Ischade walked with him, inky eyes agleam within her hood. He'd promised Ischadesomething, one night last autumn. He wondered if this was it-if the killing hadgotten out of hand because Ischade was there, and not because Zip's PopularFront for the Liberation of Sanctuary knew nothing of restraint and Sync's 3rdCommando, not to be outdone, forsook all thoughts of proper measure once it wasclear that the ersatz Stepsons had been keeping dogs on grounds consecrated toVashanka, the Rankan god of rape and pillage.

Rape, of course, was still under way in the stables and in the long lowbarracks. Strat saw Ischade turn her head away at the piteous cries of womenwho'd been where women had no right to be and now paid the soldiers' tithe.

Around them, PFLS rebels ran to and fro, heavy sacks or gleaming tack upon theirshoulders-pillaging had begun.

Strat didn't move to stop the stealing or the defilement of the luckless fewwho'd been comely enough to live a little longer than their fellows. He was theranking officer and his was the burden of command-even when, as now, he didn'tlike it.

Crit, Strat's absent partner, might have foreseen and forestalled the momentwhen the 3rd's bloodthirsty nature surfaced and Zip's rabble followed suit, andblood began to spill like Vashanka's rains or a whore's tears.

But he hadn't. Not until it was far too late. And then, knowing that if he triedto stop them he'd lose only his command, he'd had to let the bloodlust workthrough the assault force like dysentery works through those fool enough todrink from the White Foal River.

Ischade knew his pain; her hand was on his arm. But the necromant was wise-shesaid not one word to the Stepsons' chief interrogator and line commander as theycame upon Randal-the Tysian Hazard who was the only magical ally besides herselfthe Stepsons tolerated-quartering a dog to roast and bury at the barracks'