Shafralain, however, was Shafralain: "You threaten us, fellow?"

"Here is a piece of silver," a quiet voice said. "It should suffice. See that nothing happens to these people, whether they consent to wear your armbands or no. I will."

"So will I," the surprised Fulcris heard himself say, even as they heard the ring of silver off a thumbnail and saw the young man before him throw up a hand to catch Strick's coin.

He examined it. "Huh! Never seen onea these before. What's this on it, a fire? Whur's it from at?"

"Firaqa," Strick told him. "Way up northwest. Not part of Ranke's Empire. Mints its own coins, with the sign of the Flame. It will spend; it's silver."

Immediately after his last word came the sound of his clucking to his horse. Fulcris swallowed, but at once made the same sound in his cheek. That worked; the horses moved forward and the two accosters stepped back on either side. The speaker extended a number of armbands.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he told Strick, as the latter accepted the "passes."

"Fulcris," Strick said, and passed one to the caravaner. "Noble Shafralain?"

The nobleman would not turn or glance at the proffering hand. "I had far rather chop the arm off that arrogant snot than put one of his dirty rags on my arm!"

"Me too," Strick said, equably as ever. "But while we did that, the other would have flicked his trigger and sent a crossbow bolt into... one of us."

"Those boys?! Likelier he'd have missed!"

"Father-r..."

"Agreed," the quiet voice said from behind stiff-backed Shafralain, "and alone, Fulcris and I might have taken that chance. I'm very aware of being in the presence of a noble of this city-and of two women."

The only way out of that one was for Shafralain to take offense by pretending to have been accused of cowardice. Either he chose not to do or he didn't think of it. "Hmp," he muttered. "What has become of my city while I have been out of it?"

Coincidence or that goddess known as Lady Chance chose to let Strick and milady answer in chorus: "We had better find out," and she went on, "and be careful the while."

"Good advice, my Lord," a nervous Fulcris said. He was beginning to wonder how soon a caravan might be heading east and need a guard. Or north, or west either. Or even south, right into the sea.

Abruptly Shafralain's arms tightened. "Whoa," he said, and turned-with stiff dignity-in the saddle to look back at the big man beside his daughter. After studying him for a moment, the noble asked, "Can you use that sword, foreigner?"

"Name's Strick. From Firaqa."

The two men gazed at each other, each maintaining a practiced serene look from wide-open eyes that each had learned obtained this or that result. The moment stretched on, with four people watching the lean, thin-moustached face of Noble Shafralain with its high cheekbones and sculptured brows. Suddenly those features moved in a small smile.

"I was hoping you would answer my question. Can you use that sword, Strick of Firaqa?"

Stick shrugged and made a depreciatory gesture. "When I must."

"Until we know more about the situation in my city," Shafralain said, "we shall not be going to the Golden Oasis or anywhere else save our home. My family and I can not stoop to giving aught to scum who demand 'protection' money with crossbows. I would like to double what you gave that scum if you would ride with us, Strick ofFiraqa."

Strick nodded.

"Good, then. Let us-"

"Perhaps you could change a few of these Firaqi coins for me," Strick said, just as Shafralain started to turn back to face front. "Collector's items for you, and I attract less attention as a foreigner. If we exchanged ten for ten, I believe I'd owe you a difference; a few coppers."

Shafralain clicked in his cheek while jiggling his reins of shining red leather. His horse paced a few feet before being reined about so that its rider could face the man from Firaqa.

"Difference! A few coppers! I just heard astonishing honesty! Certainly you are not a banker! But... do you have ten silver coins, Strick?"

Strick nodded lazily.

"We will exchange ten for ten as soon as we reach my home, sir!"

"Your pardon. Noble, but-let's do it now. Just in case."

Shafralain cocked his head. "Just in case of what?"

Strick tapped the armband he had slipped on. Even below his elbow, it was snug. "Just in case your home is in another area of protection."

"Damn!"

"Agreed."

While Fulcris watched, more astonished than nervous now, the two men solemnly exchanged ten coins of silver, while sitting their mounts on a street in Sanctuary. At least they were as discreet as possible about what they were doing. In daylight, in the street. In the town called Thieves' World!

Shafralain turned to Fulcris. "Caravaner," he said, "thank you and good fortune."

Since that was an obvious dismissal, Fulcris touched a finger to his forehead, nodded, and started to rein away.

"Meet you at the Golden Oasis at noon tomorrow for a cup of something," the by now familiar voice said quietly, and Fulcris nodded and smiled as he rode on into a city suddenly sinister. Wearing a cloth brassard as "protection."

Strick was right about the city's "security" zones. By the time they reached the imposing mansion on its walled estate, they had collected another set of armbands and the noble owed more silver to the quiet man from Firaqa.

That was how it came about that on his first night in Sanctuary the foreigner dined with the Noble Shafralain and family in their fine big manse, waited upon by silent servants in beige and maroon. He did an amazingly superb job of telling little about himself and wandering around the outskirts of questions and answers, and he would not stay the night. Shafralain was glad of that, considering his marvelously dimpled daughter's fascination with this unusual and quite mysterious fellow.

Strick knew that. It was precisely why he declined the invitation and departed to walk alone through the darkness of that divided city.

Although Fulcris walked into the Golden Oasis before noon next day, he found Strick there before him. The reason was simple: Strick had spent the night here. He had risen relatively early to descend for breakfast. Since then he had done no talking, asked few questions, and done a lot of listening. Seated privily at a small, shining table in the well-kept main room, the two newcomers sipped watered wine and shared new-gained knowledge of a damned city.

The place was a mess. Too many people had grabbily tried to treat it as their own and, greedy for power and control, indiscriminately introduced too many random factors. Meanwhile supposed rulers, anointed and otherwise, took no firm stand and failed to exercise the control they were supposed to have and wield.

"Sanctuary," Fulcris said, "is ruled by King Chaos."

"Black magic," Strick said morosely, looking ill. "The bot-tomness of humanity's inhumanity."

Sanctuary had not even recovered from or grown accustomed to Rankan rule before the seaward invasion of the folk called Bey sins. Both men had by now seen examples of that strange womanish sea-race with the unblinking eyes equipped with nictitating membranes.

They merely turned up one day "in about a million boats," as a man had told Strick at breakfast, and after that it was essentially "Hello: Welcome to the Beysib Empire!" That turned the city on its ear-on its rear, as Fulcris put it. The Beysin gynecharch, the Beysa, moved herself right into the palace. No one in power did anything. About ten minutes later, out of the gutters crawled something called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary: a rabble organization of the unorganizable led by a feisty-swaggery street-lord-and-dolt. His avowed dedication was to throwing out the invaders and their (god-related?) lady boss with her twining snakes and bare jigglies, along with her people's ghastly habits with small, preposterously lethal serpents.