TWENTY-FIFTH DAY.

Her master's chamber hadn't changed much. It was still un-fashionably cluttered, packed full with bits and pieces. He always said he knew where everything was, always seemed to know which pile of paper had what information amidst the red and black cushions, white rug, blue wall hangings, redwood lapdesk. A comfortable clutter. One of the places I first felt safe.

He taught me how to read as well as steal. A F'talezonian smell, burning blackrock and incense, with the underlying tang of rock.

Master Yarishk looked much older than he should have. The Guildwars must be very bad, Rilla thought.

Those Red Brotherhood upstarts. The Thieves Guild was a F'talezonian institution; outsiders seemed unable to grasp that the only real way to control crime was to organize it. Otherwise the city would be overrun with amateurs and freelancers, you wouldn't be able to buyreliable protection or get stolen goods back undamaged at reasonable prices.

"You need to see the Tyrant himself, hmmm?" her Guildmaster said, thumbing through the documents she had brought and making tsk-tsk noises. "No one lower will do? Why not the Woyvodaana?"

She shook her head emphatically. "She's supporting Habiku."

"Ah. Well. There might be someone we could bribe to get you into an audience, but I can't guarantee she won't know." A pause. "On the other hand, our sources say she's been denying Habiku audience. Possibly a lover's quarrel, but she always did have a good sense of political timing."

Rilla looked down at the sealed packet. "I have to risk it." She tugged at the fringe on the cushion.

"Master, how bad is he now?"

He rubbed his wrinkled, deft old hands together, ran them through his thin, steel-grey hair. "Bad. Paying for blood. The court is becoming a very mad place, literally.

They're playing insanity to stay below Ranion's notice and too many of them are starting to believe their pretence."

"I'll have to appeal to his craziness, then."

"Carefully, child, carefully. If you must, well, I won't stop you, but I'd hate to lose one of our best journeymen." A smile, crooked teeth. "Even if you and your cousin are neglecting your first Guild for the Rivermaster's."

Ranion lounged in his cushions and whitefox furs, petting one of the snow leopards. The audience chamber was white this week. White hangings, white furs, white pets, white clothing; it amused the DragonLord to violate the Zak tradition of formality.The courtiers rustled and whispered in white linen and silk. Fresh roses lighter than cream stood in alabaster vases. The only black spot in the room was Ranion's hair and clothing and his two guardian greathounds; even the enamel armor of the guards who stood motionless along the walls had been redone.

Rilla lay on her face just in from the door, waiting permission to crawl forward and rise.

He is crazy, she thought, fear clenching her stomach tight, remembering the guided tour that had taken her past the pits where the sirrush-lau were feeding. No DragonLord before him had demanded more than the bow of respect, or sinking to one knee on state occasions. His eyes are mad.

"Come here," he drawled languidly. Then, "Rise. I am informed you had something amusing to tell me."

She rose carefully to her knees, keeping her eyes down after one horrified glance at the flame-eagle picked out in black and crimson on the wall behind the five dragon heads of the throne. The Dark Lord's symbol. Ranion lounged beneath it, his face still the too-white pastiness she remembered, but the slim lines of his body were thickened by a small potbelly, obscene on a man of only twenty-five years.

Goddess, forgive, protect, she thought, skimming rapidly through her plan and the new court etiquette.

"Yes, Dread Lord." He must be starting to imagine he's the Dark Lord himself. May he meet the real thing and be disabused. "If I have your permission?" A nod.

She broke the seals of the package in her hand. "This is the text of a message in the hand of Habiku called Smoothtongue, self-claimed ClawPrince and junior master of the Rivermaster's and Merchanter's guilds. It is addressed to Schlem Valdersson, Senior Executor for the Council of Three of Thanelandt."Ranion's face took on a petulant frown. "Why should he be writing to them?"

Rilla speeded her words. "It is in code, Dread Lord, but the cypher is known to me and your officers, who can authenticate. It concerns you." His brows rose, and she cleared her throat. "Please, Dread Lord, these are Habiku's words; otherwise I would rather-"

"Yes, yes. Proceed."

"... as to Ranion, his madness proceeds apace. The city as a whole has lost all respect for him, and it is only a matter of time before their anger at his stupidities, gross mismanagement of the city's finances and defenses, and inattention to anything but his own perverted amusements renders anger greater than fea-"

"Cease! Be silent!" Ranion was on his feet, face purple, hands clenched. The greathounds were up, their basso snarling echoing from the stone of the walls behind the hangings. The ranked courtiers murmured in horror.

A very dangerous child to have a tantrum, she thought and bowed her head lower. "You!" He gestured to one of the guards. "Bring that here."

Ranion scanned it quickly once it was in his hands, dropped it and called for cloths to clean his hands with.

"I'll feed him to my-"

"Ranion, dear, sweet love." Avritha's voice purred.

He wheeled on her and visibly calmed.

"Yes, my beauty?" He sank back down on his cushions, held out a hand to her. She rose from her cushion with the courtier Uen's hand to help her up.

Her skirts rustled like paper, creamy roses woven into blue-white, her raven hair shimmering under a white fall of lace, red lips smiling at the Woyvode."Why not let the ClawPrince put him in her Cage, my love? Wouldn't that be amusing?' She ran a hand down his arm, raised his hand to her cheek. "You could see her do it." Her voice was warm as white velvet. "Then, perhaps, you could go and view the Cage at times, and see how he's altered. So boring, corpses."

Ranion leaned back, stroking the lace on her hair as absently as he stroked the snow leopard. "Megan Whitlock." His eyelids drooped, dark eyes glittering through his lashes. "That would be interesting.

Wouldn't it? Amusing?" The court obediently murmured agreement, tittering. "Yes. I've heard so much of this Cage." His eyes took on a musing look.

"Really, it's quite clever to bring it closer, and closer, and closer..."

"ClawPrince." He directed his gaze on her. "I find that the usurper Habiku has wrongfully stolen your birthright. And your cousin's, of course." He waved a hand negligently. "This judgment holds if-if your cousin brings him to my little mezem, alive, and punishes him there."

He raised one finger. "As long as I don't have to find against you or your House, for property damage in the city. I do have my beloved people to care for. Do I not?"

The question was addressed to the court. "Oh, yes, Dread Lord." The answer came very quickly, not too loud, a rippling murmur.

"Dread Lord, pardon my ignorance, unused to following the lightning-swift play of your wisdom. Am I to understand that we, that is my cousin and I and our followers, are to defeat Habiku, seize the House and its assets, and bring him and the, ah, the Cage here to the Nest?"

"Yes! Yes!" Ranion was bouncing on the cushions.

"It's so Arkan!" He must have seen her bewilderment; what did a House feud have to do with the Empire? "I'mvery much taken with Arkan ways, lately. Aren't we?" he asked the court. There was a murmur of agreement.

There were murmurs of, "kellin, kellin," the cry the spectators in the arena of Arko gave when the gladiator struck the killing blow. "I've got my own little, umm, mezem-" Suddenly Rilla understood it was the horribly mispronounced Arkan word for "arena" the DragonLord used. "-here in the Nest, that's where we'll have it. But the whole city will be my mezem." A frown. "You may go now. Clerk, send a transcript of this audience to Habiku Smooth-to Habiku Cagedweller.

Those very words. "

"... dweller." Habiku looked up from the sealed transcript.

"I am to understand that the DragonLord is placing me under arrest?"

"No." The armored hand extended for the document, which was to be read once and returned. There was no nonsense of a single trooper this time; a full hand of hands, under the banner of House Skydragon, the ruler's personal sign.

"These are the words of the Dread Lord, let all hear and obey. The dispute between yourself and Megan Whitlock is declared private. She may enter the city but not leave, nor any of hers, until the affair is finished.

Neither may you leave, ClawPrince, nor any of yours; the gates are barred. Any damage to persons or property outside the House of the Sleeping Dragon will be punished under the usual laws. All other actions taken by servants of the House will be considered outside the law for the duration of the feud; only the principal who is brought to judgment at the Nest will be held accountable." He paused. "Clear?"

Habiku nodded. "And if I win?"

The officer examined the tips of his gauntlet. "If we are to deal in the hypothetical... I am instructed to saythat, in that event, there will be a personal settling of crimes and accounts."

Habiku knew what that meant; execution for him personally, or possibly even the chance to commit suicide, pardon for his followers and the House assets to go to whatever collateral heirs could be found. Only Ramon's word, but the pattern was whimsical enough for him; this would mean that Habiku's personal followers were assured that they would not fall under the Nest's proscription if they fought for him. Actually, a threat of displeasure if they did desert him, and deprived Ranion of his long-distance gladitorial contest.

And Mother, he thought. No way out of the city for her; the secret lower ways would be barred to him, and the main gate was the strongest single fortress in the known world, nothing passed it without official approval. Not that she could survive a winter journey now, in any case. This was a promise of pardon for her, as well.

Habiku nodded curtly and waited for the troops to withdraw from his entrance hall.

"He's insane! Habiku yelled, throwing a jug against the wall and wheeling on his steward. Lixa stood behind him, smiling, smiling. "You won't survive me, bitch," the tall man snarled. "You, steward. You're not at personal risk, and nobody will employ you if you run now. Send word to the River Quarter that a pound of dreamdust is offered as wage to any who'll fight for me.

I'll win yet. Offer twice the usual wage and the promise of permanent employment to any freeblade-"

Chapter Twenty-Two.

THIEVES GUILDHALL, F'TALEZON.

THIRTEENTH IRON CYCLE, FIRST DAY.

DAGDE VROI, YEAR END"He's insane! The man is stark, raving, mad!" Megan said with genuine horror as her cousin relayed the DragonLord's message.

"You don't know the half of it, coz," Rilla replied, remembering the atmosphere of the Nest. "And it's catching."

Megan leaped to her feet and began pacing. She and her chief officers were housed in the Guildhall; not the conventional major complex of Guild buildings on a main Middle City street. Even in F'talezon, there were limits to how openly an organization of thieves, assassins, fences, protection-sellers, smugglers, ganglords and jailbreakers could operate.

Consequently, the main chambers of the Hall were scattered over half an acre of the city's north slope; the connecting passages might be secret, aboveground or both, the rooms themselves sealed-off portions of ostensibly legitimate buildings. Some were legitimate; the thieves had long had a working relationship with the Rivermasters Guild, and cooperated often.

This room looked like a counting house basement; the grilled windows were at street level. It had been a record room in her apprentice days; there were still a few racks of scrolls against the walls. Shkai'ra fluffed up a cushion and leaned back on one elbow, watching Sova across the room as she industriously burnished her helmet.

"It's crazy enough," she agreed. "Why so angry, kh'eeredo? Clears the decks for us. Not as neat as having Ranion scrag him, of course."

Megan halted and laughed bitterly. "Patriotism," she said. "I've been away two years, and it's like seeing a friend after that long, one who has a wasting illness.

Day to day you don't notice it. Bad enough the city services are run down the way they are, raw sewage spilling into the water and so forth even during the good years, but Ranion's allowing a private war withinthe walls!" She paused, silent and brooding, continued in a slower tone: "I can remember, when I was a little girl, only the nobles had household troopers, and they were more like police than soldiers. Only people down in the River Quarter went armed with more than a single knife, and even there an open fight was gossip for the whole town for a month. It's been getting worse... the Red Brotherhood going around opening eggs with maces, House feuds, Guildwars... Goddess, it's been getting worse since long before I was born. So my parents said, at least, and the chronicles."

Shkai'ra thought back to the road up from the harbor, switching back and forth along the slope, with forts at each turn. The cyclopean works down at the cavern, towers and battlements carved from the rock, springsteels, dartcasting wheels, rock- and flame-throwing engines, endless rows of slips for warships. Then the main gate into the city, a broad smooth tunnel right through the ridge into the valley, with a hulking castle atop it and portal after portal.

Even greater fortifications on the other side of the little river that divided the town, and mountains everywhere else around, burrowed and tunneled with diggings, slits for ambushes, secret roads. Street after street, paved and walled and roofed with slate of grey and black, unburnable.

"You're right," she said. "This is the strongest city I've ever seen, stronger even than Rand or Illizbuah, smaller but stronger. The only enemies you've got here are the ones you let in yourselves." A pause.

"Ourselves," she corrected.

Megan nodded, and Rilla echoed her. "Habiku's a boil we have to lance," she said. "After that, cure the disease."

The Zak commander knelt and her subordinates gathered around the map. "We have to take the House."She looked up at Shkai'ra, a few others of the naZak.

"That means more than my home, the building, although that's the heart of it. My manor..." She blinked, thinking. Can be turned into a fortress and I can't count on him not having found my private ways in.

Then there's the warehouses down on the docks, repair yards, workshops... a lot of the capital is tied up in materials put out to private artisans, but they don't count, they're independent contractors, not House servants. Furthermore, we have to take everything without damaging the bystanders."

The junior Master representing the Guild spoke.

"Master Varik said to warn you that the Red Brotherhood will be intervening... We will not, although we wish you well." He sniffed; it had been barely a century since the Red Brotherhood split from the Guild, and the older organization's members still despised its parvenu greed and crudity. "Against policy. However, he does say that any Brotherhood bravos you kill will be credited to you. Unfortunately, you will be fighting mostly dreamdust addicts. Over a hundred, and several score gangblades from unaffiliated or Brotherhood packs."

"Fishguts." Megan turned her back. "Numerous, and completely indifferent to death."

Shkai'ra shrugged. "Rabble, and I doubt if they're well-armed."

Megan turned back to the guildsman. "My thanks,"

she said. It would be unfair to expect the Guild as a whole to do more for her; it was an umbrella organization of independent entrepreneurs, after all, each with their own interests.

"It is nothing," the guildsman said, rising. "Oh, one more thing, Master Whitlock. From Master Varik, in his personal capacity. It seems, with so much time to prepare, Habiku has made an elaborate plan, involvinga reserve to be committed against you when your main attack is made." A thin smile. "In Master Varik's opinion, this simplistic plan is perhaps due to listening to too many stories of kingly heroism. In any case, here it is, as of this morning's updating.

"There are a number of 'troops' he's stationing in these tunnels, here," he pointed. "Around the manor."

"You mean that once we're committed and all of us are in the tunnels, they'll take us in the back," Shkai'ra said.

"In effect, yes." The guildsman barely nodded to her.

"We'll take the warehouses first. He's waiting for us in the House, isn't he?" Megan looked to the junior master who nodded. "Right. Let him sweat. We'll take it back a bite at a time and since it's Dagde Vroi, we can use the masking and costumes, and so forth, to our advantage."

She tapped one claw against her front teeth, looked at Shyll and Shkai'ra. "You two and the Ri are going to be one big festival trick and everyone is going to be looking for the witch casting the illusion." She smiled.

"No one is going to know that you're real until it's too late, especially dusters."

The Stairs were the nearest thing F'talezon had to a main street: stairs indeed, from the River Quarter in the southwest to the main gate, then a road smooth and broad enough for carts in the same direction after that to the main market square; stairs once more past the Lady Shrine and up to the Dragon'sNest. Tonight was the first of Dagde Vroi, and the whole length was thronged with the folk of F'talezon lit by the erie glow of kraumak light, and the red of torches. A light snow sifting down out of a night sky glowing with the reflection, flakes falling slow and fluff-huge into the bowl of light. Carnival in a city of witches, Zak in costumes real or magical, depending on the strength oftheir talent or the depth of their pouches. The festival days when nothing was forbidden...

A woman dressed in her best felt coat and boots, light brown braids falling to her waist, attended by three flying ribbons that chased each other around her, fluttering in the wind.

A man with translucent wings, butterfly gossamer with hints of pastel colors.

A child dancing with an animated wooden puppet of a dog, its wooden paws clicking in time to his shoes.

Glowing eyes and hair wreathed in hot orange flames, a girl followed by a six-foot lizard with the head of a man.

Three boys stood on one of the steps of the street, between a clothier's shop and a silversmith's, with intense concentration on their faces. Above their heads, suspended in mid-air, a girl dressed in red feathers shrieked at them and swore and scrambled at nothing, trying to get down. She stopped yelling, started concentrating, and one of the boy's eyes opened very wide. They let her down.

And up the center of the street, two of the finest illusions seen that night: tableaux, group presentations; there were artisan clubs who saved and slaved for most of a year to fit themselves out for such.

First, two teRyadn trotting on either side of a greathound, pursued by a Ryadn mounted on her Ri; all surrounded by the illusion of the rippling, knee-high feathergrass of the Ryadn steppe. The noise of festival died down about them, ahhhs of admiration going up, passers-by following to point and exclaim. All Zak had some access to the manrauq, the magical talent, but the skill needed to build so complete a moving scene, to transform the sight and sound and even smell of three ordinary Zak, a pony and a mongrel hound into this. It was quite out of the ordinary.Of course, it was not faultless. The figures' feet dipped below the surface of the "grass," and there was a wavering indistinctness to some outlines that a sharp eye could detect... and the flitterkitten on the Ryadn's shoulder was a failure in research, they were uncommon anywhere outside the Brezhan valley, but all in all, though, a lovely piece of work.

"Shit," Shkai'ra muttered under her breath, looking ahead to Shyll and Sova, trotting by Inu's side, back to the second "tableaux. " Her Ri, Hotblood, took the opportunity to stretch that impossibly flexible neck out toward Inu's hindquarters.