Stealers' Sky

Sabellia, too, Bright Moon-mother, had shadowed Her face this night, turned away from the world below, and surrendered the world to the darkness. Even the stars, those myriad sparkling tears She had shed for Her heavenly children and for the children of the earth, those, too, were hidden behind a thick, cloudy veil.

The rider's gaze turned away from the sky and toward Sanctuary. At a nudge, the horse moved up the muddy bank and turned down the Generals' Road, its hooves clip-clopping smartly on the brick-and-stone paving, ringing even more loudly on the wooden planks of the tiny north bridge that crossed Splinter Creek. The rider halted briefly. Off to the left stood the charred ruins of the house of the dead vivisectionist, Kurd. Next to it, though, stood a new house, shoddily built from scavenged lumber and stones. Lamplight shone through the cracks of hastily constructed shutters, and gruff voices echoed through the door. There was the smell of lime and sand about the place, and unfamiliar tools leaned against the outside walls. Some itinerant workers on the city's new fortifications probably had decided to stay, though the work was done.

Suddenly, the door swung open a crack, and someone peered around the edge, alerted, no doubt, by the hoof-sounds on the bridge. They watched warily as the rider passed by. Obviously, they had quickly learned the ways of this city, this thieves' world.

Off to the left stood the high, stark silhouettes of the city's granaries, barely discernible in the night, though they towered above the new wall. Nearer burned the lamps of the Street of Red Lanterns, where scented women plied special delights and special tortures, according to the appetites of their customers and the weight of their coins. Special effort had been made to extend the new wall around the granaries, while the brothels were left outside in its shadow.

The rider thought about that, then shrugged. In Sanctuary, one might have expected just the reverse.

After a massive construction effort that had been the talk of the Empire, the new wall was finished. It encompassed the entire city now. Atop the huge edifice, watch fires burned, and shadows moved about in the flickering glow. The new, iron-banded doors of the great Gate of Triumph stood open, but a pair of garrison sentries stood at the duty post just inside.

"Whoa, there!" one of them called, coming forward as he curled one hand almost casually about the hilt of his sword. "What kind of foreigner comes visiting our town at such an unholy hour? Come out from under that damned hood. Show your face there."

The sentry's hair and clothing exuded the odor of smoked krrf as he came as close as the rider's knee, and his eyes sheened with drug-glaze as they caught the torchlight from the duty post. His jaw hung just a bit too slackly, and his motions were languid. An addict, probably.

The rider wanted no confrontation, so pulled just a corner of the concealing hood back and glared at the sentry, who backed up immediately.

"My apologies, Lady!" he mumbled. He took his hand quickly away from his sword's hilt, and shot a fearful glance at his partner. "We didn't know it was you. Of course, you can pass. Welcome home'" He made a deep bow, and the rider passed him by without a word.

Caravan Square was abandoned this time of night. So was the Farmer's Run, though one could never be too sure there, for it was too close to the Maze, and every shadow and dark cra

At the place where West Gate Street joined Governor's Walk, a city watch patrol, six uniformed men, suddenly blocked the way. The oldest of them, a man whose graying curls spilled out from under his steel cap, and apparently the captain, held up a lantern and shined it on the rider.

The light glimmered on a sleeve of metal rings that covered the rider's left arm and the hand that held the reins. It fell, also, on the hilt of a sword, whose tangs were shaped like the wings of a bird. As the rider shifted in the saddle, the cloak parted slightly.

"Why, if it ain't the Daughter o' the Sun, 'erself, it is!" The old man laughed unpleasantly. "Come back to stir up more trouble, have ye?"

A much younger watchman stepped up to his captain's side and gri

The old man gave his subordinate a sharp elbow in the ribs and scowled. "Shut yer mouth, Barik!" The scowl turned into a twisted little smile that showed several missing teeth. "Can't ye see she's just on 'er way home after a long while gone?"

The younger watchman gave his captain an insubordinate look as he rubbed his side. "Yeah," he said sullenly. "I guess I can see that."

"Then bid 'er good nightie, boys, an' let 'er pass'" He motioned all his men back and made a deep, sweeping bow that was pure mockery. "Welcome home, Lady Chenaya!" he said grandly. "Our regards to yer noble Rankan family!"

Chenaya was tired and rode on, forgetting about the watchmen and their meaningless taunts. But when she reached the Processional she stopped again. A wind swept up Sanctuary's most famous street, bringing with it the sweet tang of the salty sea, and there, in the silence, she thought she could just hear the rush of the breakers and the rocking creak of the old wharves at the Processional's farther end.

Gods, it was good to be home, and it would be good to rest soon. She wanted to sleep, sleep for days, and wake up to the faces and laughter of those she loved- She had seen too much in her time away from Sanctuary, learned too much, perhaps dared too much. All she wanted was to close her eyes and forget it all.

She rode on along Governor's Walk, past the park called the Promise of Heaven, until she reached the Avenue of Temples. She saw no one else in the streets as she went, and reflected on that. Sanctuary had quietened in her absence. From the park, it was only a short distance to the Temple of the Rankan Gods.

Chenaya dismounted and dropped the reins other horse. She gave it an affectionate pat along the withers before she turned toward the temple steps. The animal was war-trained, bred in the finest stables of Ranke's capital. It wouldn't wander away while she was inside, and she pitied the hapless fool stupid enough to try to steal it, horse bites being a difficult thing for any physician to treat.

She climbed the twelve marble stairs and passed between the columns that formed the temple entrance. A pair of oil pots burned there, providing light, for adherents were welcome at any hour. On either side of the temple rose the great stone images of Ranke's lost war-god, Vashanka, and Sabellia, the moon-goddess. Streamers of incense wafted up around them from circles of tiny holes cut into the floor about their feet. The sweet smoke curled and swirled, and rose out through round, open skylights.

Between those two deities, though, was the great altar of Savankala, overhung with its massive golden sunburst and ringed with burnished oil pots, whose flames sputtered and danced. There was no statue, no image of Savankala, save the symbolic sunburst. Who, after all, could look on the face of the sun?

Chenaya knelt wearily before the sun-god's altar, made proper obeisance, and fished out from inside her garments a heavy leather purse that hung on a thong around her neck. Loosening its strings, she poured into her hand an egg-sized diamond. It was warm with the heat of her body, and as she opened her fingers wider, its perfect facets caught the firelight from the oil pots. A rainbow of rays shot about the temple.