Military units have never been noted for their punctuality, and the Stepsons were no exception. Even though their departure was originally planned for shortly after dawn, it was nearly noon before the first pair actually swung aboard their horses and headed off amid waves and good- natured catcalls from their comrades. This was not a regular army unit, but a free company of mercenaries, so the formations and columns one might expect in a troop relocation were nowhere in evidence. Rather, the men set out on their journey in pairs or small groups as they were ready, with no thought to waiting for the others. Indeed, it was doubtful they would even all take the same route to their new posting. However disor- ganized or leisurely their departure might be though, one thing was clear. The Stepsons were leaving Sanctuary.

Relatively few townspeople had gathered to witness their passing, but the first pair waved at them anyway as they set off. No one returned their salutation.

Of the watchers, two men were notable if only from the diversity of the pair. One was old, his hair more silver-white than gray, while the other was a youth barely out of his teens. The younger was dressed in the humble garb of the town's lower class, while the elder man's finery marked him as one who moved in richer, perhaps even royal, circles, That they were together, however, was never in question. Not simply because they stood together and exchanged comments, though that Would have been sufficient evidence for most. Even more apparent was their manner. While they conversed freely, their eyes never met, but instead remained focused on what was going on around them. Close attention was paid to the departing pair of Stepsons as if attempting to memorize their appearance and gear, then switched once more to the preparation of the remaining mercenaries.

Were they not so open in their scrutiny, the two might be mistaken for spies. As it was, they were ignored, for neither was unknown around the city. The younger was Hort, a lowly storyteller; the older, Hakiem, once a talespinner himself and mentor to Hort, was now adviser to the ruler of the Beysib.

"Well, it actually looks like they're going."

"Of course," Hakiem replied without looking at his friend. "Did you doubt it?"

"Yes, and so did you." Hort smiled. "But that didn't keep us from being out here at dawn. We should have known that even if anything happened, it wouldn't happen until later."

"True enough. Still, if we had slept in and they had decided to get underway on time, we would have missed it completely."

The younger man snuck a sideways glance at Hakiem.

"I can see where that would affect me," he said, "but why should it make any difference to you? Your storytelling days are behind you now."

"Call it habit," the old man grunted. "Besides, an adviser needs infor- mation as much as a storyteller, and the best information is still that which you gather yourself."

The men fell silent as another pair of Stepsons rode by

"Well, it actually looks like they're going," Hort repeated, almost to himself.

Hakiem hawked and spat noisily in the dust.

"Good riddance!" he declared with sudden vehemence. "The sooner they're clear of the town, the better it will be for all of us! There has been nothing but chaos and death in the city since they arrived. Maybe now things will return to normal!"

Hort struggled, but lost his brief bout with silence-

"As I recall, Hakiem, there was chaos and death in Sanctuary long before the Stepsons put in their appearance. I don't see where they've been any worse than Jubal's hawkmasks used to be ... or your pet fish- eyed friends for that matter- It's wrong to try to blame the Stepsons for all our problems ... and dangerous to think things will return to nor- mal when they've left. I don't think I even know what normal is any- more."

Hakiem turned away, his eyes avoiding both Hort and the departing Stepsons.

"You're right, of course," he admitted. "Though the Beysib have been far gentler with our town than the Stepsons, who were supposed to be guarding it. Water does not flow upstream, nor does time run backward. Sanctuary will never be what it was. Hawkmasks, Stepsons, Beysib - . . they've all had their impact on the town, and their presence will never be completely removed. Even the new laborers who are here to work on the walls will change our lives, though in what ways we have yet to find out. All we can do is what we've always done: watch. Watch and hope."

"Speaking of the new laborers," Hort said with an almost forced casu- ainess, "have you heard anything of people disappearing?"

"I assume you mean dropping out of sight without turning up dead later," Hakiem retorted drily.

"That's right." The youth nodded. "Able-bodied men you'd think would be able to take care of themselves. I've heard of three so far."

"It's news to me. Still, I'll keep my ears open."

A group of Stepsons walked their horses by, not even looking at the assembled watchers.

Though he would never admit it openly, the withdrawal of the Step- sons as well as the Rankan 3rd Commando from Sanctuary concerned Hakiem much more than the disappearance of a few common laborers. He wondered how much of what was happening in town Hort was aware of and simply not commenting on and how much he was actually oblivi- ous to.

There was a fight brewing. A contest of wills, if not swords, between the town and the Rankan Empire. He did not for a moment believe that it was coincidence that the Stepsons were being pulled out of town just when the tax issue was reaching a head. The question was, would they be back? If the empire tried to enforce its orders by force, would the Step- sons be the whip for the empire or the shield for the town? Or would they stay away, maintaining a mercenaries' neutrality, and not return until the matter was resolved ... if they returned at all?

The old man studied faces, but could not find a clue to the future written anywhere: neither a hint of the future in the faces of the merce- naries, nor a glimmer of realization of the stakes that were being played for in those of the townsfolk.