"We lost the rest," his companion said tautly. There was rage beneath his tone.

The Stepson looked up. A shadow stood there in the lightnings, in the rain, an unlikely cloaked shape, a darkness by the bridge.

When the lightning next flashed it was gone. Fire danced on the water, full of tricks and shadows on this side of the bank. The blaze might have taken all of Downwind, but for the rain. It was dying even now.

Six horsemen thundered across the bridge from Sanctuary to Downwind, securing the road.

"You'd better send more," the garrison officer said. "They're like rats over there, small but a lot of them. You- saw that."

The Stepson fixed the man with a chill, calm eye. "I saw catastrophe. Two of us could have turned the town upside down if that were the object. Perhaps you misunderstood. But I rather doubt it. Six could raze the town. But that wasn't what we wanted, was it?" He looked down at the moaning informer, then collected his companion and walked away.

"Drink," Mradhon said. Moria drank, holding the cup herself this time, and stared blearily at the two men, Mradhon leaning over her, Haught over against the wall. It was decent food they gave her. She wondered where they got the money, dimly, in that vague way she wondered about anything. She was curious why these two kept treating her as they did, when it cost them, or why two men she had never met had proved dependable when those she had known best had not. It confounded her. They never used that language they both spoke, not since that night. Haught had put on freeman's clothing, if only that of Downwind. He had scars. She had seen them, when he dressed. So did Mradhon Vis, but different ones, made with knives.

So did she, inside and out. Maybe that was what they had in common, the three of them. Or that they wanted what she knew, names and places. Or that they were just different, thinking differently, the way people did who had not grown up in the Downwind, and that kind of maze of foreignness she never tried to figure.

She just took it that they wanted something; and so did she, which was to fill a nebulous and empty spot and to keep fed and warm and breathing.

Mor-am was dead. She hoped so. Or things were worse than she had figured.

A FUGITIVE ART by Diana L. Paxson

The fleeing King ran towards the Gate, the strained lines of his back and arms, and the bunched muscles of his thighs, eloquent of desperation. His face was shadowed and his crown rolled in the dust; behind him lay a confusion of arms and weapons, and the bloodied sword of his conqueror raised against a sunset sky.

"And here we have the last King of Ilsig, pursued by Ataraxis the Great... ." Crimson damask rustled stiffly as Coricidius the Vizier motioned towards the mural that glowed on the ancient wall. He bowed to the Prince and his companions. The other guests at the reception stood in a respectful half-circle on the chequered marble of the floor.

Lalo the Limner, trailing self-consciously a few steps behind, squinted at the painting and wondered if he had made the sky too lurid after all. What would they think, these great lords of Ranke who had been sent by the Emperor to evaluate Sanctuary's preparations for the war?

Prince Kadakithis flushed with pleasure and peered more closely at the figure of his ancestor. Coricidius fixed Lalo with an eye like a moulting eagle's, summoning him. His aged skin was pallid above the vehemence of his gown.

He should not wear that color, thought Lalo, suppressing an impulse to duck behind one of the gilded pillars. Coricidius always affected him that way, and he had almost refused the task of refurbishing the Presence Hall for this visit because of it. But however discredited the Vizier might be in Ranke, in Sanctuary his power was second only to that of the Prince-Governor (indeed, some said that his influence counted for more).

"Remarkable-such freshness of line, such originality!" One of the Imperial Commissioners bent to examine the brushwork, chins quivering with enthusiasm.

"My Lord Raximander, thank you. May I present the artist! Master Lalo is a native of Sanctuary ..."

Lalo hid his paint-stained hands behind his back as they all looked at him, curious as if he had been in Meyne's Menagerie. It must be only too obvious that he lived in the city-the battered buildings through which the painted King was fleeing belonged to the Maze.

Exuding attar of roses and geniality, Lord Raximander turned to Lalo.

"You have great talent, but why do you stay here? You are like a pearl on the neck of a whore!"

Lalo stared at him, then realized that the man was not mocking him-neither the Prince nor the Vizier had ever ventured west of the Processional, and the Maze had not been included on the Commissioners' sight-seeing tour. He stifled a grin, thinking of these popinjays at the mercy of some of his old friends from the Vulgar Unicorn-like alley-cats with some Lady's pet love-bird, they would be.

The other Commissioners were looking at the painting now-the General, the Archpriest Arbalest, Zanderei the Provisioner and an undistinguished relative of the Emperor. Lalo listened to them commenting on its naive charm and primitive vigor and sighed.

"Indeed-" came a soft voice close to his ear. "What recognition can you expect in this city of thieves? In Ranke they would know how to appreciate you. ..."

Lalo jumped, hearing his own thoughts vocalized, and saw a slight man with clipped greying hair and a skin weathered brown, draped in dove-grey silk. Zanderei... after a moment his memory supplied the name, and for a moment he imagined he recognized amused understanding in the Commissioner's eyes. Then blandness masked them, and as Lalo opened his mouth to reply, Zanderei turned away.

A meek nonenity, Lalo had thought him when the Prince introduced the Commissioners to them all, and now Zanderei was a mouse once more. Lalo frowned, trying to understand.

A youthful eunuch, somewhat overaware of the splendor of his new purple satin and fringe, approached with a tray of pewter goblets. It was wine of Caronne, the whisper ran, cooled by snow that had been packed in sawdust all the way from the northern mountains whose possession was now being disputed so bitterly. The Commissioners took new goblets, and Coricidius motioned the slave away.

Lalo, whose cup was almost empty, looked after him longingly, but did not quite have the confidence to call him back again. I should have used myself as a mode] for the cowardly Ilsig King, he thought bitterly. Too many people here remember when I was drinking myself to death and Gilla took in laundry from the merchants' wives, and I am afraid they will laugh at me. ...

And yet he had painted the walls of the Temple of the Rankan gods, he had decorated this hall, and the Prince himself had complimented him. Why could he not be satisfied? Once my dream was to paint the truth beneath the skin, he thought then. What do I want now?

The air pulsed with polite conversation as rich merchants of Sanctuary pretended they were accustomed to such affairs, the Rankans tried to look as if they were enjoying this one, and the Prince and his officers uneasily enjoyed the Empire's belated recognition while wondering whether it was to their advantage.

Except for Coricidius-Lalo reminded himself. Rumor had it that the Vizier would stop at nothing to spend what remained of his old age back in the capital.

A wave of scent set Lalo to coughing, and he turned to confront Lord Raximander's beaming face.