The sound came from his right. He slipped his knife back into its sheath, patted other sheathed knives, and undid the thong at his belt to get the bag off. That hurt, as a shard of pottery emerged from his clothing, and him. That hand he moved very slowly, mindful of the clink of broken pottery. He squinted before he glanced back, because he did not want his enlarged pupils to shrink.

The window showed a pretty night, small-mooned but dark of sky, without clouds or rain. Without even knowing that the rain had been confined to Kurd's grounds, Shadowspawn shivered. Did gods exist? Did gods help?

Hanse took a long step into the corridor and turned right. The bag swung at the end of its thong from his right hand. Just in case someone popped up, that might make him look less deadly: anyone sensible would assume him to be normally right-handed.

As he reached the end of the hall with a big door ahead and another on his left, someone popped up. The side door opened and light rushed forth. It flared from the oil lamp in the hand of a gnome-like man who wore only a long ungirt tunic; a nightshirt. 'Here -' he began and Hanse said 'Here yourself and hit him with the wet, rent bag of broken pottery. Since it struck the fellow in the face, he moaned and let go the lamp to rush both hands to . his bloodied face. 'Damn,' Hanse said, watching hot oil slosh on to the man's tunic and bare legs and feet. It also splashed wall and door and ran along the floor, burning. At the same time, a third groan of unendurable agony rose behind the other door, the big one still closed.

'Master!' Hanse screeched, high-voiced. 'FIRE!' And he shoved the squatty fellow backwards, kicked the burning lamp in after him, and yanked the door shut. Instantly he attacked the other one, and soon entered Hell.

Part of a man lay on a table, a short skinny fellow. He was even shorter and skinnier now, bereft of both legs and both arms, all his hair, and his left nipple with part of the pectoral. Even as Hanse shuddered, he knew there was only one form of rescue for this wretch. Ignoring the shining sharp instruments Kurd used, Hanse drew the arm-long blade those crazies up in the Ilbars Hills called a knife, got his best two-handed grip, and struck with all his might. Blood gushed and Hanse clamped his teeth against vomit. He had to strike again to complete the job. Now only a torso lay on the table, and a shuddering Shadowspawn clung to the weapon as he squinted around a chamber full of tables and thoughtfully provided with graded runnels in the floor, for the carrying off of blood.

'Thales?'

Two groans replied. One of them ended with 'help', weak as a kitten. It was not Tempus's voice, but Hanse went to that table.

'He - he - he's cut off my right arm and... and three fingers of my-my 1-1-le eft hannnd ... just 10 ... just to...' An enormous bodyshaking shudder refused to let the man finish.

'You do not bleed. Your legs? Feet?' Hanse was squinting without really wanting to see.

'I -I - they ... there...'

'Think,' Shadowspawn said, swallowing hard. 'I can cut these straps or your throat. Think, and choose.' He started to turn away.

'I am ... ali-i-ive ... I can wa-a-alk...'

Hanse sliced off the man's restraining straps. 'I seek Tempus.'

'You seek death here, thief!' a voice said, and light flooded the chamber.

Hanse didn't pause to reply or look to see who bore the light. He turned, plucking forth a guardless knife like a leaf of steel, and threw. Only then did he really look at the man in the doorway; throw once to disconcert, the second time with aim. Lean and more than lean the man was, pallid skin taut. A man in a voluminous nightshirt, a man to get a chill from a south wind in June. A man who held a cocked crossbow in one hand, awkwardly, and a closed lamp or lanthorn in the other, sleeve sliding back to show an arm of bone plated with parchment. Kurd.

He was ducking the whizzing knife that missed by several inches. The lanthorn Swung wildly, splashing lunatic flashes of yellow light off walls and floor and tables with ghastly stains. The doke should have put the light down first, Hanse thought, plucking out another sliver of sharp steel. With both hands on that little crossbow Kurd might be dangerous. Instead his arm was nailed to the door by a knife that caught cloth but only raked skin - there was no flesh - so that the monster cried out more in fear than in pain. The crossbow hit the floor, thunked, and sent its bolt thunk-twanging into a wall or a table leg or - Hanse didn't care.

'I'm here for Tempus, butcher. Just stand there and provide light. Move and I'll throw again.' He showed Kurd a third bright blade, sheathed it. 'You'd look good with another navel, anyhow.' Then he went to the source of the third groan. 'Oh, oh gods, oh, oh gods, why is this allowedT

No god answered the anguished query torn from Shadowspawn by the sight of Tempus.

Big blond Tempus answered, scarless and armless, and the answer came from a mouth without a tongue. He managed to make Hanse understand that three pins were stuck into each stump. Hanse steeled himself to pull them out before turning to gush vomit on to the grooved floor of Kurd's laboratory of torment, and whirled back to send such a glare at the vivisectionist that Kurd shivered and stood still as a statue, lanthorn held high.

Hanse cut Tempus loose and helped him sit up. The big man did not bleed. He bore various cuts, all of which looked old. They were not. He made stomach and heart wrenching sounds, ghastly noises that Hanse interpreted as 'I'll heal', which was just as ghastly. What was this man?

'Can you walk?'

More noises. Repeated. Again. Hanse thought he understood, and bent to look. Yes. Minus some toes, Tempus had said. He was. Three. No, four. The middle one was gone from the left foot

'Thales, there's only me and I can't carry you. I freed another and he can't help. What shall I do?'

It took Tempus a long while to make him understand, trying to form words without a tongue, and once Kurd moved. Hanse turned to see the other freed wretch fleeing past the vivisectionist. Hanse threatened and Kurd froze. He held the lantern in a quivering hand at the end of a wavering arm.

Strap Kurd to a table, Tempus had said. Where's servant?

Kurd answered that one, once he had a knife at his flat gut. His gardener and sole retainer was unconscious.

'Oh,' Hanse said, 'he'll want to be bound, then,' and worked the blade out of sleeve and door. With a knife in either hand, he gestured. 'Hang the lanthorn.'

'You can't -'

Hanse poked him with sharp steel. 'I can. Run complain to the Prince-Governor as soon as you can. You can also die now, which would be a shame. But I'll try to stick you in the belly, low, just deep enough so you'll be a day or three about dying. Of gangrene, maybe. Hang that lanthorn, monster!'

Kurd did, on the hook that was, naturally enough, beside the door. He turned to meet Hanse's foot driving straight up between his skinny shanks. It impacted with a jar.

'Something for your balls, if you have one,' Hanse said, and didn't even glance at the man who sank all bulge-eyed and gasping to his knees, with both hands in the predictable position. Hanse hurried to where the gardener lay, not even covered by the blanket his master had used to smother the fire. By the time Hanse finished trussing him with strips of his nightshirt, the gnomish fellow would starve before he freed himself.

Minutes later his master was strapped to one of his own tables. Hanse gagged him, because Kurd had left off threatening to plead and make the most ridiculous promises. Hanse returned to Tempus.