where amulets grew heavy; on his neck, where hairs stood on end; in his gut,which had frozen solid when Tempus had calmly ordered him to his death on aflimsy pretext. Crit had never thought the Riddler'd held a grudge about hisdaughter and her miscarried child. But there was no other reason to sendStepsons up against a witch like Roxane.

Was that, then, what Abarsis had come to say to him? That it was time a few moreSacred Banders made their way to heaven? Was Abarsis lonely for his boys? BeforeTempus had led the Band, Crit had fought for the Slaughter Priest. But in thosedays Abarsis had been of flesh and blood, even if obsessed with tasks done forthe gods.

"Psst! Crit! Here!"

Between the stalls, opposite the fortune-teller's tent, were too many shadows.Crit sat his horse, arm crooked over his pommel, and waited, watching where hismount's ears pricked like dowsing rods.

Out from the gloom came a hand, white and long-a woman's, despite the leatherbracer.

Crit squeezed with his right knee and the sorrel ambled forward-one pace, two.Then he said, "Hello, Kama. What's that you've got there, friend or captive?"

Beside the woman half in shadow was a waif-a flat-faced boy with almond eyes andscruffy beard who wore a black rag bound across his brow.

The boy didn't matter; the woman, crossbow pointed half to port so that itsflight would skewer Crit's belly if she pulled its trigger mechanism back,mattered more than Crit liked.

Tempus's daughter laughed the throaty laugh that had gotten Crit in trouble longago. "Looking for someone?" Kama never answered stupid questions. She was assharp as her father, in her way. But not as ethical.

"Strat," he said simply, to make things clear.

"Our 'acting' military governor, now that Kadakithis lies abed with Beysibs? The