"Hurry!" Rashan urged as she reached his side. Demons flew down the aisles toward them. "Place it right in the center," he instructed, pointing to a position on the sunburst.
"Where?" she cried in confusion, staring. Only a couple of grooves and notches had been carved into the metal, far too wide to hold the Fire in God's Eye. "There's no mounting!"
Rashan snatched the diamond from her and held it to the sunburst. Then he took something from his robe pocket, slammed it over the diamond, gave it a twist, and stood back.
Within a strange bubble of translucent blue, the Fire in God's Eye began to shine with a greater light, igniting the sunburst, itself. As it had last night when she first brought the diamond, the sunburst exploded with a pure white luminescence that filled the temple. The priests cried out, shielding their eyes, falling to the floor to hide their faces. The demons, too, shrieked with despair. As the light touched them, they broke apart like brittle things, and the nieces wafted away into nothingness.
When the last demon was gone, the light from the sunburst ebbed. All that remained was a soft golden glow that issued from the sunburst's heart.
Chenaya rose to her feet and helped Rashan to his. "What was that bubble?" she asked breathlessly. "That thing you put over the diamond?"
A rare small grin broke over Rashan's face. "Beysib glass," he answered. "It's something new they've started making while you've been gone. There wasn't time to sculpt a proper mounting into the metal, so I improvised."
Chenaya raised an eyebrow in amazement. "A bowl?" she said.
The old priest shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?" He turned and gazed at the sunburst. Tentatively, he reached out and touched it with his fingertips. It was more than a symbolic image now. It was holy. It contained a fragment of the sun-god's power. "The Rankan priests will try to seize it back," he murmured lowly so his fellow priests wouldn't overhear-
Chenaya shook her head. "No. Since I was successful, they know it is Savankala's will. They still have the twin stone. The Bright Father has not forsaken Ranke, but now his favor also falls on Sanctuary."
There was a heavy, frantic pounding on the temple doors, and shouts from the other side. At Rashan's nod, the acolytes nearest drew back the bar and tugged them open. The entrance immediately filled with gladiators ready to do battle. When they saw that the fight was already over, they lowered their weapons, looking almost disappointed.
Daphne sighed. "Well, since there's nothing more to do in here," she said to Chenaya, "you should come see what they dug up from under the cornerstone."
They all backed outside. On the ground near the pit lay the shroudcovered form from Chenaya's visions. She bent down and lifted the cloth slowly from its face. "Ugh!" was all she managed. She moved quickly away, scanned the sky, and whistled Reyk down. She wrapped his jess around her hand and gave him a soothing stroke.
"Looks a lot like Kadakithis the morning after our wedding night," Daphne said. She nudged Dayme in the ribs. "I was kind of hard on him his first time."
Dayrne's expression betrayed nothing. "I should hope it was the other way around," he answered.
Leyn gestured for some of the gladiators to carry the thing away. Then he turned to Chenaya and Rashan. "It wasn't a body at all," he explained. "Rather, pieces of many bodies all stitched clumsily together to make a simulacrum of a corpse." He rubbed the back of his head. "For the life of me, I can't figure why someone would go to that kind of trouble."
"To pollute the temple," Rashan answered, his eyes filling with a sudden understanding. "Vashanka demanded a human sacrifice to consecrate this place. It was to become one of the Great Temples of the Empire, but from the beginning things kept going wrong in the construction. Rooms collapsed, ceilings leaked, columns cracked, and it never quite seemed to get finished." He folded his arms into his sleeves and stared into the hole they had made in the road. "But this was not a proper sacrifice at all. There never was a consecration. Whoever put this thing here saw to that." He clapped his hands with new joy. "We must have a new consecration! A celebration!"
Chenaya caught Rashan's sleeve. "No sacrifices," she told him. "The barbarous Vashanka is forever lost. Savankala frowns on such practices. This will be a Great Temple now, but only if you heed Him."
Rashan looked at her for a moment, then made a deep bow. "I heed the word of Savankala," he said reverently, "and I heed his true daughter."
Chenaya looked at him piercingly. She turned to Dayme and touched his huge arm. Then she turned back to Rashan. "I lied to you about that," she said abruptly, "to convince you to follow my orders. In the desert, I made a pact with the sun-god. There is a bond between us, yes. One that you do not understand and that I will not explain. What transpired is very personal and very private." She looked at Dayme again, reached out for his hand, and interlocked her fingers with his. "In any case, He has a sincere desire to spread His worship here. Ranke has become moribund. It's an empire without a future. However, in exchange for my bringing the Fire in God's Eye to Sanctuary, the Bright Father has agreed to stay out of my life. My fate is my own again."
Dayme stared down at the hand he held, so small against his own, yet filled with strength. "What does that mean?" he asked, his confusion plain.
She smiled at him. "Don't worry. You and I will discuss it over the days and nights to come." She let go of him then, catching the gleam in Daphne's eyes. "But not now. Right now, I think we'd better refill this hole before Walegrin comes along."
"So you see," Chenaya said frankly, standing before a full court in the Hall of Justice, meeting the hostile gaze of Molin Torchholder who stood at the side of Prince Kadakithis's great chair as her cousin squinted over the document she had given him. 'I did not inherit Land's End. Knowing the Rankan law, my father left it to Dayrne. You know Lowan's writing. You have his seal."
Kadakithis looked utterly uninterested. He handed the document back to Molin and folded his hands in the lap of his expensive silk robe as he gazed down at Dayrne, who stood just behind Chenaya. "Then why didn't your man simply explain this to Molin when he came to visit?"
"Because it's a forgery!" Molin Torchholder muttered, casting the document to the floor. It slithered down the few steps of the dias from the throne to Chenaya's feet. "A clever forgery!"
Chenaya declined to pick the document up. She merely smiled patiently at her uncle. She liked to see him twitch. "Because he didn't know about it. Father told only me where he kept his will, and as you know, cousin"-she nodded to Kadakithis again-"I've been out of town."
Kadakithis waved a hand under his nose as if to shoo away a fly. "Well, it all looks legal to me-the signature, the seal, the whole business. It is a prime piece of real estate, Molin, and I don't blame you for trying. But I'm afraid it belongs to Dayrne now."
Dayrne stepped forward, the smug glee on his usually stern face almost enough to make Chenaya chuckle. But now wasn't the time for that. "No," Dayrne said gruffly. "It belongs to Cheyne. Rankan law says she can't inherit property, but it doesn't prevent her from owning property. I sold Land's End back to her this morning"-he looked straight at Molin -"for a single gold soldat." He pulled the gold coin from his waistband and held it up for all to see. A murmur of restrained amusement ran around the court while Molin fumed.
Dayme and Chenaya turned as one and marched from the Hall of Justice, across the courtyard, and out into Vashanka's Square where their friends and comrades were waiting. "Well?" Ouijen said eagerly. "What happened?"
A slow grin spread across Chenaya's face.
"You should have seen Molin," Dayrne whispered, drawing them all closer.
Daphne clapped her hands and laughed. "It worked!" she cried before Gestus shushed her.
Dismas sighed with melodramatic relief. "Thank the gods!" he said. "I practiced all night on that signature. I didn't think I'd ever get it right!" Chenaya's grin brightened into a smile as she reached up and rumpled Dismas's hair. "You?" she teased. "The best thief and forger ever sentenced to an arena anywhere?"<
br />
They walked across the square and out the Processional Gate. The clouds over Sanctuary had vanished. The sky was a wonderful blue, and the sun shone warm and golden. A fresh wind blew up from the sea. Chenaya stared that way, watching the tops of the masts of ships rocking to and fro along the wharves where she had sat two nights ago and thrown a painting into the water.
"You miss him, don't you?" Dayrne whispered in her ear.
She thought of her father, calling up all the good memories of times they had spent together. "I'll always miss him," she answered quietly.
"But not today!" Daphne snapped. "No morbid moods today." She pulled a fat purse from her belt and tossed it in the air, catching it again before Leyn could snatch it. "It's the Maze for us, my brothers, and a few drinks at the Unicorn. That's as good a place as any to spread the word and let this city know." She waited, looking at them and finally winking.
"Chenaya's back in town," she proclaimed. She turned then, tossing her raven hair over her shoulders, grabbing Leyn's arm, and pulling him along as she led the way.
"Somehow," Dayrne muttered with a weak half-smile, "I think it knows."
WEB WEAVERS by Lynn Abbey
Sanctuary had been quiet since Theron's loyalists pulled out. A hundred people, certainly no more than two hundred, had straggled through the new gates to begin the long journey back to Ranke. The ordinary citizen of Sanctuary didn't miss a single one of them. The ordinary citizen of Sanctuary hadn't yet guessed that the city had been cut adrift, to sink or swim on its own strengths. Men and women who had spent their lives complaining about the Empire scarcely noticed it was gone.
For the undermanned garrison, the calm was a blessing. They desperately needed time to reorganize, to recruit new men, to train them, and to test their informant networks in the absence of the Stepsons, the 3rd, and the Mageguild Hazards. A week passed, and another. A storm rolled in from the sea. It rained for three days running, and when the skies cleared, the towering yellow-grey clouds above desert had collapsed. Farmers came to the temples with their thanksgiving offerings.
Walegrin had been brevetted to full commander of the garrison in Critias's stead. It came as a surprise to him. He expected that dubious honor to fall on Zaibar's shoulders. Zaibar hadn't taken a drink in over a year, and he was much more familiar with the corridors of power than a shag-officer like Walegrin, who had spent his life on duty in one imperial backwater post after another. Walegrin was no happier about spending his days in an airless room hearing reports and giving orders than Critias had been. Whenever the opportunity arose, he assigned himself to a street patrol.
An opportunity arose when the square sails of a Beysib merchanter were sighted beyond the arms of the harbor.
Sanctuary's harbor was its hope for a prosperous future. Some ancient, forgotten god had amused himself (or, perhaps, herself) removing great bites of continental rock. The anchorage was deep and calm within the tricky rip-current that carried away the Red and White Foal sediments on every tide. Since the days of the Ilsigi settlers, seafaring men had shaken their heads: such a beautiful anchorage, and no good reason to use it.
Then Shupansea and her fellow exiles began tortuous, ongoing negotiations with their enemies back in what they called the Glorious Home. Progress was slow, all could not be forgiven, but-if the exiles longed for the luxuries of their past-a merchant or two could supply them-
The local merchants scented a fortune or two in the crates and coffers piled on the wharf for the staring Beysib clientele. They desperately wanted to want what the fish merchants were selling, but trade was proving difficult to establish. To mainland eyes, Beysib wares were strange, not intriguing; weird rather than exotic. Fortunately the urge to bargain transcended cultural, linguistic, and monetary boundaries. Each successive Beysib merchant vessel carried more cargo for the mainlanders to examine; each vessel was greeted by more mainland merchants.
They were lined up along the wharf before the Beysib ship cleared the offshore current. A sharp-witted merchant hoped to make a fortune before noon. Walegrin and Thrusher mingled with the noisy throng to make sure those fortunes were honest-merchant honest.
The Beysib ship came into the harbor with her galley oars shipped and her rust-colored sails stretched tight. She rode low in the water, but her lines showed speed despite her heavy holds and metal-clad bow. A catapult rose from her stem; she'd bum the sails of anything foolhardy enough to chase her. The exiles insisted that the ship, and her sisters, were their homeland's cargo vessels-lumbering relations of their warships. It might be that the fish-folk were lying through their staring eyes, but no Sanctuary sailor felt the urge to challenge them.
"Pirates each and every one of them. Barbarians," Thrusher muttered as Beysib sailors swarmed over the rigging as the ship drew alongside the wharf. "They think we're animals," Thrush continued. "They think we've got no souls because we don't have fish eyes like them. Don't think they've made a square deal with us since their first ship put in here. Stealin' us blind is what they're doing. I'll bet they're selling us garbage."
Walegrin grunted noncommittally; he wouldn't take his friend's bet. For all that he'd been bom a thrall, Thrusher was a snob. As far as the commander could tell, the Beysib were getting insect egg cases, uncured pelts, and barrels of swamp beer for such goods as caught a mainland eye. The Beysib might be selling garbage-Walegrin couldn't be surethe Sanctuary merchants definitely were.
The two soldiers broke up a fistfight between Beysib sailors and Sanctuary laborers. They fished a careless merchant out of the harbor. A redhaired Ilbarsi offered them a bribe of pickled passion fruit. A Rankan offered them pearls if they'd guard a certain triple-locked chest against all comers. They took the fruit, and took the Rankan to the palace lockup for stealing. The carnival was still going strong when they returned to the wharf.
A woman with a donkey cart blocked their way. The wharf could support a three-horse dray, but there were drainage gaps between the diagonally laid planks. The donkey was sweating in its harness; the woman was pulling the donkey; and the wheels were wedged into the gaps.
Walegrin nudged Thrusher. The woman had to be new in town. Only a stranger would lead the donkey along the wharf rather than across it, much less own a cart that could get both wheels stuck.
'"I don't understand it," the woman explained as the two men made a barrier between her and the unamused crowd. She was almost as frantic as the donkey.
"We'll get you out of here," Walegrin muttered. He took the woman's shawl and wrapped it over the donkey's eyes. Donkeys were smarter than horses, but not by much. "Never done this before, have you?"
"Why, no ... When the other ships came in, my brother-in-law was home ..."
Walegrin walked away to exchange places with Thrusher. He got a firm grip on the single axle, then nodded his head, lifted, and scuttled sideways as Thrush got the donkey moving.
"No! No! Not that way. I've got to get out to where they're unloading."
The two men exchanged an evening's conversation in a glance. The cart settled back onto its axle, free now, but still blocking traffic.
"The length of an axle is set by the prince's decree," Walegrin recited to the woman, who was, by then, in tears. "It's matched to the width of these planks and the width of the gap between them." He handed the shawl back to her. "This cart gets stuck out there and I'll have to impound it. I'll have to take it to the palace and it'll go to firewood unless you pay a fine of two soldats."
The woman's tears ceased; she turned pale enough to frighten the commander, There was no fine for women fainting on the wharf, but he had no desire to have his arms full of drooping femininity. To his immense relief she squared her shoulders and started breathing normally again.
"Is it permitted to tie a cart here-by the cobblestones?"
Walegrin nodded.
"Then I shall carry my goods myself. I cannot risk my brother-in-law's cart. I do not have two soldats."
It was the second time she'd referred to her b
rother-in-law, and both times she seemed to shrink as she uttered the words. She hadn't mentioned a father or a son, nor a brother or husband; not even a sister's husband. Walegrin looked at her with the beginnings of sympathy. Slaves had more rights than a childless widow cut off from her blood family. "I don't make the laws, goodwife," he said, taking another step toward her.
"I'll carry your goods back here for you."
For a moment it seemed she had been too broken by her misfortunes to take advantage of Walegrin's offer- Her eyes widened; they were blue. It was possible that, if she were not so thin and anxious, she'd be a handsome woman. It was hard to tell, and the commander was about to turn away when she made up her mind to accept his offer..
Since the Beysib traders and their mainland counterparts did not share a spoken language, bargaining was done with gestures. Factotums recorded the transaction in the appropriate languages on parchment, which was then torn and divided among the principals. In theory, there was no need for shouting, but the clamor along the wharf was guaranteed to give all but the deaf a headache.
Chests and bales were still coming off the ship, to be opened on the first empty patch of wharf the merchant encountered. There was no such thing as a clear path and the indigenous criminals were having a field day. Walegrin spotted a light-fingered youth in the act of lifting a sizable purse. Their eyes met, and the thief kept lifting. A half-dozen overflowing chest separated the law from the lawbreaker, and even if they hadn't, Walegrin had all he could do to keep up with the woman.
She strode past more gimcrack and gewgaw dealers than Walegrin cared to count. Personally, he saw nothing that would tempt him to crack his next egg. But he was a soldier; women were supposed to be different.
There was a hierarchy in the disorder. The frivolities which the fish judged most likely to please the natives were crammed together at the landward end of the wharf. The consignment goods destined for the exiles were more carefully displayed closer to the ship. Midway between them three silk sellers displayed bolts of cloth and finished garments.
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