Marid prowled along the packed earth street. The moon was brighter than he liked, casting black shadows under its watchful eye. He sneered at it, huddling back into the corner against the wall.

  Across the way was the drinking house. It was a slapdash mud brick structure that was open to the street. Cheap castor oil lamps filled the street with their bitter smoke, giving minimal light. The men inside were traveling merchants, but not successful ones; if they had been, they'd be a few streets over in one of the nicer drinking houses.

  The limited light was fine, here: for all that this was supposed to be a social place, these men mostly drank quietly and stared into the darkness, contemplating their lives and fortunes.

  Marid was in a good spot to do some fishing.

  One of the men pushed back from his table and stood. It was unseemly to be publicly drunk, but Marid's practiced eye caught the man's overly-careful stance, his slight unsteadiness.

  "May Fortune bring me a better tomorrow," the man said by way of departure. Then he walked out into the street.

  The merchant didn't stumble, but his steps were uneven. For all his careful effort to appear otherwise, he was clearly on the wrong side of the night's wine.

  Marid grinned and silently slipped from the shadows to follow his fish.

  An unsteady wind pushed shredded clouds across the sky. The street dimmed as the moon hid her face.

  Marid drew closer to the doubly unfortunate merchant. The merchant began to sing, an old traveling song, mournful and slow, slurring slightly. Marid's eyes roved over the man. He was too canny to have tied a coin pouch to his belt; it was probably tucked into his robes.

  Not that it mattered. Marid's eyes picked out a dark alley ahead.

  The merchant tried to sway a little in time with his singing, but he stumbled a few steps. He realized he was too unstable for that, so he simply continued his careful walk.

  Marid drew closer to the merchant. He grinned, his black teeth spreading out his bristly, patchy mustache. They were nearly there.

  As the merchant passed in front of the mouth of the alley, Marid struck. He slammed into the man, pushing him into the darkness. The merchant squawked and fell into the dust of the street. Before he even hit the ground, Marid's hands were in his robes, feeling for the coarse fabric of his coin pouch. His fingers closed around the little bag hanging from the merchant's neck.

  The merchant cried out, but Marid silenced him with a blow from a thick fist. He yanked at the pouch, but it was tied with a good, strong leather thong. All he managed was to jerk the merchant's head around.

  The beset merchant flailed at Marid, trying to push him away, to pry his fingers loose of his pouch, but Marid drew his thick fist back and smashed the merchant's face. He began a gobbling cry, but was quickly muted by Marid's repeated blows.

  Once the merchant was limp, Marid was able to pull the coin pouch off over his head. He weighed it in his hand, his mouth twisted in distaste. There were only a few coins, and they were large, probably brass. With a "tch" of disappointment, Marid tucked the pouch away in his own robes and slunk out of the alley.

  The fitful wind blew the clouds away from the moon. Marid pulled up short.

  In the cold light filling the street stood a tall figure. It was dressed in dark green, almost black, with bare arms and feet. Moonlight gleamed off the lean, hard muscles of the figure's arms.

  Marid's stomach tightened with fear, threatening to empty itself from one end or the other.

  "Bayze Shab," he whispered hoarsely. The Raptor of the Night.

  The figure didn't move, merely stood there silently with its arms crossed. Its eyes were shadowed by the thick folds of the cloth wrapped around its head.

  Marid bowed convulsively, sweating. He drew the purloined coin pouch from his robes, showed it to the silent figure, then tossed it onto the body of the merchant.

  "See? I give it back," he said, holding up his empty hands. "I give it back. No harm?" He backed away, still bowing, holding his hands up.

  The dark figure unfolded its arms, its hands already curled into hard fists.

  Marid's nerve broke and he turned to run. With terrifying speed, Bayze Shab flew at him, the dark shadow converging on his flight. Marid tripped over his feet and fell to the ground with a weak cry.

  "Mercy!" he warbled. He held his hands up, his body tensed for impact.

  The street was silent and empty.

  Marid spun in the dust of the street, panting, his eyes wide with terror, looking for the dark figure, but it was nowhere to be seen. Cold moonlight shone down, filling the street with light and the alleys with stark shadows.

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  Not willing to let his stroke of good luck go to waste, he scrambled to his feet and bolted.

  Marid blasted back into their room. His four compatriots looked up in surprise as he burst in and slammed the door shut behind himself. He leaned against the door, panting.

  The other four men of his gang were scattered around the room. Two were seated behind the table, and two lounged on their sleeping mats on either side of the door.

  "Marid," said one of his companions. "How was fishing tonight?"

  "I saw Bayze Shab," he said in between gasps.

  The faces of his companions displayed a range of responses.

  "You saw Bayze Shab?" one laughed. "And you came out in one piece?"

  "The fool probably saw his own shadow," said another.

  "I still say Bayze Shab doesn't exist," said a third, leaning back in his chair. He waved a hand dismissively. "It's just a story spread to scare us. Think on it. A man goes around at night attacking fishers? It's nonsense."

  "I tell you, I saw him!" Marid said, stepping into the room. His eyes were still white-rimmed. "He was seven feet tall and faster than the tip of a driver's whip! He found me after I'd fished a merchant!"

  "Then how did you escape?"

  "I... I don't know. He vanished into the night!"

  The one behind the table scoffed. "You did run from your own shadow. Fool."

  The door creaked open slowly. Cold moonlight poured in, surrounding a tall, dark figure.

  The men scrambled to their feet. Bayze Shab stepped in silently and closed the door.

  Everyone in the room was locked in silence, staring at each other.

  Bayze Shab raised their fists.

  The room erupted. Marid fell back with a panicked squeak. The men to either side of the door closed on the dark figure.

  Bayze Shab leapt forward and kicked the table, flinging it up into the faces of the two men behind it. Before it finished its flight, Bayze Shab drove an elbow into the face of the man to the left of the door.

  Marid clambered upright and pulled out a dagger. It was short and poorly maintained, but it was long enough to put a hole in a man.

  The man to the right grabbed Bayze Shab's arm. They twisted their arm out of his grip and snatched him up by his robe, his toes barely touching the ground.

  Marid charged with the knife held out in front of him. Bayze Shab spun, and the knife sank into soft flesh. An anguished cry filled the room.

  Marid looked on in horror. Bayze Shab had shielded with themselves with the man they held, and Marid had plunged the knife into his companion's back. Blood poured out, soaking the man's robe and splashing to the floor. He watched in dismay as his fellow fisher sank to the floor, gasping out the last of his life.

  Marid looked up from his stricken companion just in time to see the sole of Bayze Shab's foot coming right at his face.

  The kick burst his nose and sent him flying across the room. He hit the far wall with a shattering impact.

  The two men from behind the table had worked their way out of the broken furniture, and the man near the door who'd caught Bayze Shab's elbow was finding his way to his feet.

  Bayze Shab turned away from the approaching men and drove an oak-hard knee into the stomach of the man near the door. He doubled over, retching. Bayze Shab dropped to one knee and balanced on the tips of their fingers. They drove a mule kick up and back, directly into the solar plexus of one of the men approaching. His face crumpled in agony as he opened his mouth, his crushed diaphragm unable to even draw enough breath to cry out in pain.

  The final man flung himself with a desperate cry at the dark figure. Bayze Shab rolled adroitly away, leaving him to land on the dirt. They rolled to their feet and casually wrenched a leg from the broken table.

  Bayze Shab advanced on the man, the table leg hanging loosely from one hand. He scooted back, holding up his hands.

  "M-mercy!" he cried, his voice trembling. "Mercy! I will change my ways!"

  Rumor said that the Raptor of the Night was pitiless, relentless, and brutal.

  Bayze Shab closed on him to teach him the truth of those rumors.

  Fortney woke slowly the next morning. She tossed in bed for a bit, then opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling. She laid one arm across her forehead.

  She sighed. It was always so conflicting. There was satisfaction in making the city of Baradon safer, in scrubbing some of the filth out of its narrow alleyways. But was it her place to mete out justice? Was it proper for her to abuse those who abused others?

  She raised her left hand, flexing it. She formed it into a fist, looking at the hardness, the scars.

  All strength came with a purpose. As princess, her power and purpose was to rule Namar?n with justice and gentleness, to grow and protect her country and her people. As a warrior, her purpose was to defend the powerless, and to stop those who would use their strength selfishly.

  Thus did she try to use her power. But now she would be tired and sore all day.

  She sighed again. It was too early in the morning for philosophy.

  She swung her feet out of bed, wincing at the prick of a dozen strains and bruises. She stared at the floor for a moment. Today was training day with Kadir, so it would be an extra long day.

  A deferential knock sounded at her door. Fortney sat bolt upright. She saw the square of hunter green cloth she'd been wearing the previous night and stuffed it under her pillow.

  "Come," she said.

  Kadir came in and bowed.

  "Good morning, Shazedah," he said. "The sun has fully wakened, and your father has sent me to--" He paused, his brow drawing down.

  "What? What's wrong?" she asked.

  Kadir stepped forward, nimble in spite of his bulk. His gray beard bristled as he drew in a deep breath through his nostrils.

  "You have been out in the city," he said flatly.

  Fortney stiffened her spine and looked at him imperiously.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You reek of castor-oil lamps, which we do not use here in the palace," he said, looking her up and down, "and your feet are covered with street dust. You had neither of those things last night." He frowned fiercely at her. "You have been out abusing thieves and miscreants again."

  Fortney's eyes fell, but only a little.

  "It is good for someone to teach them the error of their ways," she said.

  "It is not good for you to risk the Daughter of the Sun in such a way. If you were to be injured, or, heaven forfend, killed--"

  "I am strong," she said firmly. "And I grow stronger every day. The pit-scrapings of Baradon are no threat to me."

  Kadir stared levelly at her.

  "And do you honor your father with this activity?"

  Fortney shrank in on herself.

  "I... he would be happy to have Baradon safer, I know..."

  "At the risk of his own daughter?"

  Fortney rubbed one arm, staring at the floor.

  "Come. It is time to break fast. Then training."

  Fortney meekly followed Kadir out into the hall.