After an infinity of time she reached the niche the carved gryphon called home and slid her lean form within its shelter. Gratefully she pressed her soles against security, and tried to ease the cramps out of the balls of her feet. Then she took the first deep breath she'd dared in twenty minutes. She darted a glance at the silent, dark street below her, then one across to the opposite building, bathed in the cold light of the moon. No glow from lanterns softened the moon's reflection on the diamond-paned windows. Good. Carefully she eased the coiled rope off her shoulder and grasped the three-pronged hook at its end.

With a fluid motion, she tossed the grappling hook through the air toward the roof of the opposite building. Her ears picked up a faint chink as it settled into position. Taking a deep breath, she launched herself, swinging lithely across the narrow street. The building rushed at her. Her feet scrabbled vainly to gain purchase on its smooth side. They failed and she swung to the side. Her shoulder thudded painfully against the wall and she bounced sickeningly. Scrabbling again, she managed to brace the soles of her feet against the stone and steady herself. She breathed again.

Oh so delicately, Kit leaned back against the rope. Her muscles were cramping again; she tried to relax them. Kit gazed into the quiet street below her, checking to see if she had been spotted. She took another deep breath. Time was going on ... and she was as obvious as a fly at a feast hanging here in the moonlight.

Regretfully, she eased herself into action, hitching herself up the remaining four feet to the window, glad she hadn't had to do the whole climb up the slippery side of this building. She wedged a thin metal bar between the casements and pushed against the latch. It snicked open. Softly she eased the windows open and slid through. She was in.

Swiftly she swung the window shut and pulled the heavy drapes. Then she muttered an imprecation ... she couldn't see a blasted thing once the moon was shut out. Easing the drapes back open, she fumbled open her belt pouch and struck her flint, lighting the candlebox she had carried within. Then, once more, she shut out the moonlight and any curious eyes. Kit eased the curved reflective back of the candlebox against the palm of her hand, running her fingers through the grips, then closed its faceted glass front while glancing around the room. The library. She grinned. As good a place as any to start. She wiggled her shoulders, savoring the mixture of excitement and nervousness that flooded through her. It was like the high she'd always felt before a tournament. Her lips tightened and she snapped back to what she was doing. She got to work, pulling out books, looking under and behind furniture. Now where would Baldour keep his jewels?

She moved on to the bedroom, snorting at the elaborate spread on the huge bed. She bent down. There was something under the bed. Eagerly she put down her candlebox and stretched to pull it out. A sword! Why the devil was Baldour risking imprisonment by keeping a weapon within the confines of the city? Probably for the jewels, she thought ironically, looking down at its hilt: the only booty she had found so far ... and it unusable.

The sound of voices and laughter broke over her awareness. Baldour had come home! The bedroom door flew open; a laughing couple, suddenly sober, were framed in its embrace. Kit stood there, foolishly, exposed. Her heart and mind raced; her feet stood still, not knowing which way to run. She had to do something. An elusive thought whispered: there was something she could do--but it was gone just as quickly. She grasped the sword more firmly, wondering if she could learn how to use it in the next ten seconds. At least it was some action. Her mind blurred with the need to do something more. Then she found herself falling. Confused, she wondered how she could be falling. She was in the apartment, not still outside perched on that rope and nothingness. Before she could even complete the thought she landed on purple-veined grass, still clutching the sword.

"OOF!"

"Sweet Danu, it worked!" a voice behind her exclaimed with both astonishment and thankfulness.

"Huh?" Kit turned her head and found herself facing a woman who looked tired to death. Her cropped gray hair was disheveled; her right arm and shoulder were bound in a makeshift sling. Kit stared.

"I'm sorry, Godsend. There's no time to give you welcome and thanks. My name is Ragee. Please, come quickly; Longire's scouts will have seen the smoke from my petition fire." The older woman lurched painfully to her feet and slung a large provision sack onto her right shoulder.

"Please. Carry Prince Luewel. Guard him!" Kit, confusion still spinning her mind, bent over the carry sack the other had indicated. It was a baby: three, maybe four months old. Ragee picked up the sword which had been lying beside her and gripped it in her good hand. Free. Ready for use. She peered toward the left horizon with a frown, then hurried off through the knee-high purple grass. Kit followed, not feeling on top of the situation, but not knowing what else to do. She had no idea where she was, what had happened to Baldour ... or anything else. But judging from that anxious look the other had cast at the horizon, it might be healthy to follow swiftly, without questions.