"I'm going to free Markmor first. This will taste awful, and it will sting, but it will free your lips in a couple of minutes."

Cholly reached under the table and withdrew a leather satchel. From it he removed a stoppered bottle and a brush. He kept brushing the liquid from the bottle onto the sorcerer's lips until they were freed from the tankard. The Staff of Truth rested upon his head.

"Faugh! What was that unholy liquid?" he sputtered.

"Trade secret. Just be glad it worked. Are you ready'to give me your name?"

"Yes, d.a.m.n you." Markmor gave his secret name.

"Now, do you swear, upon that name you have just spoken and by your powers, to never again seek the Theban Talisman and to leave me and mine forever in peace?"

"I so swear."

"Say it, all of it."

He said his name once more and swore on it and his powers.

Marype was more difficult, mainly because he had drained his tankard and was not entirely sober.

Finally Markmor growled, "Oh, for Anen's sake, take his b.l.o.o.d.y oath so we can get the h.e.l.l out of here!"

Cholly freed the younger man and received his vow and name.

"May we leave now?" Markmor asked impatiently.

"In a minute. I just thought you ought to know that if your fair-haired boy there had simply come to me this morning and made me a reasonable cash offer before I found out what it could do, you could have bought the talisman outright. Too bad you didn't try straight dealing, because when somebody tries to push me around I have this tendency to push back. You can go."

Markmor's face was almost as scarlet as his silks. "You mean you never made the man an offer?! You mindless dungheap, where was your brain? You were dealing with a businessman. What do you think he does?

He buys and sells things, that's what he does. At times like this I could almost justify destroying you, talented or not. Brain damaged is what you are. Brain damaged . . ."

He was still ranting as he and Marype faded from view, leaving their clothing still glued to the booth.

Tears were trickling down Ahdio's red cheeks and Strick was gasping for breath. Three big bellies jiggled with uncontrollable laughter.

Ahdio was able to speak first. "I haven't laughed so hard in ages. Did you see the look on his face when he found out he could've bought it for a few soldats?"

"Yes, and when he sobers up the silver-haired one is going to catch seventeen h.e.l.ls," Strick added.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow," Cholly giggled.

"I have a special bottle of wine I've been saving for a special occasion. Share it with me. This calls for a celebration," Ahdio declared.

Strick asked Cholly, "If they hadn't agreed, would you have killed them?"

"No, but there was no way they could know that. I let them worry once I brought up the possibility. As soon as Markmor put himself in my place he was convinced I would kill them both. It's only human to think other people would act the same way you would in the same situation. Since Markmor would kill me without a second thought, of course he believed I would do it, just more reluctantly. After all, he had already seen me split his pet demon's skull."

"So it was all a bluff," Strick marvelled. "What if he called you on it?"

"I'd have waited him out. He wasn't going anywhere. Sooner or later he would have to give in. That's lot of beer in those mugs," Cholly chuckled.

"Remind me never to gamble with you."

Three large bellies began shaking with laughter.

Eventually the gluemaker asked, "Is that Staff of Truth for real, or was it a bluff too?"

"Does it matter? Markmor believed it was real."

"How am I going to clean up this mess?" Ahdio wondered aloud.

'There's several bottles of solvent in my satchel. We can toss the demon out the back door and I'll pick him up in the morning. I wonder how good a glue he'll make."

THE PROMISE OF HEAVEN.

Robin Wayne Bailey

Tiana struck a brazen pose, turning her back to the small bust of the Rankan G.o.ddess Sabellia on its stone pedestal. The full moon shone overhead through a break in the trees, filling the small garden niche with a sublime light that revealed her full, pale b.r.e.a.s.t.s as they strained against the too-tight fabric of her green dress; a light bright enough, she also hoped, to lend l.u.s.ter to her deep green eyes so carefully kohled and her lovely red tresses.

She rumpled her hair with one hand and thrust her hip a bit further to the side, feeling the perfect vixen. She stretched, lifting her arms until the material of her bodice threatened to rip. She faked a yawn and dared another glance down the white-pebbled pathway that snaked through the Promise.

The man still stood there. She knew he'd seen her. What was wrong with him, anyway? Didn't he like women? Maybe he was one of those Stepsons, there were a few left in town; that would be just her luck.

She stepped back into the niche out of his sight and bit a fingernail. Perhaps she should have chosen a darker spot tonight. With the moon so full maybe he could see how faded her dress realty was, how the rose in her cheeks was only rouge, how skinny and bone-rough she'd become, despite the size of her juggles. Curse the fates that had brought her to this miserable town, and curse the lying, womanizing stonemason who had lured her here with his promises and sweet words, only to throw her into the streets the moment he found someone prettier.

She had no experience at this kind of work. She had to eat, though, and desperation emboldened her. This stranger down the path seemed to be the only man in the park tonight. He'd better have coins, though. Just last evening some wine-soaked fool had offered her a bundle of smelly hides for her service. What was she supposed to do with hides?

Tiana stepped onto the path again. The pebbles were smooth and cold under her bare feet. The air felt crisp; she would have to earn enough for shoes and a cloak, and soon. Food, too. She couldn't afford to let this man get away. Feigning an expression of boredom she rubbed her right breast, teasing the nipple. Then, she looked down the path.

d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n! He was gone' Into the bushes with some other woman? Her shoulders slumped, and tears welled in the comers of her eyes. She looked down at her toes, pushed a few of the milky stones around. Hadn't he liked her looks? Maybe she'd acted a little too whorish.

But G.o.ds, she was so hungry! How did the other women in the park do it? What was the knack she lacked? A whole week in this sad, silly place, and she had yet to break into the ranks of the professionals!

Tiana squeezed her stomach, trying to ease the emptiness as she leaned against Sabellia's pedestal and slowly sank down to sit on the gra.s.s at its base. Pressing her back to the fluted stone, she drew her knees close and hugged them.

She feared the night. The quiet solitude seemed like a menacing thing. The darkness engulfed her, swallowed her in a black maw, chewed and choked her down all in a preternatural silence. Even the G.o.ds whose busts and statues lined the walkways held their tongues in this unfortunate park.

She looked up into Sabellia's face. The moon itself seemed a weak and helpless emberglow in the vaster dark.

Tiana felt small and alone. She wanted to go home, but that, too, took money. She thought again other stonemason lover who had lured her so far from Ranke, He had treated her kindly and promised her heaven.

Well, he'd given it to her. That was what the locals called this park where she now tried to ply her charms: the Promise of Heaven.

She rested her head back against the pedestal and at last let go the tears she'd held in check for so long. Each one seemed a precious thing to her, a fragment of her heart. She caught one on her finger and held it up to see. It gleamed like a tiny crystalline moon, a very piece of her G.o.ddess.

Even through her fear she felt the shadow fall over her. She sniffed once, then quickly wiped the moisture from her face, giving no thought to the rouge and kohl that turned to a smear. She scrambled to her feet as fast as her dress allowed and faked her best smile.

It was the same man. Same height and build, same dark garments. The moon touched his features. He was young, she thought. Only a little older than herself. Not bad looking, either, despite a peculiar edge, a hardness, in his gaze. She took a deep breath, swelling her favorite a.s.sets.

Then, suddenly she dropped her pose and brightened. "I know you," she said. "You came down with the workers* caravan-"

"I need you," he interrupted throatily.

She met his gaze. He had beautiful eyes full of warmth and charm. "Of course," she answered, remembering why she was there, why he was there. Yet, there was more hope in her voice than seduction. She thought briefly of the meal she would buy come morning, and maybe an apartment. She hated sleeping in the alleys, constantly afraid. All she had to do was please him, and that shouldn't be hard to do.

He had such beautiful eyes'

"Come with me," he said softly, holding out a hand.

She took it. His touch warmed her; his hand felt soft and uncalloused. That puzzled her. If he was one of the workers sent to rebuild the wall around Sanctuary his hand should have been rough. Yet, it pleased her that it wasn't, and she pushed that concern aside. There was something else she was supposed to think about, something she should say. What was it?

"The cost . . ." she hesitated awkwardly, unsure of the usual charge. "I mean. well, a sheboozh?" Oh, d.a.m.n, she thought. That's far too much for a common street wh.o.r.e. A whole gold coin!

But he moved his other hand close to her face. She caught just the flash of the requested payment before he made a fist and the money disappeared, Tiana couldn't believe her good fortune. Gold and beautiful eyes. The G.o.ds were with her this night after all. He really did have the most incredible gaze, full of oceans and full of darkness, full of promises.

"Come with me," he said again. His voice was the high wind, and when he spoke no more she still heard his words. He was the sound of the night.

She looked into his eyes. Hand in hand, they stepped from Sabellia's garden niche and onto the pathway. Out of respect for the silence that shrouded the park the gravel refused to crunch beneath their tread.

Unable to help herself, Tiana smiled.

The moonlight continued to shine on the small bust in the Promise of Heaven.

Over the rest of Sanctuary, Darkness began to chew.

The full moon poured its radiance perfectly through the skylight above Sabellia's altar, lending an opalescent sheen to the graceful sculpture of the G.o.ddess. Her flawless marble features shimmered as the smoke of incense swirled upward from a score of braziers set in the floor at the hem other skirts. It rose higher and higher like a wizards-weather mist, caressed her sensuous curves, curled toward the silver disc and out into the night.

Dayme looked up, seeking Sabellia's shadowed gaze. He knew she was with him, present in this first full moonlight of autumn as it illumined her altar. He felt her power, felt her touch upon his heart.

"Cheyne," he murmured as he knelt. "My Cheyne." He prayed no other words aloud. He didn't need to. Sabellia knew him well. The G.o.ddess had set her mark upon his soul.

He reached inside his tunic and extracted a small bundle of white silk. Carefully, he unrolled it. Several strands of fine blond hair gleamed in the moonlight. A silver thread bound them into a delicate lock. How long had he carried them in secret, those hairs stolen from her brush? Three years? Four?

He laid his small offering on Sabellia's altar. It was not a gift of great value, but it was very dear to him. The G.o.ddess asked no more. Dayrne bowed his head. But suddenly prayers would not come.

Where had she gone, his Cheyne? Why hadn't she waited for him to return with the One Hundred? He closed his eyes; it was easy to picture her face when he closed his eyes. In the silent sanct.i.ty of the Rankan temple he whispered her name.

Chenaya.

But in his heart he called her Cheyne, It was one of the names the gladiators had given her in the Rankan arenas. Hard as metal they had said of her. That wasn't true. She was tough, yes, but he had seen the softness buried deep in her soul, the piece of her she kept hidden from the world and from her father.

She was a child, sometimes. A spoiled child. Yet he loved her. Cheyne, he thought. My Chain. Chain that binds me beyond reason. He shook his head in a moment that was a mixture of pity and joy. Let me never be free. He looked up at Sabellia's face. She seemed almost to mock him as she peered down through the swirling incense, and he knew that was one prayer the G.o.ddess had already answered.

But where had Chenaya gone?

He thought again of that strange portrait hanging in her room. The power of it was startling, but though he admired the artistry, each time he looked upon it a subtle fear tingled through his spine. Unmistakably, it was Lalo's work. But when had she posed for it? Lowan Vigeles said she had brought it home one night, shut herself in her room until dawn, and departed with the morning, saying nothing to anyone. Not even her father knew more.

Dayrne suspected, however, that Rashan did. The old priest had made a habit lately of going to Cheyne's room and staring at the portrait with that queer smile of his, peering through half-closed lids at Chenaya's face and the resplendent sun that framed her, seemed to caress her, an effect that went far beyond mere paint and craftsmanship. Her hair flew into fire and light; her eyes shone like tiny suns. Chenaya was beautiful beyond any woman he had ever known, but not even she was so glorious as Lalo had rendered her.

Strange as those things were, though, there was something else that stirred terror into his blood. The painting radiated a tangible warmth.

Could it be true what Rashan claimed? Was his Cheyne truly the Daughter of the Sun? Or was it all some trick?

He turned his gaze back to Sabellia, who governed matters of the heart. If Cheyne was a G.o.ddess or some avatar of Father Savankala, then what hope could there be for any love between them?

He touched the few strands of hair he had placed on the altar- They belonged to the G.o.ddess now. He bowed his head, uttered one last prayer, and slowly rose to his feet.

The Temple of the Rankan G.o.ds was quiet and dark. He shook his head, feeling shame for his people. The construction of the temple had never quite been completed. The outer shrines with altars for Savankala, Sabellia, and Vashanka had been finished, but many of the inner ritual chambers and priests' quarters were still in various stages of completion. There should have been a festival in Sabellia's honor this night of nights. Rashan had elected, instead, to take his priests and hold the ceremonies at the smaller, private temple at Land's End which was not only completed, but sanctified. It didn't seem proper to Dayme, though. That temple was Savankala's hallowed ground. This hour should belong only to Sabellia.

Well, he was just a gladiator. What did he know of priestly affairs?

He walked through the temple, his sandals ringing softly on the smooth stone floor. Lonely, troubled, he made his way outside, down the high steps, and into the avenue.

The street appeared empty. It would be foolish, though, to rely on appearances. Even with the street gangs smashed, there was still danger in the Sanctuary nights. There were too d.a.m.n many alleys and shadows in this town. Sanctuary. He smirked, considering the name. As if a man was safe from anything at this end of the empire.

He wrapped a lightweight cloak about his shoulders and moved soundlessly down the street. Like the rest of Sanctuary's citizens he, too, knew how to turn invisible, to become a shade or wraith, as he wandered the darkness of Uptown. Cheyne would have mocked and teased him. She would have strode brazenly down the center of the road. Unlike his mistress, though, Dayme had no taste for confrontations.

He bit his lip and cursed her silently for leaving him behind. Where the h.e.l.l are you, Chenaya, he wondered bitterly. Then, thinking of Lalo's painting. Who the h.e.l.l are you?

Worry and confusion gnawed at his insides. Rashan, he thought, furrowing his brow. He owed himself a long talk with that sunstruck priest.

Daphne worked the training machine with only the moon and a single torch to see by. She leaped and dodged as four spinning wooden arms swung at her head and knees. Sweat gleamed on her body, ran in free rivulets down her throat and chest, down her arms into the hand that held an immense sword. Once, the sword had been too heavy for her. No longer.

For a time her mind was utterly free, devoid of thought or concern. The smooth working of muscle, the stretch of tendon, the pulse of her blood, the heat in her flesh-these were the only things that existed for her. She breathed the cool air of night, felt the crunch of sand beneath her sandals, listened to the rhythmic whoosh of the whirling machine. Nothing else mattered for her.

But when the arms began to slow she stepped clear and drew a deep, frustrated breath. Then, she leaned on her sword and looked around, strangely aware of the silence and her aloneness. She would not have called it loneliness.

A few lamps burned in the windows of the estate. In the opposite direction a few more lights showed distantly where the new barracks had been built at the easternmost wall of Land's End. Beyond the wall the sky glowed redly with the bonfires that Rashan and his priests had made, where they celebrated by Chenaya's temple on the sh.o.r.es of the Red Foal.

She was alone as usual, on the outside looking in again. But it didn't bother her. Practice was what mattered, and training and hard work. Dayme would be angry if he knew she was out here so late, but she didn't care. He was only her trainer, nothing more. He'd made that abundantly clear. Her hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of her sword, though, when she thought of him.

She didn't care, she didn't care at all. But she raised her weapon suddenly and carved a great chunk out of one of the machine's arms. The breath hissed from her as she struck. Then, she stood for a moment and trembled. It was not Dayrne, she told herself. It had nothing to do with him.

It was that d.a.m.ned husband of hers.

Kadakithis had summoned her to the palace again. Again, he had begged her for a divorce. Begged! A prince of Ranke! No matter that divorce was forbidden among the Royal Family. h.e.l.l, he'd practically crawled on his knees to convince her.

What had she ever seen in that man that had made her consent to marriage? It certainly hadn't been his thin, spindly body or his face with a chin that could st.i.tch sailcloth, or that armor-piercing nose. It certainly hadn't been the execrable poetry he once had written, or his mediocre talent on the harp.

It sure as the G.o.ds hadn't been his fidelity. Why, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had stocked his larder with fresh meat almost before their wedding bed had cooled. And when the Raggah kidnapped and sold her into slavery, did Kadakithis come to rescue her? h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, no! He'd curled up, instead, with his pet fish, and left that task to Chenaya.

She carved two more chunks from the training-machine, uttering a curse with each stroke. d.a.m.n it. Chenaya! (Thunk!) Why didn 't you lake me. (Thunk!) with you, d.a.m.n it!