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remembered, as even he had forgotten for a while, until his son reminded him, that blood is worth everything in the world; and that once that debt is made, only blood can pay it.
    Their names, he had asked of his informants. Give me their names. And the answer came back, finally: The Stepsons Critias and Straton. He began then, to leam everything that he could leam about these two names. He learned their partnership in the Sacred Band. He learned what this meant. He learned their wamames and their histories, as much as his informers could extract from gossip and the talk of Rankan soldiers in bars and whorehouses.
    He wanted more than their deaths. He wanted revenge. He wanted 240 UNEASY ALLIANCES
    their ruin, their slow, suffering ruin, of a sort that would erode the soul,
    such a soul as such butchers might have; and he wanted them to fear, at the last, the way their victims had feared them, with a sickening, hopeless
    fear.
    Therefore he had held his hand from Straton, when his informants told him Straton's soul was already in pawn—to a witch. Therefore he had sweated in agony, seeing the Stepsons ride north and Critias ride with them: therefore he had prayed nightly to the darkest of gods for the saving of one Stepson from war and from the chances of war—and for the weaving of spells about the other, spells that should damn him to hell
    and bring Critias—the stiff-necked, hard-handed Critias, straight from war and arriving bloody-minded in a town rife with ensorcelments, a town Straton commanded—bring Critias back with a vengeance, oh, yes, the man of war to the man bespelled, his partner, his—lover, doubtless, in the way of Sacred Band partners: Nas-yeni knew every detail he could glean of the Sacred Band, studied them, obsessively, the way he had once studied his rivals in business, and studied, most particularly, this Pair,
    their reputations, their manner, the time of their sleeping and eating and
    the look on their faces . . . even that, because he had been near them, oh, often, that he had stood so close to one or the other of them, had brushed against them in crowds, had looked once in Straton's very eyes as they collided, unexpected—
    —eyes that looked into my son's eyes. eyes that had no pity, eyes looking
    out of Hell now, is it, murderer? I could take you. I could slip a knife into
    you and watch those eyes go, oh, so shocked and frightened. . . . But far too quick, far, far too quick. Good day to you, Rankan. Good day and gods protect you, Rankan, against any chance of the streets. He had smiled at Straton, friendly as could be. And the Rankan, with whatever burdened his conscience, whatever hate, whatever distrust of Ilsigis who smiled at him, had looked confused and angry that an Ilsigi had touched him.
    Perhaps . . . expecting that knife in the gut.
    Often, on the street, once Straton settled into pattern, in those dark days, when only a fool would observe patterns—but Straton went befuddied in those days, befuddled and more and more hell-ridden—Nas-yeni would smile at him, that same, secret smile that had everything of obsequiousness in it—Hail, our conqueror. How brave of you, to ride among us, morning and evening, mazy-eyed and bewitched.
    Do you know me yet? His mother always said Beruth had my eyes, my mouth.
    But he would not have smiled at you.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS 241
    His mother died, do you know. in the winter. Took to her bed. Never smiled again. Just died. She took all the drugs I bought, one dose. I owe you so much. Stepson. Truly I do.
    They say the Stepsons are coming back to Sanctuary.
    Critias . . . is coming home. What will you say to him, my friend?
    What will you tell him about this town you rule?
    Who will you sleep with. then?
    And how will the Riddler deal with you?
    Every morning, every evening. One of the crowd.
    Part of the crowd when Critias rode in, grim and hard—hard and soldierly, where Straton had grown fey, and strange.
    Where Straton served Her who was