"I am not so inexperienced as you think," he said slyly, while fingering the comforting coolness of the knife handle. "I've lived my entire life on the streets, and I know what it takes to get along. In fact, I like it. But I'm tired of foraging for myself, and I do need someone to look after me." Sick inside, he smiled again. "Before I go with you, would you like to see what I can do?"

The old harlot's face lit up. "Of course," she purred. Then she tilted her head back toward bear-man. "Why don't you prove your talents on him first? I'll watch."

Marcus' mind raced. This was exactly what he had been hoping for, but there would be only once chance-one razor-slim door of opportunity. If he failed, his failure would last forever. And then there would be no one left to take care of 'Becca.

He took a few steps forward, then went to his knees. Holding out his left hand, he crooked a finger suggestively at the man standing before him.

With an eager grunt, the huge man stepped nearer. The dark cloak parted. Large, meaty hands unbuttoned the front of his breeches. His face, looming over Marcus, was split in a wide grin.

Trying to control his revulsion, Marcus grinned back in kind and moved closer yet. Inside his pocket, his right hand closed carefully around the knife hilt. With his left hand, Marcus reached out toward the man's groin. The leering brute groaned and closed his eyes.

Better yet, Marcus thought. The knife felt cold and hard, just like his heart. With one swift movement, he slipped it from his pocket and pressed the button on the hilt.

Click.

At the sound, the man's eyes popped open and he recoiled, but it was too late. Marcus had grabbed the exposed privates and pulled hard. With a single, relentless slash he cut straight down.

Marcus cringed, feeling the sensation through the blade as it first struck home, ripped its way in, and then finally broke free. The amputated entities in his left hand suddenly felt warm, soft, and sticky, and he dropped them to the ground.

Even before the man could scream, Marcus was back on his feet, turning on the harlot. With a single slash of the knife, he cut the right side of her face from ear to chin. Then he whirled and ran, leaving behind the earsplitting, inhuman screaming of his victims.

Marcus ran from the alley and down the long, dark streets, until he thought his lungs would burst. Finally he stopped, his chest heaving, and leaned against the wall of a closed rug shop.

He was on one of the more widely used boulevards. Numbly, he wiped the knife off, folded it, and returned it to his pocket. Then he looked cautiously around the corner of the shop. Not far from him, a dark alley loomed. As he walked toward it on unsteady legs, he suddenly felt queasy. The moment he entered the alley, he fell to his knees and vomited, retching over and over until he thought it might never stop.

And then, finally, he curled up on the ground in a little ball, thought of 'Becca, and cried silently, shoulders shaking, until at last sleep came.

R ebecca of the House of Stinton was shivering. The fire in the abandoned one-room shed had gone out hours ago, and even the embers had long since faded away. She couldn't light another, for she had no more wood. Besides, Marcus had told her never to do so on her own, no matter what. And Marcus always knew best.

And so she remained hungry and cold in the little dilapidated shack while she waited for his return. Watching the shadows from the single oil lamp creep silently across the clapboard walls, she wondered what would happen when their dark, twisting fingers finally reached her. The cold hearth smelled acridly of spent wood, soot, and charcoal, and her hands were shaking. Curling up on the single cot, she felt terribly alone, and began to cry.

She was very frightened. Marcus had never been gone this long before. Her stomach growled as she pulled the single thin sheet closer around her shoulders. She had not eaten since the previous morning, and even that had been meager. Almost past the point of caring, she reached down to touch her belly. As she did it growled again. Then she suddenly saw the glow, and she froze with terror.

The strange, blue light beneath her cot had returned. All the other times this had happened Marcus had been with her. But he wasn't here now, and the thought of being left alone with it horrified her. Pulling her head under the dirty sheet, she cowered, hoping the strange light would simply go away. But the light didn't stop-it just kept getting brighter.

The glow continued to strengthen. She thought she should look under the cot, but at first couldn't summon the courage. Finally forcing herself to get up, she went to the ground on her knees before the light. Despite her fear, she knew exactly where the strange light was coming from.

The thing she and Marcus had stolen was glowing again. Dozens of pinprick-sized rays of azure light streaked up through the soft dirt where it was buried, hauntingly illuminating the underside of the cot and the walls and roof of the shed with their shimmering, ethereal glow.

Ever since she and her brother had found the object in the midst of the rubble, she had begged him to leave it behind. Having it always with them made her so nervous. But Marcus had remained adamant about keeping it, telling her that he thought it had to do with magic. It might be valuable, he'd said. And so they had kept it, and secretly brought it to the only place they knew where such a thing might be coveted.

She just wanted the rays of light to stop. She began clawing at the earth, trying to gather up more dirt in the hope of covering up the frightening, invasive light. But the more she tried, the more the glow just kept coming, seeping up through the ground like a silent, neverending ghost. Frustrated and frightened, she began banging her fists on the ground as the tears ran down her cheeks. Finally she gave up and fell to the dirt beside the cot.

It was just then that she heard the rusty hinges on the door creak, and she turned around. Sitting up and wiping her dirty, tear-streaked face with one hand, Rebecca looked up hopefully.

Marcus stood there with a bag in his hand. He looked like he had just been through a war. He appeared distraught and tired, and parts of his clothes were splattered with what looked like dried blood. Closing the door quietly, he walked into the room and placed the bag on the table.

Getting up on her good foot, she limped to him and held him tightly. They stood like that for some time, saying nothing. The azure rays of light mixed oddly with the yellow flickering of the solitary table lamp.

Finally he let her go and looked meaningfully over to the cot. "How long has it been this time?" he asked tiredly.

"Not long," she answered. "It started just before you came in. I was terribly afraid… I'm so glad you're back."

Studying him more closely, she saw that his hands were bloody. "What happened?" she asked nervously. "Are you hurt?"

"I had some trouble, but I'm all right," he answered as casually as he could manage.

He took a moment to look at her. At seven Seasons of New Life, 'Becca was tall for her age, with a bright smile, long dark hair, and deep brown eyes. But she had been born with a clubfoot-something that she had always managed to shoulder with grace and dignity, despite her awkward, halting gait. She had a lot of strength, and he loved her for it.

It had always been her dream that their parents might one day save enough kisa to make the pilgrimage to Tammerland and seek help for her at the royal palace. Once there they would gladly have waited for as long as it might take to gain an audience with the king and his wizards in the royal chamber of supplication. Then, if she was lucky, the king might order one of his wizards-perhaps even the lead wizard himself-to heal her. But the money for the trip had never come. Now the king was dead, and it was widely rumored that all the wizards of the Directorate had been slain, along with the entire Royal Guard.