Anakul was something of an oddity: a professed devotee of evil who, though he wore the silver wrist-chains of Cyric, used as his personal symbol the black hand on red field of dead Bane. Even for Zazesspur in the years after the monarchy's overthrow, it might seem a little much to have a man who was openly nostalgic for Bane on the ruling council, but so obsessive was Anakul in his zeal for order and the rule of law that he was widely known as one of the most honest men in the city. It was said that he only cheated you if he had the full force of law on his side, justifying his only half-sardonic nickname. Of course, not even his passion for order prevented him from employing a robust corps of head-knockers. That was sheer survival.

Jinjivar the Sorcerer didn't hire head-knockers, as far as anyone knew, though he paid claques to spread rumors in the streets about his magic prowess. The son of a Calim Desert chieftain and-again, he claimed- the pasha's daughter by a concubine, Jinjivar had grown to adulthood among the nomads. He still maintained many contacts in his homeland, and though Tethyrians tended to disdain handiwork other than their own, had grown rich selling them magical and fanciful doodads for which their neighbors to the south, were known, such as sand-clocks that turned themselves and brooms that swept of their own accord. Since his men wore blue and purple while Anakul's livery was the black and red of Bane, the latter conflict had been particularly trying for Zaranda's eyes.

The one thing Zaranda hadn't seen was any sign of the one-armed man. You've done it this time, her internal voice chided. You stuck your nose where it didn't belong and went saving the world again, and now you've lost your chance to regain your goods.

Scab emitted a sigh so gusty that she must have almost burst herself drawing in the air for it. "That's it,, then," she announced in doom-filled tones. "If you won't take me as your apprentice, I shall stop eating and starve myself to death. Quicker in the long run."

Despite growing disappointment and desperation, Zaranda had to press her lips hard together to keep from smiling. "Come, now. Surely it's not so bad as that."

"Yes, it is. I'm an orphan. I have no home. I can't work or sleep at the stable anymore, and no one will apprentice me. Death is all that remains."

Zaranda frowned and rubbed her chin. To be sure, the girl was in a hard way. It's no concern of yours, the voice inside her said. Sometimes that voice seemed to represent good sense-sounding not unlike Goldie, in fact-and other times something darker. Just now she had to admit the truth of what it said. Yet there was something about this girl that drew her.

"Why can't you keep an apprenticeship?" she asked.

The girl drew her head down between the shoulders of her burlap smock, which seemed to have as much filth and grease in it as jute. It had taken all of Zaranda's skill at maneuvering to get the girl to sit downwind of her, and the occasional shift in the wind's direction still made her wince.

"Come now," Zaranda said in response to Scab's mumble. "You can't expect me to consider taking you on if you won't be candid with me."

"Things… happen," the girl said, as if the words were being drawn from her on a rope knotted bigger than her throat.

"'Things'?"

"Like what happened at the stable. Strange things… magic things, I guess."

"Like spells?"

The girl shook her head. She had lowered her face, and tears dripped from beneath the obscuring curtain of her hair. "No. I only know one or two spells, little things. That's all I've ever had time to learn."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. I get worried, or scared, or mad, and things just happen. Then I get sent away again. I can't control it. That's why I want to study magic. So I can figure out what's happening to me."

She raised her head and looked at Zaranda through lakes of tears. "It's just as well this way. You'd just get mad and send me away too!"

No, girl! the voice in Zaranda's head cried. Not a challenge!

She surveyed the square a final time. No sign of a one-armed man or anyone taking interest, undue or otherwise, in the tall swordswoman and her scruffy companion. She had missed the one-armed man-if indeed he ever existed.

From an alley debouching onto the north side of the square issued a party of shaggy youths in black and brown: Earl Ravenak's toughs. Merchants and buyers scattered as the youths marched determinedly upon a Hedgeblossom crowd, brandishing cudgels and steel-singing lengths of chain.

Zaranda stood. It was time to admit she had come on a fool's errand and get on with her business. Indeed, the vague outlines of a plan were taking shape in her mind. She would still take what steps she could to regain her lost fortune here in Zaz. But if that didn't work, she was already working on an alternative.

That was her way: ofttimes the physical, impetuous side of her nature got her into trouble, but she had a keen eye and a quick wit, and she had long learned to rely on those faculties to get her out of whatever tight places she found herself in. Her current situation looked hopeless-but that was when she did her best work.

The Hedgeblossom orator-who did not appear to be a halfling himself-had hopped down from his wagon-seat podium. Now he threw off the canvas covering the bed, revealing a pile of makeshift shields and weapons: nail-studded staves, iron bars, a few rude short swords. Snatching these up, his listeners fell eagerly upon the surprised Hairheads and commenced to whale on them. "Have you a name?" Zaranda asked the girl crouching at her feet. "What?"

"A name. Surely you weren't born Scab." "Chenowyn," the girl said sullenly. "That's a lovely name. Chenowyn." "I don't feel lovely."

"Start using your proper name, rather than 'Scab,' and who knows? That may yet change."

"What's the good of being lovely if you're a mage?" the girl demanded. Abruptly she clouded up again. "Not that that matters anymore. Not that anything matters…"

"Oh, stand up," Zaranda said. "It's time to go." Chenowyn stared up at her in astonishment. "You mean you'll take me as your apprentice?"

"No, I'm out of the magic business. But I won't leave you wandering to starve in a gutter-or get yourself lynched, more likely."

The girl stuck out her underlip. Zaranda stretched forth her hand. "Now come, if you're going to. Or stay: your choice."

Hesitantly the girl took her hand and pulled herself upright. Zaranda grinned and ruffled her hair. "That's the girl, Chen. And who knows? I may be able to use those wild talents of yours."

"Don't look now," Goldie said as Zaranda came into the dusty day-warmed gloom of the stable. The mare had the place all to herself. "There's a nasty derelict kobold sneaking up behind you."

Chenowyn drew herself up to all her not-slight height. "I'm not a kobold," she said. "I'm a girl."

"You could have fooled me," the mare said. "In fact you did."

Chen's eyes bulged as it struck her that she'd just been addressed by a horse. "It talks!"

"Goldie, meet Chenowyn," Zaranda said. "She'll be staying with us for a while. I just know you two are going to get along."

Goldie rolled an eye at the girl, then peeled her upper lip away from her front teeth and bobbed her head in the universal horse gesture for you stink. "Goldie!" Zaranda said sharply. Then to Chen: "Don't take it to heart. She's not civilized this hour of the morning."

Chen was staring at Goldie, with the expression one would wear looking at a captive Hook Horror. "It's sunset," she said.

"That's Goldie for you."

Goldie produced a gusty horse sigh. "I can see you've been terribly busy out hunting up strays to adopt. I suppose it's no great surprise you haven't been by earlier to find out that a patrol had come round to arrest your pet orc."