The Unicorn crowd no longer turned quiet when Niko and Janni entered; theirscruffy faces and shabby gear and bleary eyes proclaimed them no threat to themendicants or the whores. Competition, they were now considered, and it had beenhard to float the legend, harder to live it. Or to live it down, since none ofthe Stepsons but their task force leader, Crit (who himself had never movedamong the barracks ranks, proud and shining with oil and fine weapons and finerideals) knew that they had not quit but only worked shrouded in subterfuge onTempus's orders to flush the Nisibisi witch.

But the emergence of the death squads had raised the pitch, the ante, given thematter a new urgency. Some said it was because Shadowspawn, the thief, wasright: the god Vashanka had died and the Rankans would suffer their due. Theirdue or not, traders, politicians, and moneylenders - the 'oppressors' - werenightly dragged out into the streets, whole families slaughtered or burned alivein their houses, or hacked to pieces in their festooned wagons.

The agents ordered draughts from One-Thumb's new girl and she came back,cowering but determined, saying that One-Thumb must see their money first. Theyhad started this venture with the barman's help; he knew their provenance; theyknew his secret.

'Let's kill the swillmonger. Stealth,' Janni growled. They had little cash - afew soldats and some Machadi coppers - and couldn't draw their pay until theirwork was done.

'Steady, Janni. I'll talk to him. Girl, fetch two Rankan ales or you won't beable to close your legs for a week.'

He pushed back his bench and strode to the bar, aware that he was only halfjoking, that Sanctuary was rubbing him raw. Was the god dead? Was Tempus inthrall to the Froth Daughter who kept his company? Was Sanctuary the honeypot of