Not that Kama was any sort of man at all.
Having crossed the street, Crit looked back once because he'd heard Vis's voice-not words, just a tone. And saw a wave of farewell so elo- quently hostile and so gloating that he almost shot the mere there and then.
But Kama read his mind and touched his arm. "They're Ischade's.
They'll wait. They'll run back with word if we don't come out. We need that."
"Crap," Crit said.
"Agreed," Kama said with a ghost of her father's smile.
Then they climbed the steps and Crit put his back against the stone, crossbow ready, attempting to cover every avenue of attack while Kama tried key after key and cursed like a Nisibisi freeman.
Finally she said, "No luck. Nothing works." And slumped against the doorjamb.
They looked at each other too long, and Crit had to look away. It was in that silence that they heard something move inside, behind the stout wood of the door.
Then they looked at each other again,
"Want to knock?" Kama said lightly.
"I don't think so," Crit replied in the same tone. "We could start digging at the wood with-"
"Wait," said Kama, simultaneously digging in her belt. "This, maybe."
She held out a piece of bronze about half the length of her hand and shaped like a knobbed bar or rod.
"Never fit," he said critically, still holding his crossbow at the ready, still glancing from shadow to shadow down the quiet street. Still watch- ing Vis and Mor-am as best he could.
"Might not have to. It washed up on the beach. I heard about it from some of my ... people. Turned a gold coin to lead, and copper to clay, in the finder's purse."
"So?"
"So, let's see if it'll do something to that metal."
"We're here." Crit shrugged, trying to ignore the implications. Kama wasn't the finder. Kama had appropriated this thing from someone, for her own purposes- And she'd heard about it through some informer of whom Crit was totally ignorant. Nothing was going to work right in Sanctuary unless they all started pulling together. But what he wanted to do to Kama right then wouldn't facilitate anything of the sort.
She shrugged, too, added a sour twist of her thin lips, and bent to the door. He didn't dare look away to watch, but he heard her tap bronze against bronze. And curse. And tap again, and chortle.
"So?" he said when she stood up and carefully put the talisman back in her belt.
"So, do we want to be polite, now that the lock's no problem?"
He took one hand away from the crossbow and, balancing it on his hip, felt for the lock. It was gooey. He brought his fingers to his lips and smelled White Foal mud, rank with rot. He swore and asked her to explain herself.
"I heard," she said, "it might be something like this. That's all."
"Great." He spat over his shoulder. "Next time you 'hear' of some- thing like this, you come to me with it."
"I did."
"Beforehand," he said, just as there was a scuffling sound and then a dragging noise behind the door and he and Kama jumped back in unison.
The door opened like a casket's top. And there, behind it, stood some- thing very much like Tasfalen, the popinjay noble who'd been missing so long. "Yessss," said the noble in an entirely horrible voice, a voice that seemed not to have been used for a thousand years.
And behind this shape, Crit could see another: Haught.
And over those two images, he saw superimposed the glowing counte- nance of Ischade, a slight crease between her eyes, and Ischade was shaking her head, her lips forming a word.
And that word was "Run." In his inner ear, he heard it again; Run, if you value your soul.
"Come on, Kama. Sorry to disturb you, Tasfalen," said Crit as he backed down the stairs, Kama's arm in a deathgrip and still holding the loaded crossbow one-handed. "We just needed to verify your where- abouts. Stop by the palace when you can-Molin Torchholder wants to see you."
By the time he'd finished saying alt of that, he'd dragged Kama half- way to the street and she was whispering urgently, "What's the matter with you? Lost your mind? Your nerve?"
"Finished, that's all. We're finished here. I have no reason to arrest that man. I only had to find him." His voice was shaking and Kama heard it.
He didn't look at her as they made for their horses. He couldn't stand to see scorn in her eyes. But he saw it in the eyes of Ischade's two waiting minions, and it burned like hellfire.
"What's the matter, Stepson, Tempus take your balls upcountry?" Vis shouted from a safe distance as Crit mounted up.
He got off one quarrel, but his aim was half-hearted. It smashed harm- lessly against the brick beside Vis's head.
And then there was Kama to deal with, slouched in her saddle, frown- ing.
He said, "We have to report this to Torchholder. I need you. Let's go."
She reined her horse after his, either unwilling to dispute his statement or unable.
One way or the other, he'd let the matter of the talisman go if she'd just give him a chance. How he was going to keep Kama with him tonight, Crit couldn't fathom, but he was going to give it a try. Torchholder would have to make do with a written report. It was just too damned cold in Sanctuary to sleep alone tonight.
The sky was beginning to lighten, turning regal above the temple tops. Zip's black sweatband was sopping though the waning night was as chill on the Street of Temples as it had been at the White Foal's edge.
He straightened up from the piled stones in the alleyway, hand to the small of his back. He was alone now. He'd sent his boys scurrying with a flurry of invective when he'd realized what they'd done.
Or what he'd let them do. They'd touched the stones, because of Kama and Strat. Worse, they'd mismarked the ones they'd touched.
Zip had spent the rest of the night trying to sort out the mess. And all he had to show for his labors was an empty pile of stones that wouldn't sit exactly right, wouldn't form the beehive shape they'd had down at the riverbank.
One more time, he put the stones he was sure of-the top three-in place. And one more time they fell inward, toppled others, and ended in a jumble in the alley beside the Storm God of Ranke's temple.
And again, as the stones rolled and at last came to rest, the ground beneath Zip's feet seemed to tremble. This time, he hardly noticed the earth's tremors over his own.
The rivergod wasn't pleased, he could feel it. Maybe it was gone, or just wouldn't come here because he'd botched it, but Zip had an awful feeling that the red-eyed thing was more than a little miffed about the disarrayed condition of its home. Worse, he wasn't sure any more whether this site was good enough, being not quite on the Street of Tem- ples, but somewhat off the thoroughfare.
If only his boys had marked the stones. If only Kama and Strat hadn't interfered. If only the day would stay its coming a little while longer. Zip had been in tight spots before. Given time and calm, he could sort the matter out.
There were thirty-three stones in all. Some of them had Zip's careful marks. It couldn't be impossible to figure out which stones must com- prise the bottom row.
But it was. He couldn't do it. He'd tried four times. And now the dawn was threatening to break. First the sky would regain its blueness, eating up the stars. Then royal purple would creep along the temples' walls, then gouts of red and orange flame to eat the darkness. And when the celadon and rose of true dawn came, with them would come the priests and acolytes, padding toward their morning duties.
Zip would be discovered where Ilsigs feared to tread, in the reaches of a Rankan temple. And then the rivergod would have its revenge.
He knew it was that. He was shaking all over, anguished and weak. Too weak to run, too tired to hide. It was as if all his spirit had leeched away with the darkness, as if his soul was as dismantled as the home of stone he couldn't rebuild.