Rashan looked over his shoulder, located the full moon, and positioned himself in the best light. He took the stylus from the inkpot and held himself poised for the first stroke.
"Write..." Chenaya paused, thoughtful. "Thanks for the stud service, lover." She laughed then, remembering her garden encounter with the Riddler. "Sign my name in big letters."
Rashan gave her a disapproving look, the kind Lowan Vigeles would have given her. She paid him as much attention, and he wrote. When he was done she took the parchment and gave it to Gestus. "Fix it to the saddle," she instructed, "and let the Tros go."
The gladiator looked shocked. He was, after all, a thief, and he thought he'd taken part in a very clever and daring theft. A good thief didn't give back the booty. "Let go horse?" he mumbled.
"Let it go?" Walegrin echoed in better speech.
Chenaya repeated herself. "I'm no fool. Commander. Though I enjoy pricking Tempus's bubble a little, I don't underestimate him. In a short time, the mare will have a foal, then I'll have a half-Tros of my own to ride. I can wait a couple of years. Keeping this one could lead to a direct conflict between the two of us." She glanced up at Sabellia floating serenely in the dark sky. "Who knows what cosmic forces that would unleash, what war among the gods would result?" She shook her head. "No, when I risk that, it will be for something far more important than a horse, even a Tr6s."
Rashan made the sign of his god. "Let us hope Tempus has as much sense. You know him better than he knows you, child."
Gestus led the Tr6s toward the gate. But before he got beyond it, a penetrating and high-pitched whistle sawed through the night. Chenaya cried out in pain, clapped hands to her ears to stop the sound. Through tear-moistened eyes she watched her companions do the same. The Tr6s reared unexpectedly, jerking the reins from her gladiator's hand. It whinnied and sped out of sight, as if in response to the strange whistle, the sound of its hooves adding thunder to the shrill, knife-edged keening.
Abruptly, the sound ceased, and Chenaya straightened. Despite the ringing in her ears, she found strength to smile. "I don't know what that was," she said, "but I think our living legend finally missed his mount." She rubbed her ears and the side of her neck. "I hope the note doesn't fall off."
A look of utter confusion lingered on Walegrin's face. He whispered to the priest in an overly loud voice. "What was she talking about? Gods and cosmic forces, all that? I'm beginning to think Molin is right. You're all insane!"
Rashan shook his head, doing his best to calm the excitable commander. "You'll leam soon enough," he said, low-voiced. "Tempus is hundreds of years old, they say. Imagine all his power, maybe more, in the person of such a young woman." He made a bow in Chenaya's direction. "She is truly the Daughter of the Sun."
Chenaya ground her teeth. "Shut up, Rashan. I told you, I'm tired of that title and your little fantasy. Now leave us. You've done your part this night, and I've got plans to discuss with the commander."
Rashan protested. "But the dream," he reminded her. "We've got to speak. Savankala summons you to your destiny."
She waved him away, her irritation growing. Such talk was disturbing enough in private. Before Walegrin, she felt a genuine anger. "I said leave us," she snapped. "If I'm really who you think I am, you don't dare disobey me. Now go!"
Rashan stared sorrowfully at her, not angry, not disappointed, patient. "You don't believe," he said gently, "but you will. He will show you. When you look upon his face, you will know the truth." He raised a finger and pointed at her. "Look upon his face, child. See who you are." He turned, strode toward the gate and beyond.
She sighed, her anger turned suddenly upon herself. Rashan was her friend, and he meant well. She resolved again not to let his delusions interrupt that friendship. In such troubled times and in such a city as this, trustworthy comrades were hard to come by.
She put fingers to her lips and gave a high whistle of her own. While he was free and unjessed, Reyk was trained to follow wherever she went. The falcon dropped from the sky to perch on her arm. She took the jess and a small hood from her belt, stroked her pet a few times, and passed him into Dismas's care.
Then she took Walegrin by the arm. "Come up to the house. Commander. There's more wine and a bite to eat." She called back to the two former thieves. "Wake all the others," she instructed. "Daphne, too. They're all involved."
These were treasonous times, and it was time to talk treason.
Eight men. That was all that remained of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Sanctuary, Zip assured her. There were no more. And looking him straight in the eye, she believed him.
They were a rag-tag lot, some even without sandals or boots. But they carried good Nisibisi metal or equally well-crafted weapons recovered from Rankans and Beysibs they had murdered. They were young, the eight, but as they huddled in the deep shadows of the old stables off Granary Road, their armament was cold reminder of the treachery and chaos they had inspired.
It was time, though, for her treachery, and she led them swiftly down Granary Road, past a comer of her own estate to the Avenue of Temples. Noiselessly, they stole up to the Gate of the Gods, wide-eyed rats, eager for a taste of cheese.
She looked at Zip's face, barely visible in the shadows, feeling something that bordered on regret. He, of all these cutthroats, seemed sincere in his quest for llsig liberation. But he had murdered Rankans-her people-and so many others, done such evil in freedom's name. She turned away from him and rapped quietly on the sealed gate, glad that Sabellia had not yet risen to shine on this moment.
The gate eased open a crack. From beneath the metal brim of a sentry's helm, Leyn peered out. He cast a suspicious gaze over Zip's band, playing his part well, and held open his palm. "The other half of my payment, lady," he whispered slyly. "It's due now, and the gate is yours."
Chenaya took a heavy purse from the place where it rested between her leather armor and her tunic. It jingled as she passed it over. Leyn weighed it, considering, frowning, chewing the end of his mustache.
Zip pressed forward impatiently. "Move it, man, while you've still got a hand to count with!" The others, too, pressed forward, demonstrating that the gate would be breached whether the guard was satisfied or no.
"You sure it's all here?" Leyn grunted. "Then inside, and damn you all, and damn the filthy Beysibs." He tugged the gate wide and stood out of the way, waving them in with a bow full of mockery. "Blood to you this night, gentlemen, much blood."
Chenaya led them, hurrying, crouched low, across the courtyard toward the governor's roses, toward a small entrance in the western palace wall. She had come here once before, her first week in Sanctuary, to save Kadakithis from an assassin. By this very way she had come. She found that a bitter irony.
Because she listened for the sound, she heard the gate close behind them, heard the sturdy iron lock click into place.
Zip heard it, too. His sword slid serpent-quick from the sheath as all around them shadows rose up from the ground where they had rested flat in the gloom. There was horror in his eyes when he faced her, and anger. But worst of all was the look of betrayal. In an instant, he knew her for what she was, and she knew he knew.
That didn't stop her. Furiously, Zip lunged, his point seeking her heart. Chenaya side-stepped, drew her gladius. In the same back-handed motion she smashed the pommel against his brow as he passed her. The rebel leader fell like a stone at her feet and didn't move.