A sob, buried in a shivering crook of arm. Rough stone riddled his back, bit deeper as he pushed back, fighting to escape the windand the memories.

He told himself it was over. Bharlori's was gone. Bharlo was. And dead meant gone forever, never mind the dreams.

("Murderer!") He jumped, searching wildly. But the scream rose out of his dreams, not the streets below.

Dreams. He'd let his guard slip, let himself drift off. That was stupid. He hadn't seen or heard a search party in hours, but that didn't mean Rhyys had given up.

Murderer. He didn't know how many had died at his hands. Bharlo, was certain. The man he'd knifed in his mad rush to the door, that was likely as well. Of the others, of the fire, it didn't matter. Rhyys wanted someone to blame; that someone might as well be Thyerri, ex-dancer of Bharlori's.

And Thyerri was to blame. That was the true horror.

Bhario was dead, and by his hand, no one else's. He'd tried, tried so hard to save the man that was the closest thing to a father he'd ever known. His back still throbbed with the pain of trying to carry the owner's large body from the flames.

But Sakhithe had thrown a cloak that reeked of ocarshi over him and Sakhithe had made him leave Bhario, the flames . . . made him leave . . . everything. And she'd been with him, but then she was gone, ripped from his clinging fingers, and Rhyys was screaming invective and accusations at him, through the smoke and the fire that had spread to other buildings.

He'd run, then, mindless in his panic, seeking only to escape those who had responded to Rhyys, those seeking someone to blame for the devastation around them.

He'd struck and thrust. Perhaps killed again: there was a knife hilt in his hand now. Not the jeweled one, just plain leather and seviceable steel. Though it might as well have been that other knife. He'd pulled that free, but dropped it when the blood had fountained and he'd tried to stanch it with his hands.

Perhaps he'd killed, perhaps just intended to kill himself.

There was blood on the plain knife, and a wound in his side that throbbed in the cold wind and with his every shuddering breath.

The glacial wind whipped hair and fringe until the ends shredded him like a flail's lash. He tightened his hold on the plain hilt and slashed mindlessly until nothing touched his body except the ruthlessly honest wind that carried away hair and fringe alike.

The long dark strands flying away failed to rouse any sense of loss. He'd dyed his hair after the competition, made it black as night, trying to become something he was not. Trying to hide who and what he'd been, but to cut it, that had been admitting too much, admitting he'd never dance the rings again.

Now, it just didn't seem to matter.

Nothing seemed to matter any more.

Bhario was dead.

Perhaps Sakhithe was, as well.

He'd found a home, only to lose it again. Except he hadn't lost it. He'd destroyed it.

The cloak lay beside him, useless where it was, except that by its absence from his shoulders, he might freeze to his death. But most likely, he'd only become increasingly uncomfortable, unable to move, until They found him and dragged him away and refused to ever let him die, forcing him to remember all he'd been and all he'd done.

Except that the fire wasn't his fault. The fire never had been hi9rfault, and he wouldn't let them make it that way, wouldn't passively accept the sentence of lifelong guilt they intended'to lay upon his soul.

Bharlori had challenged Rakshi and lost. Bharlori had made a pact with a cruel and evil and stupid man, and tragedy had occurred.

His guilt lay elsewhere. His guilt lay in anger and pride.

He should never have danced. Should never have gone back into that room, knowing his soul was already compromised.

Fighting the wind for possession, he got the heavy fabric over his shoulders, and curled the flapping edges over his knees, and himself around his quivering, empty gut.

The fire was out. The shouting had stopped. Bharlo was dead, his gamble with Rakshi's whim was over.

But Thyerri's own challenge, his desecration of his gift . . . would Rakshi consider that debt settled? If so, perhaps now it would be safe to sleep.

Perhaps now, the nightmares would stay away.

"He's bolted." The smug, dry tone could have been Deymorin, but it wasn't. "Consider yourself fortunate, m'lord dunMheric, and hope he keeps his mouth shut on your business."

Mikhyel pressed his lips over the retort that rose instinc- tively to the Deymorin-like provocation, replied instead and calmly: "It certainly appears that way, Ori. Nonethe- less, instruct the stable manager to watch for him, and to send him to Brother Riner for direction." He threw his Guard Captain what he hoped was a knowing glance. "In case he's been . . . held up again."

"Held up? In Barsitum? M'lord, there's not a brothel within a day's ride of here!"

So much for knowing. Mikhyel clamped his jaw, and hoped the heat in his face wasn't visible here in the shad- owed opening of the cave.

"Get the men mounted," he ordered and retreated inside to tell his own small staff that they were, indeed, leaving, and to give his final respects to the monks who had saved his life years ago, and whose small, but vital node had been his rejuvenating home for the past few days.

Ganfrion was gone. According to Ori, the mercenary had disappeared two days ago, a fact Ori had kept to himself until this morning, when the time came to leave and Gan- frion still hadn't returned.

But Mikhyel couldn't blame the captain for that omis- sion. By his own order, Ganfrion had been free to roam as he pleased, his only duty to wander the streetsor in the case of Barsitum, the underground bathsand listen. If that duty kept him out of the barracks late, or even overnight, Ori had been under instructions not to challenge him.

The captain hadn't liked that. Hadn't liked including Ganfrion in the entourage any more than Deymorin had.

And likely he was right. Likely Deymorin was. Likely Gan- frion was a liability, with his attitudes that bordered on disrespect and highly questionable contactsattributes which had, of course, been his primary value. Now he was gone, in all likelihood selling who-knew-what information to who-knew-whom.

Mikhyel didn't know why he should expect otherwise; he'd always known gut instinct made a bad adviser.

Of course, even if he had judged Ganfrion correctly, Ganfrion's leaving still made a certain sense. He'd hired the man to look into shadows, to be his eyes and ears in places he couldn't go.

Hired him, and then ignored him . . . even, truthfully, shunned his company.

Before Shatum, there'd been no time. And then, Dey- morin had joined them and Deymorin and Ori had made it eminently clear to Ganfrion that he wasn't going to be trusted, regardless of what Mikhyel had promised. His brother's ability to come between Ganfrion and himself must have made it all too obvious to Ganfrion that the man who had hired him had no power to enforce his plans.

He'd had his chance, that first night here in Barsitum.

He could have offered Ganfrion a friendly invitation. In- stead, he'd made it clear to Ganfrion with every comment, every suspicious glance, that his presence was merely toler- ated among civilized men, not welcomed.

Civilized. He imagined Ganfrion had a much different term for his employer and his ilk.

After the incident in the baths, there'd been no reason for Ganfrion to see his employer as anything other than another too-rich, too-self-centered Syndic he could bend to his advantage, to free himself from prison (yet again), to put money in his pocket, and give him a free ride to his next den of iniquity.

Under the circumstances, he'd leave himself.

He supposed he should organize a search party, issue a warrant. But he wouldn't. He'd not penalize Ganfrion for his bad judgment.

The odds had been long, Mikhyel had known that from the start, and when one gambled, one had to be prepared to lose. One simply reminded oneself that the primary func- tion of this trip had been official posing, not true informa- tion, and one proceeded with the posing and the passing about of papers and was content.

Or so he told the disillusion that tightened his throat and sharpened his voice as he made his good-byes to the good monks of Barsitum, and climbed into the carriage that would take him across Persitum ley and on into the North- ern Crescent.

And as the carriage lurched into motion, he found him- self searching the distance, questioning his judgment again, wondering if Ganfrion hadn't bolted but gotten into serious trouble . . . somewhere. He couldn't see Ganfrion simply leaving. Ganfrion would have a point to make, a final insult to throw.

On the other hand, possibly he'd been overly influenced by Ganfrion's diverse and colorful history and had imbued the man with qualities of his own desire rather than made a rational analysis of character.

Mikhyel cursed softly and pulled the shade across the back window, cutting off the retreating view.

"Not your concern, master Khyel," Raulind said, from his forward seat. "Gan has been on his own from the begin- ning. You made that perfectly clear, and he was more than slept, and so he came back, waiting for the activity around the area to end, hoping to lay Bharlori's spirit to rest.

Somehow.

The scavengers who came with Sakhithe had come with purpose. She pointed to places, and they dug and pried stones from the floor, sometimes without result, other time pulling small bags or even boxes from the holes thus revealed.

The employees' personal hoards, Thyerri realized slowly.

His own lay untouched beneath the ashes near the ovens.

He'd forgotten about his money, had always thought it should be Bharlo's, for all he'd hidden it. Sakhithe had shown him where.

As shd'must have similarly advised the other employees, from her actions now.

Thyerri thought, perhaps, he should feel betrayed, but he did not think Sakhithe was a willing participant. Sakhithe did not look well. Her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed, and when she directed the scavengers, it was with a word and a listlessly raised finger.

One man, in particular, stood beside her, and his hand was always on her, keeping her close, touching her in ways that made Thyerri think that, perhaps, he hated that man.

Only after they had gone, taking Sakhithe with them, did he realize that she'd never pointed the diggers to that ash- filled corner that contained his cache, for all it was obvi- ously undisturbed.

Helping him, even now, in the only way she could. Hop- ing he was alive and able to make use of his earnings. And in gratitude and friendship, he wished her well, for all he knew that was useless, for she was in the Tower now, and she'd been a dancer.

Rhyys needed no more incentive to destroy her.

When night closed around him, Thyerri slunk out onto Bharlo's tomb and wept, as he'd not done since the fire.

He cried for Bharlo, who was gone, and for the others whose fates he didn't know. And he cried for Sakhithe, who would be happier dead, and who had saved his life and protected his tiny hoard, on the chance he still lived.

And when the tears were gone, and there was nothing left inside him, neither sorrow nor guilt nor hope, he pried the stone up, and lifted out his life.

That night, Bharlo did not visit him.

content with that autonomy. If he's in trouble now, it's his job to extricate himself."

Mikhyel laughed wryly. "Tell me, Raul, how long have you been able to read my mind?"

"Since the day I carried you into the womb, child."

It was an old joke between them, but this time, the an- swer had new meaning. Even the remote humor vanished as suspicion swelled.

"No, Khyel," Raul assured him gently, "Not as you hear your brothers. Just as someone who cared enough to listen and watch and remember. The half-dead man-child they brought to me that day had no secrets left, only self- proclaimed caretakers who refused to see the truth."

"Truth? What trutW"

"That it wasn't a battered and broken child they brought to Barsitum, but a brave soldier, wounded in the line of duty. That it wasn't pity they should accord him, but respect."

Respect, perhaps, for the lad who got the best of dunHaulpin . . . Pity and respect. The difference between Deymorin's response to the past . . . and Ganfrion's.

"Once again, Raul," he said slowly, "you give me insight into myself."

"Very good, master Khyel Now, about Moisaiidum's import taxes . . ."

~ d