leader of the militias and their councils? The vampire's fancy man? You know theway-down on the White Foal. But do take an unfortunate or two to appease herhunger-for old time's sake, I'll warn you."

Crit didn't react to Kama's acid comments on Strat's faring-for all he knew, itmight be true; and he'd never show her she could still reach him, let alone hurthim. He said, "How about this pud you've got here? Will he do?" For the signs ofsomething intimate between the woman and the street tough were clear to see-hipsbrushed, though Kama held the crossbow; whispers went back and forth throughmotionless lips.

And the youth was armed-slingshot on one wrist, dagger at his hip. The slingshotwas arrogantly aimed at Crit's eyes by the time Kama said, "Don't make themistake of thinking you understand what you're seeing, fighter. You'll needhelp. If you're smart, you'll remember where and how to get it- Strat's part ofSanctuary's problem, not its solution."

Everyone found comfort where they could in wartime, and Sanctuary was war'swomb, a microcosm of every horror man could foist upon his brother-worse nowwith factions holding checkpoints and militias ruling blocks whose inhabitantswere never certain. The idea of Strat being a part of Sanctuary's problem nearlymade him draw his own bow-Crit knew Kama well enough to know, if quarrels wereloosed, his would find its mark first: her woman's hesitation would be her last.

And he might have, right then, no matter what her provenance, but for the pudwho didn't know him and didn't like any northern rider, especially one talkingto his girlfriend. The slingshot grew taut, the boy's eyes steady as his stancewidened.

So there was that-a deadly interval of stalemate broken only when a drunkcaromed off a nearby doorway and knelt down, retching in the street.

Then Crit cleared his throat and said, "If you're still a member of the