That was a busy street.

The old woman saw char marks on the skull before it disappeared.

Of course. They were razing the ruins near the Gate of Winter where, afterbreaching the wall, several hundred invaders had perished in a fire touchedoff by errant sorceries. The area would be rich in treasures for small boys.

The pack raced after their plaything, disrupting commerce and generatingcurses both good-natured and otherwise. One boy, about six, stopped in frontof the old woman. He was very formal as he said, "Good afternoon, GrandmotherSayhed."

The old woman smiled. She had teeth missing. With equal formality, shereplied, "Good day, young Zouki. You've been exploring where they're tearingthe old buildings down?"

Zouki nodded and grinned. He was missing teeth, too.

At the beginning and at the end, toothless, the old woman reflected. LikeQushmarrah.

The boy asked, "Can Arif come out?"

"No."

Zouki looked startled. "How come?"

"It wouldn't be safe. You boys will be in big trouble in a few minutes." Theold woman put her mending down. She pointed in the direction of the bay.

The boy looked, saw the eight black riders swaying like the masts of shipsabove the turbulent human sea. The leader rated a horse. The others rode camels. They came straight up the hill, leaving it to the mob to get out oftheir way. Dartar mercenaries.

They were in no hurry to get anywhere. They were after no one. Just a routinepatrol. But if they saw the boys abusing the skull ...

Zouki gawked.

The old woman said, "Get along now, Zouki. Don't bring the heathen to ourdoor."

The boy spun and plunged after his friends, throwing a shout ahead. The oldwoman continued to stare at the riders. They were close now.

They were young. The leader was the eldest. He might be twenty-three. None of the others had reached twenty. They wore black veils to mask their features, but those were not heavy. One could not have been more than sixteen.