"I didn't say I wanted to buy it," Zalbar snapped. "I'm taking it with me ... and I'd advise you not to argue."

He swept the room quickly with his gaze, ignoring the girls peering out from hiding.

"That brazier ... with the hot irons in it. It's a fire hazard. I could close this establishment right now, Madame, and I doubt you could fix the violations faster than I could find them if you ever wanted to re-open."

"But ... oh, take the silly thing. Take all of them or take your pick. I don't care."

"All of them?"

Zalbar was suddenly aware that there were no less than a dozen skulls peering at him from ledges and mantels around the room.

"You're too kind, Madame," he sighed heavily. "Now, if I could trouble you for a bag?"

The rest of the night was mercifully fuzzy in Zalbar's mind, as fatigue and shock began to numb his senses. Ischade had revived Kurd by the time he arrived back at her house ... which was fortunate, for the vivisectionist was of invaluable assistance as they faced the macabre task of matching the severed vertebrae to discover which in the bagful of skulls was actually Razkuli's.

He buried his friend's now assembled body himself, not trusting the necromancer to do it, digging the grave far from the normal graveyards, under a tree they both knew. His task finally complete, he staggered back to the Aphro-disia House and slept uninterrupted for more than a day.

When he awoke, the events seemed so distant and bizarre that he might have dismissed them as a fever dream, were it not for two things. First, the spirit of Razkuli never again appeared to spoil his slumbers, and second, Myrtis threw him out of Aphrodisia House after hearing he had visited the House of Whips and Chains. (She soon forgave him, as she always did, her anger dissipating almost magically.)

The only other consequence of the entire episode was that a week later, Zalbar was given an official reprimand. It seemed that while engaging in sword practice with his fellow Hell-Hounds, he had broken off drilling to administer a merciless beating to one of the onlookers. Reliable witnesses testified that the victim's only offense had been to make the offhand comment: "You Hell-Hounds will do anything to get ahead!"

THE COLOR OF MAGIC by Diana L. Paxson

The sky was weeping, as if some artist had muddied all the world's colors to gray and now was trying to dissolve them away. Water dripped from the brim of Lalo's floppy hat down his neck and he tried to pull his cloak higher, swearing. The saying went that there were two seasons in Sanctuary-one of them was hot and the other was not-and the most miserable was whichever one you were in. It was not a hard rain-more a persistent drizzle that imposed an illusory peace on the town by encouraging the bravos of the dozen or so warring factions to stay inside.

I should have stayed home too, thought Lalo. But another hour in rooms crowded with children and the lingering odors of wet clothing and cooking food would have driven him into a quarrel with Gilla, and he had sworn not to do that again. The Vulgar Unicorn was closed to him, but last he had heard, the Green Grape was still on the corner where the Governor's Walk joined the Farmer's Run. He'd have a peaceful drink or two there, and figure out what to do....

Lalo ducked under the overhang where the weathered sign with its bunch of peeling fruit knocked forlornly against the wall. The only sign of life about the place was the scruffy gray dog shivering against the door. Then Lalo pushed the door open and the welcome scent of mulling wine overpowered the more familiar odors of mildew and backed-up drains.

Lalo shrugged out of his cloak and shook it. The dog's ears flapped and its collar jingled as it did the same. Then it sneezed and followed him inside.

Lalo sat down next to the stove and draped his already steaming cloak across a chair. A skinny serving boy brought him mulled wine and he clasped his paint stained fingers around the mug to warm them before he let the hot, sweet liquor slide down his throat. He set the mug down, glimpsed his own unprepossessing reflection in a tarnished mirror on the wall, and looked quickly away.

He had looked into a mirror once and seen a god look back at him. Had that been a dream? And he had seen all his own evil come alive on the wall of the Vulgar Unicorn. That had been a nightmare, and too many others had shared it.

The gift of painting the truth of a man had come originally from Enas Yori. Now, he almost wished he had accepted the sorcerer's offer to take it back again. These days, Enas Yorl seemed to be chronically incapacitated by his periodic transformations-it was almost as if the sorcerer's mutations paralleled the degenerating situation in Sanctuary.

But with Enas Yorl handicapped and Lythande out of town, who was there to teach him how to use his power? The Temples were useless, and the stench of the Mage guild made him feel ill.

Quite close to him, someone sneezed. Lalo jumped, set his mug teetering, and grabbed for it.

"Do you mind if I borrow your cloak?"

Lalo blinked, then focused on a thin young man clad only in a metal dog collar who was reaching for the garment Lalo had draped over the other chair.

"It's still wet ..." he said helplessly.

"That's the only trouble with these transformations," the stranger shuddered as he wrapped the cloak around him, "especially in this kind of weather. But sometimes it's safer to travel in disguise."

Lalo shifted focus and saw the blue glow of power. The pride in the stranger's face was tempered by an almost puppy ish eagerness, and a hint of wistfulness as well, as if not all his magic could win him what he really desired.

"What do you want with me, Mage?"

"Oh, you can call me Randal, Master Limner ..." the mage grinned. He smoothed back his damp hair as if he were trying to hide his ears. "And what I want is you, or rather. Sanctuary does ..."

Lalo tried to cover his confusion with another sip of wine. He had heard about the Hazard-class sorcerer who worked with the Stepsons, but during the weeks when Lalo had been trying to learn magic from the priests of Savankala, the Tysian mage had been unaccountably absent. Lalo had never seen him before.

Randal fumbled at his collar and pulled out a tight roll of canvas. With that confident grin that was already beginning to rasp Lalo's nerves, he flattened it against the table.

"Do you recognize this drawing?" It was the picture of that mercenary Niko, in whose background two other faces had so unexpectedly appeared.

Lalo grimaced, knowing it all too well, and wishing, not for the first time, that he had never let Molin Torchholder take the damned thing. Certainly no one had given him any peace over it since. It was that, as much as the conclusion that the Temple teachers didn't know how to train him, that had driven him home again.

"How did you get that?" he asked sourly. "I thought His High and Mightiness kept it closer than an Imperial pardon."

"I borrowed it," said Randal enigmatically. "Look at it!" He brandished the paper under Lalo's nose. "Do you understand what you have done?"

"That's what Molin kept asking me-you should talk to him!"

"Perhaps I can understand your answers better than he did ..."

"The answers are all no!" Lalo said harshly. "I don't know what happens if you destroy one of my portraits. I've never tried to animate a portrait, and I'm not about to start experimenting. Not after the Black Unicorn.... You're the mage you tell me what I can do!"