After a time, he made a sign with his head that she should follow him. He walked away swiftly down one of the streets and she went with him. He moved quickly and confidently through the labyrinthine city. After a time, he took her hand. She did not pull away. The fog was thick and wet, blinding, almost choking, and it was so dark she could make out nothing of her greater surroundings. Openings in the fog showed her tall buildings to either side of the alley they walked. But the darkness and silence seemed complete. Her companion seemed certain of his way. His large hand was warm and dry as it clasped her chilled one.

He finally turned aside, to lead her down some steps and then open a door. When the door was opened, sound boomed out. Music, laughter and talk, but all of a style and language she did not know, and so it was all just noise. Deafening noise, so that even if she had been able to understand her companion, she would not have been able to hear him. It was some kind of an inn or tavern, she surmised. There were many small round tables, each with a single short candle burning in the center. He led her to an empty one, and gestured her to a seat. He sat down across from her. He pushed back his hood.

For a long time in the dream, they just sat there. Perhaps he listened to the music, but to her it was a sound so uniformly loud that she felt deafened. By the candlelight, she could finally see her companion's face. He was handsome, in a pale way. Beardless and blond, his eyes a warm brown. He had a small soft mustache. His shoulders were wide, his arms well-muscled. He did nothing at first, save look at her. After a time, he reached across the table and she put her hand in his. He smiled. She suddenly felt they had come to so perfect an understanding that she was glad there were no words that could interfere. A long time seemed to pass. Then he reached into a pouch and brought out a ring with a simple stone on it. She looked at it, and then shook her head. She was not refusing the ring; she was only saying that she did not need an outward symbol. The agreement they had already reached was too flawless to complicate with such things. He put the ring away. Then he leaned across the table towards her. Heart thundering, she leaned forward to meet him. He kissed her. Only their mouths met. She had never before kissed a man, and it stood gooseflesh up all over her to feel the softness of his mustache beside her lips, the swift brush of his tongue that bade her lips part to his. All time stopped, hovering like a nectar bird in that one sweet moment of decision, to open or remain closed.

Somewhere, a distant male amusement, but one that approved. You have a warm nature, Malta. Very warm. Even if your ideas of courtship hark back to that most ancient custom of abduction. It was all fading now, whirling away from her, leaving only that tickle of sensation on her mouth. I think we shall dance well together, you and I.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - PRISONERS

WlNTROW WAS IN A LARGE SHED. IT WAS OPEN ON ONE SIDE AND NOTHING IMPEDED THE FLOW OF WINTER cold into it. The roof overhead was sound, but the walls were little more than rough slab wood cobbled over a beam framework. The stall he was in opened onto a walkway. It faced a long row of identical stalls. The slat sides of it gave him only nominal privacy. There was a scattering of straw on the floor for him to curl up on and a filthy bucket in one corner to contain his wastes. The only thing that prevented him from simply walking away were the leg-irons on his ankles that were chained to a heavy metal staple driven deeply into an iron-hard beam. He had worn most of the skin off his ankles determining that human strength was not going to budge the staple. It was his fourth day here.

In one more day, if no one came to redeem him, then he could be sold as a slave.

This had been carefully explained to him twice by a jovial keeper, on his first and second day of confinement. The man came once a day with a basket of rolls. He was followed by his half-wit son, who pulled a cart with a tub of water on it, and ladled out a cupful of it to every prisoner.

The first time he explained it, Wintrow had begged him to carry word of his plight to the priests in Sa's temple. Surely they would come to claim him. But the keeper had declined to waste his time. The priests, he had explained, did not meddle in civil affairs anymore. The Satrap's prisoners were a civil affair, nothing at all to do with Sa or his worship. The Satrap's prisoners, if not redeemed, became the Satrap's slaves, to be sold off to benefit the royal treasury. That would be a sad end to such a short life. Had not the boy some family the keeper might contact? The keeper's wheedling tone clearly conveyed that he would be happy to convey any message, so long as there was a good chance of a bribe or reward. Surely his mother must be worried about him by now? Had he no brothers who would pay his fine and get him released?