Candy said, "We should refuse if he tells us to fight these northerners?"

"Maybe. Fighting a sorcerer could mean our destruction."

Wham! The mess door slammed open. A small, dusky, wiry man, preceded by a great humped beak of a nose, blew inside. The Captain bounced up and clicked his heels. "Syndic."

Our visitor slammed both fists down on the tabletop. "You ordered your men withdrawn into the Bastion. I'm not paying you to hide like whipped dogs."

"You're not paying us to become martyrs, either," the Captain replied in his reasoning-with-fools voice. "We're a bodyguard, not police. Maintaining order is the task of the Urban Cohorts,"

The Syndic was tired, distraught, frightened, on his last emotional legs. Like everyone else.

"Be reasonable," the Captain suggested. "Beryl has passed a point of no return. Chaos rules the streets. Any attempt to restore order is doomed. The cure now is the disease."

I liked that. I had begun to hate Beryl.

The Syndic shrank into himself. "There's still the forvalaka, And that vulture from the north, waiting off the Island." Tom-Tom started out of a half-sleep. "Off the Island, you say?"

"Waiting for me to beg."

"Interesting." The little wizard lapsed into semi-slumber.

The Captain and Syndic bickered about (he terms of our commission. I produced our copy of the agreement. The Syndic tried to stretch clauses with, "Yeah, but." Clearly, he wanted to fight if the legate started throwing his weight around.

Elmo started snoring. The Captain dismissed us, resumed arguing with our employer.

I suppose seven hours passes as a night's sleep. I didn't strangle Tom-Tom when he wakened me. But I did grouse and crab till he threatened to turn me into a jackass braying at the Gate of Dawn. Only then, after I had dressed and we had joined a dozen others, did I realize that I didn't have a notion what was happening.