In the Forest There Are No Lines

The sun's farewell rays skipped across the Street of Miracles and dipped into the bay, casting a dirty orange glow on the gray buildings along the Skallow Road. The temperature seemed to drop almost instantly, and the buildings to huddle together against the coming of the night. Marik shivered inside her bulky sweater.

The Street of Miracles was not precisely the Warrens, but it wasn't precisely not the Warrens, either. It was the fuzzy edge, the uneasy transitional area between the Kuhesos of the worthy, and the teeming, unwashed masses. Neither the worthy nor the masses were present. Not only was she passing into the Warrens, she was passing into the night, and in each case the denizens of the street changed. By day the Street of Miracles was home to beggars and pushcarts; at night it hosted the pushers and pimps who catered to the timid worthy who could not bring themselves to venture into the Warrens proper to seek their thrills. With the sun set but the sky still light, there was no business for the street; now it was only a barrier.

No one challenged her when she crossed the barrier: no one from the Warrens side to question her right to be there; no one from the other side to question her sanity. The buildings on the Warrens side were older, and closer, and seemed to lean out over the street, casting shadows larger and colder than they ought to be. Marik drew up short when she first entered one. The transition from near-daylight to gloom left her blind and breathless. Slowly her vision came back, and when she saw she was unharmed and alone, her breath came back as well.

The building she cowered in front of had once been a grocery. A few dusty cans without labels sprawled in the window below a sign announcing the last special of the shop's sad history: green beans half off. Half off what, the sign didn't say; half off the price, or half off the beans? Marik giggled.

"Stop that," she told herself sternly. She giggled again at her reflection in the window, "half off" stamped across her forehead, and pulled the black wool watch cap down to the bottom of the letters, tucking in strands of escaped hair.

She straightened her face and examined herself in the glass. She was glad she kept a set of grubbies at the office. A charcoal-gray skirt with matching blazer and a ruffled shirtfront would hardly do in this atmosphere; in her faded workshirt and stained canvas pants, with her hair tucked into the watch cap, she looked like an out-of-work cabin boy. She hoped. She untucked the shirt a bit to give it a looser fit, and mentally checked off her equipment.

Her left front pants pocket held her folding utility knife, a small flashlight, and the little gold-trimmed compass her Auntie Aletsy had given her some birthday long ago. Maybe the compass was going a little overboard; this wasn't the wilderness, after all. But better to have it unused than need it and not have it.

Her right front pants pocket held two maps -- Larnoz and Gramfelarys -- and money, a few bills and some coins wrapped in a handkerchief so they wouldn't jingle. Enough, she hoped, for her needs, but not enough to tempt anyone. Then again, she had heard of people murdered for pocket change. Best not to look like you have money, she thought, thinking again of the charcoal-gray suit back at the Museum.

In her right back pocket she carried her field kit, a soft leather case containing a variety of wrenches and screwdrivers, an assortment of picks and probes, dividers, a compass (the circle-making kind), a magnifying glass, and three soft-bristled brushes. She had brought this with the half-formed thought that it was like a burglar's kit, though she hadn't really considered why she would need such a thing. Again, she decided, better have it than need it.

In a secret pocket on the inside she carried her library card. She had thought long and hard on what to take: she wanted some identification in case ... well -- she put it delicately even to herself -- in case something happened. Her library card had her name, but nothing more useful to an illegal possessor. If someone stole it, they might run up her overdue fines, but nothing more, and maybe they'd profit from the books. Spread the gospel of reading, her father had often told her. There's no such thing as reading too much. So her library card nestled in the secret pocket and made her feel secure somehow.

Slowly, like a ritual, she touched her three talismans, her knife, her map, her library card, before looking up and down Miracles, and up and down Skallow. Not a person in sight, just a scrawny yellow dog with a patchwork coat and one ragged ear; it had been creeping up on her in the shadows of the building, but froze in its tracks when she moved. She sighed and looked away, and the dog resumed its awkward rustling approach through the dead leaves and crumpled papers that lined the walkway. She heard it stop, heard it snuffle at her scuffed work boots, and decided it was no danger.

She stepped around the dog and walked down the Skallow Road, peering into the shadowed doorways and alley mouths as she passed. There had to be someone around. Her plan, what little plan she had, depended on finding someone who would give her directions and not cut her throat. Still, she dreaded the thought of who, or what, she might find.

Three blocks into the Warrens she had still met no one, and her anxiety turned to irritation.

"Where the bloody hell is everyone?" she muttered to the latest empty alley. "I thought this place was teeming with life." With lowlife, she amended silently. She snorted and turned away from the alley.

An answering snort came from behind her. She whirled around, her left hand groping for her folding knife.

The dog had been stretching out a tentative nose to sniff again at her boots, but jumped back, ears flat. Its eyes showed white all around and something between a growl and a whimper burbled in its throat.

"Oh," she laughed in relief. "It's you." The dog relaxed and gave a couple half-hearted wags of its tail. It laid its head on outstretched forepaws, and snorted.

It sounded so like her own snort that Marik laughed again. The dog jumped up, ears cocked, tail erect and quivering. It snorted again and eyed her.

She shook her head. "Sorry, it's only funny the first time." She glanced up and down the street and along the alley. Still no one. She looked at the dog. "I don't suppose you know where Holy Goatherds is, do you?"

The dog cocked its head and pricked up its good ear. It regarded her steadily for a moment, then let out a single sharp bark and trotted past her into the alley.

When it disappeared into the gloom she shrugged and turned away. "Ah, well. Abandoned again."

She had taken no more than two steps away from the alley when a sharp bark came from behind her. She jumped. The dog stood in the shadows of the alley mouth, head cocked, tongue lolling, staring at her. It backed into the alley, barked again, and disappeared once more.

Marik had seen enough television to know what this meant. This dog didn't look half as bright as Iloban the Wonder Dog, but she knew an invitation when one barked at her. "What's that?" she muttered. "Ardo's down a well?"

She turned back to the alleyway, but hesitated at the mouth. A quick look around revealed no more signs of life than before. She sighed. If nothing else, the dog would surely know where to get a handout, and handouts came from nice people, and nice people might help her find Holy Goatherds. Anyway, she had no idea where she was going, and the dog clearly did. She touched her talismans, took a quick deep breath, and plunged after the dog.

The alleyway was not quite dark, but it was also not quite straight, and Marik had trouble keeping the dog in sight. At a particularly tortuous set of bends, she tripped over an unevenness in the alley floor -- a ragged gaping hole, really, she told herself, that only a half-blind halfwit would stumble into -- and fell crashing into a pile of broken crates. They had once held fresh fruit, but now bore nothing but twisted nails and unpleasant reminders of recent rains. She struggled to her feet and brushed off the worst of the mud. There were two jagged tears in her trousers, and she felt the cold, filthy water from the crates trickle down into her boots. It might have been coincidence, but it seemed to her that the dog went more slowly after that.

Once she thought she had lost it around a bend hidden by an overflowing trash bin. When she rounded the bin and the dog was gone, her heart hit the back of her throat and her face went numb. That's more like it, she thought. Don't abandon me when there's a good chance I can get out. Wait till I'm really really lost before you bail. "Oh you son of a bitch," she growled. "It's a good thing I'm cold and wet and miserable, or you'd really be in trouble."

She leaned against the bin and looked around. Fifteen feet ahead the alley was almost blocked by a fallen pile of packing crates on one side and another overflowing trash bin on the other. The alley behind disappeared around the bend ten feet away. The crumbling gray brick building across from her had a single door, deep set and dark, flanked by a pair of small, barred windows set high in the wall. The doorway was a good three feet above the level of the alley. Beside the window to the left of the door a rickety fire escape ladder led upward. She followed it with her eyes, past more small, dark, barred windows, until it disappeared in the gloom about the fifth floor. Up farther, she thought she saw a line of darkness etched against the brick. She tried focusing on it, then not focusing on it, and finally decided it was the sky. The solution made all the difference; now she could see it. She could see the edge of this building, and the building behind her, leaning close as if to conspire against this miserable little intruder between them. She shivered and tore her eyes away.

In the distance behind her a door slammed and she heard a chorus of raucous farewells. People! She considered going to meet them, but quickly abandoned that. She slipped into the darkness beside the bin and squatted down, peering around the edge with one eye. If they came this way, she would ask them for help, if they seemed nice enough. If they went the other way, well, that was that.

They went the other way. The voices faded away and Marik sighed. She fell back against the rough brick. A sharp cracking sound close behind her brought her fully alert and she rolled away from the bin, her left hand reaching for her clasp knife without her even thinking about it.

"Who's there?" she hissed. "Come on out. I'm not scared of you."

The rustling stopped, and the dog poked its nose out from behind the bin. It stared at her for a moment, then slipped past her down the alley. She wedged herself behind the bin, and saw a greasy brown paper bag, torn and crumpled on the ground, splintered chicken bones scattered around it. She pursed her lips. The dog apparently didn't need handouts.

The dog was waiting for her half a block ahead, looking over its shoulder, its yellow eyes glowing. "All right, you gave me a start," she said. "I admit it. So lead on."

The dog went more slowly now, pausing at every corner, looking over its shoulder often to look at her. She could hear people sounds now, indistinct and distant, but constant. The night Warrens was coming to life.

They were approaching a major street. The sickly glow of its dim yellow lights hung in the air above her head like smoke, dusting the gray brick walls with specks of deadlight phosphorescence. The alley seemed reluctant to meet its greater cousin, hanging back, narrowing, bucking up and down; the buildings drew up far into the night, falling toward each other, shutting out completely her glimpse of the distant sky.

The dog, too, hung back. It put a paw slowly forward, looked back at Marik, eased its body ahead, sniffed left then right, looked back at Marik, and only then allowed the second paw to follow. Marik pressed close to the wall on her right, trailing her hand on the brick. The dog stopped outside a pool of light spilling onto the ground. Marik crept up beside it, crouching at the very edge of the building, and peeked around the corner onto the street.

She blinked for a bit before she could see anything at all. Where the light that had seeped into the alley had been weak and dim, the light on the street was harsh and bright. It blazed from every storefront, from every second-floor window: glaring neon in mostly reds and garish blues, the bluish-white of overly bright fluorescents, the metallic yellow of widely spaced streetlamps hung above the road, all with the sole purpose of drawing people here and keeping them here.

All along the opposite side of the street, and on this side from the little she could see, were taverns and bars, gambling joints and strip joints and dance halls. The upper floors, also blazing in invitation, presumably held more private venues for more private activities. Marik held her breath and stared. She had heard of this place, as had everyone, but she had never seen it, had never wanted to see it. This was the Redbone district, the hard-bitten, grimly joyous heart of the waterfront pleasure industry, a showcase of decadence existing mostly to separate sailors from their pay. There was periodic talk of cleaning up the Redbone, of ridding this fair city of that pustular eyesore and bringing virtue and honor, along with clean, safe streets, back to the good people of Kuhesos. After a lot of posturing, nothing else ever happened. Marik suspected that a good part of the sailors' pay found its way into the pockets of the Masters of the City. In any case, the Redbone was here, as it had always been here, and was thriving, as it had always thrived.

As Marik's eyes grew used to the lights, the sounds of the street filtered into her consciousness. The street was filled with sailors, most with their girl-for-the-night or a couple of buddies or both, and every one of them was making noise. Some were talking, usually ribald teasing, and loudly, many shouted greetings or curses up and down the street, some merely howled inarticulately into the night. In the more staid parts of Kuhesos it was barely dinnertime, but in the Redbone the wine had been flowing for hours, if not days.

A group of sailors jaunted past her alleyway and Marik shrank back. They didn't even look. She peeked out and saw them accosted by a tall black man in a crimson turban and an ornate satin robe. He clutched them by the sleeves and tried to draw them into the doorway behind him. Craning her neck, Marik could make out the sign above the door. The Amiori Joy House was apparently having a party and desperately needed the presence of four more idle seamen for the night to be complete. The sailors laughed and tried to pull away; the doorman grew insistent, and then menacing.

The sailors did not stop laughing. One of them casually drew a long knife from his sleeve and just as casually sliced the doorman's throat. Two of his friends held the doorman by the arms and lowered him gently into his doorway. Then the man with the knife wiped his blade on the ornate satin robe and the four of them jaunted off, bantering still as if the night had just begun.

Marik fell back against the brick, her breathing fast and shallow, her eyes hot and wide. Then abruptly she fell onto her side and vomited.

"Oh, god," she said. "Oh, god." She rested on her elbows, her head hanging almost to the ground, a string of vomitus hanging from her lip. A sob wracked her body and she felt the tears begin, hot and silent. Then she vomited again. Bitter bile tore through her throat in waves; her back arched and shook with convulsions as she coughed and sobbed and spewed her guts into the filth of the alley.

When her stomach was quiet, she sat back against the building, closing her eyes and silently sobbing.

Something nudged her leg and she jerked it again. Another nudge, and she kicked out. "No! Go away." A third nudge, and she opened her eyes.

The dog was there, not a foot away, staring at her intently with its glowing golden eyes. It pawed at her again and burbled in the back of its throat.

She sighed. "Oh, all right." She wiped her mouth with one sleeve and her forehead with the other, and got to her feet. The world twisted about for a bit, but it steadied and she stood upright. She took off her watch cap, smoothed her hair, and replaced the cap, carefully tucking in all the stray ends. She took a deep breath. "I'm set," she announced.

The dog dashed across the street, Marik right behind. She tried to stay on the dog's heels, but it was off and away and hiding in the alley opposite before she had cleared the sidewalk. A hand reached up from the gutter and grabbed at her ankle; she kicked it away without looking down, dodged past a pair of sailors with beer-breath and fire-eyes, and collided with a tall woman -- she thought it was a woman -- in padded and studded black leather. The woman grabbed her by both arms and examined her face, frowning, head cocked, as if examining dubious merchandise at an itinerant street fair.

She put Marik down and shook her head. "Sorry, sonny," she said in a deep brown voice, "not today." She turned away and was gone.

Marik spun back toward the middle of the road, and was engulfed by a band of pirates. Or a braindead tirka drinker's idea of Resadimon pirates: plastic leather in garish colors and lots of velveteen, rubber cutlasses clutched in teeth, inarticulate cries of "Aarrr" with no provocation. The faces were horribly scarred, with eye patches and head cloths. Marik ducked through them and stumbled to her knees. One of the pirates pulled her to her feet and winked before rolling away in the wake of his fellows. Marik stared after him, sure that on him at least the scars were real, the cutlass as well.

Someone bumped her from behind. She whirled around, but no one was there.

"Hey, kid," someone called to her from the Filsen Parek Gambling Palace. "Come on in; everybody lucky tonight."

A girl no more than fifteen but made up to look twenty and with the eyes of an old woman mewled something at her and tried to drag her toward an unmarked doorway.

An unshaven man in gaudy yellow checks thrust a small stone bottle into her face. "Finest kind," he said. "Cheap, and just for you."

Marik ducked under his arm and ran, bouncing off a clown in an oversized greatcoat, knocking over a pretty boy cradling a fluffy kitten, scattering a group of sailors who laughed at her and shouted "Shoot!"

She reached an empty space in the middle of the street and stopped, breathing hard. My god, she thought, I'm lost. In the middle of the street, I'm lost. She looked wildly about for a glimpse of the dog, for any clue which way to go, for a friendly face and a gentle hand to prod her, "Go that way, dear." That way to safety, to sanity.

"Calm down," she said. "It isn't that tough."

She caught her breath and looked around calmly. There, past the clown and the tirka pusher and the little girl whore, was the Amiori Joy House. There was the throat-slashed ornamental doorman, lounging in the doorway with three teenagers gawking at him and nudging each other. That was the side she came from. She didn't want to go back.

She looked at the other side, and there, a blessedly dark and inviting shadow, was the alley mouth she wanted. She glanced quickly around to see who she would have to trample to get there, and ran for the alley as hard and as fast as she could. No one got in her way, and she collapsed panting on the pavement as soon as the darkness swallowed her.

She lay in the comforting shadow for a long time, until the tears were dry on her face and the bitter bile was gone from the back of her mouth. The sounds of raucous revelry continued unabated behind her, but they stayed within the gaudy light and took no heed of her. When at last she felt she had to move or die, she sat up and looked around.

She was alone. She smiled grimly and nodded. The dog was really gone this time, she was sure.

The compass felt good in her hand. It must have been an hour since she looked at it. There was seldom enough light, and she had soon realized that, however comforting it was to know the direction she was going, it didn't help much since she didn't know where she was coming from or where she was going. But the gold and glass case was cool and smooth and hard, and she clutched it tightly and willed her mind to be the same.

The dog had been leading her more or less south, her compass told her, and that seemed as good as anything. She did not want to go back into the neon hell of the Redbone, that she knew. Directly away from the dead doorman was south, and that was the way she went, hiding in the shadows when she heard someone coming, peeking at them as they passed, trying to decide if she could talk to them. They were mostly scruffy and mostly drunk, and she let them pass in peace.

The alley was winding and unsure of itself, petering out without warning in a vacant lot filled with junk, then picking up again in two or three places on the other side. One such lot she was sure she passed through twice, from different directions. At least the two old winos playing cards beside a low-burning fuel can looked the same. Maybe there were thousands of them in Kuhesos, all paired off in hidden lots playing an eternal game and slowly dying from the fumes of their light. One of them looked up as Marik slipped through the shadows the second time. He shook his head and laughed and waved, and went back to his cards.

Chagrin at being seen burned her face for a block before common sense set in. She stopped abruptly beside another overflowing trash bin -- was there no rubbish collection in the Warrens? -- and pressed her fist to her forehead. The cool surface of the compass touched her skin and she felt a calm descend upon her.

The two men back there weren't actively threatening; if anything, they seemed kindly disposed toward her, though for the most part unconcerned. They might be scruffy and drunk and homeless and jobless, but they seemed nice enough. She came into the Warrens intending to ask someone for help; why not them?

The man who waved looked up as she approached and waved again. He said something to his companion, who shook his shoulders violently and played a card.

"I hate to bother you," said Marik, stopping about ten feet away.

The first man laughed and dismissed her concern with a flip of his hand. "Anything you want is no bother at all, missy," he said. "Just stay in my eyes a bit longer this time."

When she had first seen him, she thought him an old man, but the closer she looked, the younger he got. Though lined and scarred enough for fifty, his was a young face, still firm and taut, as if the character in it had set only recently. His hair was not white, as she had thought, but a very pale yellow, ragged around the edges and falling over his eyes. It was the eyes that convinced Marik he was not a day over thirty. They were dark and bright and sharp, and snapped from one sight to another with the precision of the racing gearbox in her 27J. Still, she could tell he could look old if he wanted to; he did when he wasn't smiling.

He leaned forward, pulled a folded blanket from under him, and spread it on the ground halfway between himself and his companion. "Drop a load," he said, beckoning her toward the blanket.

She sat. "Thank you. I was wondering if you --"

"Name's Gorbo," the man said. "My name, that is. His name is Ding. He's not much for company, are you, you old bastard?"

Ding looked up from the card he had played and grunted. His eyes passed over Marik's face without a hint of comprehension, and fixed on Gorbo. "I played the three," he said. "And you can eat shit." His voice was a rough whisper, the words poorly formed. Marik looked more closely at him, and saw that his mouth twisted to one side and an angry purple scar covered one side of his throat from his ear to his adam's apple. He cleared his throat loudly and spat away from the fire, and returned to perusing his play.

"See what I mean?" asked Gorbo, winking. "Can't take the old fart anywhere. Ought to just chop him up for dogmeat and have done."

Marik gasped, not so much at the words, but at the force with which they were spoken. "Oh, no," she said. "Please, not on my account."

Gorbo stared at her a moment. Then he chuckled. "Oh, no, he's not on your account. He's no account at all; take me for truth on that."

Ding spat again. "Eat shit, eat shit," he muttered. He leaned forward, picked up the three he had just played, and returned it to his hand. He rearranged his cards furiously, Marik watching every move and wondering what possible order he might have in mind.

Marik looked up to find Gorbo watching her intently. She shifted uncomfortably and glanced quickly around. Nobody else was there, and Ding was watching her from the corner of his eye. What was this about? Were they about to attack? She replayed the last few moments, and relief flooded into her mind. "Oh," she said. "Kria; my name's Kria."

Gorbo nodded and relaxed. "Well met, Kria. Drink to friendship?" He offered her a scarred leather bottle from behind him. Ding snorted loudly and slapped down a card.

Marik took the bottle and examined it, turning it this way and that in the feeble light of the fuel can. Her mouth formed a small 'o' of appreciation. "This is wonderful workmanship," she said. "Look at how small and precise the stitching is. And this vine motif stamped around the bottom; each leaf is different, and brilliantly detailed. Wonderful. I don't think they've been made like this in two hundred years."

Gorbo grunted. "We're not so concerned with the outside here," he said. "It's what's inside that counts."

Marik looked from Gorbo to the bottle and back to Gorbo. He gestured to her to go ahead. When she still hesitated, he took the bottle from her, brusquely wiped its mouth on the tattered sleeve of his plaid work jacket, and handed it back.

"Nothing I've got's contagious, Kria."

Quickly, without breathing, she put the bottle to her lips and liquid fire poured into her mouth. Some of it found its way down her throat, but most came out in a fine sparkling spray when she choked. The burning fuel can flared when the spray hit. Ding fell forward onto the cards to protect them. Gorbo wiped his face with one hand and gently took the bottle from her with the other. He shook it beside his ear, gave a small nod, and stowed it back behind him.

Marik wiped her eyes. "I didn't --" She cleared her throat. "I was expecting wine," she said between deep gulps of cool night air.

"Oh? And why would you do that?"

That stumped her. "I don't know. Maybe because ..."

"Because we're winos?"

Marik flushed. That was it, of course, but she said nothing. Gorbo shook his head and reached over to help Ding wipe the cards. Ding shook him off and finished the job, placing the discard stack with geometric precision halfway between himself and Gorbo. He straightened his hand, opened it, rearranged it, straightened it again, and with a practiced flourish played the three he had played twice before. "Eat shit," he said, staring at Marik.

Gorbo picked up his hand, looked at it, and put it down again. "What brings you out tonight, Kria? Not just visiting, I trust."

Marik shook her head. "No, I was .... Gorbo, do you know a street called Holy Goatherds?"

Ding cleared his throat so loudly that Marik jumped. He spat, and busied himself with his cards, rearranging them furiously, without looking at them. Gorbo watched him for a bit, then slowly shook his head. "Now what would you be wanting to go there for, then?"

Marik hesitated, and decided to bare her soul. "I have to meet someone there tonight. Number 43. It's vital I not miss it. Do you know where it is?"

Ding picked up his last play and slapped it down. "I played the three," he said, louder and less coherent. "Eat shit." He dropped his voice to a mumble. "She don't belong here, Gor; don't give her nothing."

Gorbo nodded. He picked up his hand and without studying the cards played a seven. Ding crowed with delight and snatched up the top four discards. "Number 43," mused Gorbo, staring at his cards. "Not familiar with that one." He pulled a card slowly from his hand and set it down gently. A three.

Ding stared at the card. "You eat shit," he muttered. "You know how to play."

"Nope," said Gorbo, still looking at his cards. "Don't know where it is."

"Can you tell me where the street is at least?"

"He said he don't know," growled Ding, pointing a gnarled finger at her face. "Plain enough?"

Marik sat though a few minutes of silence, during which neither of the men looked at her, or at each other, or at anything other than the cards they held. It was clear the interview was over. Marik sighed and stood up.

"Well, thank you both for your time," she said. "Maybe I'll find it on my own." She turned and walked away.

"I don't know, but I'll tell you who might." Gorbo might have been talking to his cards; Marik was sure it was the cards he was looking at. She stopped, not daring to answer nor to turn back. "Old Pidge. He's the one to ask. Knows where pretty much everything is, does Pidge."

Marik almost turned, almost asked where to find Pidge.

"You're almost on top of him now," said Gorbo. "Keep on going the way you were. This last time through, that is. Turn right at the second alley; that's beside the lime green armchair under the gutterspout. Down about fifty feet on your left there's a gap between two buildings. There's a fence, but the middle slat is loose. Go through that to the street, and the first door on your left is the one you want."

Marik nodded. She took another step. Then her curiosity got to her and she turned around. Gorbo and Ding were leaning over the cards, as if she had never entered their lives. " Can I ask, Gorbo, what's that game you're playing?"

Gorbo laughed. "Eat shit," he said.

The directions were easy enough to follow. Marik had to detour around a large orange tom cat that flattened its ears and growled at her from the lime green armchair, and her shirt caught a nail in the loose slat in the fence and she came away with a long tear and a short scratch, but at the end of a long run between two tall, blank-walled buildings, with barely elbow room on either side, she found herself approaching a square of light.

She stopped in the shadows at the end of the run and caught her breath. The light was comforting yellow and dim, and seemed to come from the left of the opening before her. She eased forward and peeked around the corner of the building to the left. The light came from a half-open door and a curtained but well-lighted window. The first door on the left, Gorbo had said; it was open and waiting.

In front of the door, peering intently down the street away from her, sat the dog.

She stepped out onto the sidewalk, letting her feet fall heavily. The dog's ears cocked backwards, but it did not turn. She cleared her throat. The dog tilted its head back and rolled its eyes at her. Then it sprang to its feet facing her, its tail madly wagging.

"Nice to see you, too," said Marik. "Thought I'd lost you back there."

She knelt before the dog and scratched behind its ears. It nuzzled into her chest and drooled on her shirt. Then she stood up and examined the door. It was unmarked, a regular, plain wooden door, without a window or a handle, and stood about a foot open, so that the light could get out but she could not see in. She stepped back and looked up. Above the window, barely visible, was a sign: a stylized tidal wave with accompanying wavelets. The main wave, she noticed with a start, had eyes, beautiful green eyes with long lashes, eyes that peered deep into her soul. They made the wave at once familiar and terrifyingly alien, both close and friendly and warm, and incomprehensibly distant. She had never seen this sign before, but she knew what sort of sign it was. She shrugged and looked down at the dog.

"This is it, then? This is where you brought me? A tavern." She sighed. "Well, I suppose it could be worse. Least it's not a brothel. Maybe."

She chucked the dog under the chin, straightened her shoulders, and stepped through the door.