Crit saw even Jihan's feral eyes go wide. The Froth Daughter, achinglyattractive to a fighter with her form clothed in scale armor shining like thedusk, looked between the two men and whispered something to the Riddler, thenlooked back at Crit.

The long-eyed Riddler did not, just stroked his gray's arched neck. "It'senough," replied the man Crit served and often had thought he'd die to please.

That evening, later, riding alone through the Common Gate in search of Straton,Critias was^ no longer so sure that an honorable death would be a privilege-notwhen it was here.

Sanctuary hadn't changed, or if it had, the change was for the worse. There werecheckpoints everywhere and Crit had to bully his way through two of them beforefinding a soldier he knew-someone who had an armband he could commandeer.

By then he'd skirted the palace, green-walled because some sort of fungus ormoss was growing there, and entered the Bazaar where illicit drugs, girls andboys, and even lives were hawked openly in twisting streets.

His back unguarded, his sorrel spooked and dancing, he was heading for the Maze,a deeper slum than this one, against his better judgment because he didn't wantto look for Strat where his erstwhile partner probably could be found-lying inwith the vampire woman who held sway in Shambles Cross and used the White Foalto dispose of victims.

From between two produce stalls Critias heard a hiss and a low whistle-oldnorthern recognition signs. Adjusting the armband (a dirty rainbow of clothspecked with long-dried blood), he looked about: to his right was a fortuneteller's tent-a S'danzo girl, Illyra, worked there. He saw her standing in thedoor.

They'd never met, yet she waved-a hesitant gesture, part warding sign, partblessing.

The last thing Crit wanted was his fortune told: he could feel it in his pouch,