Bastion

have peered in, but not gone inside, I think. They will have to feel their way, or show a light, and they will not show a light. They will rely on the light coming from the entrance.”
    All Mags needed was to be able to see the bit of movement along the cave wall that would tell him where the Sleepgiver was. And if he had been relying on his own experience, he would have been certain that the man wasn’t moving at all—or had somehow gotten out of his line of sight. But he wasn’t relying on his own experience. He had Bey’s experience in his head. So he was able to track the torturously slow progress toward the ambush point.
    When he was certain the man wasn’t going to step any farther toward the middle of the cave, he backed up a pace or two, and out into the open, away from the wall, but still in the shadow where no light from the entrance would fall on him—moving just as slowly as his quarry was. Then he waited, because there would be a brief, very brief, moment of opportunity when his quarry encountered the turning. At that point, he would be away from the receding wall, he would be creeping his hand along the turn to find it, and he would be thinking about that and nothing else.
    So Bey said. “And if he keeps himself tight to the wall, you will just have to find an opportunity to strike without an advantage, my cousin.” Not much comfort, but there were several options in Bey’s memories, and he had Dallen, who was sifting through those memories and getting ready to give him the best one if that happened.
    Bey sure seems nice for a killer . . .
    :Actually, Chosen,: Dallen said, matter-of-factly, :most of those memories seem to be of training. I don’t think he’s killed more than a dozen people himself.:
    :Well, that’s comforting,: Mags said with heavy irony.
    :Oh, he’s still a hardened killer,: Dallen replied. :And all that training and practice was pretty harrowing. I’ll show you sometime. When we have time.:
    A hand appeared at the edge of the turning. Mags stilled his breathing. The hand inched its way around the turning, and the man stepped away from the wall, uncertain now. He had no memory of this, he could have no memory of this, and he couldn’t know what the footing was like around this turn. There might be outcroppings he could trip on. There might be gravel. There might be a drop-off. He had to walk where he could at least dimly see, until he was certain that the cave floor didn’t descend abruptly. His training was telling him to continue inching along the wall, but his instincts screamed at him not to go into the full dark. “I would heed my training. He will heed his instincts. That is why he will fail.”
    He heeded his instincts. After all, no one had shot at him and the other two Sleepgivers when they first appeared in the entrance. There was no sound except that irritating, distant dripping of water. There was no light coming from inside the cave. There was no sight, sound, smell or feeling to tell him that there was anyone or anything in this part of the cave. He would be trying to think like his quarry, and given that one of their number had been killed, his quarry would do what frightened things always did—try to find a place to hide.
    The man slid one foot after the other, warily, silently, inching deeper into the cave, heading for the one goal he knew—the back of this part of the entrance, where presumably he would meet the other two, and they would decide what to do from here.
    “Strike a light and make traps, that is what they will think. If there were less snow, they would go to the chimney and try to smoke you out. Instead, they will wait for you to think they have gone, and step into their traps.”
    The man was now almost within perfect striking reach. His arms were down at his sides, since he was no longer feeling his way along a wall. He had seen that past the turning, there was still no light. His plan remained the same.
    So had Mags’. His nerves might have screamed with impatience, but he had Bey’s memories now. And Bey remained perfectly calm in situations like this. Poised, like a snake, waiting for exactly the right moment—
    His muscles moved before his mind did. The loop of braided wire lofted over the man’s head. Two steps and Mags was behind him, just as the garrote touched his shoulders. Hard yank , with knee braced in the small of the man’s back, pulling him over backward and tightening the wire so quickly he was unable to get