"And where do we get the sailcloth and spars from?" he asked.

"There are merchants and smiths here," Scars told him. "Most of them were part of the pirate group at one time, but decided to go into the business of turning the stolen raw materials into finished goods. Good money, and much less risk. Especially since most of the raiders would rather be out on the sea than sitting here sewing sailcloth and shaving spars. An unusual arrangement, but it works. So unless Rolf objects and orders otherwise, they will do business with us. But I fear their price may be very high, indeed. Too high, perhaps, for our stores of kisa are not what they once were."

Then Scars pulled Tristan closer, indicating that he wanted the two of them to lag a bit behind Tyranny. Curious, Tristan slowed down.

"The truth is that I have my doubts about our overall success, especially where Rolf is concerned," Scars whispered in a rare example of emotion. "I can only imagine how he reacted after the captain finally left him one night without warning, sailing away as she did by the light of the full moons. By then he had begun to beat her, and she wouldn't stand for it. Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't kill him. But love has a way of tempering one's resolve, does it not? And as you have no doubt noticed, she is very adept at hiding the scars on her heart. Had I known what was happening, I would have killed the bastard myself." Scars paused to look sternly at Tristan. "Keep your sword and your knives at the ready. Rolf is used to seeing me around the captain, but he won't take kindly to a newcomer who is friendly with her, and he is very good with his sword."

Tristan's jaw hardened again. So am I, he thought.

They walked on in silence for a time. The narrow, rutted path wound back and forth, and Tristan noted by the position of the sun that they were traveling west. After a while, he saw the first pieces of marble.

The huge sections of broken, fluted column were the largest he had ever seen. He estimated that it would have taken at least thirty men, arms outstretched and holding hands, to surround even the smallest of them. They looked very old, and were fashioned of a rare rose marble shot through with swirls of deeper red. Lying here and there on both sides of the trail, they looked as though they had been randomly cast off by giants.

"How did these get here?" he asked Tyranny, quickening his pace to catch up.

"You tell me," she answered, without turning around. "As I told you, it's all the Directorate's doing. They're your wizards, aren't they?"

With a soft laugh, Tristan shook his head and just watched for the marble pieces. They were gradually increasing in frequency and number. There were not only column pieces but entire columns, as well, sometimes standing alone and complete with their decorative capitals, and he could see that they were built to the same proportions as typical Eutracian columns.

He also saw freestanding sections of wall, their surfaces adorned with intricate alcoves and pilasters, waiting to form buildings that would never be constructed. There were statues in evidence, too, representing both animals and humans.

Finally Tyranny slowed and held up one hand. As Tristan and Scars came up alongside her, the prince looked past her and down into the valley before them.

At the far side of the valley, the Sea of Whispers crashed up against the shore. Dozens of ships, their sails furled, bobbed gently at anchor just beyond the wooden piers that jutted arrogantly out into the sea. And nestled in between, in the heart of the lowlands, lay Sanctuary.

It looked to be something more than a town, yet less than a city. With nothing surrounding it, it was as if it had become somehow lodged forever in-between-like a stunted child that never reached adulthood, long since abandoned by its parents and forced to survive on its own.

Expecting nothing more than a series of hastily constructed, ramshackle shanties, Tristan quickly realized that he couldn't have been more wrong. Despite the fact that Sanctuary had apparently been built long ago, its structures, sparkling like precious jewels in the noonday sun, had a timeless, pristine quality about them.

They were laid out in neatly patterned order. A great, rose-colored marble-floored plaza lay at their center, inlaid with a bloodred representation of the Paragon, its image vibrant and commanding.

Tristan could now see people milling about the town. As the three of them finally came closer and began walking among them, he saw that things were not as genteel as they had first appeared from atop the hill. The exteriors of the buildings were absolutely beautiful, but as many of them had their doors open to the sun, he could see what the pirates had done to them. Trash, personal items, and ale bottles lay everywhere. It was almost as if animals lived here, rather than human beings. Tristan felt disgusted.

Men and women alike seemed to be in a constant state of revelry. For the most part, Tristan and his companions were ignored, so he studied the people without interference. By and large the men here were a dirty, slovenly bunch. Most of them wore sparse, brightly colored clothing, often parted to reveal intricate tattoos. They bristled with weapons and shiny jewelry, and were, for the most part, clearly in various stages of drunkenness. But Tristan could see a careful, ruthless glint in their eyes whenever one of them looked his way.

He had been among their kind before, in Tammerland, just after the return of the Coven and the decimation of the Royal Guard. War bred such men like flies. Tyranny had been right, he realized. These pirates were not only thieves of the sea, but cold, calculating killers, as well. Now he could easily understand the attraction that a place like this, far away from civilization and its demands, would hold for such rebels.

As they walked on, the noise level increased. Barkers loudly tried to entice them into wagering on games and contests; from the balconies above, courtesans in various stages of undress called out coy obscenities, trying to entice passersby to come upstairs. Sometimes Tristan could hear the shameless, crude sounds of urgent intercourse coming from the alleyways as he walked by.

The entire city of Sanctuary seemed to be nothing more than one great, roiling mass of perversion, drunkenness, and greed. As far as Tristan was concerned, the sooner they got what they needed and left, the better. Finally, Tyranny led them down a narrower, quieter street and stopped before a nondescript shop.

"This is where we can order our spars," she told Tristan. "Jonah, the owner, was a friend of my father's. We will be safe here for the time being."

Tyranny walked in, Tristan and Scars in tow. As they did, the bell atop the door announced their presence.

The store was small, with a door in the back that looked out onto a woodworking shop. Several men could be seen quietly fashioning spars and other ships' necessities. The pleasant smell of shaven wood came to Tristan's nostrils as he looked at the man bent over the short, businesslike counter.

He was older than the prince had expected, and he wore large spectacles. Fashioned above one side of them was a smaller, more highly powered lens that could be swiveled down for close work. Tan wood dust covered his curly, iron-gray hair and the striped apron that stretched across his abundant middle; arm garters secured his sleeves.

"Jonah," Tyranny said as he approached the counter. "I need help."

Without looking up, he rudely waved her away with one of his fat, callused hands. "Yes, yes, doesn't everybody these days. The whole damnable island needs my services lately. Seems the screechlings have been more active than ever, for some reason. Go away, and come back when I'm not so busy," he said gruffly, his attention still planted firmly between the pages of his ledger.