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  Celeste smiled. He was filthy from head to toe, and a dark growth of stubble covered his face, yet even so disheveled, he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen.

  Returning to her side, he took her in his arms and he kissed her. Closing her eyes, she let herself luxuriate in his presence for a moment. How good it felt to have him back.

  "Your time with the orb-was it as awful as Father said?" she asked. Then she saw his face fall, and she immediately regretted her question. His dark eyes looked down into hers with a terrifying sadness.

  "Yes," he answered. "It was more horrible than you could possibly imagine. Even after seeing it with my own eyes, I still find it hard to believe. Right now, however, more discussion about the orb is not what I desire."

  Celeste smiled mischievously. "Just what might you desire, my lord?" she asked. "Something that I, your humble servant, might be able to provide?" Then she remembered that the wizards had forbidden them to be together in that way.

  "Sleep," Tristan answered, his eyes half closed. "I want to sleep for one hundred years."

  He walked over to the huge four-poster bed and collapsed upon it, dirty clothes and all. Holding one arm out, he beckoned to her, and she went to lie beside him, her head on his chest. In the silence of the room, she could hear the comforting beat of his heart. Then she realized that there might be no better time to tell him what she must.

  "Tristan," she whispered. "There is something that you need to know." Raising her head, she looked into his face. His eyes were already closed.

  "Tristan?" she asked softly.

  No answer came. Her prince was asleep.

  CHAPTER IX

  As satine guided her black gelding through the by-ways of Tammerland, she took in the sights and sounds of the human suffering that seemed to fill the streets. She was not surprised by what she saw, because Bratach had explained both the condition of the orb, and its expected effect. Following a discreet distance behind the carriage-of-four that the consul had hired, she quickly realized that even his detailed description had not done the situation justice.

  It was afternoon in Tammerland. The gray sky threatened heavy rain at any moment. Pre-storm winds rose occasionally, picking up litter from the streets, where grim groups of citizens served in makeshift burial details, pushing wheelbarrows or pulling handcarts piled high with corpses. Arms, legs, and heads hung over the carts' lips; the lifeless eyes stared out into space, giving the unnerving impression that they could still see.

  Pulling her horse to a stop for a moment, Satine reached into her cloak and removed a black silk scarf. Hoping to keep the stench of death from her nostrils, she tied it around the lower part of her face. She clucked to her horse and they began moving again.

  She hadn't wanted to come into Tammerland this soon. Too many people knew her here. She had hoped that this visit could wait until later, after she had drawn out her primary targets. Then she could finish her sanctions quickly and retire. But Bratach wanted to be sure that she was familiar with the address he had given her, the place he referred to as his sanctuary on this side of the Sea of Whispers. She would soon have need of it, he told her.

  Narrowing her eyes slightly, she realized that she still didn't know what he had meant by that.

  She remained in awe of the technique the consul had employed to slip them safely past the prince's fleet. Bratach had finally ordered the frigate anchored just off the Cavalon Delta. After augmenting his spell to keep the ship invisible in his absence, Bratach had ushered Satine and a group of armed demonslavers into a skiff, in which they had made their way up the Sippora River to the very outskirts of Tammerland proper. Only then had Bratach caused himself and Satine to become visible again. The skiff and her demonslavers had departed, heading back to the frigate waiting offshore.

  Bratach's carriage stopped. Satine knew Tammerland well, for she had been raised there. But the city held bad memories, and the sooner she was gone, the better. She had two errands to perform, and then her mission could begin.

  Looking around to orient herself, she found that they were on Tamarac Boulevard, one of the main thoroughfares that led to Bargainer's Square. The address she needed was just across the street.

  Just as Bratach had told her, number Twenty-Seven Tamarac Boulevard seemed to be an archery shop. The sign dangling above its doors was carved with the image of a single arrow. It truly was a working place of business. But according to Bratach, the shop had a good deal more to offer her.

  Without comment from its passenger, Bratach's carriage moved away. He had told her that they should never be seen together, other than in the confines of the shop. Should she need him, she could arrange to meet him through its auspices. In truth, she was glad to be rid of him. He was, she thought, little more than Wulfgar's endowed errand boy, and she disliked being told what to do by anyone, especially a subordinate. One corner of her mouth came up. Even if he can make ships disappear, she thought.

  Glancing up and down the boulevard, she saw no one familiar. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, she dismounted and tied the gelding to a nearby rail.

  She stepped onto the sidewalk, leaned up against an oil lamp pole, and cast her gaze across the street. There was no way to discern whether there were any customers inside the shop, so now seemed as good a time as any.

  Slipping her hands beneath her cloak, she found the handles of her four daggers and gave them each a tug, loosening them in their sheaths.

  She pushed off from the pole, removed the scarf from her face, and walked warily across the street. As she entered the shop, the little bell at the top of the door cheerfully announced her presence.

  The place was spacious and airy, belying the impression of shoddiness it gave from the street. All manner of archery equipment-some quite finely crafted, even by Satine's high professional standards-lined the walls and littered the various tables. While looking over the goods with an expert eye, she surreptitiously studied the other end of the shop.

  A man Satine took as the proprietor stood at the far end, behind a long wooden counter. Two patrons stood there, loudly arguing with him over the price of a dozen arrows. They were impoverished, greasy-looking men, and their manners matched their appearance. The proprietor was a short, balding man. Red garters held up the sleeves of his sweat-stained shirt. He was doing his best to keep control of the situation, but the rowdy customers were becoming ruder and more threatening with every passing second. Their speech was slurred; Satine guessed that they had been drinking.

  Grabbing up a longbow from a nearby wall, Satine strode purposefully to the counter. As she approached, one of the men leered at her. Several of his teeth were missing, and she could smell the ale on his breath. Ignoring him, Satine held up the longbow.

  "How much?" she asked.

  "Wha-what?" the owner asked, as he turned away from the two men. He gave Satine an angry look, as though she were a nuisance rather than a paying customer.

  This was getting her nowhere. It was time to let him know who she really was. Holding the bow higher, she pointed to its string.

  "Is this catgut, or something else?" she asked. "I understand catgut is hard to come by these days."

  As expected, she watched a surprised look come over the man's face.

  "It's catgut," he answered. "Makes for the best strings, you know."

  "So I've been told," she said. His coded reply had been exactly what Bratach had told her to expect. Now the only obstacles were the two miscreants standing by her side.

  She placed the bow down on the countertop and slipped her hands beneath her cloak. As she did so, she sized up the situation. The man standing nearest her would have to be dealt with first. The other was a short distance down the length of the counter.

  She usually only killed for money, but this was different. Not only had they both seen her here, they were unnecessary distractions. Her sanctions had to be protected, and these men were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. One corner of her mouth came up. Th
is would be so easy that it almost wasn't worth doing.

  The nearest man turned to look at her. His angry eyes were bloodshot.

  "Someone ought to teach you some manners," he snarled. Still refusing to look at him, she remained motionless. When she didn't reply, his hand started moving toward her.

  When his hand was close enough, with a single, smooth move Satine turned on one heel, grasped his hand in midair, and then turned it over. She heard the bones crack.

  Then she grabbed one of her daggers and plunged the blade directly into his body. With a quick, upward thrust, she sliced him open from his groin to his breast. When she felt the knife strike bone she stopped, twisted the blade upward, and thrust its point into his heart. As he collapsed, she pushed him away with the sole of one boot.

  The other one was coming for her. She raised the bloody dagger over her head and let it fly. It twirled end over end twice, and then buried itself into the man's throat. As the blood burbled from his mouth, he tried to reach out to her. Then the light went out of his eyes, and he collapsed facedown onto the floor.

  Silence fell as Satine removed the black scarf from her cloak. She retrieved her dagger from the dead man. After wiping it clean, she replaced the blade in its sheath.

  She looked calmly across the counter to the proprietor. His mouth was hanging open.

  "But…you're a woman!" he breathed.

  "So you noticed," she shot back. "Congratulations."

  Saying nothing more, she walked toward the front of the shop. First she reached up and drew down the window shades. Then she opened the door and turned its sign around, so that it now read "Closed." After turning the lock she walked back to the counter, placed her palms on it, and looked the sweaty man directly in the eyes.

  "Until I leave here and these two bodies have been disposed of, you're closed," she said. "You are the consul named Ivan, I presume? If you aren't, I've just killed two men for nothing."

  Slowly regaining his composure, Bratach's consul pointed down at the two corpses. "Why did you do that, you fool?" he asked. "We need no undue attention drawn to this place!"

  Satine's eyes hardened. "I kill whom I choose, when I choose," she answered. Then she shrugged. "I wouldn't worry. They don't exactly look like two of Eutracia's finest. Besides, there is an easy way to dispose of this refuse, right in plain sight."

  Raising an eyebrow, Ivan nervously ran one finger around the inside of his sweaty shirt collar. "How?"

  "You're a consul, are you not?" she asked. "Simply use the craft to scorch their clothing and bodies. Then, under the cover of night, toss them out into the street. Believe me, no one will notice two more out there." Satine crossed her arms over her breasts and looked hard at Ivan.

  "Now then," she demanded. "Why am I here?"

  "Bratach didn't tell you?" he asked skeptically.

  "Not really," she answered. "All he said was that this shop serves as some form of refuge. It's apparent he didn't tell you that I would be a woman, either. He seems to like his little games, doesn't he?"

  "Follow me," Ivan said.

  He turned and walked toward the back of the shop, where he disappeared around one end of a hanging curtain. With one palm resting lightly upon a dagger hilt, Satine warily followed.

  The area behind the curtain was dark and musty. The consul narrowed his eyes as he called on the craft to light an oil lamp sconce on the wall. He lifted the globe free and carried it to a door. Creaking on its hinges, the door opened slowly to reveal a wooden stairway leading downward.

  The chamber below was simple and utilitarian. Ancient, multicolored bricks lined the walls. Brightly burning oil sconces illuminated the room. There was another door in the opposite wall. Several beds were stacked on the dirt floor in a far corner. Shelves were piled with dried foodstuffs and containers of water, while another area held a rudimentary wine cellar. A table sat in the center of the room, holding a half-full bottle of red wine, stained glasses, and a scattering of playing cards. The air in the room was fetid and musty.

  Putting down the lamp, Ivan beckoned her to sit. Then he poured two glasses of wine. He handed her one.

  He raised his glass. "To the successful completion of your sanctions," he toasted. Holding his glass high, he waited for her to drink.

  "After you," she said sternly. "I insist."

  Ivan smiled. "Bring you all the way here, just to poison you?" he asked. "My, but you are skeptical."

  "I'm also still alive."

  Smiling again, Ivan took a deep gulp. Finally, Satine followed his lead. To her surprise, the wine was quite good.

  "And now to address your questions," Ivan said. Taking a deep breath, he sat back in his chair and rolled his glass back and forth between his hands.

  "This room is indeed a sanctuary of sorts," he began. "It is a place where we of the brotherhood loyal to Wulfgar might hide and transfer messages of importance to one another. There is a great deal going on in Eutracia that the wizards of the Redoubt know nothing of." He took another sip of wine.

  "There are dozens of these underground sanctuaries scattered across the land," he went on. "Some are in cities, and some are not. They were built more than three centuries ago, during the Sorceresses' War, by slave labor controlled by the Coven of Sorceresses. It is even said that Failee-Wigg's late wife and First Mistress of the Coven-once held a strategic meeting here in this very room, when her forces were close to taking Tammerland.

  "We mean to give the wizards yet another war. This time it shall be one that they cannot hide from behind the walls of the palace. The wizards of the Redoubt believe that all of their once-loyal consuls have fled to the Citadel. They couldn't be more wrong."

  Satine put down her wine glass and leaned over the table. "Thanks so much for the history lesson," she said. "But I don't give a tinker's damn about your politics. Or who controls the craft, either. All I want is to complete my sanctions and collect my money."

  "Understandable," Ivan answered, "given the fact that you possess no endowed blood. If you did, and if you had then been trained in the glory of the Vagaries, such things would mean far more to you."

  "So what is this sanctuary to me?"

  "Your assignments will most probably take you far afield. In addition, you may eventually be sought by the prince's forces. During that time, you may be forced to go to ground." He removed a folded piece of parchment from his trousers and handed it to her.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "It's a list of both the rural and urban locations of all the other sanctuaries," Ivan said. He took another sip. "Carry it with you at all times. The list is too long to commit to memory. If you are about to be killed or captured, you must do your best to destroy it."

  Satine shoved the list into her right boot without looking at it.

  "We have also devised a method by which you will know whether a message awaits you, without your having to go inside. Do you remember the 'open' and 'closed' sign that you turned around just a little while ago?"

  "Of course," she answered, her curiosity rising.

  "Each establishment has two such signs. One printed in red, and one in black. If the sign in red is hanging in the window, then a message awaits you inside. If the sign is in black, then there is no message. Do you understand?"

  Satine nodded. "But what about the rural sanctuaries?" she asked. "Surely they aren't shops as well, sitting out in the middle of nowhere?"

  "Of course not," Ivan answered. "In most cases they are simple peasants' cottages. If there is a wreath of wildflowers pinned to the front door, there is a message for you inside. A bare door means no message."

  "Very well," Satine said. "But I made it very clear to Wulfgar and Serena that I work alone. So what kinds of messages might I need to receive?"

  "Information regarding the movements of your various targets," Ivan said. He smiled conspiratorially. "We have someone inside, one who is in a position to know such information and relay it to us."

  Looking thoughtfully into her
glass, Satine took another sip of wine. She looked back over at Ivan. Before she could speak, he handed her another parchment.

  "Your first such message," he said quietly. "I suggest you read it now."

  After reading it, she looked back into his eyes. His wicked smile had returned.

  "As you can see, we suggest you start out small, so to speak," he said.

  For the first time since Satine had come to Tammerland, she smiled, too. "I understand," she said. "But won't this make it more difficult to deal with the other targets later?" she asked. "The ones I am truly being paid for?"

  Ivan sat back in his chair and sighed. "Perhaps," he said. "That concerns many of us on this side of the Sea of Whispers. Even so, this is how Wulfgar has ordered it. He wants them all dead, of course. But he wants some to suffer first as they helplessly watch their friends perish." He paused.

  "We shall need a code name for you," he finally said. "These will be political killings, and the prince and his wizards have a long reach. Surely you will wish to protect your identity as much as possible."

  Thinking it over, Satine had to agree. "Very well," she answered. "Use the code name 'Gray Fox'."

  A brief smile came to Ivan's lips. Looking at the color of her cloak, he understood.

  "Then 'Gray Fox' it shall be," he said. "Except for me and Bratach, the other consuls shall know you by only that name."

  A thought suddenly revisited Satine. "What about the orb?" she asked.

  "What of it?"

  "Bratach explained to me what is happening. Does that have anything to do with why I am here?"

  Ivan leaned toward her. "It has everything to do with it," he answered. "But for our safety and your own you are to know little more of it than that, unless such information impacts your mission. Succeed in your task, and all will go according to plan." He began rolling the wine glass between his hands again as he thought for a moment.