"Anyone would be better than Naimun!" Cauvin answered. "He can't be trusted!" Raith's slow-witted but ambitious elder brother had already been caught treating with the outlawed remnants of the Bloody Hand, not to mention every foreign schemer who washed ashore.

"We don't need to trust him," Raith snarled coldly. "We need only follow him."

"Raith said that?" the black-clad man asked with the raised eyebrows of surprise and new-found respect.

Cauvin nodded. "Everything went dead quiet-you could hear the froggin' flies buzzing around Zarzakhan. But that's not the strangest part-"

"I might have guessed."

The two men were alone on a hill outside Sanctuary, their conversation lit by the faint light of a silver moon.

The black-clad man's name was Soldt and he was a duelist-an assassin-who'd come to the city years ago to solve a problem called Lord Molin Torchholder. The Torch-no froggin' spring chicken then, either-had outwitted him and Soldt had wound up staying on as the old pud's eyes, ears, and, sometimes, his sword. He was another part of Cauvin's legacy.

"While I knelt there," Cauvin went on, "not daring to froggin' breathe, the light began to shimmer-"

"Zarzakhan catching fire?"

"No-not that froggin' strange. The guard-the spear man who'd played the part of the sun? I looked up and he was shaking all over-laughing. Shite, I'd forgotten he was even there; we all had- and that's the way he meant it."

Another arch of eyebrows.

"I blinked and the man's eyes were glowing red."

"Ah, Yorl again, Enas Yorl. Spying on everyone. How long do you suppose he's known we were fated for two eclipses in quick succession?"

"I didn't get a chance to ask. I blinked again, and he was gone."

"And then Zarzakhan caught fire?"

"No, the guard was still there-looking like he'd just awakened from a nightmare; Yorl was gone."