It was a simple enough request, Jubal told himself. There was no reason at all that he should feel flattered.

"So, overall, what do you think of her?"

Saliman had joined Jubal now, and they were sharing the wine, the good vintage, as they discussed Chenaya's visit.

"Young," Jubal said thoughtfully. "Even younger than I had anticipated in many ways. She has much to learn and no one to teach her."

The aide cocked an eyebrow at his employer.

"It would seem that she impressed you."

"What do you mean?"

"For a moment there you sounded almost paternal. I thought you were out to appraise a potential ally or enemy, not looking for someone to adopt."

Jubal started to snap out an answer, then gave a barking laugh instead.

"I did sound that way, didn't I?" he grimaced. "It must be my reaction to misguided youth. So little could make so much difference. But you're right, that has nothing to do with our goals."

"So I repeat the question: What do you think of her? Will she be able to provide leadership in the future?"

"Eventually, perhaps, but not soon enough to be of immediate use."

"Which leaves us where?"

Jubal stared at the wall silently before answering.

"We cannot afford to have Tempus and his troops leave Sanctuary just yet. Something will have to be devised to keep them here. If we cannot arrange it through others, we may have to commit ourselves to the task."

Saliman sucked in his breath through his teeth. "Either way, it could be expensive."

"Not as expensive as an ineffectual defense. If the town opposes Theron, it will have to win. To try and fail would be disastrous."

"Very well," the aide nodded. "I'll have our informants start checking as to who's available and if their price is gold or anger."

"The other thing I haven't mentioned regarding Chenaya," Jubal said casually, "is that I've agreed to advise her in the future. I felt it would be wise to be sure that her development followed patterns suitable to our goals."

"Of course," Saliman nodded. "It's always best to plan for the long term."

They had been together a long time, and Saliman knew better than to point out to Jubal when he was using logic to try to hide his own sentimentality.

THE TIE THAT BINDS by Diane Duane

Pillars of fire and other such events notwithstanding, people in Sanctuary have routines, just as they do everywhere else in the world. Dawn comes up and thieves steal home from work, slipping into shambly buildings or into early opening taverns for a bite and sup or some early fencing. Brothel-less whores slouch out of the Promise of Heaven, or make their way up from the foggy streets by the river, to go yawning back to their garrets or cellars before the sun makes too much mockery of their paint. And people of other walks of life fullers, butchers, the stallkeepers of the Bazaar-drag themselves groaning or sighing out of their beds to face the annoyances of another day.

On this particular summer morning, one fragment of routine stepped out of a door in a much-rundown house near the Maze. People who lived in the street and were going about their own routines knew better than to stare at her, the tall handsome young woman with the oddly fashioned linen robes and the raven hair. One or two early travelers, out of their normal neighborhoods, did stare at her. She glared at them out of fierce gray eyes, but said nothing-merely slammed the door behind her.

It came off in her hand. She cursed the door, and hefted it lightly by its iron knob as if ready to throw the thing down the filthy street.

"Don't do it!" said a voice from inside; another female voice, sounding very annoyed.

The gray-eyed woman cursed again and set the door up against the wall of the house. "And don't kill anyone at work, either!" said the voice from inside. "You want to lose another job?"

The gray-eyed woman drew herself up to full height, producing an effect as if a statue of some angry goddess was about to step down from her pedestal and wreak havoc on some poor mortal. Then the marble melted out of her, leaving her looking merely young, and fiercely lovely, and very tall. "No," she said, still wrathful. "See you at lunchtime."

And off she went, and the people in the street went about their business, going home from work or getting up for it. If you had told any of them that the woman in the linen chlamys was a goddess exiled from wide heaven, you would probably have gotten an interested inquiry as to what you had been drinking just now. If you had told that person, further, that the woman was sharing a house with a god, another goddess, and sometimes with a dog (also divine)-the person would probably have edged away cautiously, wishing you a nice day. Druggies are sometimes dangerous when contradicted.

Of course, every word you would have said would have been the truth. But in Sanctuary, who ever expects to hear the truth the first time... ?

"She hates the job," said the voice from inside the house.

"I know," said another voice, male.

The house was one of those left over from an earlier time when some misguided demi-noble, annoyed at the higher real-estate prices in the neighborhoods close to the palace, had tried to begin a "gentrification" project on the outskirts of the Maze. Sensibly, no other member of the nobility had bothered to sink any money in such a crazed undertaking. And the people in the mean houses all around had carefully waited until the nobleman in question had moved all his goods into the townhouse. Then the neighbors had begun carefully harvesting the house-never so many burglaries or so large a loss as to drive the nobleman away; just many careful pilfer-ings made easier by the fact that the neighbors had blackmailed the builders into putting some extra entrances into the house, entrances of which the property owner was unaware. The economy of the neighborhood took a distinct upward turn. It took the nobleman nearly three years to become aware of what was happening; and even then the neighbors got wind of his impending move through one of his servants, and relieved the poor gentleman of all his plate and most of his liquid assets. He considered himself lucky to get out with his clothes. After that the property fell into genteel squalor and was occupied by shift after shift of squatters. Finally it became too squalid even for them; which was when Harran bought it, and moved in with two goddesses and a dog. "Whose turn is it to fix the door?" Harran said. He was a young man, perhaps eighteen years of age, and dark-haired... a situation he found odd, having been born thirty years before, and blond at the time. His companion was a lean little rail of a woman with a tangle of dark curly hair and eyes that had a touch of madness to them, which was not surprising, since she had been born that way, and sanity was nearly as new to her as divinity was. They were standing in what had been the downstairs reception room, and was now a sort of bedroom since the upper floors were too befouled as yet to do anything with at all. Both of them were throwing on clothes, none of the best quality. "Mriga?" Harran said. "Huh?" She looked at him with an abstracted expression. "Whose turn is it to fix the door?... Oh, never mind, I'll do it. I don't have to be there for a bit."

"Sorry," Mriga said. "When she's angry, I get angry, too.... I have trouble, still, figuring out where she leaves off and I begin. She's out there wanting to throw thunderbolts at things."