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and maps.”
    Thrust to the rear of the small group of women, Rohana followed, hearing her pounding heart, so strongly it seemed to her that the thumping must almost be audible in the dusty, deserted streets. They moved like ghosts, or shadows, keeping in the lee of buildings, stealing along on noiseless feet. Rohana wondered where they had learned to move so silently, found she was afraid to speculate. For a panic-stricken moment she wished she had never begun this, that she were safe at home in Castle Ardais, on the borders of the Hellers. She wondered how her children fared without her, how the cousin who had managed her estates after her husband’s death a few years ago was dealing with the business, what was happening far away in the mountain country. This was never any place for me. Why did I ever come here? War, revenge, rescue, these are matters for men!
    And the men were content to let Melora pine away and die, captive! She hardened her resolve and stole along at the rear of the little column, trying to pick up her feet and put them down as silently as the Amazons, not to stumble against a chance stone.
    The city was a labyrinth. And yet it was not very long before the women in front of her stopped, drew close together in a knot, seeing across an open, windswept square the loom of the Great House where Jalak of Shainsa ruled. The house was a great squared building of pale bleached stone, glimmering faintly by the light of a single small gibbous moon: a blind window-less barrack, a fortress, the two doors guarded by tall guards in Jalak’s barbarous livery. Silently the Amazons turned, slipping through the shadows and along the side of the building. Rohana had heard Kindra’s plan, and it seemed to her a good one. Every outside door into a Dry-Town house was guarded; against direct attack at the doors a couple of guards could hold it indefinitely. But if they could somehow get through the small side gateway into the courtyard, make their way through the garden—hopefully deserted, at this hour—and get into the house through the unguarded inside doorways, they might get into Jalak’s chamber.
    She had heard Kindra say, through her singing, “Our best hope is that there has been peace in the Dry-Towns for many moons. The guards may be bored, not as alert as usual.”
    She could see the guard at the side gate now. Evanda be praised, no more than one. He lounged against the wall; Rohana could not see his face, but she was a telepath, and even unsought, his thoughts were clear enough: boredom, dullness, the sense that he would welcome anything, even armed attack, to relieve the monotony of this watch.
    “Gwennis.” Kindra murmured. “Your move.”
    (When this plan had been put forward, Gwennis had protested, sullenly. “Does it have to be me?” and Kindra had said, “You’re the prettiest.”) Now there was no protest, the band’s discipline held. As Gwennis deliberately scuffed a stone loose against the wall, Rohana felt the Amazon leader thinking, This is the worst moment of risk. …
    The guard straightened, alert to the noise.
    He’s alert, we can’t take him unawares; so we have to get him away from the gate, get him out into the center of the square, Kindra thought.
    Gwennis had swiftly divested herself of knife and dagger, torn her tunic slightly down the front. She sauntered out into the moonlit square, and the guard was instantly alert, then relaxed, seeing a woman alone.
    We are taking advantage of him, yes. Of the centuries-old Dry-Town contempt for women as helpless, harmless chattels. Victims, Kindra reflected bitterly.
    The guard did not hesitate more than half a minute before stepping away from his post at the door, moving purposefully toward the young girl. “Hey, pretty thing—are you lonely? One of the Amazons, huh? Have you got tired of them and come looking for some better company?”
    Gwennis did not raise her eyes. Rohana had heard the argument about that, too. (“I won’t seduce