Wizard of the winds

WALARIA
CHAPTER EIGHT

Nerisa watched the executioner sharpen his blade. It was long and broad and curving and he stroked the edge with such tenderness one might have thought his sword was a lover.

And maybe it was, Nerisa thought. She'd heard of stranger things.

The executioner was a big man, naked torso swelling out of baggy silk pantaloons of the purest white. He had thick arms, a neck squat and strong as an oak stump. His features were hidden by a white silk hood with two holes for his dark gloomy eyes to contemplate his victims sins. Masked or not, everyone knew who he wasTulaz, the most famous executioner in all Walaria. Five thousand hands had been severed by his legendary sword. One thousand heads separated from their shoulders. And he'd never needed more than one cut to accomplish his task.

There were seven condemned to test his record that morning. The plaza, set just inside the main gate, was packed with gawkers, hawkers, purse snatchers and pimps. Gamblers were betting heavily on the outcome for Tulaz had never attempted so many heads before. The odds were in his favor for the first sixa mean lot who hadn't learned their lesson from previous mutilations. The seventh, however, was a woman charged with adultery. She was said to be beautiful and there were many among the crowd who wondered if Tulaz might falter when confronted with such a tender and record-breaking neck.

Nerisa had an excellent vantage point to view the proceedings. She was crouched atop a high freight wagon just returning from market and had a clear view of the six felons chained to the dungeon cart. But the adulteress was hidden by a tent pitched on the cart. It wasn't out of humanity her jailers had provided such privacy. They knew a featured attraction when they saw one and were among the heaviest bettors. They were also, Nerisa noted, selling quick glimpses of the woman to all who'd grease their palms.

Nerisa didn't have slightest interest in the executions. In her twelve summers of life she'd witnessed many such things. For as long as she could remember she'd been a child of the streets. She'd awakened in alleys next to fresh corpsescorpses not so cleanly slain as Tulaz was wont to do. There were worse things, she'd learned, than being executed. She'd spent her whole young life dodging those things with a skill matched by few young denizens of Walaria. Her only fear of Tulaz was she might someday make an error that would cost her a handthe traditional penalty a thief paid for a first offense. Nerisa was a thief intent on keeping all her parts.

It was professional purpose, not entertainment, that had drawn her to the plaza; although she'd experienced an added thrill when she realized she'd be breaking the law under the executioner's nose. She peeped out of her hiding place to check on the stall keeperher intended victim. She buried a giggle as she watched him step up on a box so he could see over the crowd. He was a fat old turd, she thought. The crate would never hold such a skin load of grease.

True to her estimate the crate collapsed, sending the stallkeep sprawling. Nerisa hugged herself to keep from laughing. The joke was especially delicious because the crowd was so intent on the executions that she was the only one to see his humiliation. There was nothing that Nerisaby circumstance and nature a solitary personenjoyed more than a private joke. The merchant grumbled up, found a heavy barrel and rolled it over to the edge of his stall. He leaned on the trays bearing his wares and clambered gingerly onto the barrel. It held and he looked around, a yellow-toothed smile of victory dissolving when he realized no one was watching. With a belch, he turned to see Tulaz prepare for his legendary work.

Nerisa examined the trays set up under the tented stall. They were overflowing with all manner of poor quality merchandise; old lamp parts, broken toys, tawdry jewelry, spoiled cosmetics, healing powders and love potions of doubtful quality. The wares were typical of the stalls lining the old gray stone city walls inside the gates. Amid all that trash was an object that had great value to Nerisa. She'd spotted it while foraging the day before. But when she'd tried to examine the object closer the stallkeep had leapt from his wide chair and rushed her, driving her away with a thick stick, shouting, Begone boy!"

Nerisa, who was tall for a girl and slender, was frequently mistaken for a boy. It was a mistake she'd made a habit of not correcting. She'd even adopted a male urchin's raggedy costume of breeches and baggy shirt. Until recently she'd worried that the bumps and curves of womanhood would soon appear, making it more difficult than ever to avoid the evil-eyed men who preyed on young women with no home but the streets. If they ever did catch her there was no one to care about her fate, except the old bookseller who let her sleep in his shop. It was there she'd met the handsome youth who'd turned her thinking upside down. Now she worried that she wouldn't grow up soon enough.

A vision of the young man who'd awakened this interest floated into her mind and her heart knocked hard against her ribs. She pushed the image away. Don't be such a stupid cow, Nerisa thought. Keep your mind on that fat dog turd of a stallkeep. He'll get you if he can.

The crowd roared and Nerisa swiveled to see the jailers unchain the first felon and lead him to Tulaz's stone platform. Indentations in the stone marked the place where many a poor soul had been forced to kneel on hands and knees and the stone surface was stained black from all the centuries of spilled blood. The sudden realization that the gory platform would be the condemned's last view of the world sent a shiver down Nerisa's spine.

The crowd laughed when the first felon mounted the platform, heavy chains rattling. The man was a thief, a poor thief at thathe was already missing his ears and nose, as well as both his hands.

"Not much left to aim for, Tulaz, some wag shouted above the din. Already cut most of him off!"

The crowd roared laughter.

"What'd he use to steal with? someone else cried. His toes?"

Immediately an crone piped up, Not his toes, you blind shit. His prick! Can't you see it peepin out at us?"

Nerisa couldn't help but look. Sure enough she saw a long, very male part of the thief, dangling from his dungeon-rotted costume. The thief was a good natured fool and went along with the game. To the immense pleasure of the crowd he held up the two stumpy things that were arms and jerked his hips back and forth, humping the air. The crowd howled delight and rained coins onto the platform to bribe Tulaz to make the thief's agony short for rewarding them with such fine entertainment. Tulaz saw the copper mount up and dispensed with his usual ceremony, which consisted of ominous cuts in the air and much stance and grip shifting.

"Get him down, he shouted to the jailers.

Instantly the thief's guards threw him to the ground and jumped out of the way. Tulaz took one mighty pace forward and swung just as the thief's head bobbed up.

It was so swift there wasn't a cry or a gasped breath. Just a snick of resistance then blood fountained from a suddenly empty neck. The thief's head, broken-toothed grin still fixed to his face, sailed into the crowd where pigs, dogs and children quarreled over it.

"Oh, well done, Tulaz! Well done! Nerisa heard the stallkeep cry. He'd obviously had a wager on the first cut of the day.

Nerisa thought she saw her chance when they led out the second victim. The stallkeep was highly interested, raising himself on his toes to get a better look. Nerisa started to slip off the wagon. All she needed was a single moment of inattention and she'd snatch her prize and disappear into the crowd before anyone was the wiser. A barrel shifted under her and she had to grab to steady herself. Although there was little noise, the stallkeep sensed something was amiss and jolted around. Nerisa swore and ducked back into her hiding place just in time.

The girl settled down to wait. She'd have to be patient to get the better of this sow's breath of a stallkeep. Nerisa prided herself on patience and stubborn intent. Put a goal in her head and she'd achieve it no matter how long it took. The best time, she thought, would be when they brought the adulteress out. The jailers most certainly had been paid to strip the woman before she was killed. The stallkeep, along with the rest of the viewers, would be so fixed on all that doomed nakedness he'd never notice Nerisa's bit of business.

As she crouched there waiting for the moment to come, Nerisa thought of the poor woman waiting in the tent. The terror she had to be feeling made Nerisa's heart pang in empathy. What a price to pay for something so natural as being in your lover's arms. The unfairness of it clawed at her. For a moment it was painful to breathe.

Stop it, Nerisa, she commanded herself, fighting for control. It's not like you haven't seen it before.

Safar sat in a small outdoor cafe, shaded by an ancient broad-leaf fig tree, counting coins piled in a sticky puddle of wine. A pesky wasp made him lose count and he had to tot it all up again. A little drunk, he rubbed bleary eyes and decided that he had enough for another jug of the Foolsmire's best. Which is to say it was the worst and therefore cheapest wine in all Walaria.

It was late afternoon and the summer heat lay thick over the city, stifling thought and movement. The streets were empty, the homes and shops shuttered for the hours between the midday meal and evening call to prayer. It was so quiet that in the distant stockpens the bawl of a young camel, lonely for its mother, echoed across the city. The people of Walaria dozed fitfully in shuttered darkness, gathering their energies to face the day anew. It was a time for sleep, for lovers trysts. A time for self reflection.

Safar rapped politely on the rough wood of the table. Katal, he cried. My strength is fading. Fetch me another jug from the well, if you please."

There was a muttering from the shadowy depths of the bookshop abutting the cafe and in a moment an old man emerged, carelessly dressed in worn scholar's robes. It was Katal, proprietor of the Foolsmire, an open air cafe and bookshop tucked into the end of a long dead-end alley in the Students Quarter. Katal had a book in his hand, index finger pushed between the pages to keep his place.

"You should be resting, Safar, he said, or tending to your studies. You know as well as I that the second level acolyte exams are less than a week away."

Safar groaned. Don't spoil a perfectly good drunk, Katal. I've invested a week's room and board to reach my present condition of amiable insobriety. It's drink I need, sir. So dig into your holy well for the precious stuff, my dear purveyor of bliss. And dig deep. Find me as cold a jug as these coins will buy."

Katal clucked disapproval, but he set his book on the table and hobbled to the old stone well. A dozen ropes were strung around the rim, tied to heavy eyebolts imbedded in the stone and disappearing into the cool black depths. He hauled on one of the ropes until a large bucket appeared. It was full of jugs made of red clay, all the width of a broad palm and standing a uniform eight inches high. Katal took one out and fetched it to Safar.

The young man pushed coins forward, but Katal shook his head, pushing them back. I'll buy this one, he said. My price for you today is talk, not copper. A Foolsmire special, if you will."

"Done, Safar said. I'll listen to your advice hour after hour, my friend, if you'll keep my cup full."

He sloshed wine into a wide, cracked tumbler. He stoppered the jug then held it up, studying it. Three years ago, he said, I helped my father make jugs like these. They were much better, of course. Glazed and decorated for a fine table. Not turned out in factories by the scores."

Katal eased his old body into the bench seat across from Safar. I could never afford such a luxury, he said. If I had bucketsful of Timura jugs in my well I'd pour out the wine and sell the jugs. Think of all the books I could buy with the price I'd get!"

"I'll tell you a secret, Katal, Safar said. If you had Timura jugs you could make your own wine, or brandy or beer, if you prefer. My father makes a special blessing over each jug he produces. All you need then is some water, the proper makings for whatever brew it is you desire and you'll have an endless supply of your favorite drink."

"More pottery magic! Katal scoffed. And this time water into wine. No wonder your teachers despair."

"Actually, Safar said, there's no magic to it at all. My father would dispute that. But it's true. Part of the spell, you see, is that we pour spirits from an old tried and true brewing bowl into the new jug. We shake it up and pour it back. And the little animals left in the clay will produce spirits until the end of timeas long you don't wash the jug."

"Little animals? Katal said, bushy gray eyebrows beetling in disbelief.

Safar nodded. Too small for the eye to see."

Katal snorted. How do you know that?"

"What else could it be? Safar said. As an experiment I've made several such jugs. Some I chanted the spell over, but failed to use the brewing bowl liquid. Others got the liquid, but not the chant. The latter produced a good wine. The former nothing but a watery mess."

"That still doesn't explain the small spirit making animals, Katal pointed out. Did you see them?"

"I told you, Safar answered, they're too small for the unaided eye to behold. I theorized their existence. What other explanation could there be?"

Katal snorted. Be damned to theory, he said. When will you learn that supposing doesn't make it so."

Safar laughed and drained off his cup. Then you don't know anything about magic, Katal, he said, wiping his chin. Supposing is what sorcery is all about. He belched and refilled his cup. But that answer is a cheat. I admit it. It's scientific observation you were speaking of. And you were right to chastise me. I've never seen the little animals. But I suspect their presence. And if someone gave me money I could grind a glass lens so powerful I might be able to see them and prove their existence."

"Who would give you money for such a thing? Katal said. And even if your proved your point, who would care?"

Safar was suddenly serious. He jabbed a finger into his chest. I would, he said. And so should everyone else. If we are ignorant of the smallest things, how can we know the larger world? How can we guide our fate?"

"We've had this argument before, Katal said. I say the fate of mortals is the business of the gods."

"Bah! was Safar's retort. The gods have no business but their own. Our troubles are no concern of theirs."

Katal glanced about nervously and saw no one in earshot, except his grandson, Zeman, who'd come out while they were talking and was brushing fig leaves off the tables on the other side of the patio.

"Be careful what you say, my young friend, Katal warned. You never know when one of the king's spies will be about. In Walaria the penalty for heresy is most unpleasant."

Safar ducked his head, chastened. I know, I know, he said. And I'm sorry to be so outspoken in your presence. I don't want to get you in trouble because of my views. Sometimes it's difficult to remember that I must guard my tongue here. In Kyrania a man of twenty may speak his mind about any subject he chooses."

Katal leaned close, a fond smile peeping out from his untidy beard. Speak to me all you like, Safar, he said. But discreetly, sir. Discreetly. And in well modulated tones."

The old man had been a kindly uncle to Safar since he'd arrived in Walaria some two years before. In that spirit Katal dipped into his robe and fished out a small cup. He cleaned it with a sleeve, then filled it with wine.

He drank, then said, Tell me what this is all about, Safar. If your family were here they'd be worried. So let me worry for them. I'll tell you what your own father would say. Which is that you've been drinking heavily for nearly a month. Your studies must be suffering as much as your finances. You've had no money for food, much less books. I'm not complaining, but I've been feeding you for free. I'd even be willing to forgo my usual rental fee for any books you required, if only I thought you'd make some use of them. There's an exam coming up. The most important in your career as a student. All the other second level candidates, except the sons of the rich whose success is assured by the fact of their wealth, are studying hard. They don't want to bring shame to their family."

"What's the use? Safar said. No matter how well I do Umurhan will fail me anyway."

Katal's eyebrows shot up. How can that be? he said. You're the best student Umurhan's had in years. Umurhan was Walaria's Chief Sorcerer. As such he supervised the temple and attached university where scholars, priests, healers and wizards were trained. He answered to no one but King Didima, ruler of the city and its environs.

"He's going to fail me just the same, Safar said.

"There must be some reason, Katal said. What did you do to earn his wrath?"

Safar made a sour face. He caught me in his library, he said, making notes on a forbidden book."

Katal was aghast. How could you take such a chance?"

Safar hung his head. I thought it was safe, he said. I've slipped into his study before without being caught. I knew the risk I was taking. But I'm on the trail of something important, dammit! And I thought one more trip might turn up what I needed. I slipped in well before first light. Everyone knows old Umurhan likes his sleep, so there shouldn't have been any danger. But this time I'd barely entered the room and lit a candle when he suddenly appeared from the shadows. As if he'd been waiting there for me."

"Did someone alert him? Katal asked.

"I don't see how they could, Safar said. It was a last minute decision. No one knew. My only guess is I left some clue on my last visit. And he's been waiting all this time to pounce."

"You were fortunate he didn't expel you at once, Katal said. Or, worse, report you to Kalasariz as a dangerous heretic. Lord Kalasariz was Didima's chief spy. There were so many in his employ the joke was that in Walaria even the watchers were watched.

"Umurhan said the same thing, Safar replied. He said he could have me thrown into one of Kalasariz cells where I could rot for all eternity for all he cared. And the only reason he didn't call one of Kalasariz minions right then was because I was such a good student."

"You see? Katal said. There is hope. You've completed four years of work in two. No one else your age has ever qualified to take the second level acolyte exams in so short a time. He indicated the wine jug. Now you're destroying the chance he's giving you to make amends."

Safar grimaced, remembering Umurhan's wrath. I don't think that's possible, he said. The only reason I wasn't thrown out immediately is because my sponsor is Lord Muzine, the richest merchant in the city. Muzine was Coralean's friend, the man he'd said he'd call on to help get Safar admitted to the university. Umurhan doesn't want a scandal and he certainly doesn't want to offend Muzine. He'll fail me, then report the sad news to Muzine. It's the cleanest way to be rid of me."

"Well I for one won't be sorry, came a voice. The two turned and saw that Zeman had worked his way across the patio and was now cleaning the table next to them. Zeman was about Safar's age and height. But he was so thin he was nearly skeletal. His complexion was bad, his face long and horse-like, with wall eyes and overly large teeth.

"It's leeches like you who keep my grandfather poor, Zeman said. You all eat and drink on credit, or for nothing at all. You rent books and scrolls and keep them as long you like without paying for the extra time. And it isn't only the students. What of that bitch Nerisa he's taken under his wing? A thief, of all things. No, I fear my grandfather is too charitable for his own good. And for mine. I go without as well because of your sort."

He indicted his costumetight brown leggings, green thigh-length smock, slippers with curled toesa cheap imitation of what the fashionable lads wore. I'm forced to clothe myself in the alley markets. It's an insult to a young man of my class and prospects."

Katal was angry. Don't speak to my friend like that! Safar only receives what I beg him to take. He is a friend and he possesses one of the finest young minds I've met in many a day."

Safar intervened. He's right, Katal. You are too generous. I'll wager you haven't raised the prices since you opened the Foolsmire forty years ago. That's why we all come here. You have a right to a decent profit, my friend. And at your age you deserve to live a life of ease."

Zeman pushed in. I'll thank you to let me defend myself to my own grandfather, he said to Safar. As if I need defending. I'm only being sensible, not mean."

"Both of you speak with the arrogance of youth, Katal said. Neither has the faintest notion of why I live my life as I do."

He pointed at the faded sign hanging from a rusty iron post over the door of bookshop. The name speaks it for all to see'Foolsmire. I was a young man when I hung that sign. I planted that tree at the same time. It was just a stick with a few leaves then. Now it shades us with its mighty boughs. His old eyes gleamed in memory. I was a bright young fellow, he said. Although probably not as bright as I thought. Still, I had a mind agile enough to compete at the university. But I had no money or influence to gain entrance. Yet I loved books and knowledge above all else. And so I sought a fool's paradise and became a seller of books. I wanted the company of the most intelligent students to discuss the ideas the books contained. I created a place to attract such people, offering my wares at the lowest prices possible. You see before you a poor man, a foolish man, but a happy man. For I have achieved my dreams at the Foolsmire."

Safar laughed and nodded in understanding. Zeman frowned, more unhappy than before. What of me, Grandfather? he protested. I didn't ask for this life. I didn't ask for the plague that killed my parents. My motheryour daughterwas comely enough to attract a man with prospects for a husband. But he died before he could prosper and see that I had a chance to prosper as well."

"I gave you a home, Katal said. What more could I do? Your grandmother died in the same plague, so I lost my whole family, except for you."

"I know that, Grandfather, Zeman said. And I appreciate the sacrifices you've made. I'm only asking that you try a little harder. Don't give so much away. And when I inherit this place someday you can go to your grave in peace, knowing I've been cared for. Zeman glanced about, noting the shabbiness of his inheritance. It does have a good location, after all. Right in the heart of the student quarter. It should fetch me a decent sum."

Safar had to fight his temper. In Kyrania it was unheard of for a lad to speak so coldly and rudely to his grandfather. But to leave Zeman's comments completely unanswered would bedevil his dreams.

"If it were me, he said, I could never sell all these books. To misquote the poetWhat could you possibly buy that was half so precious as what you sell."

"A brothel, for one, Zeman said. With a well-planned gaming parlor attached. He gave the table an angry swipe and stalked off.

"You shouldn't let him get away with that, Safar said, hotly. He shows no respect."

"Never mind him, Katal said. Zeman is what he is. There's nothing to be done about it. It's Safar Timura I'm worried about just now."

"There's nothing to be done about that either, Safar said.

"What possessed you to take such a chance with Umurhan? Katal asked, giving his beard a tug of frustration.

Safar lowered his eyes. You know, he said.

Katal's eyes narrowed. Hadin, again?"

"Yes."

"Why are you so obsessed with a place on the other side of the world? Katal said. A place we're not even certain exists. The Land of the Fires, it's called. For all we know it might really be The Frozen Lands. Or The Lands of the Swamps.

"I know what I saw in the vision, Safar said. And I know deep in my bones it's vital that someone find out what happened."

"I gather you think the trail leads into Umurhan's private library, Katal said, dryly. Among his forbidden books."

Safar nodded, then leaned closer. I've run across a name, he said, low. He gestured in the direction of the book shop. It's repeated many times in some of your oldest scrolls. Scholars refer to an ancient they call Lord Asper. A great magician and philosopher. He measured the world and also the distance from Esmir to the moon. He made many predictions that came true, including the rise of Alisarrian and the collapse of his empire."

Katal looked interested. I've never heard of such a man, he said.

"I don't think Asper was a man, Safar answered.

"What else could he be?"

"A demon, Safar answered.

Katal was so startled he nearly came to his feet. A demon? he cried. What madness is this? The demons have nothing to teach us but evil! I don't care how wise this Asper was, he was most certainly wicked. All demons are. That's why there's a barrier between our species. The curse of the Forbidden Desert."

"Oh, that, Safar said. It's nothing."

"How can you call the greatest spell ever cast in history nothing? Katal said, aghast. The finest mindsand, yes, some were demon minds,composed that spell. It's unbreakable."

Safar shrugged. Actually, I suspect it can be broken quite easily, he said. I really wasn't looking for the details, but I do know the curse is based on Asper's work. He had many enemies, many rivals, and to protect his most powerful magic it's said he created a spell of complexity. It made the most simple bit of sorcery appear so tangled and difficult that it would confound even the greatest wizard. If I wanted to break the curse I'd attack the spell of complexity, not the curse itself. I don't think that would take much effort to solve. I'm sure I'd find the key if I could lay my hands on one of his books. Which is exactly what I was looking for when Umurhan surprised me."

"Would you really do such a thing, Safar? Katal asked, shocked. Would you really try to lift the curse?"

"Of course not, Safar said, to Katal's vast relief. What purpose would that serve, except to endanger us all? I have no greater opinion of demons than you."

As he'd promised Coralean, Safar had never mentioned his own experience with demons to anyone, even Katal. So he didn't add he had even more reason to fear the creatures than the old book seller could imagine. And it had occurred to him more than once that despite Coralean's rationalizations, the demon raiders might have found a way to cross the Forbidden Desert. If so, it was his frequent prayer the knowledge had died with them in the avalanche.

He said nothing of this to Katal. Instead, he said, I'm only interested in what Asper had to say about Hadin. I think it goes to the origins of our world. And all of us. Humans and demons alike."

"This is all very intriguing, Safar, Katal said. But merely for intellectual discussion among, I might add, the most select few. For it's dangerous talk. Please, for your sake and your family's sake, let it go. Forget Asper. Forget Hadin. Study hard and pass the exam. Umurhan will relent, I'm sure of it. You are capable of great things, my young friend. Don't stumble now. Look ahead to the future."

"I am, Katal, Safar said passionately. Can't you see it? In my vision… he let the rest trail off. He'd been over this ground with Katal many times. I never wanted to come to Walaria in the first place, he said. My family insisted I take advantage of Coralean's generous offer. Safar had told various vague tales of why the caravan master felt beholden to him. Katal, realizing it was a sensitive area, had always avoided pressing him for the details. Old Gubadan wept when I first refused. It was as if I were robbing him of his pride."

"I can see that, Katal said. You were his prize student, after all. Not many young people like yourself come before a teacher, Safar. It's an experience to be treasured."

"Still, that's not what shook me from my resolve, Safar said. I love Kyrania. I never wanted to leave it. I loved my father's work. And yet I haven't touched a bit of wet clay in nearly three years. But I was haunted by the vision of Hadin. I couldn't sleep. I could barely eat. The more I thought about it, the more ignorant I felt. And the only way to relieve that was to go to the university and study. So it was Hadin that drove me from my valley, Katal. And Hadin that drives me now."

Safar's blue eyes were alight with the holy zeal of the very young. Katal sighed to himself, only dimly remembering his own days of such single-mindedness. It seemed likely to him, however, that Safar's tale was much more complex than the one he told. There were other forces at work, here. A bitter experience. Perhaps even a tragedy. Could it be a woman? Unlikely. Safar was much too young.

He was forming the words for a new plea of caution when loud voices and the sound of running feet interrupted.

The both looked up to see a small figure in bare feet and raggedy clothes sprinting down the alley towards them.

"What's wrong, Nerisa? Safar cried as she approached.

Then he heard voices just beyond the alley mouth shouting, Stop thief! Stop thief!"

Nerisa ran past him and shot up the fig tree like a bolt fired from a bow, disappearing into the thick foliage.

A moment later the fat stallkeep, trailed by several hard-looking men, lumbered into view. They slowed, panting heavily.

"Where is he? the stallkeep demanded when he'd reached them. Where'd he go?"

"Where did who go, sir? Katal asked, face a mask of surprised innocence.

"The thief, one of the rough men said.

"He's a big brute of a lad, the stallkeep broke in. A real animal, I tell you. I don't mind saying I was in fear for my life when I caught him stealing from me."

"We've seen no one matching that description, Safar said. Have we, Katal?"

Katal made a face of grave concern. We certainly haven't. And we've been sitting here for hours."

"Let's check around, one of the rough men said. Maybe these two good citizens were dipping in the wine too deeply to notice."

"I assure you no one looking like the one you described has come this way, Katal said. But feel free to look all you like."

Nerisa gently parted a branch to peer at the scene below. While the rough men searched, Safar and Katal engaged the stallkeep in casual conversation to soothe suspicion.

The young thief was not pleased with herself. She'd let her emotions spoil her timing and then she'd reacted in a panic when things went wrong. The execution, to the dismay of many of the heaviest gamblers, had gone off without a hitch. Tulaz's reputation was intact. The adulteresses head was not. And the plaza crowd had gotten a good show. The victim had been as beautiful as advertised. And she'd wailed most entertainingly when the jailers stripped her, trying pitifully to hide her nakedness with chained hands. Tulaz had played the showman to the hilt, pretending to hesitate several times over the lovely curls bent beneath his blade. Then he'd whacked off her head with such ease that not even a blind fool could doubt the minuscule size of his stony executioner's heart.

But just before he'd struck, the woman had let out a mournful groan that had echoed across the hushed plaza. It was a groan of such anguish, hauled up from the darkest well of human misery, that Nerisa had been wrenched from her emotional moorings. For the first time in her life she'd burst into tears. An uncontrollable urge to leave that place of horrors, and leave it quickly, had overwhelmed her.

Then Tulaz's blade severed the woman's head. The crowd thundered its approval. Nerisa leaped off the wagon, landing with her face to the stall. The object she'd come for gleamed at her from the trays and instinct took over. She scooped it up, heard the stallkeep's alarmed howl of discovery, and dived blindly into the crowd.

"Thief! the stallkeep had cried.

Despite the after-execution chaos the plaza guards had heard the stallkeep's cry and had come running. The blackest of fates must have made the crowd part before them. One of the men had even managed to get a grip on her arm, but she'd clawed him and he'd yelped and let go. Nerisa ran as hard as she'd ever run in her life. But the plaza guards were street-smart pursuers and so they knew all her tricks, blocked all her avenues of escape. And Nerisa, to her present immense shame, had taken the panicked route of least resistance and had led her pursuers directly to the Foolsmireher only place of refuge where anyone at all cared about a skinny little girl thief who had no memory of mother, father, or even the slightest touch of warmth.

She patted the small object hidden under her shirt. It was a gift for Safar. She peeped through the broad leaves of the fig tree and saw him shove coins forward to buy the stallkeep a jug of wine. She hoped Safar would like his present. Stolen or not, it had been purchased at a greater price than he could ever know. Nerisa saw the rough men return, shaking their heads and saying their quarry had escaped. Safar called for more wine. Katal obliged. And while the tumblers were poured and the first toasts drunk, Nerisa slipped off the branch onto the alley wall.

Then she shinnied up a drain pipe to the roof and then to an adjoining building and was gone.