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Pel smiled. “Well, if a man came to me in the Avenue of Temples with such a difficult case, I’d charge him the equivalent of a couple of blocks of dressed stone per visit. I’m trying to rebuild my home, and most of my income goes to materials.”

“So be it.” The lady sounded amused. “Such stone will be delivered to you. I see you still have my globe. May it light your way safely home.”

Pel hesitated. “I have a problem, lady, with regard to your globe,” Pel began. He told his story of Naimun’s visit, and showed her the bronze ring.

“This belongs to my son. It went shortly after he arrived last week. I wondered—” Her eyes met Pel’s. “You know who I am, now.”

“Yes, m’sera. But I have never heard you say your name, so I couldn’t confirm it if anyone asked me.”

“You are discreet, healer. I will take care of this myself. That snake will never take my son’s place.” She tucked the arm ring into a fold of her enveloping cloak. “Farewell.”

He didn’t have to worry about guiding himself out The blue globe gleamed brighter when he took the correct turnings, and dulled to a mere flicker when he went the wrong way. It left his mind free to design a prosthetic foot for the lord of Sanctuary. The base would be wooden, covered and padded with leather. Two pieces, one for the ankle to instep, and the other from the arch of the foot forward. Both would be tightly wrapped in the leather so the foot would flex slightly when he pushed off in a step. If his balance was good he would soon forget he was wearing it. Pine was the best choice: light, though not light enough to simulate a real foot. Lint or a silk pad in the cup at the top of the foot in between the straps would protect the stump. The risk was if Arizak used it too much, and rubbed his leg raw. Well, they knew how to summon Pel if he was needed.

He trusted the lady to deal with Naimun, but he would still have to watch over his shoulder for a good long while. Rumors were rife in Sanctuary that those who went onto the middle son’s bad list tended to wind up floating in the river, or were just never seen again.

Pel slipped out into the warm night. The blue glow dulled, leaving the globe a simple stone. He looked at it in wonder as he walked toward the long stone lane from the kitchens to the street. No one else was out. What meals might be prepared must be made with foodstuffs brought in during the day. A single lantern told him where to turn for the main street. The stone stayed quiescent. Pel watched it in case Verrezza might summon him to return.

“Thief!”

Suddenly, a hand took him by the throat and slammed him into the wall. Out of reflex, Pel flung his wrists upward, knocking the other’s arms away. Scarcely seeing his opponent, he turned to run. More hands grabbed him, punching and clawing at his shoulders. He threw a vicious backward kick. A loud oof! came from the man behind him. Pel ducked under the arms and used his shoulder as a battering ram into the midsection of the man on his left. The man on the right reached for him, but got his groaning comrade instead.

Clasping the stone and his bag to his chest, Pel ran. His feet flailed on the hot, wet cobblestones. The sound of booted feet scrambling pursued, coming closer and closer. He dared not look behind him.

He opened up his long legs, wishing he had wings instead. At the end of the lane he dodged across and plunged into the narrow, stinking alley opposite. Constricted by his surroundings, he shoved past or leaped over trash-filled baskets, discarded furniture, and one drunk mumbling to himself against the wall. Pel changed direction, cutting into the next street and ducking underneath the very noses of a couple of burly seamen grinning over the contents of a clay jug. He hit his stride on one long stretch, hoping to make it to the Vulgar Unicorn before his pursuers caught up with him. The bartender owed him several favors.

Only a few hundred yards to go. The echo of many running feet made his heart pound.

To his dismay, one set of feet came closer and closer. Pel gave his uttermost effort, but the man behind him caught him just steps away from the welcoming door.

An arm around his throat hooked him off his feet and yanked him into the nearest alley. A big face, burned brown by the sun, pressed up close to Pel’s.

“Thief! Give me that,” per-Arizak growled. He wrenched the stone out of Pel’s hand. It burst into light as if glad to see the Dragon. For a moment Pel could see in it an image of the boy per-Arizak must have been. He grabbed Pel’s bag and began to paw through it. “Let’s see what else you have stolen.”

“I didn’t steal the stone,” Pel protested, as the Dragon’s friends caught up with him. “She gave it to me. I’m a healer. It’s a loan. She’ll tell you!”

“A healer! So my mother did bring in another shite-handed potion-maker,” per-Arizak grinned. Pel started to dive past him for freedom, but the big man drew a sharp dagger and put the point to his throat. “Let’s see what you have here: leaves, brews, powders … trash.”

“I do no harm,” Pel croaked, rubbing the parts of his neck not immediately adjacent to the dagger point. “She called me.”

“I know what she called you for. You do more harm than you know, Wrigglie.”

“But I …” He hesitated to break confidence, but he couldn’t help Arizak if he was dead. He prayed to Meshpri for forgiveness. “I am aiding your father, not harming him.”

“That’s the wrong thing to do.”

“What?” Pel asked.

Per-Arizak leaned close, so that Pel could smell the thick, sour liquor that was on the big man’s breath. “You interfere in a natural process Do nothing. Let him die in his own time, according to the will of Irrunega. It can’t be long, not the way I saw the blackness advancing up that stump of his. Better that he had died cleanly in battle.”

“But your mother …”

“Will do as I say, once I am ruler of this stinking hole,” the Dragon stated, plainly. “As you will. When I rule, as I will, if you obey me now, you’ll live a long and peaceful life If you don’t”—he reached into his pouch and brought out the gleaming globe of stone—“they’ll find this embedded in your skull. Take it. You can return it to my mother when you go to tell her you can help her pervert the course of time no longer.”

He pushed Pel against a wall, dismissing him, and gestured to his friends. They shoved past the healer and strode into the Vulgar Unicorn, calling loudly for service.

Pel stood on the pavement, the light from the stone leaking out from between his fingers in the dark of the moonless night. The third and eldest of the sons of Arizak had discovered him and made his demands. What each wanted were all contradictory to one another: heal, kill, or leave alone. He could fulfill one, but not all of their wishes. Any of the three actions would get him killed, not once, but twice. Only one followed the teachings of his savior gods.

Pel turned away from the brightly lit door and started to trudge toward home.

Now what do I do? he thought, praying hard for an answer. He did not want to die, nor did he really want to leave the city he had vowed to help heal.

But there was no answer from Meshpri or Meshnom. His only guiding light on his way was the globe.

Good Neighbours

Lynn Abbey

Chersey felt guilty.

When Dace had arrived at the changing house last winter, crippled and reeking of the Swamp of Night Secrets, she’d welcomed him out of charity. Charity was a godly virtue and Chersey, who’d come of age during the Dyareelan Troubles, had lived comfortably without gods until recently, when she’d warmed to the sensible words and good examples the Raivay SaVell espoused from the ruins along the Promise of Heaven. Charity, the Raivay said, was the path to Paradise.