she stood quietly between two of the black-robed figures, watching
as others counted out gold coins into Mytor's grasping palm. Her eyes
betrayed neither hope nor fear, and she did not shrink from the
burning, fanatical stares of the priests, nor from their long knives.
The pirate's consort was not the girl who had screamed in the dimness
of the Temple when the Sacred Lots were cast.

A priest touched Ransome's shoulder and he started in spite of
himself. He tried to steady himself against the sudden chill that
seized him.

And then Dura-ki, who had called him once to blasphemy, now called him
to something else.

"Stand up, Ra-sed. It is the end. The game is played out and we lose
at last. It will not be worse than the pit of the Dark One."

Ransome got to his feet and looked at her. He no longer loved this
woman but her quiet courage stirred him.

With an incredibly swift lunge he was on the priest who stood nearest
Dura-ki. The man reeled backward and struck his skull against the
wall. It was a satisfying sound, and Ransome smiled tightly, a
half-forgotten oath of Darion on his lips.

He grabbed the man by the throat, spun him around, and sent him
crashing into another.

A knife slashed at him, and he broke the arm that held it, then sprang
for the door while the world exploded in blaster fire.

Dura-ki moved toward him. He wrenched at the door, felt the cold night
air rash in. A hand clawed at the girl's shoulder, but Ransome freed
her with a hard, well-aimed blow.

When she was outside, Ransome fought to give her time to get back to
the _Hawk of Darion_. Also, he fought for the sheer joy of it. The air
in his lungs was fresh again, and the taste of treachery was out of
his mouth.

It took all of Mytor's guards and the priests to overpower him, but
they were too late to save Mytor from the knife that left him gasping
out his life on the floor.

Ransome did not struggle in the grip of the guards. He stood quietly,
waiting.

"Your death will not be made prettier by what you have done," a priest
told him. The knife was poised.

"That depends on how you look at it," Ransome answered.

"Does it?"

"Absolutely," a hard, dry voice answered from the doorway.

Ransome turned his head and had a glimpse of Irene. With her, a
blaster level in his hand, and his crew at his back, was Captain
Jareth. It was he who had answered the priest's last question.

Mytor had said that Jareth's crew had an impressive r