Her eight warriors and Daphne were already hard at work. On the sand, Gestas and Dismas slashed at each other with real weapons, testing each other, each secure in the other's skill and control. To the inexperienced eye it looked like the final climax of a long and bitter blood-feud. She nodded approvingly.

These eight were the best the Rankan arenas had produced. There were no longer crowds to fight for, no games, no purses, but she was d.a.m.ned if she'd let that fine training fade.

Daphne stood attentively beside Dayme before a rack of weights. She was dressed much like Chenaya, but without the leather belt. That honor was reserved for one who'd triumphed in an arena death match. Daphne had never fought. But looking at the scratches and bruises on the young woman's legs, recalling how she'd disposed of the brothel keeper, Chenaya wondered just how long it would be before she too wore the band of an accomplished warrior. Daphne hung on Dayrne's instruction as he explained a particular curling movement, and she took the heavy weight without complaint when he told her to. Her face twisted in a grimace as she strained, but she executed the motion perfectly.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Chenaya said as she joined them. "Up at dawn every day, working until your body aches all over, bleeding or bruising in places you never knew you had? It's no life for a Rankan lady."

Daphne performed one more perfect exercise, then she set the weight aside. She met Chenaya's gaze unflinchingly. The sun shone brilliantly in those dark eyes, shimmered in the thick, black l.u.s.ter of her hair. She pointed to the mottling on her legs. "There's no place I haven't bruised or bled already." She crossed to another rack, took down an old sword. The hilt was too big for her grip and the blade too long, but that didn't matter to Daphne. "And you're a lady, Chenaya."

She said the words as if they were an accusation. "Yet you slaughtered half a dozen men to break me out of that h.e.l.l on Scavengers' Island and another six at the quay before we got away. On top of that you saved us from those men last night. You ask if I want this?" She raised the sword between them and shook it so the sunlight rippled on the keen edge. "Cousin, this is freedom I hold in my hand! With this, you go anywhere, do anything you wish. No man dares touch you unless you want him to. No one orders you. Nothing frightens you. Well, I want that same freedom, Chenaya. I want it, and I'll have it!"

Chenaya regarded Daphne for a long, cool moment, wondering what door she was about to open for the younger woman. Daphne was but a few years her junior, but an age of experience separated them. Still, there was a fire in Daphne's eyes that had never been there before. She glanced once more at those scratches and bruises, then made up her mind.

"Then I'll train you as I'd train any slave or thief sent to the arena. When you stand on this field in those garments you're no more than the least of my men.

You'll do exactly what I or Dayrne or any of them tell you. If you don't you'll be beaten until you do. It will break your spirit, or it will make you tougher than ever before. I pray for the latter. If you agree, then you'll learn every trick and skill a gladiator could want, and you'll learn from the best teachers." Chenaya walked a tight circle around her new pupil. "Whether that will make you free or not ..." She faced Daphne again and shrugged. There were many kinds of freedom and many kinds of fear. But Daphne would have to learn that for herself. "Now, say that you agree to my terms. Swear it before the Bright Father, Savankala, himself."

Daphne hugged the sword to her breast. The sunlight that reflected from the blade made an amber blaze across her features as she swore. "By Savankala," she answered fervently. "But you won't beat me, Chenaya. No one will. I'll work twice as hard as your best man."

Chenaya hid a knowing grin. It was easy to say such a thing now. But when her muscles began to crack, when the training machines knocked her to the ground, after the first broken bone or the first slice of steel through skin- would she still prove so eager?

"Then pay attention to Dayrne. He'll be responsible for your daily regimen. Of all the men I ever fought in the games only he gave me a dangerous cut." She showed the pale scar that ran the length of her left forearm. "Couldn't bend or use it for nearly a month. Some physicians even thought I would lose it.

Fortunately, the G.o.ds favored me."

Daphne put on a smirk. "But I've heard rumors that you never lose."

Chenaya frowned. She had fostered the rumors herself to frighten opponents. Nor were the rumors untrue, though only she and Molin Torchholder knew the details of her relationship with Savankala the Thunderer. In truth, she couldn't lose at anything.

But here was a chance to teach Daphne an important first lesson. "It may be true that I cannot lose, Daphne," she said sternly, "but not losing is not the same as always winning. And remember, even winning can cost a very dear price. Be sure you're willing to pay it."

She turned away, but Daphne stopped her. "I've taken your vow, and on this ground as I train I'll call you Mistress as the others do." Something flared in the young woman's eyes, and her hand closed around Chenaya's wrist. "But you swear now, too, to remember your promise to me."

Calmly, but quite firmly, Chenaya freed herself from Daphne's grip. "I've already given you my promise. This afternoon I'll begin to search."

"I want a name, Mistress," Daphne hissed, giving special emphasis to the t.i.tle, "and I want a throat between my hands. Soon."

Chenaya reached out casually, seized Daphne's tunic, easily lifted the smaller woman up onto the tips of her toes. She pulled Daphne's face very close to her own. She could smell Daphne's breath. "Don't dictate to me; don't threaten, even with subtlety," Chenaya warned. "And don't ever play games with me." She set Daphne back on her feet and motioned for Dayrne to resume the training. "Now work hard. And make up your mind to let Dayrne touch you. Each day he'll ma.s.sage the soreness from your muscles." Then she winked. "And in four days you and I are going to a party."

"Where?" Daphne asked suspiciously.

"The Governor's Palace," she answered lightly. "Where else in this city?" She left Daphne then, chose a manica, a buckler, and a sword from the weapon stores and went to engage both Gestas and Dismas at once.

She had changed to leathers again to move through the afternoon streets. One sword hung from her weapon belt, and two daggers were thrust through straps on her thighs. She wore a heavy, hooded cloak to conceal her face and to keep out the chilly cold that seemed to bite right through to her bones.

In daylight, more people braved the streets. Apparently, the different factions that tried to carve up the city restricted their activities to nighttime. That suited her. She had plenty to attend to without the minor distractions of wild eyed fanatics.

The doors to the Temple of the Rankan G.o.ds stood open. She mounted the marble steps one at a time and went inside. At the entrance she paused, pushed back her hood, gazed around. The structure was magnificent, yet it had an odd, unfinished feel to it. The interior was lit by hundreds of lamps and braziers and by a huge skylight that illumined the prime altar with Savankala's own glory. Above the altar an immense sunburst of polished gold burned and shimmered and cast reflections around the huge chamber.

On either side of Savankala's altar were smaller altars to Sabellia and Vashanka. They were of equal beauty and craftsmanship, but they were illumined only by the fires of men. Marvelously carved figures of the G.o.ddess and her son rose behind their altars. Such a representation of Savankala was not allowed, however. A man could look upon the moon and stars; a man could see the lightning. But who could see the Thunder or bear to look upon the blazing face of the Bright Father Himself?

As she approached the sunlit altar a young, white-robed novice came forth to greet her. Chenaya made the proper obeisance to her G.o.d and ignited the stick of incense the young priest offered. She spoke a soft prayer and watched the smoke waft toward the open skylight.

When the incense was consumed she spoke to the novice. "Will you tell Rashan that I am here?"

He bowed gracefully. "He has been expecting you, Lady Chenaya." He left her, disappearing into the maze of corridors that honeycombed the temple.

Rashan, called the Eye of Savankala, appeared moments later. He was a grizzled old man. There was a toughness to his features that suggested he had not always been a priest. Or perhaps it was that difficult, she thought, to rise through the priestly hierarchy. It had taken him years to achieve his position and t.i.tle. Indeed, before the coming of Molin Torchholder, Rashan had been the High Priest of the Rankan faith in this part of the Empire.

He smoothed his gray beard, and his eyes showed a rare sparkle as he came forward. "Lady," he said, taking her hand. He dropped to one knee and lightly kissed her fingertips. "I was told to expect you."

She pulled him to his feet. "Oh, and who told you?"

He raised a finger toward the skylight. "He sends the signs and the portents.

You make no move He does not know about."

She laughed. "Rashan, you are too devout. The Bright Father has more to do than watch constantly over me."

But Rashan shook his head. "You must accept his plan for you, child," he urged.

"You are the Daughter of the Sun, the salvation and guardian of the Rankan faith."

She laughed again. "Are you still insisting on that? Look at me, Priest. I'm flesh and blood. I'm no priestess, and certainly no G.o.ddess. No matter how many dreams come to you, that will not change. I'm the daughter of Lowan Vigeles, nothing more."

Rashan bowed politely. "In time you will learn otherwise. It isn't for me to argue with Savankala's daughter. You will accept your heritage or reject it as fate decrees." He went to stand before the altar of Vashanka, and his shoulders slumped. "But there is a void in the pantheon. Vashanka has fallen silent and will not answer prayer." He turned and leveled a finger at her. "I tell you, Chenaya, if something has happened to the Son of Savankala, then the time will come for the Daughter to accept Her responsibilities."

"No more of this talk!" Chenaya snapped. "I tell you, Rashan, it borders on blasphemy. No more, I say!" She paused to collect herself. The first time Rashan had suggested such a thing it had frightened her beyond words. She herself had received dreams from the Bright Father, and she knew their power. In such a dream Savankala had granted her beauty, promised she would never lose at anything, and revealed the ultimate manner of her death. All in a single dream.

Now it was Rashan who dreamed! And if his dream was not false-if it was a true sending from the Bright Father.... She shut her eyes and refused to think about it further. Of course, the dream was false. No more than the wishful fantasy of an old priest who saw his empire fading.

"Have you thought more about what I asked when last we met?" she said, changing the subject. "It is more important now when the streets are so dangerous. You know I've come before only to find these doors closed."

Rashan held up a hand. "I'll build your small temple," he told her. "You can ask nothing that Rashan will not grant."

"What about Uncle Molin?" she said in a conspiratorial tone.

Rashan looked as if he would spit, then remembered where he was and hastily made the sign of his G.o.ds. "Molin Torchholder has no power in this House any longer.

Your uncle has turned his back on the Rankan G.o.ds. He reeks of dark allegiances with alien deities. The other priests and I have agreed to this silent mutiny."

He spoke with impressive anger, as if he were p.r.o.nouncing sentence on a criminal. "I will build your temple, and I will consecrate it. Molin won't even be consulted."

It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old priest. It thrilled her to see others defy her uncle. For too long his schemes and plots had gone unopposed. Now, perhaps there was divine justice after all.

"Build it on the sh.o.r.e of the Red Foal at the very edge of our land," she instructed. "Keep it small, just a private family altar."

Rashan nodded again. "But you must design it."

"What?" She gave a startled look. "I'm no architect!"

"I'll handle the mechanics and the geometries," he a.s.sured her. "But you are the Daughter of the Sun. The core design must spring from your own heart and soul."

She sighed, then remembered her other errand. It was getting late, and the G.o.ds knew she didn't want to worry her father. She clasped the priest's hand gratefully. "I will design it," she said, relishing the idea of a new challenge.

"We'll begin immediately. The cold mustn't stop us. My thanks, Rashan." She pulled up the hood to conceal her face and started to leave. But at the door she stopped and called back, "And no more dreams!"

Outside again, her breath made little clouds in the air. She hadn't meant to spend so long with Rashan. The daylight was weakening; a gray shroud had closed over the city. She hurried down the Avenue of Temples and turned onto Governor's Walk, pa.s.sing with a wary eye the same corner where she and Daphne had been attacked the night before. It was quiet now; the shadows and crannies appeared empty of threat. She turned down Weaver's Way and crossed the Path of Money. At last, she reached Prytanis Street and her destination.

The air seemed suddenly colder, unnaturally cold as she pushed back an unlocked gate and approached a ma.s.sive set of wooden doors. She knocked. There was no answer, nor any sound from within. She gazed around at the strange stone statues that loomed on either side of the door. There was a curious atmosphere of menace about them. They cast huge shadows over the place where she waited, completely blocking the sun. But she wasn't frightened. She embraced Savankala in her heart and felt safe.

The second time she knocked the door eased open.

There was no one to greet her, so she stepped inside. Eerily, the door closed, leaving her in a foyer lit by soft lamps. "Enas Yorl?" she called. The words echoed hollowly before fading. Chewing her lip, she wandered deeper into the house. Everything looked so old, covered with the dust of centuries. Brilliant pieces of art and sculpture were half-hidden by cobwebs. The air smelled of must and mold. She wrinkled her nose and went through an interior door.

Halfway across that chamber she stopped. A shiver crept up her spine. It was the same room she had just left behind.

"Enas Yorl!" she shouted angrily. "Don't play your wizard's games with me. I want to talk." She hesitated, waited for some kind of answer. "I thought you had a servant," she continued impatiently. "Send him to guide me to you, or come yourself. I'll wait here." She crossed her arms stubbornly, but on the far side of the room another door opened. She thought about it, then sighed. "Oh, all right. Whatever amuses you."

Once again she pa.s.sed through the door, and once again found herself in the same room. "I've heard a lot about you, Enas Yori," she muttered, "but not that you were boring."

Again the far door opened. To her relief it was a different room. The smell of mold was gone, replaced by a heady incense. Instead of soft lamps, braziers glowed redly, providing the light. This new room was much larger, full of shelves with books and old furniture. Thick carpets covered the floor. In a corner an odoriferous vapor steamed from a large samovar.

At the opposite end of the room was a huge chair on a low dais. Someone, completely obscured by a voluminous cloak, sprawled upon it.

"Pardon me if I'm mistaken," the figure addressed her, "but most people tremble in my presence. You're not trembling."

She batted her eyes innocently. "Sorry to disappoint you."

He held up a hand to silence her, and he pulled himself more erect. "You have the mark of a G.o.d upon you." Two red eyes gleamed at her from beneath a hood as s.p.a.cious as her own. "You are Chenaya, called by some the Daughter of the Sun."

She was beginning to hate that t.i.tle. "I came to bargain with you, Wizard. I've heard of your power. If there's anything to know in this h.e.l.l-hole, you know it.

It's information I want."

His laughter fairly shook the walls. "Have I changed so drastically? Do I look like Hakiem the Storyteller, or Blind Jakob? Seek those for your information, woman. I'm no peddler of gossip. More important things occupy my time."

"Indeed? Well, occupy yourself with these!" She flung back her cloak and brazenly cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Nearly a year ago a caravan bearing the Prince's wife and concubines was attacked in the Gray Wastes. The conspirators organized the attack from right here in Sanctuary. You have power, Enas Yorl, and you can find things out. You give me their names, and I'll give you the time of your life!"

The red eyes shone like twin coals. The wizard leaned forward to regard her with interest. "Why on earth, woman, would you offer such a bargain? Do you not know what I am, what my body is? Yes, I can give you what you seek, but do you truly know the price?"

Chenaya barked a short laugh. "You've seen my G.o.d's mark upon me, but do you know what it means? It means I can't lose-at anything. And that would get boring if I didn't find new and exciting ways to amuse myself." She unlaced her cloak and let it slide to the floor. "You're the most feared wizard in the Empire, and I decided when I first came to this city that it might be fun to crawl around in your bed. But the price of my flesh is the information I seek."

"But my body, Rankan," the wizard interrupted. "Do you know how it changes?"

"Of course," she answered with another laugh. "And I'll be very disappointed if you don't undergo some transformation while we're making love." She winked. "I told you, I'm always after a new thrill."

His voice took on a deeper, more l.u.s.ty quality as he rose from his chair. "I have no control over the changes. I can't promise such a thing."

But he changed, even as he whispered in her ear.

Chenaya frowned in irritation as she hugged the cloak tighter about her shoulders and crept from shadow to shadow. It wasn't her normal way of travel.

She preferred to stride the center of the streets and d.a.m.n anyone stupid enough to block her path. But tonight was different. She had business, and there was no time for pointless altercations with any of the factions that governed the night.

The animal pens of Corlas, the camel merchant, were on the sh.o.r.e of the White Foal River just outside the Bazaar. According to rumor, it was one of the places to avoid these days. The war between the two witches, Ischade and Roxane, had made an unpredictable h.e.l.l of the area, and half the residents had apparently chosen sides.

Games, games, she sighed. Everybody plays. And who could tell-if things got dull maybe she'd take a closer interest in the players. On the other hand, things were looking anything but dull. Enas Yorl had surprised her in more ways than one.

Unexpectedly, she heard voices behind her. She ducked into the nearest cranny and crouched behind a barrel. Slops, to judge by the odor. She held her nose and waited. A ragtag squad of men pa.s.sed without noticing her. Most appeared to wear swords, though a few carried only clubs. There was nothing disciplined about them. They talked too loudly and swaggered as if they owned the night. She suspected they'd all been drinking.

When they were past she resumed her journey. Quickly, she reached the bank of the White Foal. The swiftly flowing surface caught her attention. Starlight sparkled on the waves. The gentle lapping had an almost mesmerizing quality. A strange emotion stole upon her, a mixture of fear and fascination, the same sensation that had overcome her when she set foot upon her first boat and sailed to Scavengers' Island. Again, she remembered the voice of Savankala and the promise that sealed her fate. Not by sword or by any hand of man, the Thunderer told her those many years ago. By water....

She shivered and forced herself to move on. So it had been when she sailed to the island. On the way back there had been too much to do, plans to make. And there was much to do now. She felt the water calling, calling. But she denied it.

A new odor permeated the air, almost as bad as the barrel's contents. She had spent enough time with Rankan bestiarii to know a camel when she smelled one.

The odor was quite distinct. She moved silently and came, at last, to the pens themselves.

Daxus-that was the first name Enas Yorl had whispered in her ear. For several years the man had made his living standing night watch over Corlas's beasts.

According to the wizard, however, he also made a little selling information about caravan cargoes to various raider groups such as the desert-dwelling Raggah. It was he, Enas Yorl claimed, who had arranged the attack on Daphne's caravan.

Chenaya fingered a folded length of gold chain that hung on her belt, and she licked her lips. Now Daxus would pay as she had promised Daphne.

The pens were built of wooden posts set close together and planted deep in the earth. The outer wall was a small fortification designed to foil would-be thieves. It would require a grapple to climb it. There was only one gate, and it would be barred from the inside. Because of the street disturbances, Daxus had taken to sealing himself inside with the camels.

Noiselessly, she crept around the walls, peeking through the frequent tiny gaps.

The interior was sectioned into smaller pens. She listened for sounds. Even the camels seemed at rest. But ... was that the glow of a small fire?

She stole up to the gate and laid a hand against the rough wood. Only guile would open it without attracting half the rowdies in the city. And guile wasn't one of her more reliable talents. Daxus was a man, though, and if she'd learned nothing else, she knew she could count on his basest instincts.

She removed her cloak, then shed her tunic, careful not to mislay a thin metal probe secreted up her right sleeve. She hugged herself, wondering about her trousers and boots. d.a.m.n, it was cold! Already, she was covered with gooseflesh.

Still, if Daxus was suspicious he might want a better look. Cursing silently, she gazed up and down the street and slipped off the rest of her garments.

Lastly, she propped her sword against the wall close at hand.

Then she pounded frantically on the gate. "Help!" she cried in a tight whisper.

"Please let me in! My husband will kill me! Help!" She beat the wood with the flat of her hand, shooting glances around, hoping no one else would hear.

A narrow portal slid open a bare fraction. No face appeared, but a voice whispered back. "Who's that? I don't want no trouble. Go away."

The portal started to slide shut, but Chenaya shoved her finger into the aperture. "Wait!" she begged. "You're Daxus. I've seen you before. Please, let me in before my husband finds me. He beats me, but this time I ran away. He chased me across Caravan Square, but I lost him. He'll catch up, though. Please, it's so cold!" That much was certainly true. "Hide me, I beg you!"

The portal opened wider; one eye peered through. "Is this a trick?" Daxus grumbled. "Stand back so I can get a look at you. Say, you haven't got a st.i.tch on!"