It is not in my nature to be violent. I have killed one man, in self-defense, and I begged him not to force my hand. Harald the Beardless, he was called; a thane in Gunter's steading. He was kind to me, and gave me his cloak. But he rode out after me, for the honor of his steading, and would have slain Joscelin and dragged me back to Selig.

One does what one must.

What I did to Fabron, any child of seven or more in the Night Court knows to do, from listening to the adepts' gossip. To be sure, it would have carried a severe punishment, but we knew of it all the same. As his fingers brushed my skin, I brought one knee up hard and fast, squarely betwixt his legs. I daresay the years of dance and tumbling helped; it was a solid hit, and hard. It made a dreadful sound, Fabron made a dreadful sound, high-pitched, doubling over and clamping his hands over his groin. I couldn't afford guilt or pity; I whirled, still without thinking, and snatched up the wooden stool, bringing it up in a sharp arc to connect with his bent head.

It caught him across the temple with a dull thud, and he fell over. Unmoving, he lay on the floor of my cell. Breathing hard, I dropped the stool and dragged my gown back up to cover myself, then stood listening.

In the distance, a confused shouting continued. I went to the door, pressing my ear to the heavy wood. In the corridor, nothing.

Returning to Fabron's unconscious form, I fumbled beneath him and found the ring of keys on his belt. There was a bruise already visible on his temple, but his breathing was steady. I took the keys and the lantern. It took me several tries to find the right key for my cell; then I did, and the door opened onto the dark corridor.

I emerged, carefully locking the door behind me, and Fabron inside.

The corridor was silent and empty, the lantern casting wild shadows on the stone walls as it trembled in my unsteady hand.

Twelve doors of brass-bound oak, all locked in a row.

I couldn't leave them.

Mine was third from the end. I went to the first, desperately trying key after key, until it opened... to find it empty. I tried the next, wasting precious seconds, only to find the same result, an empty cell, eight paces by eight, not even a pallet to relieve it. I moved past my own door-no sound yet, Fabron still unconscious-and tried the fourth door.

Empty.

Cursing softly under my breath, I fought with the jangling iron ring, seeking the key for the fifth door. At last I found it; it fit, the door opened.

I knew from the stench that this one was inhabited.

What I saw in that cell, I do not like to remember. A man's figure or somewhat like it, crouching at the wall beneath his window, scrabbling at the stones with long, curved nails. He turned toward the light with a whimper, throwing up one forearm to shield his eyes, showing his teeth in a grimace. His hair was greying, snarled and matted with long years' neglect. I took a step back from the doorway, holding the lantern high to illuminate my face and show I was no guard.

"You are free," I said softly in Caerdicci. "Although I do not know for how long. Someone attacks the fortress. Stay if you wish, or go if you will risk it. You are free to choose."

He lowered his arm and peered at me, blinking. His mouth worked, but no human sound emerged. "Wh... wh ... wh ... ?"

"I don't know," I said. Whatever he sought to ask, I had no answer. "All I can offer is a chance. Take it or not, and Blessed Elua keep you."

Swallowing hard against the horror of it, I hurried to the next cell and the next, fear and bile rising in my throat. I set them all free that night, my prison mates, Asherat's captive mourners. Nearly every cell was as bad as the first. Some I knew by sight. The Banger stood before his window, pounding his bruise-blackened forehead against the bars- that was the sound I'd heard for nights on end. The Pleader had been there the shortest time, next to me. He stood upright, blinking wide-eyed at the light. A youngish man, not thirty years old; his hair had grown only to his shoulders. "Please?" he asked tentatively. "I swear, 'twas not my dagger, I swear it, my lord! Only let me go, and I'll prove it, I'll bring you the man who did it. Please, my lord? Please?"

"You are free to choose," I murmured, sick, repeating my litany. Six times I had said it already; eight times before I was done. All along the corridor, the brass-bound cell doors stood open and ajar, dark, gaping mouths emitting the reek of ordure and foulness and the rhythmic surge of grieving sea, pierced with distant shouting. Somewhere, above, I could hear the sound of running steps.

But the corridor stood empty, save for me; and quiet. All their' voices had fallen silent.

I could not force them to go, could not force them to choose, when I knew not what transpired. I had done all I could. Bending at the waist, I set down my lantern at the head of the corridor, leaving it to illume the empty walls. Let them have that much, at least, I thought.

It was safer for me to move in darkness, even if I knew not where I went. It had been a long time, since I'd employed the physical arts of covertcy in which Delaunay had trained me, but I had not forgotten. A body in shadow stands less chance of being seen. Watchers in light are blinded by light; always, always, stay to the shadows.

Wrapping Fabron's keys in a fold of my gown to stifle their jangling, I made my way to the foot of the stairs that led away from the dungeon.

FORTY-SIX

For several long moments I crouched and listened at the head of the stairs. There were voices somewhere on the far side of the door, faint with distance. I tried to remember the layout of the fortress from my single glimpse of it. I would have failed miserably had Delaunay been quizzing me on it; numb with shock and wanting only to die, I'd paid scant attention. Still, I did not remember any guard set on the door itself.

I had to take a chance. I tried the handle, and found it locked.

Well and good, there must be a key on Fabron's ring. I unfolded them from my gown and sorted through them by touch in the dim light cast by the lantern in the corridor behind me. There were three that were larger than the others, and one smaller. I tried one of the larger, then a second, and that one unlocked the door. Muffling the keys once more, I worked the latch and opened the door a crack, peering through the gap.

There was not much to see, and little light in which to see it. An empty wardroom, it seemed, with a bench along the section of wall visible through the cracked door and an unused charcoal brazier. I daresay the cells grew cold and dank in the winter; the room must serve as a place for guards to warm their hands between trips below. The voices I heard came from well beyond the wardroom.

Nothing else for it, I thought, and slipped cautiously through the doorway, leaving the door an inch ajar behind me. Strange, to hear the endless roar of the sea muted at last.

Beyond the wardroom lay what would have been the great hall in any other fortress this size. Only a few torches lit it, and those guttered low. I gazed cautiously around the corner of the arched entryway. A fireplace at one end, cold and bleak, and a long table; only a few chairs. There were hallways at either end. From the entrance at the far right came lamplight and the sound of voices.

The other was dark, but it was from thence that I heard running footsteps. I drew back into the shadows as a hurried guard emerged, boot heels echoing across the hall. The faint light gleamed on his steel helmet and corselet, and he carried a short spear in one hand.

Lack of knowledge is deadly. I left the wardroom and followed him, keeping to the shadows. Even if I had not known how to move silently, my bare feet made no sound on the cool flagstones.

The hallway branched, a broader corridor leading to the left, a narrower one lying ahead. Light spilled out of a room to the right on the narrow way, and that was where the voices came from. Feeling dreadfully exposed, I crept near enough to hear.

"... no answer from the watchtower, warden sir!" the guard I'd followed was reporting, an urgent strain in his voice. "We gave the signal three times, sir, as ordered!"

The warden's voice, flat and implacable. "And on the island?"

A deep breath. "Nothing visible, sir. It's too dark to make out the ground, even."

There was a pause before the warden spoke again. "Continue combing the island. Double the number of torches; there aren't many places an intruder can hide. Gitto, leave four men to hold the bridge on this end, and take four across and secure the watchtower. Signal when you hold it. Balbo, on post in the tower, and alert me the moment they do." Silence, and then his voice rose a notch. "What are you waiting for? Go!"

I hadn't waited for his order; by the time he gave it, I was retreating stealthily to the corner. Ducking around into the wider corridor, I hitched up the trailing skirts of my filthy dress and ran, fear lending wings to my bare heels.

And I saw, ahead of me, the torch-cast shadow of a figure emerging from another side corridor.

There was a small alcove holding a statue of Eshmun on a black marble plinth; a smiling youth crowned with a grain wreath. I had no other choice. Whispering a plea for forgiveness to the slain deity, I slipped into the alcove, huddling crouched in the shadow of his plinth.

Jogging footsteps sounded in the hall, a rattle of sticks. I dared not look, keeping my head down lest my face catch the light. Spears, I thought, or torches; somewhat from a storeroom. Intent on his errand, the guard passed me by unseeing, and I heard the even pace of his steps fade down the corridor.

I could not go back that way. What lay ahead? Storerooms and what else? Willing my pounding heart to steady, I concentrated my attention, straining my ears. Fool that I am, I nearly forgot my own advice and ignored my other senses. Fixed on listening for danger, I muttered a silent curse against the distractingly sharp odor of fresh-cut onion coming from somewhere beyond me.

Onion. The kitchen. I had learned from Tito that the guards took turns at cooking duty, for better or worse. The garrison fed itself with foodstuffs provided as tribute by the mainlanders; the prisoners ate their leftovers.

If there was one place on the island that would be deserted that night, it was the kitchen.

Now I did listen, and found the corridor quiet. Offering silent thanks to Eshmun for his protection, I rose to my feet and slid out from behind his statue. Keeping to the shadows as best I could, I made my way swiftly down the hall, following the scent of onions.

The kitchen was not far, located to the left at the end of the corridor. It was vast and dark, lit only by the glowing embers of the oven, the door of which stood ajar. A small stack of kindling and cordwood lay on the floor beside it, abandoned. A mound of coarse-chopped onion sat on the counter, and a string of sausages, not enough for garrison and prisoners alike. A meal, I guessed, for the guards coming off the first night shift of serving sentry duty at the bridge.

Only someone had crossed the bridge, or they would not be searching the island.

I don't think, then, I even dared to hope. Whatever it was, whoever, however-I had walked the bridge to La Dolorosa, swaying above the killing sea, while the sentries waited at the end, hand-axes poised above the hempen ropes. I could not imagine anyone crossing it in stealth. Partway, mayhap; even half or better, but there was no way to cross the whole of it unseen. So I did not dare hope or even plan, only sought, like a trapped creature, any avenue of escape.

By the dull glow of the embers, I explored the kitchen. It reeked of fresh onion and the stale odors of a thousand bygone meals. There were kettles and pots, a set of knives, and a stack of the trays used to bring food to the prisoners. Nothing more. Beyond a low archway lay the pantry. Here no light penetrated, and I was forced to explore blindly. Rashers of salt-cured bacon hung from the ceiling, easy to detect by smell. There were sacks of grain stacked along the walls, lentils and coarse-ground flour. I found baskets of aubergines, smooth-skinned and firm to the touch, and another of ripe gourds. They did not eat so poorly, the garrison of La Dolorosa, although from the leftover fare I'd been served, I could not give much credit to their culinary skill.

Well and good, I was surrounded by food. What of it? I was safe, and as trapped as before. Since there was nothing else to do but backtrack and face the guards, I knotted Fabron's keys in a fold of my dress and began to make my way around the perimeter of the pantry, avoiding piles of provender, feeling along the cool stone walls with both hands.

It was out of a futile sense of obligation I did it, and no real thought of finding aught to serve my need. Which is why, when my hands encountered rough wood instead of stone, I stood stock-still in disbelief.

I swear I stood a full minute that way before I moved, feeling with cautious fingertips the arched shape of a window covered with heavy wooden shutters, brass-bound and sealed with an iron bar and padlock. A service window, I thought, to the outside. This was where goods were delivered to the pantry.

It was big enough to admit a sack of grain. I could fit through it.

My fingers trembled as I undid the knotted fold of my dress and removed Fabron's keys, fumbling for the small one. It had to be! My lips moving in silent prayer, I fitted the key into the padlock. It took me three tries, my hand shook so.

But it fit.

With a faint click, the padlock opened. I removed it carefully and stooped to lay it on the floor. With agonizing slowness, I drew back the bar and then pressed my ear to the wooden shutters, listening.

On the far side, I could hear the pounding sea, and naught else. No way to know but to try it. How much worse could it be, if they caught me?

A great deal. I knew that already. But that would happen anyway. Swallowing my fear, I drew open the shutters.

Night air blew in and the wail of Asherat's grief filled

my ears. In the darkness that lay beyond, I saw the bright sparks of torches moving here and there across the island, working in pairs. Too far away to see, I thought. A torch casts a pool of light some fifteen feet in diameter, mayhap; no further. Beyond the circle of light, the bearer is sightless.