That was almost a relief. Aside from a few routine messenger assignments to the market villages, he'd never been out of the city and had never experienced an urge to travel. Whenever he thought of the druids he hoped to join, Pavek imagined them dwelling in the customhouse. He simply couldn't imagine living in a place without walls.

But the close scrutiny meant Pavek couldn't linger around the gates until they shut. He worked his way through the artisan quarters instead.

Prudent citizens lived soberly above their shops and provided nothing for a desperate opportunist, but not every citizen was prudent. Pavek took note of several raucous taverns whose patrons would eventually have to depart for home, with, one hoped, a few coins left in their purses.

But only a few. The men and women who walked the streets after midnight with four silver pieces in their purses dwelt in the better quarters of the city, where they were protected by bodyguards and magic. Pavek resigned himself to committing a dozen crimes before sunrise, before me benefits of his one dose of real Ral's Breath wore off.

He made himself scarce in the borderland between the squatters' quarter and the customhouse, not far from Joat's Place. The streets there were deserted after dark and most criminals were deterred from their trade by Joat's clientele. Making himself comfortable in a dark, cluttered alley, Pavek had ample time between sunset and midnight to contemplate hunger, pain, and the mysteries of fate. He figured he'd be dead by sunrise, waiting for death in a civil bureau lockup, or saving his life in the elven market. All three seemed equally probable in bis mind when he heard the start of a ruckus in the squatters' quarter.

Squatters were lucky when they had a ceramic bit tucked away at sunset, but when he heard someone snarl: "Maybe you can steal it, but you can't keep it," his curiosity was roused. Testing his elbow and finding the joint could be moved without unbearable pain, he followed the sounds.

Gumay was rising, and one of the thugs had a torch-one of maybe six or seven adolescents who'd flushed a younger, smaller boy. The scene was easy to decipher. The boy didn't have a chance; they'd pound him senseless sooner or later and take his treasure, but the thugs were still fools.

Maybe you can steal it, but you can't keep it, had different meanings to different thieves. The thugs had let their prey retreat into a corner where they couldn't press their advantage in size and number. They were taking too long, making too much noise, drawing attention to themselves.

He picked up two loose cobblestones, one for his good right hand and a second which he tucked into his sling. The gang hadn't left a lookout at their back another example of foolishness. They were too loud to hear his approach or hear one of their number go down without a groan when he clonked a vulnerable spot behind an ear with the cobblestone.

But the second fool-thug had a. thicker skull. He bellowed, and Pavek found himself the center of attention. The six human youths, four male and two female, were tough, but scrawny-no match for a man who trained two full days a week with his fellow templars and specially selected gladiators.

No match for the templar Pavek had been, but a challenge for the injured fugitive he'd become. They took quick note of his weakness. Pavek spent more time warding off blows aimed at his elbow than delivering his own punches. When he connected with his fist or booted feet, a young thug went down and stayed down. He'd have them all stretched out in the alley eventually, but not soon enough: the damned fool thugs had all turned their backs on the boy-thief, who, being less a fool than they, was making an escape.

Maybe the thugs thought he was summoning an otherworldly power, or maybe they realized the boy had fled and they were wasting time in a futile fight. Whichever, they headed out of the alley, hauling their wounded behind them. Heartbeats later there were more shouts, more running footsteps and a flash of torchlit sulphur yellow at the head of the alley.

Hamanu's infinitesimal mercy--his howl had drawn the attention of templars. But, seeing his rags and sling, they judged him not worth saving and turned back. He'd finally gotten lucky-just when the pain in his arm was so intense he would have welcomed death.

Pavek wasn't suited for a life of crime-at least not the free-lance variety. He wasn't going to rob twelve poor sods this night, or any other. He wasn't going to the elven market tomorrow to buy Ral's Breath. He wasn't going to parley his archive spellcraft for druidry.

He was going to die on the dirty streets of Urik.

O Great and Mighty King Hamanu-let it be soon.

One object still weighted Sassel's purse: his templar medallion. With that inscribed lump of glazed clay clutched in his good hand, Pavek could invoke the sorcerer-king's magic. A spell of simple healing was granted to every templar when he first received his robe and medallion. Pavek knew the forms of more potent healcraft from his archive researches. The ancient monarch was a miser with his magic, as he was with everything else in his purview. King Hamanu would sense an unfamiliar, unpermitted invocation and trace it relentlessly to its unfortunate source.

The future no longer mattered. Pavek fumbled with the purse thong. The medallion was warm in his hand.

"You're the one."

He thought the voice was King Hamanu's and dropped the medallion. It bounced to the feet of the young thief who'd inexplicably returned to the scene of his good and bad fortune.

The boy picked it up and studied it in the moonlight.

"You're the one," he repeated with more confidence. "You came back. You took her body away."

"The one what? What body?" Pavek lunged for the medallion and missed.

"You're the one they're looking for. The one they say is worth twenty pieces of gold. Is it because of her? Because of my mother-or because of my father?"

The boy was familiar. At first Pavek tried to match his features with the young messenger who'd given him charity at the inner gate, then he looked deeper in his memory and found the boy whose misbegotten parents had started his slide from grace. He was suddenly weak in the knees.

"Neither and both, boy, not that it matters. Give my medallion back and make yourself scarce. This place will swarm with yellow when I use it."

The boy twined the thong around his wrist instead. "What did you do with her body?"

Pavek spotted the remains of an old bone stool that looked as if it might support his weight. He staggered toward it and sat down before he fell. "I took her to the bureau, boy. I wanted to know why she died."

"Laq." The boy followed him to the fire-charred chair, dangling the medallion on its thong.

"Yes," Pavek nodded. "Laq. I know now. I wish I didn't."

"What happened to her body when the dead-hearts were through?"

"I don't know." Pavek reached for the medallion and froze in midmovement. His agonized, fevered mind was playing tricks On him. He wasn't looking at the boy from a few weeks ago-he was looking at himself when they told him Sian was dead. Escorting his mother's corpse to the bone-yard had been the most important thing in his life, then. His hand fell. "The boneyard, I imagine. They don't keep corpses; that's a lie we tell to keep the rabble in line." Where Elabon Escrissar was concerned, Pavek truly didn't know, but there was no need to burden the boy with Elabon Escrissar. "I heard she talked about you-Zerve, isn't it?"

"Zvain. It's a southern name. He wasn't my real father."

"You were smarter when you ran away mat night. Now be smart again. Give me back my medallion and light out of here." Pavek held out his hand.