Storm Season

"Sorcery!" exclaimed Zanderei, and then, more slowly, "Is that what I look like to you?"

Lalo jerked his appalled gaze from the ruby rivulet that was snaking its way from the throat of the guard across the floor. Now Zanderei stood with a predator's poise, and his face and the face in the picture were the same.

"Did they set you to trap me? Have my masters' plans been betrayed?" Softly he moved towards Lalo, who stood shaking his head and shivering. "Ah, of course-it was Coricidius, setting traps for everyone. I doubt that he expected to catch me!" he added more softly.

"Who are you? Why are you pretending to be a clerk?" Lalo stared at Zanderei, seeing something flicker behind the still eyes as if the mask he had penetrated only covered a veil that hid another truth deeper within.

"I am fate ... or I am nothing ... It all depends. My masters wish the Prince to do his part in the war, but it would not be well for him to do it too effectively. 'Watch him, but do not let him become a hero, Zanderei...' Until that happens, I will serve him." His voice ran smoothly as an undammed stream, but Lalo knew that what he was hearing doomed him more surely than what he had seen.

"You're going to kill the Prince ..." Lalo stepped backwards until he bumped into the table on which his paints lay.

"Perhaps-" Zanderei shrugged.

"You're going to kill me?"

The other man sighed, and from the other sleeve a second knife flickered into his hand. "Do I have a choice?" he said regretfully. "I am a professional. No one will deplore the work of the vandal who kills you and destroys the painting more than I. . .or perhaps it will have been you who suffered a revulsion of feeling and did it yourself-for I am sure that Coricidius forced you to this work. But one way or another, the painting must be destroyed-" Zanderei looked at the other portraits and for the first time amusement flickered in his eyes. "You are far too accurate!

"Reckon up your life, Master Limner-" he said more gently, "for once the painting is gone the painter must disappear as well."

Lalo swallowed, afraid that his churning stomach would deny him dignity even in his death. And what had his life been worth to anyone, after all? Zanderei took flint and steel from a pouch beneath his robe, and in a moment light flared in the dimness of the room. Then the assassin set a stained paint rag aflame and held it to the canvas.

Lalo groped for support and his hand closed on the smooth side of a paintpot. His throat ached, holding back the urge to beg the man to stop. He hated the painting-he wished it had never been done-and yet, why did he feel the same pain as he had when the Hell-Hound struck Gilla to the floor? His eyes stung with unuttered grief for his work, for himself, for his family left fatherless.

The canvas had caught fire and was begi

"No!" The cry burst from Lalo's lips, and as Zanderei straightened, Lalo's hand closed on the paint pot and he flung it at the other man.

It struck Zanderei's shoulder, and red paint splashed like blood across the grey robe.

The assassin exploded towards him and Lalo scrambled frantically around the table, snatching up more paint pots, brushes, anything he could throw. One of them hit Zanderei's forehead, and as paint sprayed across his face he hesitated for just a moment to mop his eyes.

And in that moment Lalo kicked over the table and ran.

Lalo hugged his chest as if he could muffle the drumming of his heart and stared around him.

He had confused memories of having fled down the corridor that edged the upper half of the Presence Hall, towards the back of the Palace, down the stairs by the dais, and then still farther, into a part of the Palace he did not know. Though the floor was still marble, the slabs were cracked and discolored, and plaster was chipping from the wall. Then he heard crockery clattering nearby and realized he must be hard by the kitchens.

At least, he thought gratefully, Zanderei the Commissioner would be even more out of place here than he. Cautiously he turned into another passageway and moved forward. But as he eased open the door at the end of it, he heard once more a faint pattering behind him-the steps of one who from long training ran so lightly his footfalls were only a whisper of fine leather on polished stone.

Stifling a moan, Lalo burst through the door, dashed across the wooden floor and the platform that opened out onto the kitchen courtyard, and flung himself into the first concealment he found.

It had looked like a cart, and as Lalo sank into its contents he realized what it was. Not the honey-wagon, thank the gods, but the cart into which they had collected the garbage from several days' worth of princely meals. Gagging, Lalo wriggled deeper into the mass of turnip peelings and sour curds, soggy rice and pastry crusts and meat trimmings and bones.

He thought grimly, As long as I can retch, I'm stil] alive...

The cart moved beneath him and he heard the stamp of a hoof on stone. He realized then that not only was he alive, he might even escape, for if the horse was hitched, it must be time for the garbage to be taken away. He waited, breathing shallowly, for the endless minutes until he heard voices and the wagon lurched with the weight of somebody climbing onto the driver's bench. Then they began to move.

Faster... Faster! Lalo prayed as he was jounced deeper into the reeking mass. The clatter of wooden wheels on stone was deafening, then there was a pause, a moment's conversation with Honald at the Gate, and the duller vibration as the wagon trundled across the pounded earth of Vashanka's Square.

Then the cart shuddered to a halt. Lalo strained his ears for the night-noises of Sanctuary, but heard instead shouting and the clamor of an alarm.

"Is that smoke? Theba's paps, it's the Palace! Leave the wagon, Tarn, we can give the beasts their slops in the morning!" The wagon heaved again and Lalo heard two sets of footsteps pounding back the way they had come.

He settled back down, realizing with wonder that for the moment at least, he was saved.

And what will I do now? Zanderei would tell everyone that Lalo had killed the guard and started the fire. If caught, he would be cast into the dungeons, if they did not kill him out of hand. And if he offered to demonstrate his skill in his defense, he might wish that they had...

He could not return to the Palace to accuse the 'Commissioner', but if he could reach the Maze he could hide indefinitely-there were still a few who owed him favors there.

And then . . . Zanderei would either assassinate Prince Kadakithis, or go peacefully home. The former seemed more likely, for one does not return a honed blade to the sheath without blooding it, and in that case Coricidius would fall as well.

And what would become of Sanctuary? The thought troubled his satisfaction. What kind of tyrant would the Empire send to avenge its son? For all his clumsiness, at least Prince Kittycat meant well, and if they must be ruled by foreigners, surely the ones they were accustomed to would be best.

And it's all in my hands... Trying to control laughter, Lalo unwisely took too deep a breath, and began to cough again. Here I wallow in the Prince's garbage, deciding what his fate shall be? Power bubbled in his veins like wine of Caro