treated me like one of their own." He cupped a handful of water from