For which dearth he was eternally thankful. More than one dancer's career had ended when the body decided, not when the heart had.

He had been an apprentice dancer, yes; and he'd proba- bly never have another chance at the rings, that was also true. But he was still a dancer, last night had reminded him of that simple truth, and as long as he was a dancer, hope remained, however unrealistically, that he still might one day dance the rings.

And for a dancer, those sensations Mishthi sought, the emotions and distractions that came with them, were a death sentence. That was the common knowledge, and not a belief this would-be dancer cared to challenge.

Waking came with a flare of light and a noisy announce- ment of breakfast's imminent arrival.

Deymorin, complaining of a headache, stumbled off to the latrine, to return with a wet head and a stream of curses.

"If you will flaunt authority" Mikhyel began.

"1 should thank my ancestors for giving me a hard head?" Deymorin finished sarcastically.

Mikhyel answered with a lift of one shoulder. The move- ment disrupted his unsecured braid, and the loose strands slid forward into his face. He silently cursed the man who had claimed his pin, and this time just flung the hair behind his shoulders.

It slid back into his face.

"I swear, I'm going to join the Brothers of Barsitum and shave it off. That would at least give Raul something to do with my razors."

"Count your blessings, brother." Deymorin scratched his stubbled chin. "Would that my leyapult, as Nikki calls it, had done me a similar favor."

"There are tweezers in the latrine."

"There's also a cold-water bath. I can still hold you under, and I doubt your new talents include gills. As for shaving your head, only if you explain to Kiyrstin that I couldn't stop you. She thinks your hair is utterly splendid.

But frankly, I don't give a rat's ass. Let's go eat."

The prisoners had formed a living wall at an obviously long-established demarcation line, waiting with surprising decorum while double-guarded kitchen aides set piles of loaf-bowls on the tables, then scurried back up the stairs.

When the aides were gone, guards manned a cast-iron cauldron at one table and a spigoted barrel at the other, and at a signal from the captain of the guard, the inmates surged forward.

Mikhyel would have held back, waiting until the others had theirs, but Deymorin hauled him straight into the crush, to establish, so Deymorin conveyed along with the throbbing in his skull, that they were one of the crowd, no better, no worse, and ready to protect their rights.

Deymorin passed two bread-bowls filled with a thick gruel to Mikhyel and grabbed two mugs before chasing Mikhyel back through the milling bodies to their spot be- neath the stairs.

The gruel was agreeably palatable, and the bread, fresh- baked, with a hard, water-brushed crust, gave a man's jaws a satisfying fight for supremacy. Mikhyel managed about a third of the gruel, exchanged bowls with Deymorin, and nibbled slowly at the crust of Deymorin's empty bread- bowl. The simple fare proved far more sympathetic to his half-starved gut than the typical five-course spread they'd have faced in Rhomatum Tower this morning.

"Here," Deymorin said, and handed him one of the mugs.

"What is it?"

"Ale. Morning, noon, and night," Deymorin answered, taking a healthy swig.

Mikhyel set the mug down, untasted, uncertain he could face even the smell this early in the morning. After lunch, perhaps. On a hot day. Very hot.

But the bread was dry, and eventually he conceded. He lifted the mug to sniff gingerly, but his overtaxed nose could detect no discernible odor. He eyed his brother's bland expression suspiciously, doubly so when he realized Deymorin's normally emotion-rich essence had gone blank.

A cautious sip found, rather than the threatened ale, a pleasant, dilute fruit juice. Sending Deymorin the glare his brother obviously expected, he drained the mug and went after his own refill.

Whether by chance or design, Ganfrion intercepted him at the barrel. He met the man's look with outward calm, and stepped aside to allow the inmate first access to the barrel, tacit acknowledgment of Ganfrion's superior posi- tion within the prison power structure.

A faint smirk tweaked Ganfrion's scar-twisted mouth. He tipped his head in amusement, and pulled the tap. When his mug was only two-thirds full, the stream of liquid drib- bled to a halt.

"Oh, dear." Exaggerated gentility dripped from the words. "It appears I've taken the last of it. Here, Suds."

Ganfrion held' the mug out. "Have mine. After all, we have you new lads to thank for the fancy fare this morning, don't we?"

Mikhyel turned away. Ganfrion's hand on his elbow stopped him, brought him about to face the barrel again.

"I'll share mine with you."

Suddenly, the tactic was too obvious, the depletion too convenient. Mikhyel reached past the inmate, who refused to move away from the tap, and pulled the lever. Fruit juice sprayed across the man's already stained pantleg.

"Oh, dear," Mikhyel said, mimicking Ganfrion, words and tone. "It appears to have had an air pocket. Ex- cuse me."

This time, the inmate did move aside. Mikhyel filled his mug and returned to Deymorin's niche, reaching it with his mug still full despite his shaking hands.

Deymorin said nothing, but from the look in his eyes, and the murderous anger underneath, Mikhyel could only hope Raulindor Nikkicould secure their freedom today. Soon. He'd seen the reports on men who had tried to make a lone stand in the Crypt; Deymorin would only get himself seriously hurtif not killed.

And Deymorin would be alone in such a stand. Mikhyel, when all was said and done, was useless in the sort of en- counter Deymorin would provoke.

Morning and a third mug of juice led to natural conse- quences. Having convinced Deymorin he had been going to the latrine on his own for several years now, and with Deymorin's {Just don't fall in.} echoing in his head, he wended his way in the gas-given daylight to that area of the vast chamber to which his instincts had led him unerr- ingly in last night's dark.

The flames were brighter this morning, and more numer- ous: the prison's attempt to simulate passage of time. Rho- matum believed in punishing her wrongdoers, but not in outright cruelty. She'd learned constant dim lighting was not, in the long run, economical, as it turned already mar- ginally socialized men into unreasoning animals.

And these daylight levels did make the massive chamber infinitely less intimidating. What had been a confused mon- tage of suddenly-there stone walls last night became a hon- eycomb of narrow corridors and antechambers.

Most of those chambers contained straw-filled pallets and crumpled, stained blankets. Substantially more pallets than there were inmates to fill them. If he and Deymorin were forced to spend another night here, it was quite possible that they might do so in slightly more comfort than last night.

Or (images of Ganfrion and his pack intruded) they might not.

There were two men seated side by side in the latrine comparing philosophies of purgatives when he arrived. One voice, at least, belonged to last night's pack.

Mikhyel ducked into the nearest stone pocket to await their departure.

Their conversation drifted from purgatives, to politics, to prostitutes. Based on a mixture of fact, rumor, and innu- endo from all over the web, they created a curious kaleido- scopic view of the world above. As Mikhyel waited in increasing discomfort, he decided that if a man truly wanted to test the pulse of the City, he should find just such a spot juxtaposed to the public latrines and set up constant surveillance.

"So, think they'll trip us fer th' fun'ral?"

The second man's response was little more than a mum- ble, but it roused coarse laughter.

"Hah. Web's fried. Frizzled. Old Annie-girl's dead or near enough as makes no never mind. Sooner th' better, I sez. Or bitch runs th' web like it's 'er own friggin' dinkin- rod. She goes, th' web goes" A noise followed Mikhyel did not believe originated in the man's throat. "Ask me if I gives a fuck."

More mumbling.

"Shit, no. I jes hopes she takes that fuckin' asshole of a nevvie with 'er."

A pause for mumbles, then: "Naw. Those ain't the Rho- mandi, more's the pity. Jes one more batcha fakes. I 'mem- ber that black-haired second. Mean-lookin' bastard.

Proud." A pause, then laughter. "This 'un, he had practice."

A pause. Laughter. Mikhyel stared into the shadows and waited, coldly indifferent.

"Yup. Frustrated as 'ell. All prepared fer a bit more per- sonal attention, ol' Gan was. Has a taste fer th' hiller-brats.

Too bad blackie ain't dunMheric. Mebbe get us pard'ns, each 'n ever' one uv us, bein' so restrained an' all in our urges. 'Say again? Yeah, well leastwise long 'nough f go f th' old ringbat's immersin'. 'Ell of a party at'll be. Ever'

damn shiny-pocket, tax-eatin' thief in th' web'll be there."

More mumbling.

"Private immersin'? That'sthat's uncivilized! Cheats th'

lightfingers, it does! Big funeral like that 'un should be all the rich-uns, all that weepin' an' wailin'hells, we'd be set up fer good n' all. Then we get th' 'ell outta here afore they locks us back Ah-h-h. That's it fer me."

Mumbling and the splash of water, and the area was free. Finally.

The prison's plumbing was simple. Rainwater, collected in cisterns somewhere above ground, exited here in con- trolled, narrow streams from spouts along the wall. Cupped stone basins received and pooled it for washing, then fun- neled it to a urinal channel along the wall, flushing liquid waste down past the seats (where the previous users had been so leisurely enthroned) and ultimately, he would sup- pose, to the ley itself, where such human by-products, in the manner of the ley, disappeared, to nourish the growth of another generation of leythium crystals.

Off to one side, a slate-edged sunken pool provided cool, but clean, bathing water, and piped spigots, filled from somewhere outside the cavern, gave foaming liquid.

Suds. He frowned, irritated that the memory of last night had any power still to disturb his thoughts. No reason a man couldn't stay clean here. Provided, of course, he was allowed to bathe in peace.

He was wondering, as he refastened his clothing, what the odds of that happening might be, when a blow between his shoulders sent him up against the stone wall. He re- bounded, scrambling for balance on the shallow conduit's slick stone.

A hand imprisoned his wrist and twisted his arm back and up between his shoulders. A large body pressed him hard against the stone.

"You are left-handed, aren't you. Suds?"

He hadn't the breath to answer, even had he been so inclined. Anger flared. And fear, as Deymorin sensed his anger and surged to his feet, out there beneath the stairs.

Ignoring his captor, Mikhyel wished Deymorin to be calm, to stay where he was, and he knew relief when Deymorin settled.

"You don't have to answer," the voiceGanfrionwas saying. "I know. I remember those white fingerssigning my death sentence."

So, the secret was no longer. He said nothing, still think- ing primarily of Deymorin and calm. But that was patently false. He remembered every man he'd ever sentenced to death, and this Ganfrion was not one of them. Ganfrion was trying to goad him into Another twist threatened every joint in his arm. He clamped his jaw on a cry of protest.

"I could take you here and now, dunMheric." Spittle dribbled a cold, slimy trail down his neck. "I could take you and leave you for the rest. They're over there, dunMheric.

Waiting. You could be dead before that big brother of yours even missed you."

"I'm not"

Ganfrion's lower body slammed his into the irregular stone of the wall, obliterating his protest. Ganfrion's other hand buried itself in his hair, took a twist and pulled, arch- ing his head back, forcing eye contact. The too-close face swam in time with the throb in his head and body. He stared through the image, thinking of Deymorin and calm.

"I know who you are, Lord Supreme High Justice Mi- khyel Rhomandi dunMheric." The hissed whisper was for his ear alone. "That smooth chin threw me off at first, but I remember that look of yours, lawyer-man, and your Tower-born airs, and I'm here to tell you, it did my heart good to see you on your knees in front of me, you arrogant son-of-a-whore."

Another driving thrust of hip and arm sent shafts of pain through his body and drove the air from his lungs. Mikhyel pressed his face against the cold stone, closing his eyes against gray-and-gold swirls that seemed to surge toward him and fall away at one and the same time.

{Stay where you are, Deymorin. Stay calm. Mikhyel is fine.} The thought became a litany in his mind.

The pressure eased enough for him to draw breath.

"Do you remember me, dunMheric? Or do you throw so many lives away they all blur together? Do you remem- ber? Do you know why I'm here?"

That was" almost too easy. Only a handful of offenses could legitimately land a man in this particular grotto.

"Murder, I should imagine." His gasping after breath robbed the comment of the indifference he sought, and Ganfrion chuckled, a throaty, mocking sound.

"Not rape? You wound my pride, lawyer-man."

"On the con" His answer collapsed in a grunt, as someone entered the latrine and Ganfrion leaned his full weight on him.

His arm and shoulders were on fire, his feet were going numb. He fought for balance against slippery stone and Ganfrion's deliberately shifting weight, while the unknown inmate urinated quickly, and as quickly departed, politely ignoring their presence.

When they were alone, the pressure eased, and Mikhyel continued on a gasping intake of breath, "trary. I was implying your pleasure didn't require force."

"Funny man. Clever man," said the whisper in his ear.

With a parting thrust, the massive weight let up. The hold on his wrist relaxed and guided the numb limb to a controlled drop. But he wasn't fool enough to believe himself free.

"Assassin, as happens," Ganfrion continued. "Politically felicitous elimination. The system taking a good dump.

Hardly the same thing as common murder."

"If you insist."

"And do you know who hired me?" The hand worked its way up his arm, rubbing gently. Solicitously. Mocking his weakness. "Do you know who promised, on her honor, I'd not be prosecuted if I were caught?"

"Should I care?"

"Oh, yes, Lord Justice, I think you should."

The answer was suddenly obvious. Mikhyel glanced back. "Anheliaa."

"Clever, clever, lad. Suds." Fingers infiltrated his hair to caress his scalp, paused and took a ruthless twist. "And do you know who I was hired to kill?"

"Me?" It was an embarrassingly small, choked sound he made, but the fingers smoothed his hair aside, booking it over his shoulder, then slid down and around his waist.

"Now, Suds, you know better than that. Try again."

"Deymorin." Again, obvious. And it meant Ganfrion had been here a minimum of seven months. Likely longer.

"Very good. Suds."

He tried to remember back. Tried to remember the man's name, his face. Certainly, he'd never have forgotten the charge. If Ganfrion were telling the truth Warm breath on his cheek, a brush of rough-trimmed beard. "Still so smooth. What do you do. Lord Justice, wear a fake to hide the fact you haven't the baits to grow your own?"

Mikhyel stared straight ahead, ignoring that touch, ignor- ing the taunt, both intended to shake him from the fact that the man's story didn't fit. Assassin: possible. Hired by Anheliaa: also possible. But an attempt on Deymorin . . .