Halfway through the embrace, Mouse stopped fighting and decided she liked it.

They broke for air, then he kissed her again. If the song hadn't ended, Mouse would have kissed him a third time. But the tent was hot. The celebrants surged toward the door for air.

Mouse pulled free from Ciaran.

"I'll be right back," she told him, tracing his lips with her finger.

Outside, the sunb.a.l.l.s were bright in the sky. Mouse took a drink from the plaza fountain. A glimpse in a mirror stone showed a small brown face with a red dot between dark eyebrows and wild hair framing it. She scrabbled in her waist pouch for a comb, then froze in horror. The Cube. It was gone.

Comb forgotten, she dashed back into the tent.

"Ciaran!"

Look as she might, she could not find a trace of the short, fair-haired harpist in his yellow tunic. As the minutes pa.s.sed, her panic turned to fury.

He had stolen the Cube from her. Under cover of clever words and seductive kisses.

Mouse uttered a few choice comments on the harpist's pedigree. Taking one last swig of wine, she quit the tent. She would find Ciaran, reclaim the Cube, and rid the world of one pesky minstrel!

The Gators' marks were posted everywhere. Criers in each Quarter were singing of the stolen Cube, of the reward offered for its return, of the reward for capture of dark Mouse and Ciaran the Harpist. Gray Tom's voice had been added to the chorus: the theft of the Cube from Thieves' Treasury had not gone unnoticed.

Mouse crept carefully through the yellow stone streets of Third Quarter, intent on eluding bounty hunters.

Be small, she thought. Small and dark and mouselike. n.o.body takes notice of a little dark woman at the edge of the crowd.

I'm here because I belong here. A familiar face. You've all seen me before.

Nimbly, she moved through and past the busy marketplace, keeping an ear c.o.c.ked for stray bits of conversation that might lead her toward Ciaran. At a grilled meat stall, she bought some roast sc.r.a.pings wrapped in redgra.s.s dough. As she paid, she asked casually about musicians.

"I need a harpist," she said. "Know of any?"

The meat seller gave her a sharp look.

"Am I a crier?" she asked. "Go look for your musician in the Guild Hall." Mouse stifled a curse, palmed back her change before the merchant counted it, and vanished into the crowd. In a few moments she had found the Musicians Guild. Aburly, blond gamba player greeted her with a hearty pinch that made her jump.

"Have you a harpist?" she asked, rubbing her thigh and keeping the snarl to herself.

"Little dark-eyes, I'd take up those strings myself if it meant an hour spent in your sweet company."

"Err, I'm really in need of a shorter harpist," Mouse blurted out. Sacred Bas, she thought, what if this behemoth really can play the strings?

The blond musician roared with laughter.

"Then you'd be wanting Ciaran, wouldn't you, my pretty thief ? That boy steals hearts as easily as he lifts purses." The giant gave her a merry look. "He's probably at his favorite table in the Haakon's Claw, begging night weed. Or upstairs in the wenches' gallery."

Mouse waved her thanks and scrambled out of his reach back into the street.

I hope Ciaran's in the wenches' gallery, she thought, murder sparkling in her black eyes. I'll stab him right in the act.

The Haakon's Claw was dim and quiet at midday. A lone dreamer sat, lost in visions, near the fire, an empty wine jug at his feet. His face was hidden by fair hair. Mouse crept over and lifted the s.h.a.ggy head, revealing a full, matted beard. She let his head fall back on his chest and boldly marched into the wenches' gallery.

Only one room was busy. The occupants, both overweight and middle-aged, looked up in surprise when Mouse opened the door.

"h.e.l.lo, lovey," the wench greeted her. "Care to join us?"

Mouse slammed the door in their red faces.

Downstairs, feeling desperate, she asked the gray-haired weed seller if she'd seen a short, bandy-legged harpist.

"That would be Ciaran," the merchant said. "He was in earlier, looking to brag about some treasure. Went off with a trader toward Ravig's on Jewel Alley, I think.

Turn left out the door and it's the first lane on your right."

Mouse thanked her with a bright coin and hurried on. The jeweler's shop was locked up tight.

How strange, Mouse thought. At midday? Her intuition tingled. I think I'll have a look around back.

Cautiously, she moved along the pa.s.sage on the far side of the shop. She could hear men's voices, pitched low, but their words were lost to her. A grunt of pain was easier for her to understand. She pulled the knife from her girdle. The voices were clearer now: two of them deep and unfamiliar, and one tenor that she'd heard before.

Ciaran!

Mouse listened for a moment. The harpist had to be under some pressure; his voice was tight and narrow.

"Isfahan, I thought we had a deal!"

A ba.s.s voice answered him. "We had nothing, thief! The Cators offer more for you than that wretched bauble could ever bring!"

Mouse's breath came in short gasps. Bounty hunters! And Ciaran had been caught.

But did he have the Cube with him?

"The Cators didn't say whether I had to bring you in alive, harpist. If you'd like, I'll kill you quick." The rough voice had a note of sympathy in it.

"Might be kinder if you did," said another voice, a ba.s.s as well, but with a quaverin it. Two of them, Mouse thought. And Ciaran hog-tied, no doubt. Well, they can't have him before I'm done with him. That's my Cube! And if I have to steal it three times, then by Shuruun, I will!

She scanned the back of the shop. There was a rough shack from which the voices seemed to come. Mouse resheathed her knife, grabbed a handful of pebbles, and in quick steps climbed quietly to the roof of the brick lean-to. Aiming carefully, she tossed down a few pebbles to rattle at the window.

No response. Mouse tossed a few more.

"Go see what's making that noise," Isfahan rumbled.

"Why don't you go?" the quaverer replied.

The trader answered with a bellow. Mouse heard the sound of feet scurrying. As she watched, the door creaked open and a head appeared, bald save for a few greasy strands of dirty gray hair. The jeweler shut the door behind him and walked first this way, then that, peering nervously.

When he was ten feet away, Mouse jumped. She landed hard on his head and shoulders. The momentum carried them both into the rear wall of the shop. Mouse allowed the man to cushion the blow for her, with his head. When the dust had cleared, only she stood up.

One down, she thought. But what do I do about the trader Isfahan? He sounds big.

Without sound, she stalked to the half-open door and peered through. Sure enough, Ciaran was trussed like a game bird. He squinted in her direction. Then his gray eyes glittered. The man in front of him didn't notice, so intent was he on searching the harpist's belongings.

Mouse fought back a squeal of laughter. This huge trader, Isfahan, was no taller than she. Shorter, perhaps. And troll-like.

She cast around for a moment, pulled a thick piece of log from the fire pile by the door, and slid into the room. On tiptoe, she approached the bounty hunter. Just before he could feel her breath on his neck, she tapped him on the shoulder. He c.o.c.ked an ear in her direction without looking up.

"So, Ravig," he asked. "What did you find out there?"

"A headache," Mouse said as she wound up and swung. The cudgel caught him in the back of the head. Unconscious, he slid to the floor.

"Bravo, partner!" Ciaran said. "Well done!"

Mouse jabbed the wood into the harpist's chest.

"Happy to see me?"

He nodded. "Of course. Untie me and we'll ..."

"We'll do nothing," Mouse said softly. "Where's the Cube?" A furrow appeared between Ciaran's eyebrows.

"You're angry."

"Oh, no. I enjoy being played for the fool. Being seduced and robbed." Mouse dropped the log, pulled out her knife, and held it carefully under the minstrel's chin.

He swallowed nervously.

"Now, Mousie ..."

"Tell me where the Cube is, or I'll start slicing your string fingers."

"It's not here." Sweat beaded his forehead. Mouse stroked his hands with the blunt side of her knife. "Where is it?"

"Someplace safe."

"I don't believe you."

Angrily, Mouse jabbed his thumb.

"Hey! That hurt," Ciaran yelped.

Mouse p.r.i.c.ked his second finger. Ciaran snarled, worked his jaw, then extended his tongue. On it, the Cube flashed purple fire. Gingerly, Mouse collected the relic, dried it on Ciaran's yellow tunic, and pocketed it. With a wave, she turned to go.

"Mouse, wait." The musician's voice was plaintive.

"Why?"

"You can't just leave me here. Those two bounty hunters will wake up sooner or later."

Mouse whirled to face him.

"I hope it's sooner! d.a.m.n you, I'm a thief, not a butcher. But I'll happily leave you to this poacher's attentions, Ciaran."

"At least cut my bonds and give me a fighting chance."

"No."

"I promise I won't hurt you." The small thief smirked at him.

"You'd never get the chance."

She wanted to turn tail and leave him behind. But now that she had the Cube, her anger was ebbing. To abandon him here was to consign him to the death pit-perhaps more than he deserved. There'd been real fear in his eyes when she cut him. That was revenge enough. Mouse sighed. She leaned over and, with three quick slashes, set him free. Gasping with relief, Ciaran sprang up, rubbing his wrists. The wounds on his fingers left b.l.o.o.d.y streaks on his arms, quickly, he stanched the bleeding with creepweb. Tearing a strip off his tunic, the harpist bound his injuries.

"At least you didn't get my playing hand," he said with a wry smile.

"I know," she answered.

At that, they seemed to run out of words. Each stood, riveted to the spot, staring at the other. Then, with an oath, Ciaran broke the silence. A quick movement, and he'd swept Mouse into his arms.

"Savage little thief," he said, and kissed her. She fought not at all, and when they broke for air, she smiled up at him before their lips met again. Time slowed, almost stopped, until Ciaran moved his hands under her tunic.

Mouse opened her eyes.

"Not here," she said, and pulled away. Ciaran shook his head as if to clear it, then began laughing.

"A fine sight that would be to greet these cretins upon awakening-the two of us locked in embrace." He picked up his harp, looking sheepish. "Let's permit them to slumber in peace."

He took her hand and strode out of the hut.

"Where are we going?" Mouse asked.

Ciaran gave her a roguish smile.

"Someplace where we won't be interrupted."Breathing fast, Mouse ran hard through the winding streets of Thieves' Quarter. On her heels, a pack of dark, hooded figures bayed and gibbered, Demons in hoods, they were. Ghouls who shifted from grinning skeletons to screaming flesh and back again as they hunted their quarry. In thunderous echoes, their laughter boomed and crashed around her. Desperately, she turned a corner and plunged down an alleyway.

Where was the exit? Dark stones hemmed her in on all sides, rising out of sight into the red sky. The alley was blind. Mouse turned to face her ghastly pursuers. And woke up.

Panting, she blinked furiously. The room was strange, illuminated by purple and green light. Something touched her and Mouse jumped, ready to flee. Then she recognized the minstrel, Ciaran, asleep next to her, his hand on her arm.

Memories flooded back, turning her cheeks rosy. He's led her to his rooms below Guild Hall, and eagerly, she'd followed. They'd wrestled and fought, tickled and whispered. The lovemaking had been better than she'd hoped. Calm now, she smiled down at his clever musician's hands. He'd played her like a fine harp.

She studied Ciaran's features in the strange light. Not even the fondest mother could call him handsome. But there was strength and humor in his hard features. Cunning and kindness, too. Mouse ran a gentle finger over his lips. Ciaran pulled away, muttering in his sleep.

Where was that light coming from? A glowlamp?

Mouse looked around the room, then saw her waist pouch lying open on the floor by their pallet. The Cube floated in the air five inches above it, glowing yellow, purple, green, and blue. Openmouthed, Mouse stared at the pulsing gem. She turned back to Ciaran. And screamed.

The harpist was gone. A skeleton lay beside her, vacant eye sockets staring. As she watched in horror, the thing took flesh again. Ciaran lay once more beside her, asleep. But a changed Ciaran. Lines traced his mouth, furrowed his forehead, and rayed out from his eyes. Was his scalp peeking through his thinning hair? His flesh fit him loosely, hanging in folds at his joints and belly. The veins on his hands and arms stood out in stark relief.