The priest's eyebrows shot up. "You want me to bless copulating horses?"

"You're a priest, aren't you, the Eye of Savankala?" She embraced him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Rashan had lived at Land's End while he oversaw the building of her private temple on the shore of the Red Foal. They had shared many late night discussions, and he had taught her much.

"Very well," he agreed, rolling his eyes. "But we must speak this night before we part." He turned to follow Gestus, but continued talking over his shoulder. "I've had another dream. You must hear the message. It was the voice of the Thunderer himself."

She watched him go, saying nothing. But his words disturbed her. His walk and bearing were those of a warrior, not a priest, and his body was developed as befitted a Rankan. Yet a priest he was, and first among Savankala's hierophants. Yet, lately, Rashan had been having dreams, messages from the god, he claimed, visions that foretold Chenaya's future and her destiny. All through the winter they'd argued the meaning of his dreams. Not messages at all, she'd tried to convince him. Just the wishful thinking of an old man who saw his nation decaying around him.

She clung to that argument now as he disappeared inside the stables with Gestus and the Tros. There could be no truth to his dreams. She was not the Daughter of the Sun. That was only a name, an appellation pinned on her by arena spectators and fellow gladiators. Nothing more.

There was movement on her right side. She had forgotten her other guest.

"Lady," Walegrin said uneasily. "It's the middle of the night. Your man said it was of the direst importance that you speak with me, that I come dressed thus out of uniform. Because you are Lord Molin's niece I hastened, but the morning-"

She cut him off with a curt gesture. "If you came only because of Uncle Molin, Commander, then you may leave again." She looked him straight in the eye, not at all intimidated by his towering height. "If you came, though, to enhance your own career or to do good service to your prince, then stay and hear me out."

His eyes grew wide in the moonlight, but she turned her back on him and spoke to Dismas. "There's a sectarius of red wine on a peg in the stables. Bring it."

A sudden din from the stables interrupted her. They all looked toward the building. There came a crashing and cracking of wood, the challenging cry of the Tros horse, the lamentation of the mare. There was cursing from Gestus, and Rashan's shouted prayers soared over the whole.

"Bring the wine," she repeated, touching Dismas's arm in comradely fashion. "There's parchment and ink there as well. Bring them along, too."

She turned back to Walegrin when they were alone. "You command the garrison in this garbage pit," she said, folding her arms over her chest, regarding him evenly. "And the closest thing to a police force in Sanctuary is your men. I'm not going to hold it against you that you've been keeping company with that scheming uncle of mine. We all seek advancement by the fastest means, after all."

"If your uncle schemes," Walegrin broke in defensively, "he does so on Sanctuary's behalf."

Chenaya threw back her head and smiled scornfully. "Molin Torchholder does nothing except in his own behalf. But I didn't call you here to argue my uncle's lack of virtue. As you pointed out, it's late." She rubbed her backside. "And I've had a rough night."

Walegrin folded his arms, unconsciously imitating Chenaya's aggressive stance. He looked down at her. "Then what did you call me here for?"

"You're the police," she said over the noise from the stables. "What's the biggest problem you've got in the city right now?"

He scratched his chin and considered. "Right now?" He pursed his lips, put on an expression of intense seriousness. "I'd say it's finding the thief who stole Tempus's horse before he takes the town apart."

She stared disdainfully at him, gave him her back, and headed after her friends. "Go back to your bunk. Commander. I picked the wrong man. I'll take care of Kadakithis myself as I've always done."

He came after her, caught her by the shoulder. Chenaya whirled, knocked his hand away. "Wait," he pleaded as she started to leave him again. "What about Kadakithis? If thfcre's some trouble, let me help."

She ran her gaze up and down his rangy height, taking his measure. She'd kept an eye on him during her time in Sanctuary and generally considered him one of the few honest men in the city. Reportedly, he was competent with his weapons, though not a brilliant fighter. He did seem, however, to have the loyalty of his men, and that counted for much.

She not only needed his help, she wanted it.

"The PFLS," she said at last, drawing a deep, calming breath. "They started out murdering Rankans and Beysibs in cold blood. Men, women, children-armed or unarmed, it didn't matter. They began a reign of terror that ended up carving Sanctuary into sections like a big pie, and their terrorist activities have earned them the animosity of nearly every citizen in town." She paused, thinking suddenly of Zip. "Their leader still harbors dreams of Ilsig liberation, but the rest kill and kill simply for the feeling of power it gives them when they grind someone else into the dirt."

Dismas came back bearing the sectarius of wine, the parchment, and the inkpot. "Keep those," she told him, taking the leather vessel. She unstoppered it, swallowed a mouthful, wiped her lips, and passed it to Walegrin who followed her example. "How goes it in there?" she asked Dismas, nodding toward the stables.

The gladiator looked askance and grinned. "Such a mating as I've never seen. Hear for yourself how the mare enjoys her pleasure. I thought they were going to tear the stalls down, but they've taken more than a liking to each other."

"I thought I heard Gestus cursing." She took the wine from Walegrin, offered it to her man. Though her gladiators called her mistress, she treated them fully as equals.

Dismas lifted the bottle and swallowed. "He got kicked in the hand," he explained. "He tried to unsaddle the Tros, but the mare already had her tail in the air."

"I've met men who similarly couldn't wait to undress," she quipped. "I guess you're all part horse." She hesitated purposefully, then added, "or some part of a horse." She slapped her rump and winked.

"The PFLS," Walegrin reminded her, trying to remain patient. "And Kadakithis. Is there some threat?"

The noise from the stables suddenly ended. A few moments later, Rashan emerged and started across the lawn. She waited for the old priest to join them and offered him the wine. He drank deeply, then accepted the parchment and ink-pot from Dismas. He gave Chenaya an inquiring look.

"Tempus came to me with a proposal," she said to Walegrin. "One with implications for all of Sanctuary. You know that Theron has promised to return at New Year's and make this city what he wants most-a bastion for the Rankan Empire's southern border." She glanced at Dismas and a silent message passed between them. "You also know that I have no love for Theron."

Walegrin surveyed the faces of those around him. "It was you and your gladiators who attacked his barge and killed his surrogate." He said it with absolute calm and certainty.

Chenaya reached up and tapped his forehead exactly as her lather would have done to her. She had never attempted to make a secret of it, just as she had never thought to fail. In fact, she hadn't failed, just shot her bolt at the wrong target. The man in Theron's robes hadn't been Theron at all, and the Usurper had gotten out of town before she could try again.