"Dannos is rising," whispered Freha. "Tonight he mates with Mother Amaris. It is said that the Fates walk through the streets of Valkarion on such nights." She shivered. "Indeed they do on this eve."
"Perhaps," said Alfric, though the hackles rose on his neck. "But how do you know?"
"Have you not heard?" Her voice shuddered, seeming to blend with the moan of wind and steady, slow boom of gong. "Have you not heard? The Emperor Aureon is dying. He is not expected to last till dawn. The Thirty-ninth Dynasty dies with him, and—and there is no successor!"
The wind mumbled under the eaves, rattling the window frame and flowing darkly through the alley.
"Ha!" Alfric laughed harshly, exultantly. "A chance—by Ruho, what a chance!"
Of a sudden he stiffened, and the voice of danger was a great shout in his head. He sat up, cocking his ears, and heard the faint scratch and scrape—aye, under the window, coming close—
He slid from the covers and drew his sword where it lay on the floor. The boards felt cold under his bare feet, the night air fingered his skin with icy hands. "What is it?" whispered Freha. She sat up, the dark hair tumbling past her frightened face. "What is it, Alfric?"
He made no answer, but padded over to the window. Flattened against the wall, he stood waiting as a hand raised the sash from outside.
The pale cold light of Amaris fell on the hand that now gripped the sill. A body lifted itself, one-handed, the other clutching a knife. For an instant Alfric saw the flat hairless face in the moonlight, the double crescent brand livid against its horrible blankness. Then in one rippling motion the slave was inside the room.
Alfric thrust, slicing his heart. As the man fell, another swarmed up behind him. He and Alfric faced each other, tableau for one instant of rivering moonlight and whining wind and remotely beating gong. Then the barbarian's long arm shot out, yanked the slave in, and twisted him in an unbreakable wrestler's grip.