Zindaq ducked into the darkness of a shabby doorway, from which he could safely survey the twisting, cobbled street that ran sharply downhill to the docks. It had been broad daylight when he set out, no more than half an hour ago; but nightfall was instant here, and the brighter stars were now cutting through the dirty glow of thousands of lamps all over Dhakri.

It meant little that he could see nothing stirring in the street which, for some obscure reason, was called Gold Street. There were always plenty of dangers lurking in the shadows of Dhakri. He was one of them, of course; but many were far worse.

A slight breeze flirted up the street from the harbour, momentarily cool in the city's furnace, and Zindaq enjoyed it ruffling the black hair that hung dirtily to his shoulders, caressing the bare skin of his upper torso and flapping the rips in his thin trousers. It was rarely anything but stiflingly hot in Dhakri and Zindaq, who had never lived anywhere else, only ever noticed it when it was relieved for an instant.

Nor did he notice the ruin that was his life, most of the time. He'd been bonded to Pordish for nearly ten years, since he was a child, and it was difficult to imagine anything else. His lot was far better than many of the others he saw coming through his master's possession, boys and girls who were caught and hanged, or killed in the course of their work, or died of some disease in the filth, or who simply gave up. He wasn't merely lucky not to have been caught or killed: he was the most skilful thief in the city, and could trick or fight his way out of most sticky situations. And, although not far off his twentieth year, Zindaq had never lost the pretty-boy looks that Pordish’s customers liked.

Most of the time. It was only now and then, lying awake hearing the steady breathing of sleepers all around him, that Zindaq dreamt of getting away from Pordish, getting away from Dhakri altogether. Perhaps he’d go to Hafdosu and make his fortune. There were plenty of stories about how a young man could make his fortune in Hafdosu, though Zindaq was a little hazy as to how it was done. Just as he really had no idea where Hafdosu was.

He stayed in the doorway for about as long as it might have taken him to count to two hundred, if he'd been sure what came after twenty, but nothing was stirring. Keeping to the darker side of the street, he made his way cautiously down to the docks. Waiting until none of the watchmen were in sight, he slipped onto the dark, deserted quayside.

He'd have recognised the ship at once, even if he hadn't known its berth from examining it in daylight. Living in a large port, Zindaq knew ships well enough, even though he'd never been to sea; and he knew how unusual this one was. Its vast hull was very much like one of the old-fashioned galleys that still occasionally sailed these waters, mostly hugging the coast. He'd even been able to make out where the oar-ports had been blocked off. Yet she was rigged in the latest style, and was clearly far more maneuverable than her size suggested.

But what had attracted Pordish's attention, along with everyone else (and Zindaq's too, he had to admit) was that she appeared to have no crew. Someone said that a man had disembarked, and someone else spoke about seeing him in the city: a tall northerner, fair-skinned and grey-eyed, who stood out in a city of mostly tawny skin. Northerners were rare enough in Dhakri.

But no-one could recall seeing him return, and the ship seemed otherwise deserted. Zindaq couldn't see how that could be: the vessel had, apparently, come smoothly into the harbour, putting into the quayside more expertly than most. Yet nobody had been seen setting the sails or steering.

Clearly, this was a special ship. Even discounting its peculiarities, the sheer size suggested there must be a considerable amount of cargo on board; and Pordish had consequently dispatched Zindaq to investigate, bring back with him what he could of value and report on the rest.

Zindaq looked longingly down the quay, picturing in his mind the shadowy forms of ships he saw. He sometimes came down here to gaze at the ships coming in and leaving, dreaming that he was on board one of them, sailing away to Hafdosu, or out into the Thousand Isles, or even to the lands fabled to lie beyond, though no-one knew who had been there to bring back word. It didn't matter where he was going, as long as he was leaving Dhakri.

But that was impossible: he'd no money for passage or for food. Now and then, the thought skirted the outer regions of his mind that, if he could steal for Pordish, he could steal for himself. But it never stayed long. He knew that he'd have starved after his mother was hanged, for some crime he was never sure about, until Pordish had taken him in; and he'd learnt, for more than half his life, to believe his benefactor's insistence that he'd starve again without him.

Most ships had armed guards on board, to deter people exactly like him; but nothing was stirring on the strange vessel. Making a quick run from his hiding-place behind a stack of empty barrels, Zindaq reached the deeper dark beneath its high side and stopped to plan. The ship rode close to the wharf, no more than his arm-length of open water lapping restlessly below him. He could make out no ladder offering access, and he fleetingly wondered how the solitary crew-member had disembarked, if there were no-one to draw the ladder up again; but the climb was little more than twice his height, and the boards were rough and weathered, giving some purchase for his hands and bare feet.

Once on board, keeping low to avoid being seen over the rail, he looked about the vast deck. There would be cabins, he assumed, below the foredeck and quarterdeck, and they might contain some personal possessions; but it was the cargo he'd come to examine. It would be in the hold; and this, he guessed, would be accessed down a companionway through a hole in the main-deck. He began to feel his way towards where it must be.

Zindaq reacted before he knew there was danger. Whirling away, he felt, rather than saw or heard, the hand grab where his shoulder had been and a knife-blade slash the air where his throat had been. Grabbing his little knife from the hidden pocket of his trousers, he backed away, on guard and straining to listen for movements.

There. Ducking to the right to avoid the thrust he felt coming, Zindaq tried to lunge at what he hoped would be his enemy's unprotected chest. His foot caught a coil of rope and the slight upset in his balance sent him sprawling, his forehead crashing down onto the wooden boards. Darkness swirled around him, doubling and trebling, until he felt himself rolled over and two heavy knees pushing down on his chest the weight of the body above them.

A light was struck. For a moment, it still seemed to be two lights; but they quickly merged, and a face appeared behind it. A heavy face, with a broken nose and a scar across the cheek: Heshlon, a thief that even Pordish feared.

His captor stared down at him a moment, then nodded. "It's you," he said. "Pord's pretty boy. Might have guessed he'd want a piece of this."

"He... he just wanted... me to... look around." Zindaq was finding it difficult to get the words out, partly from being winded by the fall, partly because Heshlon's weight was constricting his chest. "Plenty... to go round."

The man snorted. "What if I don't want to share?" he demanded. "Won't have to, if I slit you open."

"Then you... won't have anyone... to watch your back," Zindaq managed.

Heshlon laughed. "Why'd a little runt like you want to watch my back?" he demanded. "So you can stick you knife in it?"

"We're both... better off... with someone else." Zindaq was completely improvising: he'd no idea why Heshlon would be better off with him, but trusted that he'd think of something before he needed to explain. "Could... talk better... without..."

Grunting, Heshlon put his knife to the boy's throat and slipped his knees down to the deck. "One false move," he said, "and..." He made a noise in the back of his mouth that Zindaq understood as a throat being cut.

"Well," Zindaq began, trying to give himself a few moments more to think of something, "you see... what I was thinking was..." Inspiration struck. "I don't believe a ship like this would really have been left unguarded. There might be traps, or... or guards hidden somewhere. I could go first and check it out. I'm... good at that." He'd almost said I'm better than you, but he guessed that Heshlon would take that as a challenge. What he must do was to make the thief feel that he was taking advantage of his captive.

Heshlon stared at him for a moment in silence; but that didn't really worry Zindaq, knowing that it would take the man time to understand a concept like this. Then he laughed, a brief, barking laugh. "That's good," he said. "You get your head sliced off, I'll know it's a trap."

"What do I get out of it?" Zindaq demanded. He didn't really care: he had no intention of allowing Heshlon to leave with the loot. But he knew it would sound suspicious if he didn't ask this.

Heshlon snorted. "You get to live," he said. "If there's no traps." He got to his feet, lithe in spite of being a big man. "All right, get up. No, leave that," he added, as Zindaq groped for the knife he'd dropped. "I'm not taking risks."

Glancing around in the minimal light of Heshlon's tiny lamp, he could see where the companionway led down into the bowels of the ship. "That's probably the best place to investigate," he said, pointing.

"I know that," snapped Heshlon. "Get on with it."

Zindaq peered briefly down before he began descending, but the darkness was impenetrable: the darkness of a place where light never came, far deeper than the blackest night sky. Knowing that he'd have no warning if there really were a trap (and he'd begun to wonder uneasily whether his ruse had actually hit on the truth) he started down the steep steps.

As Zindaq's head disappeared below the deck, he felt a strange sensation, as though he were going in a direction different from the one he'd expected. But silence was all around him and there seemed no danger. When he'd gone a fair distance, he called up, "It seems all right, but I haven't reached the bottom yet." No reply came.

Zindaq continued down, gradually feeling more and more uneasy. He'd no way of knowing how far he'd gone, but it was a long way. Surely, by now, he'd gone far enough not only to have reached the sea-bed, but down below that, a long way below. But how could that be?

When he'd gone as far again and still hadn't reached the bottom, Zindaq knew that something was seriously wrong. He wondered whether he should turn around and go back up; but he was almost afraid to try, wondering whether he'd climb endlessly, never finding the top. It seemed absurd; but he had the growing feeling that there was nothing natural about this staircase. Was that the cause of his fear, or was it simply his fear that made him feel like this? He wasn't sure, and didn't really think it mattered.

It could have been morning outside, for all he could tell, when he suddenly felt a disturbance next to him. A hand grabbed him, tugging him off the steps. Zindaq screamed in utter terror, as he felt himself pulled, even more surely than before, in a direction that was nothing like any direction he knew. Then he blacked out.

It was light, when he woke up. Not full sunshine, but a dusty half-light, as if the day was being let in through a small window. And he was lying in a bed. Not the pile of rags on the floor, which was the only kind of bed he’d ever known; but a bed such as he’d sometimes seen in houses he’d burgled. A soft, luxurious mattress on a wooden frame, a light cover over him, its soft texture caressing his skin sensuously. He wondered vaguely whether he’d died and, for reasons he couldn’t begin to imagine, been granted the reward of the righteous.

Then he sat up abruptly, realising that he wasn’t alone. The bed was in a small room, with one tiny window letting in the light; and a man sat on a wooden chair, watching him.

“What were you doing on board my ship?” he asked.

Trying to focus his eyes so soon after waking, Zindaq examined him briefly. There was no doubt that this was the man who’d been seen leaving the vessel. Tall and lithe, he had the fair skin and straight features of the north. His dark hair was gathered at the back to hang down in a single mass, and his beard was neatly trimmed. His eyes were grey and deep, eyes that spoke of the sea and far-off distances, of more memories than Zindaq could imagine. Though looking no more than thirty or so, those eyes made him almost believe that this man was as old as the world.

“I was...” he began, then realised that he really had no answer except for the truth. And he had the uneasy feeling that the man already knew the truth.

Taking a deep breath, he said, “I was looking for something to steal, because I thought the ship was deserted. I’m sorry.”

The man shrugged. “You’re sorry because you’ve been caught,” he said simply. “Still, I suspect that’s more than I’d have got from that other man.” Zindaq looked at him sharply, and he laughed. “I don’t think you and he were friends,” he said softly. “Don’t worry: I’ve dealt with him.”

Zindaq started to wonder exactly what he’d done, how he knew so much, why he himself hadn’t been “dealt with” in the same way; but it became too complicated and he gave up.

“Well,” the stranger added, “the least an uninvited guest can do is to tell me his name.”

“I’m Zindaq,” he said. “Um... what should I call you?” He knew the question was an impertinent one for a captured thief to ask of his would-be victim, but nothing about this situation was normal.

The stranger looked surprised more than angry. “They usually know me already,” he said reflectively. “Then again, I’ve never been to Dhakri before. I’m called the Traveller.”

Zindaq looked at him curiously. It was a strange name to give, and one that seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place where he’d heard it.

“Sir,” he said uncertainly, “I really am sorry. I...” He stopped abruptly, realising that there was very little he could say that would make his crime seem better. “Please don’t hand me over,” he burst out suddenly. “They’ll hang me. I’m sorry...”

There were tears in his eyes as he looked up at the Traveller and realised with surprise that he was smiling slightly. “Well,” he said gently, “I never did approve of hanging thieves. What’s property, after all, compared with a life?” He studied Zindaq a moment. “It wasn’t your idea, though, was it?” he asked abruptly.

Zindaq blinked several times, clearing the tears away. “How do you know that?” he demanded. “Are you a sorcerer?”

The Traveller laughed. “Well, yes, I suppose I am. I’ve arts that people call sorcery. But I knew that because I’ve a lot of experience of people. Who was it who sent you?”

Zindaq knew that loyalty demanded his silence on this. But, returning the Traveller’s gaze, feeling those deep grey eyes on him, he couldn’t really see the point. “He’s called Pordish,” he said.

The other nodded slowly. "And what hold does he have on you?" he asked gently.

It was a few moments before Zindaq answered. He'd never thought of it before in those terms. He did what Pordish told him because... why wouldn't he? But the Traveller's eyes seemed to be drawing his soul, and he let it come out. He let it all come out: living in a dark, damp cellar, while Pordish lived in luxury on what he and the others stole; the knowledge that he'd eventually either bleed to death in a gutter or die on the end of a rope; the things he had to let men do to him to make money for Pordish; the knowledge that he couldn't even dream of surviving on his own. Things he had never even realised to be griefs or grudges, because that was how life was. But it all poured out now, drawn by the quietness of the man who sat in front of him.

By the end, he was crying so hard that he could barely get the words out, and the tears blurred and refracted the light; so he didn't know the Traveller had moved till he felt an extra weight on the bed and arms around him. Burying his head against the man's chest, Zindaq cried unreservedly for the first time since his mother died.

When he'd finally cried all he could, he raised his head and tried to look blurrily at the man holding him. He knew that something had changed inside him, and that he couldn't go back to that life. He'd rather die.

But there was more. He could still feel the Traveller holding him and didn't want him to let go. Mostly, when he had to satisfy Pordish's clients, he hated it, or at best managed to retreat to a place inside himself where it didn't matter. With one or two, who showed some sign of caring how he felt, there was a faint pleasure. But he knew that he'd give everything to this man, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

"Can I stay with you?" he asked, realizing as he spoke how pathetic he sounded.

But the Traveller, after gazing at him for a moment longer, gave a slight nod. "In that case," he said, "I think I'd better put out today. I imagine your friend's going to be looking for you. We'll sail with the tide.

A fresh wind blew Zindaq's hair around his face, obscuring and freeing his vision by turns, as he stood at the prow of the ship watching the harbour-bar approach. Having tried to brush it back more times than he could count while he'd been standing here, he'd given up and settled for a partial view; but that was enough to make his guts feel hollow.

But he'd wanted this, and he could complain to no-one but himself.

It was a couple of months now that he'd been on board Searcher. That was the name of the Traveller's ship, and she was completely unique. When the Traveller had announced their immediate departure, Zindaq had wondered how he was going to reassemble the crew so quickly; but he discovered that this ship, as it had seemed, had no crew. She was attuned to the Traveller's mind, so that each part of the rigging, anchor or rudder adjusted itself to his silent command. He'd tried to explain a few times how it worked, but Zindaq's mind refused to take in the complexities of cause and effect, matter and spirit, the interconnectedness of everything. It was magic: that was all he needed to know.

They'd been everywhere. At least, it seemed like that to Zindaq, although he knew from the Traveller's stories that there was a lot more everywhere than he'd ever dreamt. They'd sailed along the coast and out to some of the nearer islands, and they'd been to Hafdosu, the greatest city in the world. It hadn't been exactly how Zindaq had imagined; but then, nor had the circumstances in which he'd come there. But he hadn't been disappointed; and the Traveller had eventually started teasing him gently that he'd swallow all the flies in the city, if he kept his mouth that wide open.

But he'd found out, from the tales the Traveller told him while they sat on deck on a fine evening, or huddled below in bad weather, the ship tethered by both anchors, that the world was very wide. He heard about strange places: far out among the Thousand Isles, the western shore of the continent, the lands in the north where the Traveller had been born. And once his friend had mentioned having visited unknown lands in the far east; but he didn't seem to want to talk about that.

Zindaq was amazed at how well-known his companion was. He'd lived a long time, apparently, far longer than his appearance suggested; and, as he'd suggested at their first meeting, most people had heard of him. Even in Hafdosu, they were welcomed as guests by one of the Archons and stayed in splendour in his palace. He was attended by slaves, and was tempted to behave haughtily with them; but he saw that the Traveller treated even the lowliest slave with courtesy, and copied him.

He'd sooner have died than disappoint the Traveller. Zindaq had never been in love before, barely even imagined it; but he knew that was what he felt now. He wasn't sure exactly what the Traveller felt for him. In many of his stories, he'd mentioned being in love with women; but once he'd spoken of a man the same way, and when Zindaq had shown interest, he'd smiled. "It's the person I love," he'd said softly, "not the body they have."

Zindaq was convinced that the Traveller loved him. He'd caught him looking a few times, a quiet, wistful look in his eyes; and he longed to be held and kissed, to give himself totally to this wonderful man. But he'd no idea how to make it happen, and the Traveller made no move.

Glancing back now, Zindaq saw him standing almost motionless on the quarterdeck, and thought with pride of all the countless little adjustments his mind was making to the ship as they approached the harbour of Dhakri. Turning back, he could now see the familiar docks as he'd never seen them before, riding with the wind and tide into the harbour.

He felt scared stiff; but it had been his decision to return. The Traveller had tried to talk him out of it; but Zindaq had wrestled a long time with the idea, and he was determined. "I want to go back," he'd said. "I... I never really knew how badly I was treated. You've taught me that, by showing me how people should treat each other. I'm going back, and I'm going to kill Pordish. He's not doing that to anyone else."

He'd spoken bravely; but he wasn't sure in truth whether he could do it. He'd had to kill before, as he'd have killed Heshlon if he could, the night he'd boarded Searcher; but still, in spite of everything, the feeling haunted him that Pordish was invulnerable, that he'd be powerless against the man who'd controlled him for so much of his life.

Neither of them spoke much as they came in to the quayside and tied up. The mooring-ropes, as part of the ship, would have responded to the Traveller's mind; but he preferred to do it by hand, especially in full sight of curious eyes. There were many of those watching the ship that sailed without a crew, some of them maybe remembering that it had been seen here a few months ago. Zindaq wondered suddenly whether, once again, word would go quickly around the city's underworld that this vessel was ripe for picking. Who would Pordish send this time?

It wasn't until they were secure that the Traveller said, "Can you come below for a moment?"

Zindaq hesitated, then nodded. It seemed a strange request, and it crossed his mind to wonder whether his friend was going to try and prevent him from carrying out his aim. But, if that were his intention, he could simply have refused to return at all.

The Traveller took him to his own cabin, not the one he'd woken in, which was now his, and opened a chest. Rifling in it a moment, he held up a sword in a scabbard; and Zindaq's eyes widened. The leather of the scabbard was banded with gold and studded with jewels, and a large ruby was set into the hilt.

"This was a gift," he said, "from the Emperor of Kal'sha, long ago. I'd like you to have it."

Zindaq took the weapon, dazed. The Traveller had been training him to use a plain sword, slightly tarnished but still effective, and he'd felt grand enough with that. But this was the finest object he'd ever seen, at least outside the Archon's palace in Hafdosu, and he couldn't even find a voice to thank his friend. When he drew the sword, he was almost dazzled by the gleaming blade, its edge perfect.

"If you're determined to follow this course," said the Traveller, "you can at least do it with a good weapon."

Still unable to find words, Zindaq sheathed the sword and, reaching upwards, kissed the Traveller. For a moment, there was no response; then the taller man put his arms around Zindaq, bent his head and returned the kiss, full and deep.

When they finally parted for a moment, Zindaq murmured, "I love you."

There was a pause, then the Traveller said, "I love you, too. I have since you came aboard. But..." He bit the word off abruptly.

"But what?"

The Traveller shook his head. "Never mind. Lets see what happens today, first." And he kissed him again.

Zindaq paused outside the door, taking a deep breath before venturing inside. Part of this was simply to gather together the courage for an act that might well lead to his death. He didn't want to lose this wonderful new life he'd fallen into; and he wanted to explore the love that had finally been acknowledged between himself and the Traveller. But he'd thought a lot about what he was doing, on many nights lying awake in his cabin, and he had no intention of backing out.

But there was also an unexpected feeling of strangeness to contend with. His life had taken so many new directions in the last two months, that to stand in this place, which had been so familiar to him for so long, was almost more alien than the Archon's palace had been.

He was aware of the Traveller just behind him and was glad of it. At first, he'd wanted to come here alone: it was something he had to do, not to leave to his friend. But the man had seemed to understand that, and had asked to come along to support him, not to take the task out of his hands. Zindaq found that he was unable to refuse, and felt more relieved than he'd thought possible.

"Well," he said, partly to the Traveller and partly to himself, "here we go." And he opened the door.

The familiar stone steps led downwards, slick with the damp that seeped from the harbour, into the dark cellar, a couple of smoky oil-lamps doing little to illuminate the interior. Coming from the bright sunlight, Zindaq was almost blind and cursed himself for not thinking that anyone already inside would have an advantage over him.

"It's Zind," said a voice from below. "Where you been, Zind?"

He recognised the voice, but couldn't place who it was: it seemed years since these had been the people he'd lived and worked with. Looking around wildly, he was trying to make out whether Pordish was there or any of his men, when a horribly familiar voice said, "Zindaq, welcome back. I feared you were lost."

Zindaq paused a moment before he replied or advanced further, getting his bearings on the shapes gradually emerging from the darkness. Yes, there was the unmistakable figure of Pordish, his lean, deceptively ascetic-looking shape looming forward out of the mass of huddled underlings.

"No," he said, "believe me, Pordish, I'm not lost."

"Lets have some more light," said Pordish, sounding as often pleasant and jovial. "Our brother's home. We should be able to see each other."

Almost instantly, lights blossomed all around the cellar as more lamps were lit; and, looking around in what seemed a sudden glare, Zindaq's heart sank. Pordish was standing there, as well as a dozen or so of his boys and girls, most of them several years younger than Zindaq; but so too were three armed men, eyeing suspiciously the newcomer and the sword at his side.

"Well," said Pordish after a moment, "you've done well for yourself. Always thought you would. And now you've come home."

"That's right," said Zindaq. He'd begun to learn about irony, in his time with the Traveller, though he still wasn't very good at it. "I've come to show you just how grateful I am for the way you treated me." To emphasise the point, nice and subtly, he thought, he put his hand on the sword-hilt.

Pordish glanced down at the gesture, then up again at his face, and licked his lips. Knowing the man so well, Zindaq realised that he was nervous, but not really scared.

"I don't expect gratitude," he said, and Zindaq realized that he was handling the irony much better. He'd have to practice, a stray part of his mind told him. "Taking care of my boys and girls has its own rewards in plenty. You know all about that." He glanced about. "And you think you can... show your gratitude adequately on your own, do you?"

Zindaq almost looked around, but resisted. He knew that the Traveller was with him, realizing dimly that he'd always know when he was near. But he was clearly keeping out of sight.

"I think I might try," he said, advancing slowly down the stairs, trying to keep his eyes on all four men at once. He was aware that Pordish had made no move towards his own sword, but that his three henchmen were moving up in front of him. Two had hands hovering over their hilts, the other had the blade halfway out. Zindaq couldn't remember his name, though he remembered the man often taunting and abusing him.

He was feeling panic rising from his guts to his chest. Though he'd known that he might not survive, he'd imagined being cut down in a struggle with Pordish. He hadn't considered until now that there might simply not be a chance to fight his old master at all.

He was at the foot of the stairs and the three stood in front of him, all swords drawn now, almost within thrusting distance. He drew his own weapon. He was aware of a gasp going around the room, of one of the men facing him taking a single step backwards, of Pordish eyeing the sword with a familiar expression in his eyes. He took guard, ready for the onset, and...

A hot white flare scoured the cellar for an instant. The weapons flew out of the men's hands and they themselves flew backwards against the walls. From the way they struggled, it was clear that they were held there, as if by invisible bonds.

Staring round in amazement, Zindaq saw the Traveller standing on the top step. He shrugged apologetically. "You never told me I couldn't ensure a fair fight," he said. He glanced at Pordish, who was standing open-mouthed. "You'd better draw your sword," he said. "I'm leaving you to Zindaq."

Pordish was looking scared now as well as nervous; but he was holding himself together better than Zindaq would have expected, after such a reversal. He drew his blade: a finer weapon than his men had, but it looked dull and cheap besides the sword that faced him. He began to circle around a little, making slight feints, withdrawing before the swords engaged.

Zindaq knew enough about fighting by now to understand that Pordish was testing him out, trying to gauge how good he was, what his characteristic movements were. He knew; but he'd no idea what to do about it. He shouldn't be allowing his enemy to set the terms of the fight, but he couldn't find any way in past his defense.

Watching Pordish's eyes as he'd been taught, Zindaq saw the attack an instant before it came. Flinging his sword up in defense (clumsily, all finesse suddenly vanishing in panic) he was lucky to catch the blow on the blade. It jarred all the way through his body, and he heard the grating squeal of metal on metal.

Pordish disengaged, staring in disbelief at his weapon, which now had a jagged nick out of the blade. Zindaq was staring too, seeing his own looking as pristine as ever. He resisted the temptation to turn around to where the Traveller stood behind him; but he began to understand just what gift his friend had given him. He'd assumed that the weapon was valuable because of its fine adornments; but he realised now that it had been decorated so richly because it was so valuable. He wondered exactly what metal had gone into making it.

But Pordish recovered from the shock quicker than he did and made a lunge. Zindaq parried in panic, trying to bat the blade away, and caught it a glancing blow that jarred him less than the first parry had. His blade bounced off the other, and the momentum carried it forward with him, straight into Pordish's chest.

He stood, staring in disbelief, as the man he'd always considered all-powerful clutched blankly at the wound, as if trying vaguely to staunch the blood that pumped from it. As his knees gave way, very, very slowly, he collapsed, dragging Zindaq's arm down with him. He lay writhing and convulsing on the floor for a moment, in the middle of a quickly-spreading pool of blood, before he went still, his open eyes staring in shock.

As if he were watching someone else act, Zindaq pulled the sword out of Pordish's body. It came slowly, reluctantly, tearing through flesh and muscle, and it was stained with dripping blood. He turned to his former companions, who stood rigid with disbelieving shock, and held up the weapon. "He's dead," he said. "You're free."

No-one moved. No-one spoke. He looked around them, waiting for it to sink in; but they just stared back in bewilderment.

"Don't you understand?" he demanded. "You're free. You can leave here. You don't have to work for him any more."

"What shall we do?" asked a girl: Tetiko, her name was. "Where shall we go?"

"You can do whatever you want," Zindaq insisted. "You're free."

They looked at one another. "Will you stay and tell us what to do?" someone asked.

Zindaq was totally bewildered now: they didn't seem to understand freedom. Surely he'd never been like that?

He tried again. "You don't need anyone to tell you what to do," he said. "You can decide for yourself."

There was silence for a moment. "Maybe Jhardrin would take us in," suggested Tetiko dubiously. "He might not be so bad."

Zindaq couldn't believe his ears. Jhardrin was one of Pordish's main rivals, and his treatment of his charges was notorious. Pordish had always threatened to send them to Jhardrin, if they didn't do as they were told.

"You can't go to Jhardrin," he protested. "He'll treat you worse than Pordish. Why don't you want to be free?"

Tetiko looked at him blankly. "We'll starve," she said simply. "Who'll give us food?"

"Zindaq," said the Traveller softly, suddenly beside him, "it's time to go."

"No," he said, turning to his friend. "We've got to make them see that they're free. Can't you do something?"

"I do magic," he said dryly, "not miracles. And I can't hold them forever, either." He nodded at the three men, struggling to get free from the invisible force holding them to the walls. He put his hand on Zindaq's shoulder, turning him part-way round. "Through here," he said, leading him to a door and opening it.

It was as he stepped through that Zindaq remembered there had never been a door in that wall. He was about to protest, when he felt himself being pulled in an unexpected direction. A direction he'd felt once before.

He lost consciousness.

He was aware that something was different before he fully woke up. He was lying in a familiar bed in a familiar cabin, and the ship was moving gently over the swell; yet it was unfamiliar too, as if he'd only imagined that he'd done this before.

Opening his eyes, he found that it was dark. It had been morning when he'd gone to Pordish's place. Surely he couldn't have slept that long.

Getting out of bed, he felt dizzy and his legs almost collapsed under him; but he steadied himself, and it passed. He was dressed; but, even in the dark, he could tell that this was wrong. He wore the thin, torn trousers he'd had on the night he slipped on board Searcher to find things to steal. Why would the Traveller have dressed him in those again? And, come to think of it, he could smell a now unfamiliar stink coming off his body.

Emerging from the cabin, Zindaq saw that it was still night, but a dirty grey ahead showed dawn coming. As he stood watching, the sun began to surge up over the horizon. He remembered the Traveller telling him that, far to the north and south, sunrise and sunset were slow, drawn-out affairs. He'd been unsure at the time whether to believe him.

It was almost full light, by the time he climbed up to the quarterdeck and, as he expected, found the Traveller standing gazing out to sea.

"Ah, you're awake," he said. He seemed a little different, too: more reserved, a little dubious. "How much do you remember?"

"Well..." Zindaq realised he couldn't really answer this. "I don't know how much there is that I can't remember. Last thing, we were in Pordish's cellar. Then... I don't know." He glanced behind, to see that the land was barely visible now. "Was anyone after us?"

The Traveller shook his head; but he still seemed awkward. "Not as far as I know; but I thought... Zindaq, whatever you remember, it was tonight you broke into Searcher. A few hours ago."

Zindaq stared, trying to work out which of them it was that had gone mad. "Are... are you saying I... what, that I dreamt it?" he asked at last; but, before the Traveller could reply, a thought struck him. "Then how do you know my name?" he challenged.

"No." The Traveller seemed to be having difficulties putting this into words. "No, it wasn't a dream, and I remember it all too. But it... happened somewhere else. Outside time."

Zindaq tried to get his reeling head under control. He could barely understand what the Traveller was saying, let alone believe it. "But it was here," he objected. "I remember."

The Traveller shook his head again. "You remember," he said softly, "going down the steps, that seemed to go on forever?" Zindaq nodded warily. "That was a trap I set, when I left the ship. You see... there are different directions in the world. You can go forward or back, left or right, up or down. But there are a lot of other directions you can go in too, which mostly we don't see at all. I made the steps go in one of them, so that anyone who started down would keep going forever, until I rescued them. Do you understand?"

"No," said Zindaq. "But never mind."

"I came back, when I sensed someone in the trap, and I found you and the other one. I left him where he was, for the time being; but you... something about you interested me." He laughed suddenly. "Well, that you're so gorgeous, for a start. But besides that... I wanted to find out more about you. So I pulled you out in another direction still, into... well, a possibility, I suppose. For the last two months, we've been living the possibility of you coming with me."

Zindaq's head was buzzing. "But... why?" he asked.

The Traveller hesitated; and Zindaq got the impression that he wasn't entirely sure of the answer himself. "I... needed to know more about you," he said. "What you'd do. I was a slave, once." He went inward, for a moment. "You can only really react in two ways: be selfish, or take responsibility. I wanted to see which you'd be, before..." He stopped again and took a deep breath. "Before I let myself fall in love with you."

"And..." Zindaq began, then stopped abruptly. Which had he been? Would the Traveller see going back to kill Pordish as heroic, or as selfishly drawing himself into danger?

"And I'm proud of you," said the Traveller softly. "I know how much courage it must have taken to face that man."

Zindaq felt himself swelling with pride for an instant, before another thought crashed into him. "But I didn't," he said. "He's still alive."

The Traveller shook his head. "You faced him and beat him," he said, "whether you did it in this world or any other."

"But... but that's not what I meant. He's still alive, to... to treat all the others the way he treated me. I've got to go back."

He felt arms around him and tried briefly to struggle; but struggling against being held by the Traveller was too absurd. "Zindaq," he said, "you saw what happened. You could kill Pordish and a hundred more like him, and you wouldn't be freeing them."

"But I can't..."

"Be patient. We'll come back, eventually. But you have to think and plan first, you need to know exactly what you're going to do and make sure you've the skill to do it. You don't get that in two months."

"You could have told me," said Zindaq; but he was enjoying the Traveller's arms around him, the closeness of his body, too much to put his heart into arguing.

"You wouldn't have believed me," said the Traveller, and kissed him.

After a while, though, Zindaq suddenly pulled away. "Heshlon," he said. "The other man. He's still down there."

The Traveller giggled, and for an instant seemed no older than his lover. "No he's not. Before we left, I dumped him in the harbour. It's all right, he could swim. But it was fun to watch his face."

They both laughed for a while, then kissed for a while; then the Traveller dropped anchor, and they went below for a while. Lying happy and satisfied, snuggled up to the man he'd met tonight, yet knew so well, Zindaq asked sleepily, "Where are we going?"

"Wherever you like," said the Traveller. "To Hafdosu again, if you like. We really could stay with the Archon. Or anywhere. Choose a direction, and we'll go on for ever."

"That sounds good," said Zindaq. "Any direction. Together."