Wings of Omen

She set down her mug and her cloak. One hand drifted to her sword's hilt as she judged the distance to the three. Then a hand caught her arm. "Stay," a voice murmured in her ear. "They have friends; you never know where a knife might come from." She turned and met the deepest, blackest eyes she had ever seen. The lashes looked kohlled, almost feminine, beneath brows so thick they nearly met over his nose. The effect was ruggedly mesmeric. "What makes it your business?" she said under her breath, noting that the barkeep had moved within earshot.

That dark gaze ran up and down her body. "Business, is it?" he replied. "Well, let business wait a little. I'd like to buy you a drink."

She indicated her mug. "I've already bought one."

He gri

Her turn to look him over. He seemed her own age, and they were a similar height. She might even have a pound or two on him. Yet, there was a kind of rangy strength about him that his shabby tunic could not hide.

"You must be good with knives," she commented, pointing to the several he wore strapped about his person. His only response was a modest shrug. She went on, "I'll buy the drinks; you tell me something about those three in the comer."

His thin lips parted in a brief smile. "You must be new around here," he said. "The price of information is more than a drink or two in this town."

She drew a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye. "I've got a lot mpre to offer."

He appeared to think about it. "My table, then?" He made a mock bow.

The buzz of conversations had resumed. No one gave her or her young bravo a glance as he pulled out a chair and made a show of wiping the seat. A good table, she decided, positioned to give a view of the entire tavern and its entrance. She set her mug down, draped her cloak on the chair. They sat side by side.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly, leaning over her beer.

He began playing with a small pair of dice that had lain by his own mug. "Hanse," he answered simply. "I never liked that loud-mouthed braggart." He nodded toward the man she'd beaten; the barkeep had him under the arms and was dragging his limp form toward the door.

Chenaya took another drink. "No one else seemed impressed."

Hanse shrugged. The dice skittered over the table; he gathered them up again. "You're Lowan Vigeles's daughter, aren't you?" He rolled the dice between his palms.

She sat back, hiding her surprise. "How did you know?"

He tossed the dice: snake eyes. "Word travels fast in Sanctuary. That's your first lesson."

"Is there a second?" she said, feigning nonchalance.

A barely perceptible nod toward the 3rd Commandos. "People to avoid in Sanctuary." He changed the subject. "Is it true you fought in the Rankan arenas?"

She leaned close so that her shoulder touched his. "When the purse was large enough to interest me." She batted her lashes playfully. "Why should I avoid those dung-balls?"

The dice clattered on the rough surface. "They've got comrades. Lots of comrades."

The barkeep passed them, bearing drinks for another table. Chenaya waited. "How many?" she asked finally.

"Lots. They rode into town some days ago. Already act like they own it, too, though I wager the Fish-Eyes might dispute their claim." He looked up as the barkeep passed again. "One-Thumb, two more beers here. She's buying." He smiled at her and drained his mug. "They always go about in twos and threes. You tangle with one, you tangle with them all."

She tilted back until her head rested on the wall, and cursed silently. It couldn't be coincidence that the 3rd Commandos were here. They must be plotting against the Prince. Of course, that meant danger for her father and herself, too. And Molin. Theron had spared no energy hunting any who might claim the crown.

Hanse tapped her arm, and she started. "He wants to be paid," he told her. One Thumb loomed over her, looking surly. Two new mugs had appeared on the table.

Hanse's eyes followed her hand as it dipped into the purse about her neck and extracted a coin. "You must do well in the Games," he said.

"Well enough," she answered, dismissing One-Thumb. "I'm still alive."

"To being alive," he whispered, raising his beer in a toast. A bit of froth snowed his black mustache. "And if you want to stay that way, leam to carry a thi

She inclined her chin into one palm and met his gaze. She liked his eyes, so black and deep. "Since word travels so fast in Sanctuary, Hanse, you'd best spread this one. It's a new lesson to leam: don't play with Chenaya. The stakes are too high."

He regarded her over the rim of his mug. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She put on that sweet smile again. "It means I never lose, Hanse. Not at anything." She indicated the dice as he set his beer down. "How do you play those?"

He picked them up, shook them in a closed fist. "High number wins," he explained simply. He cast them: six and four.

She picked them up, dropped them without looking. A frown creased his forehead. "Two sixes," he muttered and gathered them to throw again.

She caught his hand. "Do you have a taste for Vuksibah?"

His eyes widened. "That's an expensive taste."

She produced two more coins, solid gold stamped with the seal of the imperial mint. She slid them toward Hanse. "I'll bet you can buy anything in this dump. See if old Sour-Face has a couple of bottles stashed away. Do you live nearby?"

He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, cocked an eyebrow. His head bobbed slowly.

She made a wry face. "The stench in here is overpowering." Her face moved close to his. "I'll bet there are lots of lessons we could teach each other." Her hand slipped under the table, fell to his thigh, encountering quite a surprise.

He caught her look and shrugged. "Another knife," he explained.

Chenaya gri

"Really," he insisted, collecting her coins, pushing back his chair. His toe caught the table leg as he rose, sloshing beer from her mug. "Sony," he mumbled. He shoved through the crowd to the bar, began an urgent conversation with One Thumb.

Chenaya looked back at the dice, picked them up, dropped them. Two sixes. She cast them again: two sixes. Once more she collected them, then with a sigh she dropped them in the beer.

The night, her seventh in the city, was still. Chenaya paced around her apartment, stared out each of the windows over the broad expanse of her land to the silvery ribbon that was the Red Foal River. It ran to the sea, that river. She could almost hear the sound of it.

She paced and debated if it was worthwhile going into the streets again tonight. All the officers and officials she had bribed the past few days, all the little men she had threatened, all her questioning and seeking had proven fruit less. If there was a plot against the Prince, no word of it had leaked carelessly.

Yet Savankala himself had come to her, told her it would happen when the splintered moon lies in the dust. But what did that mean? Thinking that a splintered moon was, perhaps, some astrological reference, she had approached Molin and wound up in a terrible argument. She left her uncle with a string of curses and no more understanding.

She kicked at a stool and threw herself across her bed. Her nails dug into the sheets. When her god was granting wishes, why. hadn't she asked for brains?