They got their instruments and began to play. Without waiting for the sharp report of the clatter-sticks, Seylalha began to dance, letting the unhemmed ends of the silk swirl out to accompany her as she moved through the hundreds of poses - each painfully inured in her muscles. She flowed with the atonal music, throwing her soul into each leap and turn, keenly aware that this meaningless collection of movements would become her only, exquisite plea for freedom.

When she settled into the final frantic moments of the dance the sea-green silk was caught in her flying hair and lifted away from her body until it was restrained only by the brooches at her neck and waist. As she fell into the prostrate bow, the silk floated down, hiding the rhythmic heaving of her exhausted lungs. The clatter-sticks were silent, without nagging corrections.

Seylalha separated her hair and stood up in one graceful movement. Her teachers were motionless as well as speechless. Never again would she be the bullied student. Clapping her own hands at the quiet women, Seylalha waited until the nearest one crept forward to unpin the twisted silk and accompany her to her bath.

5

It was inky night and even the light of two dozen torches was insufficient to guide the procession along the treacherous, rutted streets of Sanctuary in safety. Molin Torchholder and five other ranking members of the hierarchy had excused themselves from the procession and waited in the relative comfort of the stone-porch of the still incomplete Temple of Vashanka. Behind the priests a great circular tent had been erected. The mute women could be heard tuning and conversing with their instruments. As the bobbing torches rounded into the plaza the women were silenced and Molin, ever-careful with his elaborate headdress, mounted a small dais on the porch.

The girl, Seylalha, shrouded in a cloak of feathers and spun gold, clutched the side-rail of the open platform as six bearers recruited from the garrison struggled with the rough-hewn steps. She lurched violently to one side, spilling the luxuriant cloth almost to the ground, but her dancer's reflexes saved her from an ill-omened tumble. Ten felons from the city dungeons, drugged into a stupor, clambered past - oblivious to the past and present as well as the limited future. Their white robes were already soiled by numerous falls in the muddy streets but none had seriously injured himself.

At the rear of the procession, wearing another mask of hammered gold and obsidian, Prince KLadakithis groped his way to the tent. He glanced at Molin as he passed though their masks made subtle communication impossible. It was enough, for Molin's purposes, that the Prince himself was entering the tent. He tied the cloth-door of the tent closed and braced three crossed spears against the lintel.

The Hell Hounds formed an outer perimeter - the Hell Hounds save for Tempus whom Molin, with self-congratulations, had had assigned to other duties in the palace; the man might not do as he was told, but he wouldn't be near this ritual. The Hounds held their drawn swords before them; they would administer the coup de grace should anyone leave or enter the tent before sunrise. Molin reminded them of their obligations in a voice that carried well beyond the unfinished walls.

'Those Ten whom Vashanka destroyed have been disgraced and remain unworshipped to this day; their very names have been unlearned. But the wraith of a god is far stronger than the spirit of a mortal man. They will feel their deaths again and converge upon this site seeking an unwitting or feeble mortal whom they can usurp and use against their brother. It is your duty to see that this does not occur!'

Zaibar, captain of the Hell Hounds, bellowed his comprehension of Molin's order.

6

The women, and they were all dressed as women though Seylalha knew some of them were the eunuchs who routinely guarded her, crept forward to remove the heavy cloak from her shoulders. She shook the cramped silk and knotted her fingers in anticipation. A partition of fine netting separated the musicians from the other participants in this drama, but their sounds were familiar and oddly soothing. The carpet on which she had always danced lay slightly to one side of the centre of the tent and behind the carpet was a mound of pillows to which the burly 'women' directed her. The white-robed men were invited to partake of a banquet laid out on a low table and fell over each other rushing to the sumptuous food. The masked figure who stood apart from the rest and seemed distinctly uncomfortable under his splendid robe was led to a separate table where only stale bread and water had been laid and an ugly, heavy short-sword awaited him.

So, that was the god, Seylalha thought, as the mask was lifted from his face. He was weak-chinned - but what civilized man did not show the stains of his rich foods and soft bed? He was, at least, a whole man. The man-god would not look at her, preferring to watch the darkest, least penetrable recesses of the tent. Seylalha knew fear for his curiously absent passions. Sliding off the cushions she struck the first position of her dance, expecting the musicians to lift their instruments.

But the musicians reached for their clatter-sticks and the eunuchs guided her rudely back to the cushions. She shook their hands away, aware that they dared not hurt her, but then her attention, and the attention of everyone in the tent, was riveted to a newcomer, a more appropriate man-god who had eased out of the darkness and held an unsheathed dagger in his left hand.

He was tall, massive, etched with the harsh lines of a rough and feral man. The one whom she had mistaken for the man-god embraced the newcomer with hearty familiarity. 'I was afraid you wouldn't show up, Tempus.'

'Both you and He had my word. Torchholder is a canny man; he distrusts me already -T could not walk in right behind you, my Prince.'

'She is beautiful...' the Prince mused, glancing to Seylalha for the first time. 'You've reconsidered? It would be for the best if you did ... even now. Her beauty means nothing to me. None of this means anything to me except that it must be done and I must do it.'

'Yes, you're the one to do it... though she is more tempting than I would have thought possible.'

The chiefmost of the gowned eunuchs moved to separate the men, giving the interloper a stiff punch on the shoulder. Seylalha, who could read the language of movement, froze in terror as the feral stranger turned, hesitated and plunged the dagger deep into the eunuch's chest all within the space of a few heartbeats. The other 'women' who saw little more than a blur of movement, wailed and groaned in terror as the dead eunuch collapsed to the rough ground. Even the white-robed feasters ceased their eating and became a frightened knot of sheep-like men.

'It will be as I warned you, my Prince - not merely the Ten but all the others. If you've no taste for bloodshed it would be best if you depart now. My men await you. I will do my father's work.'

'What of Zaibar? I knew nothing about that until Molin addressed them.'

'They did not see me; it is unlikely they will see you.'

The one who had been called the Prince slunk into the darkness. The other retrieved his dagger from the corpse.

'Our Imperial Prince is not one for rituals of bloodshed and violence,' he said to everyone in the tent. 'He has asked me to take the role of my father in his stead. Would any here gainsay my right to act for Vashanka and my Prince?'