here's a screen there. We can call up the spec freight and you can give me lots of ideas for making money. Ought to be interesting, since you've been a cargo master and all."

 Priscilla let out her breath and stood with a smile. "Okay."

 "Right this way."

 Matching his stride, Priscilla asked, "What's the spec freight?"

 "Speculation," Rusty explained, and grinned at her blank look. "See, every crew member who wants to pledges a certain percentage each trip for speculation. Wood, say—that's what I'm interested in. Or perfume—that's pretty chancy, but Lina seems to do okay with it. Musical instruments—I don't know. Little while back we had some Grestwellin caviar—one of Gordy's finds. Sold out next port we put in." He shook his head. "That kid's gonna be one hell of a Trader. Knows what's gonna be hot next port, even if we don't know where next portis —here we are."

 The door slid open at their approach, and Priscilla followed him over the threshold into comfortable dimness and subdued chatter. There was a card game going on in a bright corner—Rusty waved in that direction and got two or three absent responses—and a few other people were scattered about, some in conversational clusters, some alone, with books or handwork.

 "There's Lina," Rusty said, and made a detour toward a single chair where a brown-haired Liaden woman was reading a bound book.

 She glanced up and smiled. "Rah Stee. They let you from your cage so soon?"

 "It's later than you think," he told her, waving Priscilla forward, "This is Priscilla Mendoza. She's a guest onboard this shift. Got an interview with the cap'n next. Priscilla, this is Lina Faaldom, chief librarian."

 Honey-colored eyes considered her gravely. Prompted by an impulse she could not name, Priscilla did what she had never done to Sav Rid Olanek or any of theDaxflan's crew—she performed the bow between equals, exactly as Fin Ton had shown her. "I am happy to meet you, Lina Faaldom," she said, with a careful ear to her accent.

 The woman clapped her hands. "She speaks Liaden! See, now, Rah Stee, are you not ashamed?" She stood and returned the bow gracefully. "No happier than I am to meet you, Priscilla Mendoza." She straightened and added in Terran, "Perhaps you will prevail upon this lazy Rah Stee to learn, as well."

 "Nag," Rusty said without heat. "I was going to call up the spec for Priscilla. Want to kibitz?"

 "I do not know. What is it—kibitz?"

 "It means to look over our shoulders," Priscilla explained. "Rusty wants me to give him ideas to make money."

 "Money, money. Already Rah Stee has more money than he can gamble away. Why does he need more? But yes, I would like to kibitz. Thank you."

 The screen was in the corner opposite the card game. Rusty waved his hand at the lightplate and entered his code. Lina perched on the arm of his chair, and Priscilla sat on the hassock to the left, legs curled under her.

 "Here we are. Contents, Hold Six: twenty kilos mahogany; ten kilos yellow pine; fifty-eight gallons Endless Lust perfume—Endless Lust!Rusty turned a pained face to the woman beside him.

 "It is thesmell ," Lina told him with dignity, "not the name."

 "You're the expert. Four hundred bushels raw cotton; and thirty-two dozen bottles Essence of Themngo." He shook his head. "That kid better be right this time… What do you think, Priscilla?"

 "Impressive," she said sincerely. "You seem to have chosen well—mostly luxury items. I'm not an expert on woods, though. Thirty kilos sounds like either too much or too little."

 "It is the artists," Lina explained. "Everywhere we go, there are the artists, always looking for something new. Rah Stee starts with the wood… oh,long ago, when the captain's father was captain. Now, we have orders. The wood becomes a—a usual thing. We are expected."

 Priscilla nodded, struck by another thought. "You've got an entire hold tied up in the crew's speculative cargo? What about capacity fees?"

 "Cap'n pledges that. On condition the ship gets her share first out of any profit. The ship shares any loss, too—it's a fair deal."

 "More than fair." She sipped her cooling coffee. "Your captain sounds unusual."

 "He is a good captain," Lina said.

 "And thePassage is a profitable ship," Rusty added, turning back to the screen. "Most of the wood'll go at Arsdred—the Artisan's Guild put in a big order. We might pick up a few odds and ends there—not too likely, though, since almost everybody running this sector stops there. Number Six'll be empty for a while." He glanced at Priscilla. "Can't make money that way."

 "But you just said the wood's an ordered item," she pointed out. "You've got a profit, right?"

 "Yeah, I guess." He brightened. "Tell you what—let's try and get our shore leaves matched for Arsdred. Then we can go scouting together. Who knows? Something might turn up for the spec. Or even for the ship."

 Priscilla stared at him. "I might not be onboard at Arsdred, remember?" She drank the rest of her coffee and shook her head. "Do youall look for the ship, too? What's the Master Trader do?"

 Lina laughed.

 "He trades," Rusty said, his round face serious. "Wedon't trade. But anybody might see something. Cap'n's only one person—he could miss a deal just 'cause he can't be in three places at once. So as many of the crew as can go worldside. If you see something, you hotfoot to the nearest comm and call the cap'n or Kayzin Ne'Zame—first mate. If it turns out to be a go, there's a finder's fee." He blinked at her. "What's wrong?"

 "Nothing. I—the last ship I was on didn't—encourage—the crew to go worldside. And the Trader did all the trading."

 "Sounds like a stupid arrangement to me," the man said flatly.

 "It does not make good sense," Lina agreed slowly. "The ship is everyone's venture. We all take a share of the profit. It is only sensible to work hard for abig profit." She looked carefully at Priscilla. "Perhaps you were not on such a good ship before."

 "Perhaps I wasn't," Priscilla said dryly, and lifted a hand to cover a sudden yawn. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day. Better be finding my room…" She uncoiled her legs and stood.

 With a nod, Rusty signed off and moved out of the alcove. One of the card players looked up and waved him over. "In a sec," he called, and turned back. "Priscilla, I bet you threebits you'll be on thePassage at Arsdred."

 "I don't have threebits to bet," she said ruefully. "But I hope you're right. It was good to meet you."

 "See you later," he responded, and drifted off toward the game.

 "You should excuse Rah Stee," Lina said, waving a hand at his retreating back. "You know where your room is from here?"

 "I have a map," Priscilla began, fishing in her pocket.

 The smaller woman laughed. "The map is good, but it will take you by all the main halls. I know the short ways. If it does not offend, I can show you. It is time I went to sleep as well."

 "I don't want to put you to any trouble…"

 "It is no trouble," Lina assured her. "Only let me get my book."

 They turned left from the door of the lounge rather than right, as the map directed, and pursued several short zigzagging corridors before regaining the main hall. They followed this past several closed doors, one marked GYM and another POOL, before turning into a slimmer, dimmer way.

 Lina left her with a smile and a slight bow at the third door on the right. "Sleep well, Priscilla Mendoza. I will look for you tomorrow."

 "Sleep you well also, Lina Faaldom," Priscilla answered softly in Liaden. "Thank you for your care."

 The room was a blur to her overtired mind. She located the cleanbot and pushed her clothes into the slot, hoping that the black smear on one yellow cuff would come out in the cycle.

 There was a clock on the shelf over the bed; she keyed in a request for Sixth Hour and curled into the luxuriously soft cushions with a sigh as she belatedly waved a hand at the lightplate.

 She was asleep before the room was dark.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 131
SECOND SHIFT
6.55 HOURS

 "Priscilla Mendoza?"

 She started, almost spilling what was left of her coffee, and blinked at the small person who had appeared suddenly before her. The woman was a Liaden of middle years, with golden skin showing deep lines about eyes and mouth, and yellow hair going gray.

 Priscilla smiled. "I am sorry. I was daydreaming. How may I serve you?"

 The handsome face did not relax its austere lines. "The captain's compliments, Ms. Mendoza. He requests that you come to him, if you have broken your fast." She hesitated before inclining her head ever so slightly. "I am Kayzin Ne'Zame." The first mate.

 Priscilla smiled again, despite the stiffness of her face, and pushed back her chair. "I've just finished this minute. I'll go to the captain as soon as I've cleaned up my tray." She was fairly confident of the route, having studied her map throughout breakfast.

 "I shall escort you," Kayzin Ne'Zame said uncompromisingly.

 Fear returned. Priscilla would be sent from the ship… or she would be required to remain—it was impossible to know which was the worse possibility. Breakfast was a handful of cold rock in her stomach; she abruptly remembered the woman she had met last night and wished they had had a chance to speak further.

 Priscilla laid her tray gently on the conveyer belt and turned back to the first mate. "Thank you, Kayzin Ne'Zame. I am ready now."

 The captain was behind the desk, fingers busy on the keypad. A glass of wine sat to hand, and the previous day's stacks of paper had given birth to two others like themselves.

 "Captain," the first mate said formally. "Here is Priscilla Mendoza, come to speak with you."

 He glanced up absently. "Ms. Mendoza. Good morning. I'll be with you in just a moment. Kayzin, old friend, will you come to me in an hour?"

 "Certainly, Captain." She executed a disapproving bow, but he had already returned his attention to the screen, and Priscilla did not think he saw. Frowning, the mate turned on her heel; the automatic door did its best to bang shut behind her.

 Priscilla stood, fighting cold nausea. Biting her lip, she studied the man behind the desk, combating fear with observation.

 It was a puzzle, she decided. He was so tall, his skin warm brown rather than golden. Like all Liaden men she had seen, his face was as fine-grained as a child's, without a hint of beard. The white hair and brows made a vivid contrast; the lean cheeks and mobile mouth were not displeasing.

 Really, she thought, if you don't expect him to look Liaden, he's not ugly at all.

 Certainly he was not an ill-made person. Beneath the wide-sleeved shirt his shoulders were level and broad, his back straight without being rigid. The big hands moved with graceful economy on the keypad, and Priscilla did not think they would be babysoft like Rusty Morgenstem's.

 Abruptly he nodded, leaned back, and extended a long arm for his glass. The slanting brows pulled sharply together as he looked up. "Does Sav Rid have delusions of grandeur? Sit, sit. Have you eaten? Will you drink? Did you sleep well?"

 Priscilla considered him. "I don't know. Thank you. Yes. No. Very. Didyou ?"

 "Not too badly," he said, raising his glass. "Though Mr. Saunderson's idea of a partyis a bit risque. We played charades. And sang rounds. The youngest Ms. Saunderson attempted to elicit my promise to wed her when she comes of age." He shook his head. "Alas, it seems clear she is more enamored of adventuring about the galaxy than she is of my elegant person, so there's a brilliant match gone begging. I have your test scores. Are you interested in discussing them now?"

 Priscilla made an effort to settle her stomach firmly in place. "Yes, sir."

 He ran his fingers in a quick series over the keys. "Physics, math, astrogation—yes, yes, yes. Colors red, colors blue, taste in books—yes?" He glanced up. "Prebatout. You recall the question? 'How many toes should a prebatout have?' And here is Priscilla Mendoza saying, 'As many as it feels comfortable with.' I've only known one other person to answer that particular question that way."

 "Have you?" Priscilla asked, hands ice-cold. "Was she a suspected thief, too?"

 "Thief? No, a scout. Though, come to think of it, the two trades might have some similarities. I've never considered it in that light. I'll ask, the next time I see him…" He returned to the screen, humming to himself.

 Priscilla curled her fingers carefully around the armrests, refusing to rise to the bait—if it was bait—of his last comment. Lethim talk, since he seemed to like it so much.

 He moved his shoulders, gave the keypad a final tap, and leaned back. "You don't have a pilot's license? That won't do, will it? Let me see… forty-eight crew members, counting the captain—eight of them pilots. Too few by far. You'll have to study, Ms. Mendoza. I insist on it. Every ninth shift you'll be on the bridge for lessons."

 "Wait a minute." She took a breath. "You're signing me on? As a pilot?"

 "As a pilot?" he repeated blankly. "No, how could I do that? You're not a pilot, are you, Ms. Mendoza? That's why you'll need to take lessons. Certification's no problem. I'm rated master, all conditions—is something wrong?"

 "Forgive me," she said carefully. "I thought you were captain. And Master Trader, of course. You're a pilot, too?"

 "A little of this, a little of that. ThePassage is a family enterprise, after all. Owned and operated by Clan Korval. And piloting runs in the blood, so to speak. I got my first class when I was sixteen Standards—been ratable for a few years before that, of course. Did my first solo on this ship when I was fourteen—but rules are rules, and they clearly state that no one may be certified until sixteen Standards. But I was saying—whatwas I saying? Oh, yes. Since I'm a master pilot, there won't be any delay once you earn your certification. Are youcertain you haven't got a license, Ms. Mendoza? Third class, perhaps?"

 "I'm certain, Captain." Things were moving too fast; the torrent of words was threatening to unmoor her fragile hold on serenity. "Just what will my position be?"

 "Hmm? Oh—pet librarian."

 "Petlibrarian?"

 "We have a very nice pet library," he told her gravely. "Now, details. We're nearly half done with the route. I can offer you flat rate from Jankalim to Solcintra—approximately a tenth-cantra upon docking. You'd be eligible for the low-man share of any bonus the ship might earn from this point on—finder's fees and special awards are the same for everyone, based on profit of found cargo and merit, as judged by the majority of the crew." He raised his glass. "Questions?"

 She had a myriad of them, but only one was forthcoming. "Why," she demanded irritably, "do you keep waving that glass around if you never drink from it?"

 He grinned. "But Ido drink from it. Sometimes. More questions?"

 She sighed. "How much will the ship charge for pilot training?"

 "If you fail to report for training every ninth shift, the captain will dock you twentybits. Three unexcused or unexplained absences will be grounds for immediate termination of your contract. Understand, please, Ms. Mendoza, that pilot training is an essential part of your duties while you are a member of this crew. I will not allow abandonment of that duty—the penalties are quite in earnest." He paused, his light eyes gauging her face. "Youdo understand?"

 "Yes, Captain." She bit her lip. "It's only that I've been charged for training on every other ship I served on—and pursued it during my free time.Daxflan denied me permission to continue training while I shipped on her."

 "Sav Rid, Sav Rid." He shook his head. "However, this is notDaxflan , and her rules do not apply here. Now. Your supervisor—no. The ship will extend you credit for a Standard week's worth of clothing, to be reckoned against your share at the end of the route. Please draw what you need from general stores. Your supervisor will be Lina Faaldom, who is chief librarian."

 "I met her last night—"

 "Yes? She will introduce you to the residents of the pet library and acquaint you with your duties there. I don't believe the work to be arduous, so you'll be expected to take on other duties as necessary. Janice Weatherbee will be your piloting instructor. If she is called elsewhere upon occasion, I will take her place. I believe that's everything. Are the terms agreeable to you?"

 "Since I was almost certain I'd be back on Jankalim this morning, yes, Captain, the terms are agreeable to me." She paused, studying his face. Sometime during the interview the fear had dissipated, leaving her limp and slowly warming. "Do youreally need a pet librarian?"

 "Well, we didn't have one," he said, spinning the screen toward her. "So I guess we do. Palmprint here, please."

 Shan yos'Galan was tipped back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, eyes apparently resting on the crystalline mobile hanging in the far corner of the ceiling. The expression on his face was one of dreamy stupidity. He did not glance around at the hissing of the door; he did not even seem aware that he was no longer alone in the room.

 Kayzin Ne'Zame knew better than to be deceived by appearances. She sat in the seat that Priscilla Mendoza had recently vacated, her spine two inches from the chair back, and frowned at his profile.

 "You've signed her on?" she demanded in the High Tongue, each syllable icy with disapproval.

 "I did say that it was my intention to sign her on," the man reminded the mobile gently and in Terran. He spun the chair lazily around, unfolded his arms, and sat up. "What is it, Kayzin?"

 "She is too beautiful." The Terran words were no less cold.

 "But that's not her fault, is it? People can't choose their faces, can they? If they can, I want to know why I wasn't told about it."

 The older woman regarded him with something perilously close to amusement. "I am, in fact, to pity her."

 "What harm can it do?"

 "What harm! You ask it? Or is it the game again? Do not trouble yourself, I beg you…" She paused, visibly taking herself in hand. "And what harm is it—to the ship, to the crew, to your Clan, and to Shan yos'Galan—should Sav Rid Olanek prove clever as, well as dishonorable? What harm, should this so-pitiful, so-beautiful woman prove to be a tool in his hands—a blade at your throat? What harm—"

 "Kayzin…" The big hands made a soothing motion; concern for her showed in his face.

 She slumped back in her chair. "Shan, it is my last trip. I prefer it to be an uneventful one."

 "There's no reason for it to be otherwise, old friend. Why should Sav Rid want to plant a—what? spy?assassin ?—on thePassage ? He's had his coup—and a very fine laugh. There's no reason for him to go to such trouble. No reason to think of the affair at all, except to chuckle and extend the story in port taverns as proof of Shan yos'Galan's rabid foolishness." He grinned wryly. "And he's not too far off the mark, is he?"

 She gestured, speechless.

 "You worry too much, Kayzin—and without cause. Circumstance, synchronicity—I don't believe Sav Rid wouldwish Priscilla Mendoza here, assuming he wished her any place at all, except, perhaps, dead. I think it more likely that he acted twice as opportunity dictated. It's interesting—but not impossible—that the victims of both actions should come together."

 "It is also not impossible that Olanek has grown wary—or even that he has grown greedy. What a coup for him, should he bring Korval entire to its knees…"

 Shan's brows pulled together. "Do you really think he could? Not that he doesn't have the potential for being that greedy—or that reckless. Kayzin, thePassage proceeds as ever. For our years together and the time you spent raising me, I will attempt to keep the rest of the route as uneventful as possible. In the meantime, please try to be kind to Priscilla Mendoza." He picked up his glass and drank slowly. "And wouldn't you say it was better, Kayzin, to keep the knife—if there is a knife, of course—in our view rather than have it poised at our back?"

 She smiled. "You will reward him properly?"

 "Steps are being taken to bring accounts into balance," he promised, and finished his wine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 135
SECOND SHIFT
9.30 HOURS

 Glass in hand, Shan yos'Galan rounded the corner into the leisure section. Ahead was a slender figure, gay in raspberry tunic and celadon sash. He stretched his long legs and caught her by the intersection to the athletic hall.

 "Well met, Lina."

 She looked up, her smile radiant. "Shan. I'm glad to see you."

 "And I'm glad to see you. As always. You're looking exceptionally lovely. Off to a party? Will you bring me with you? I promise not to brag of my exalted position. How do you find your assistant?"

 She laughed. "But it is exactly of Priscilla that I wished to speak! Have you truly a moment? I know how busy it is to be captain. I hardly see you…"

 "Languishing?" He raised his glass, his light eyes mocking. "By all means speak to me of Priscilla. Do the residents approve? Is she impossible for you? Shall I send her to Ken Rik?"

 "Oh, no, not to Ken Rik. The small ones are each delighted—Master Frodo to the point of purrs. You knew he would be." She stopped, frowning up into his face. "Shan? What is wrong with her—do you know?

 There is joy—one can feel it—but she denies… suppresses… I like her very well. Don't you?"

 "It would be enough to lower anyone's feelings, wouldn't it, to be hit over the head and deserted with no money, a ruined record, and no friends?"

 "It is more than that," Lina insisted. "She wants Healing."

 "Does she?" He sipped. "Is she impossible for you?"

 "Not at all. Though perhapsyou …"

 "Me?" He laughed. "I'm not a Healer, Lina; I'm the captain."

 "Bah!" She banished this quibble with a tiny contemptuous hand. "As if you haven't the skill and the training!" She tipped her head, considering information of which the expression on his face was only a small portion. "Shan?"

 A lifted shoulder denied her. He frowned slightly. "What—perfume—are you wearing, Lina?"

 "The one we bought—Endless Lust." She chuckled. "Rah Stee objects to the name."

 "As well he might." He moved back a step or two. "Very potent, isn't it? I don't recall that you reported aphrodisiac qualities."

 "It has none!" She grinned. "Are you certain it is the perfume?"

 "Forgive me," he murmured. "I have admired you forever, Lina, but amorous thoughts were far from me this evening. If itisn't aphrodisiac, it's the next best thing. Did anybody explain how it works?"

 "It is the smell…" She sighed sharply, asked permission with a flicker of her hands, and slid into the Low Tongue, on the mode spoken between friends. "It is an enhancer of one's own odor. Thus, if you are attracted primarily, you will be more so when the perfume is used. Harmless, old friend, I assure you."

 "I," the Captain said in Terran, "am not convinced. There are laws on certain worlds about perfumes and substances that—whatis the official phrasing?—'take away volition and make pliable the will'? Something more or less pompous." He took a drink and drifted away yet another step. "Do me the favor of submitting what is left of your vial to Chemistry, Lina. I would so hate to break the law."

 "It is harmless." She frowned. "It doesnot take away volition—no more than a Healer might, encouraging one to embrace joy…"

 Shan grinned. "I believe you may be splitting hairs.Are you going to a party? I would like to accompany you—purely scientific, you understand. It might be very interesting to observe the effect of this perfume of yours on a roomful of unsuspecting persons."

 "I," Lina said dampingly, "am going to watch a Ping-Pong match between Priscilla and Rah Stee. You may come, if you like. Though if you persist in backing away from me in that insulting manner…"

 He laughed and offered an arm. "I have myself in hand now. Let us by all means inflict ourselves upon the Ping-Pong match."

 Rusty was sweating and puffing with exertion, the expression on his round face one of harried doggedness.

 In contrast, Priscilla was coolly serene, parrying his shots with absent smoothness, barely regarding the ball at all. Yet time after time she fractured his frenzied guard and piled up the points in her favor.

 "Twenty-one," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I don't believe it."

 "No, Rah Stee, itis twenty-one for Priscilla," Lina said helpfully. "I counted also."

 "That's what I don't believe." Rusty leaned heavily on the table, directing a sodden head shake at his opponent. "You're blowing me away! I don't get it. Half the time I don't even see the ball coming."

 "That's because you have the reactions of a dead cow," Shan explained, not to be outdone in helpfulness.

 The other man turned to glare at him. "Thanks a lot."

 "Always of service…"

 "Maybe," Priscilla offered, cutting off a scorching reply, "it's because you look for the ball. I almost never do that."

 "Then how do you know where itis ?" He ran a sleeve across his forehead and sighed hugely. "Dammit, 'Cilia, I'm good at Ping-Pong. Been playing for years!"

 "But not against pilots," the captain said, sipping wine.

 "What's that got to do with it?"

 "A great deal, don't you think, Rusty? Your reaction time's slow; you move in a series of jerks rather than a smooth flow; you fail to apprehend where an objectwill be." He raised his glass. "Don't feel too bad, my friend. We all have our niche to fill. After all, I could hardly fill your place in the tower, or operate the—"

 "Like hell you can't," the other muttered, spinning his paddle clumsily on the table.

 "I beg your pardon, Rusty?"

 "Never mind." He turned suddenly and flipped the paddle to Shan, who caught it left-handed, lazily. "Youplay her."

 The captain blinked. "Why?"

 "You're a pilot. She's a pilot. Maybe I'll pick up some pointers." Grinning, Rusty retired from the field and flung himself into a sideline seat. "Besides, I need a break. You don't want me to keel over dead from exertion, do you?"

 "Now, that would be a tragedy. So young, so handsome, so wealthy—he had all to live for…Ms. Mendoza? Are you interested in a game? Observe that you have the advantage of youth over dissipated old age."

 Priscilla swallowed a laugh. Lina frowned.

 "Certainly, Captain. I'll be happy to play with you. Will you offer me a handicap?"

 "You should offer one to me," he said, setting his glass aside and wandering toward the table. "Remember that I'm frail, please, and easily bruised. You'll serve?"

 She nodded, and the ball was even then skimming smoothly over the net… to be returned with casual force, heading toward the edge of the table, barely brushing; it was caught as it struck and sent backspinning over the net, to be returned again, barely inside her play zone, then flipped by a cunning paddle edge back into his court.

 "Twenty-seven, twenty-five," Priscilla said nearly forty minutes later. She actually grinned at the man opposite. "Good game, Captain."

 "Fighting for every point," he agreed, laying his paddle down and moving in the direction of his wine. "Notice, please, Rusty, that I barely won.Have you picked up any pointers?"

 "Huh? I'm gonna retire to a home for the physically degenerate." The radio tech shook his head. "You're so fast! If I hadn't heard it hit, I'd've thought you were runnin' a scam: pretending to have a game with an invisible ball."

 Priscilla drifted over to Lina's chair and sat carefully on an upholstered arm. The Liaden woman smiled up at her. "You played very well, my friend."

 Friend. The word was unexceptional from Lina, yet Priscilla never heard it without a small thrill of warmth. She smiled gently. "Thank you." She moved her shoulders in response to a slight twinge. "No excuse for not sleeping tonight."

 Lina shifted. "You have not been sleeping? On our ship?"

 Priscilla allowed herself the luxury of another grin. "I sleep better on this ship than—than I sometimes do." She moved her shoulders again, half a shrug. "It's nothing. I get by."

 "In two days we are at Scandalous," the smaller woman offered, apropos of nothing. "A drop only. Then, in three days more, we are at Arsdred. Do you like us, now that you have been here a whole week?"

 "Has it been a week?" The question woke echoes of Shan yos'Galan's voice in her mind's ear, and she smiled again, almost lazily. "I like you very much. Everyone's been kind…" Except Kayzin Ne'Zame, of course. What ailed the woman? She glanced down and saw Lina's small golden hand resting on the chair arm at her knee. It looked strong and capable and curiously pleasing. With hardly a thought except that it would be comforting to do so, Priscilla laid her own hand over it—and flicked her eyes, startled, to the other woman's face.

 Lina smiled at her.

 Priscilla sighed; the sound seemed to come from very far away. Friend, she thought, and her fingers tightened around Lina's. She received warm pressure in return and smiled for the fourth time in five minutes. From across the room she heard the soothing murmur of voices: Rusty and the captain, speaking between themselves. She shook her head. "I must be more tired than I thought…"

 "Yes? Would you like to go to bed? I will walk with you, if you like."

 Priscilla looked into the face of her friend. Goddess, it would be hard to tell Lina good-bye… "I'd like you to come with me," she said softly. "That would be good."

 "I think so, too," Lina said, and stood, keeping their hands linked.

 Across the room, Rusty suddenly sighed. "Here I thought she liked me," he complained, "and then she goes off with Lina!"

 Shan glanced around absently. "I'm afraid you were outgunned. Lina was wearing that new perfume of hers."

 "Was she?" He looked up, all interest. "Damn. That stuff's gonna make usrich ."

 They reached Priscilla's quarters and entered together when the door slid away. Just inside, Lina stopped and smiled up at her tall companion a little quizzically. Cautiously, she touched the bruise on the pale cheek. "I am sorry that they hurt you, my friend."

 "It wasn't so bad…" Priscilla murmured, gazing down into her face. Already the pain—and the memory of pain—was fading.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 136
THIRD SHIFT
11.30 HOURS
AROUND SCANDALOUS

 Master Frodo the norbear burbled happily and ran to the port opening as fast as his bowed legs would carry him. His three companions came more slowly from their cozyplaces and followed, Tiny uttering a small, dignifiedbwrrr of welcome.

 Priscilla carefully measured out three portions and placed each in its appointed place. Tiny, Delm Briat, and Lady Selph fell to with a will, while Master Frodo stood by, fairly quivering with anticipation. As the last measure was placed, he extended a small clawed hand and snagged a fold of sleeve.

 "Did you think I'd forgotten you?" Priscilla asked as he clambered into her hand. Master Frodo rubbed his head against her fingers.

 Smiling, Priscilla brought him to her shoulder. He rolled off and sat up on hind legs, one hand clutching the curls over her ear while with the other he solemnly accepted pieces of corn and stuffed them into his cheek pouches.

 "It's the tower for me today," Priscilla confided as Master Frodo broke his fast. "I'm to report to Tonee sig'Ella by Twelfth Hour."

 Her companion vouchsafed no direct reply, though he let her know by the quality of his eating that Tonee sig'Ella was not a bad sort, received everywhere by norbears of consequence.

 Since Priscilla was able to verify by the sign-out that Tonee was no infrequent visitor to the norbears' hearth, this information was not startling. She thanked Master Frodo for his recommendation, however, and scratched him lightly between the ears before replacing him in the tank.

 He settled to the sandy soil with a little sigh and twisted his head sideways, peering upward, one paw raised in supplication.

 Priscilla grinned again. "No more for you," she said sternly, rubbing his belly with a gentle forefinger."You're getting positively fat."

 Master Frodo let it be known that among norbears a certain portliness of figure was considered attractive. Priscilla might, of course, think what she would. He did not like to mention it, butshe could use a little extra corn to advantage.

 Caught in the imagined dialogue, she shook her head. "I've always been scrawny," she said, closing the hatch and sealing it.

 She shook her head again. Talking to yourself like a Seer. If anybody catches you, they'll have you down in sick bay before Master Frodo can give you a reference.

 But the thought failed to alarm her. Lina had in fact caught her talking to Master Frodo a shift or two back. The Liaden woman's only response had been to tug on one rounded ear and warn Priscilla not to let the norbear charm her out of extra rations.

 "He is a rogue, this one," Lina had explained, laughing at the creature's antics. "And you must not be taken in. He will exploit you shamelessly."

 Priscilla left the pet library by way of the side door, which gave onto the library proper. Lina was at the desk, frowning at her screen, but she glanced up with a smile. Still unused to such warm and easy friendship, Priscilla caught her breath. "Everyone's taken care of," she said, striving for serenity. "I'm going up to the tower now."

 "So? Call me to Tonee's attention. We have not met often this trip." She touched the back of a slim pale hand. "Shall we share prime meal, my friend?"

 "Yes." She drew breath against the pounding of her heart.

 Lina smiled. "I will see you at prime, then. Be you well, Priscilla."

 "Be you well, Lina."

 The tower was opposite the library and up six levels, a dome in the ship's center section exactly balancing the dome of the main bridge, six levels below. Priscilla entered a lift and punched her route, then leaned back into a corner.

 Pet librarian. So far, she had spent only one shift performing the duties attached to that post. Her assignment was on her cabin-screen when she awoke, always allowing her ample time to see to the needs of the creatures she cared for. And then she was sent elsewhere: to the maintenance bay to help lanky Seth with an overhaul, to the kitchen to assist garrulous BillyJo, to the holds to pore over distribution charts with sharp-tongued old Ken Rik. And, of course, to the inner bridge for piloting lessons with Janice Weatherbee, second mate and first class pilot.

 Only a week, and I must have worked everywhere but the pet library, Priscilla thought. But she found she did not mind the variety of work. Rather, it seemed to ease her in some unidentified way, even as the mix of personalities exhilarated her.

 People. One might find friends here. She had found at least one friend already. And since she had had no friends at all, that was a treasure past any attempt at counting.

 The lift stopped, and the door slid away to reveal a bright yellow hallway. Priscilla walked to the end of it, feet soundless on the resilient floor, laid her hand upon the door, and entered.

 Instruments were flickering; one console was clamoring for attention, while a screen set in the far wall flashed orange numbers: seven in series; pause; repeat.

 No human occupant was apparent.

 "Hello?"

 "Hahlo! Yes! A moment!" There was a hurried scrabbling from behind the center console. Priscilla started in that direction and almost bumped into the person coming the other way.

 "You are Priscilla Mendoza, yes?"

 “I'm Priscilla Mendoza," she agreed, bowing the bow between equals. "You are Tonee sig'Ella?"

 "Who else? No, we have not met—you must not regard…" An abbreviated version of the courtesy was returned. She had a moment to wonder if Fin Ton would have approved before her hand was caught in a surprisingly strong grip and she was pulled toward the console.

 "You are a decoder, yes? You have operated the bouncecomm and know the symbols? There is a difficulty with the in-ship, and I must have time, but the messages—you perceive? Do you but decode what arrives; encode what must be sent—I will have my time; we will not fall behind. All will be well!" the little tech finished triumphantly, pulling out the console chair.

 Priscilla sat and flicked a glance at screens, transmitters, receivers. The equipment was standard; there should be no problem.

 "How are we getting the messages to the proper people onboard?" she asked. "If the in-ship's out—"

 "I have spoken with the captain," the other interrupted, rubbing wire-thin hands together. "The cabin boy will be dispatched to the tower and will carry messages as they are ready. It should not be long. You are familiar? You will contrive?

 "I will contrive." Priscilla made the assurance as solemn as she could, despite the rising wave of laughter. She swallowed firmly. "Lina Faaldom asked to be remembered to you. She says you haven't seen each other often this trip."

 "Lina!" The gamin face lit, eyes sparkling. "I will call on her—say, to beg her forgiveness!" A quick laugh was accompanied by the lightest of touches to her shoulder. Then she was alone. On the other side of the tower, Tonee was removing the cover of the noisy console.

 Priscilla shook her head and turned to the task at hand.

 Gordy had just left with his third handful of messages. Priscilla heard the sound of the door cycling without assigning it importance, most of her attention captured by an unusually knotty translation.

 Could it really be "desires your most religious custom?" she wondered, fingers poised over the keys. The message was directed to Master Trader,Dutiful Passage . It would be best to take a little time to be sure.

 "What," demanded a heavily accented voice, "are you doing here?"

 Priscilla glanced up, stomach sinking. Kayzin Ne'Zame stood before the console, and it was apparent she was in no mood to be pleased.

 "I was assigned here," she began.

 "You are not cleared for this work!" the first mate snapped. "Who assigns you?"

 "My screen lists my duties at the beginning of each shift," Priscilla explained, keeping her voice even. "This shift, I was assigned to Tonee sig'Ella at Twelfth Hour."

 "Who is your supervisor?" Kayzin asked awfully.

 "Lina Faaldom."

 "Lina Faaldom. And it is your belief that a librarian has the authority necessary to assign you to the tower as a decoder of messages?" There was no mistaking the sarcasm.

 "She has apparently," Priscilla snapped, "had the authority to send me to the maintenance bay, the cargo holds, the kitchen, and hydroponics. Why should I assume this shift's assignment was different from those?"

 "Has she?" There was an odd expression on the first mate's face. She turned, scanning the tower, eyes lighting on the hunched figure at the far corner. "Radio Tech!"

 Tonee turned and hurried forward with a sigh. "First Mate?"

 "How came this woman to you?"

 The radio tech blinked, "Under orders, First Mate. She was expected. Twelfth Hour, so went the captain's word."

 "The captain—"

 "First Mate, she is required!" Tonee pleaded, as if suddenly perceiving where that line of questioning might lead. "She has been of utmost assistance. The in-ship is nearly repaired. Before we leave orbit, I promise it—but you must not take her now! The messages—surely you know the need!"

 It was apparent from her expression that Kayzindid know the need. She looked from Tonee to Priscilla, rigid at the console, then inclined her head. "A question of clearance, Radio Tech. However, since you have the captain's word, there is no more to be said." With that, she turned on her heel and left the tower.

 Priscilla and Tonee exchanged glances before the little tech flung both hands out in a gesture of wide amazement.

 "You work well. When we leave orbit, the screens will be clear. The first mate…" There was a ripple of narrow shoulders. "Her temper is chancy, a little. Do not regard it."

 With another delicate pat on the shoulder, Priscilla was left alone to conquer bewilderment and return to the matter at hand.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 137
FIRST SHIFT
1.30 HOURS

 Priscilla whipped about—and froze. The alley behind her was full of men and women, hands ominously clenched, righteousness shining from each grim face. She fell back, forgetting the danger behind—

 Until with a jerk the precious bag was torn from her grip and she was dealt such a blow between the shoulders that she fell to her knees in the alleyway.

 She was up in a flash, facing Dagmar with fury. "That's mine! Give it back!"

 "Yours?" the other woman sneered as Pimm tel'Jadis came laughing to her side. "That ain't the tale I heard, Prissy." She jerked open the bag and thrust her hand within, rummaging about. Then, uttering a crow of triumph, she raised high a fist in which were clutched the seven silver bangles of a Maiden-in-Circle.

 The crowd shrieked.

 The first rock caught Priscilla on the thigh as Dagmar brought a fist across her face.

 The second rock slammed solidly into her right arm, breaking it with an audible crack.

 The third took a rib, and she screamed, rolling into a ball on the filthy alley floor, trying to protect her head while the rocks struck with greater and greater force, and the crowd cried out her names: Liar! Coward! Unperson!

 "Priscilla!"

 She felt hands on her, and she struggled.

 "Priscilla! No, denubia, you must not…" The voice was familiar, concerned.

 "Lina?" She lay still, hardly daring to believe it.

 "Of course, Lina. Who else?" The hands were soft on her face, her hair. "Open your eyes, denubia. Are you afraid to see me?"

 "No, I…" She achieved it and beheld her friend's serious face. "I'm sorry, Lina."

 "And I. Suchterror , my friend. What was it?" The kind hands continued their caress; comfort like a healing warmth enclosed her. Priscilla sighed and shook her head.

 "It was nothing. A bad dream."

 "Yes?" Lina ran light fingers along Priscilla's jaw and down the slim throat, then laid her hand flat between rose-tipped breasts. "A very bad dream, I think. Your heart pounds."

 "I dreamt—I dreamt I was being stoned." She shivered, drew a breath, and tried to recapture inner peace.

 "Stoned?" Lina frowned. "I do not think—"

 "It is the custom on my—on the world I'm from—to throw rocks at a criminal until she—until she dies."

 "Qua'lechi!" The smaller woman sat up sharply and reached to trace the line of her friend's brow. "No wonder you were frightened." She tipped her head. "But this thing was not truly done to you?"

 Priscilla managed a smile. "No, of course not."

 There, she had found the well-worn way to serenity and set her spirit feet upon it. "I'm not very brave," she told Lina softly.

 As Priscilla's lashes drooped and her breathing evened, the Liaden woman frowned. Tentatively she unfurled a mental tendril, as one might with a fellow Healer, extended it along the least dangerous of the lines—and nearly cried out as Priscilla reached the place she had been seeking and firmly closed the door.

 The library door slid open, and a tall, broad-shouldered person ambled to the center of the room and stood sipping from his glass, quietly regarding the figure hunched over the master terminal. It was perhaps five minutes before she sat back with a sharp sigh and spoke with the ease of long acquaintance. "Are there Healers among Terrans, old friend?"

 He considered it, coming forward. "Not formally, I believe." He bent over her screen, frowning at the upside-down characters. "You want 'empath,' my precious. It's listed under 'paranormal.'"

 "Paranormal!" Lina's head was up, eyes flashing.

 "I didn't put it there," Shan pointed out mildly. "I only offer information. That's where it was when I searched it."

 And, Lina realized, he would have done just such a search a few years ago. She smiled. "Forgive me. There was hard work done, if little accomplished. I am—edgy."

 He bowed slightly. "I might offer aid."

 "So you might." She smiled again and reached to touch his stark cheek. "I thank you, bed-friend and colleague. Grant me grace and offer another time."

 "So I will." He drank wine. "Don't stay up all shift, please, Lina."

 "Bah! And what of you! Or does the captain never sleep?" She chuckled, then sobered abruptly. "Kayzin was complaining to me that Priscilla is assigned where she has no right to be."

 "I heard." Shan shook his head. "What did she want me to do? First she tells me this is her last trip and I must not ask her for decisions concerning future trips, then she takes me tosevere task for daring to follow her instructions! I tell you, Lina, it's a hard life the captain lives!"

 "Alas," she managed around a mouthful of laughter.

 He grinned and raised his glass. "Search well, Master Librarian. Sleep well, too."

 "Sleep well, Shan."

 But he was already gone.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 139
THIRD SHIFT
16.00 HOURS

 TheDutiful Passage broke orbit smoothly and proceeded down the carefully calculated normal space lane to the Jump point and passed without a quiver into hyperspace.

 Priscilla ran through the last check, reaffirmed destination and time of arrival, locked the board, and leaned back, barely conquering her grin.

 "Not too bad, Mendoza," Janice Weatherbee said from the copilot's seat. She glanced at the chronometer set in the board. "Quittin" time. See you "round."

 "Okay," Priscilla said absently, still watching the grayed screen. It was not the simulation screen this time—it was the prime piloting screen on the main bridge, and she had done it all. She, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza, had plotted the course, worked the equations, chosen the coords—done everything, out of her own knowledge and ability.

 She closed her eyes against the screen, cherishing the solid wedge of belief in her own ability. For this little time, at least, it seemed not to matter that she was outcast and lawfully nameless, with no more right to call herself Mendoza than Rusty Morganton had.

 "Sleeping, Ms. Mendoza? It's a very comfortable chair, I grant, but someone else might wish to use it."

 She opened her eyes and grinned at the captain, who stood with one hip braced against the ledge and a glass of wine in his hand.

 "Sorry, Captain. I was indulging in vulgar self-congratulation."

 "Well, that's encouraging," he said, grinning back. "I was prepared to believe you had no faults at all. But now that you admit to gloating, I'm sure we'll get along very well together. Janice is a bit laconic, is she?"

 "Maybe she's trying to make up for you," Priscilla suggested, then bit her lip in horror.

 Shan yos'Galan laughed. "Could be. Could be.Someone should, I guess. Are you working a double shift? Even so, you're allowed an hour to eat—ship's policy. And there's really not much to do here now, is there?" He glanced vaguely at the gray screen. "Seems to be in hand. Why not take a shift or two for yourself?

 "Thank you, Captain," she said. "I will. Good shift."

 "Good shift, Ms. Mendoza." He raised his glass to her.

 She was to meet Lina and Rusty for prime at Seventeenth Hour. Priscilla turned left, away from the lift. There was time for a walk to stretch legs cramped by hours in the pilot's chair.

 Hugging her recent accomplishment to herself, she wandered down a quarter mile of hallway, took a down-lift when the way deadended, and smiled at dour old Ken Rik when she stepped off one level below.

 I feel good, she ventured, probing the thought as if it were a shattered bone. A mere quiver of pain answered, to be quickly blotted out by another warm thought.

 I have a friend. The first real friend since her girlhood on Sintia. The friendship existed independently of the sudden physical relationship. She'd had had bed-mates from time to random time, and it was very nice to be loved and petted and—made comfortable. And it was wholly delightful to be permitted to return that grace as best as she was able. But this was not the thing that was precious, that prompted her now to reexamine the plans she had laid out for herself.

 Again she heard the sleepy voice of her friend: "Priscilla? Go back to sleep, denubia. All is well."

 All is well. For the first time in many years she allowed herself to think that it could, in time,be well. If she remained a member of this ship, with its odd captain, and clumsy Rusty Morganton and Gordy and the old cargo master and Master Frodo and Lina—of course, Lina…

 Perhaps if she stayed there… if she put Sav Rid Olanek and Dagmar Collier out of mind and concentrated on a future full of friendship, where all might be well…

 "What are you doing here?"

 The sharp voice brought her up short. She blinked at the unfamiliar hallway to which her unheeded feet had brought her, then looked back at Kayzin Ne'Zame and inclined her head. "I'm very sorry. I was thinking and lost my way. Is it restricted? I'll go away."

 "Will you?" The first mate was tight-lipped with anger. "You will just walk away, is it so? Iasked what you are doing here. I expect an answer. Now."

 "I am sorry, Kayzin Ne'Zame," she said carefully. "I gave you an answer: I was walking as I thought, and lost the way."

 "And you so conveniently lost the way in such a manner that you come to the main computer bank. I will have truth from you, Priscilla Mendoza. Again—what do you here?"

 "I don't think that's your business," Priscilla flared. "Since you won't believe the truth, why should I keep repeating it?"

 "You!" If she had been angry before, the mate was livid now. "How much does he pay you?" she demanded, her accent thicker by the second.

 The Terran looked at her in blank astonishment. "One-tenth cantra, when we reach Solcintra—"

 "Have done!" There was a pause while Kayzin looked her up and down. The set lines of her face did not alter; she opened her mouth to speak further, then closed it, eyes going over Priscilla's shoulder.

 "Go!" she snapped. "And mind you do not lose your way to this place again. Do you hear me?"

 "I hear you, Kayzin Ne'Zame," Priscilla replied evenly. She inclined her head and turned away.

 Shan yos'Galan was leaning against the wall, glass of wine held negligently in one hand, arms crossed over his chest.

 Priscilla took a breath. "Good shift, Captain."

 "Good shift, Ms. Mendoza," he said neutrally. She walked past him and down the intersecting hallway.

 He turned to Kayzin. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said softly. "The crew is allowed access to all portions of the ship?"

 "Yes, Captain."

 "Yes, Captain," he repeated, his eyes holding hers effortlessly. "Priscilla Mendoza is a member of the crew, Kayzin. I can't think how you came to forget it, but please strive to bear it in mind in the future. Also, it is just possible that you owe an apology."

 She drew a deep, deep bream. "Say that you trust her!"

 "I trust her," he said flatly, giving her the grace due an old friend.

 "You are besotted!"

 "Quite sober, I assure you," he said in icy Terran. Then he switched to the High Tongue, that of lord instructing oaths worn. "I act, having given consideration to laws of necessity."

 Kayzin bowed low, pride of him glowing through her mortification. There were those who said that Er Thom yos'Galan's lady had foisted a full-blooded Terran upon him as his eldest. If those could but see him, standing there, with the eyes spitting ice and the face just so! Who could behold him thus and say he was not Korval, blood and bone?

 "Forgive me, Captain," she murmured. "It shall be as you have said."

 "I am glad to hear it," he replied in Terran.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ARSDRED
PORT CITY
LOCAL YEAR 728
MIDDAY BAZAAR

 Arsdred Port roared. It pushed, yodeled, shoved, sang, shimmied, stripped gleaming naked, and swathed itself head to toe in bright colors and glittering gems. Much of the noise—and most of the color—was contributed by the people behind stalls, before storefronts, and beside carts piled high with Goddess knew what. These were Arsdredi, dark-skinned Terrans, doe-eyed, hook-nosed, and voluble. They wore layer upon layer of gauzy, brilliant cloth and hawked their wares, sweatless, in the glare of the midday suns.

 Some of the clamor, to be sure, was generated by those for whom the wares were displayed. Thronging the narrow streets were members of half a dozen races: Terrans of all description; graceful Liadens, dark-lensed Peladins, hairless Trimuvat, silent Uhlvore. Priscilla started, catching a gigantic figure out of the corner of an eye, wondering if even the Yxtrang stopped here—but it was only a towering Aus, golden-haired and full-bearded, head bent as he addressed a booming remark to the tiny woman skipping at his side.

 "Firegems, pretty lady? The finest here—for you—so pale your skin, so black your hair! Foryou , beautiful lady, what else but azure? A mere twentybit—sacrificed on the altar of your beauty! Only try and see how it becomes you."

 "Cloth, noble lady? Scarves? Crimson, gold, serpentine, xanthin, indigo! Wear them about your head, twist them 'round your waist—a fair price, noble."

 "Porcelains, lady? Guidebooks… Ices… Incense… Gemstones…"

 Peace.

 Priscilla rounded a corner into a less traveled thoroughfare, breathing a sigh of relief. The roster had granted her leave this first day in port. Rusty and Lina had drawn time together on the third, a circumstance that brought a frown to the Liaden woman's face while Rusty shrugged. "Maybe next time."

 Secretly, Priscilla was relieved. A leave-companion would have quickly discovered the state of her finances. She was pleased not to burden her friends with that particular information and perhaps be forced to endure kindhearted offers of a loan or, worse, an outright gift.

 It was better this way, she thought, strolling along the hot little street. A day of rest before a trying tomorrow. For the roster's other news had been that she was to assist Cargo Master yo'Lanna with the worldside unloading next shift-worked.

 She had come to the first cross street when a familiar voice intruded upon her.

 "Hi, Ms. Mendoza! Is this your day, too? Want to partner?"

 She turned, smiling down into Gordy Arbuthnot's round—and exquisitely clean—face. "I'm afraid I'd hold you down," she said carefully. Then she added more briskly, "You aren't hereby yourself , are you, Gordy?"

 He grimaced. "Well, sort of. Cap'n says he knows I got enough sense not to get in trouble, but that accidents happen an' my grandad'd break his nose for him if I came by one. So, we compromised." He tugged something off his belt and held it out for inspection: a portable comm.

 "I've got the cap'n's direct beam-code. If I get in a scrape—even alittle one—I'm supposed to get on the beam andyell ." Gordy sighed, then looked up again, trying to put a good face on it. "I guess that's not too bad, is it, Ms. Mendoza?"

 "It sounds," Priscilla said truthfully, "very generous. And reasonable. A great many people, you know, would think you were only a little boy."

 "Well, that's true," he agreed. "Even Ma said something like that when Grandad told her he'd got everything fixed with the cap'n, and she's usually—reasonable too. But Morgan'd been talking her ears off about how Shan wasn'treally related to us—and Liaden, besides. I guess," Gordy concluded rather breathlessly, "that kind of thing'd be enough to make anybody unreasonable."

 "It certainly sounds like it would be," she agreed with amusement. "Is the captain related to you?"

 Gordy nodded as he clipped the comm back to his belt. "Shan's ma was Grandad's sister. So we're cousins—Shan and Val Con and Nova and Anthora. Well, at least," he said scrupulously, "not Val Con. He's a fosterling. But I call him cousin, too. And he'sShan's cousin, so I guess we're related, some way." He grinned at her. "Want to partner?" he asked again.

 Priscilla shook her head. "I think I'd rather just roam around and get my thoughts in order, rest a little. I'm scheduled to help Ken Rik tomorrow."

 Gordy laughed. "You better rest, then. Ken Rik's okay, but he likes to make people squirm. Good at it, too. Tell you what: I'm due at the shuttle Last Hour, shiptime. Let's go up together, okay, Ms. Mendoza?"

 "Okay." She smiled at him. "You might as well call me Priscilla. Everybody else does."

 "Cap'n doesn't," Gordy pointed out, moving off. "I will, though. See you later—Priscilla."

 "See you later—Mr. Arbuthnot."

 That drew another burst of laughter. Priscilla shook her head, still smiling, and turned left down the cross street, away from the voice of the bazaar.

 It was a little past Nineteenth Hour, shiptime. Priscilla, feeling very well in a lazy sort of way, had quit the municipal park some moments before and was sauntering down a thin avenue that curved in the general direction of the port.

 Most of the shops along this way were closed, though she passed a brightly lit window displaying an extremely ornate chess set carved of red and white woods and set with faceted stones. She paused, considering the set and comparing it to the chessmen she had seen upon the captain's board. Those pieces had been carved of ebon wood and bonebar, but very plainly—a set for a person who played the game, not for a collector of the exotic.

 She continued on her way. The next window, under a sign that read TEELA'S TREASURES, was crowded with an eye-dazzling collection of objects. A carved ivory fan lay next to a tawdry firegem tiara; a gold necklace with a greenish tinge lay as if flung across a bound book of possible worth and definite age; while a cut-plastic vase hobnobbed with an eggshell porcelain bowl down on its luck.

 Fascinated, Priscilla bent closer to the window, trying to puzzle out more of its contents. A carved wooden box with a broken hinge; an antique pair of eyeglasses, un-tinted; a—her breath caught in her throat as she spied it, balanced precariously atop a stack of mismatched flowered saucers: a blown-crystal triglant, caught by the artist in a mood of pensiveness, wings half-furled, tail wrapped neatly around its front paws. A charming piece—and hers!

 Hers. And of the few things she had been able to bring with her from Sintia, it had been the most treasured.She had commissioned the work, paid for it with the labor of her own hands.She had built the velvet-lined box in which it had been lovingly displayed.

 Perhaps the thief had thought the box worthless.

 Priscilla stalked stiff-legged into the shop, twobits clenched in her fist. Fifteen minutes later, she came out, carefully tucking the paper-wrapped figurine in her pocket. Broke, she reminded herself, trying to call up fear.

 But all she felt was warm contentment. She had the triglant. She had a berth on thePassage . She had a tenth-cantra waiting for her when they docked at Solcintra. It would suffice. She had a friend—perhaps even three. That was so much more than sufficient that she barely had room for the grief of leaving her other things in the hands of the proprietor of Teela's Treasures.

 She took the first cross street, hurrying now toward the port. To her right, a shadow moved. She spun.

 "Hello, Prissy," Dagmar said, grinning widely. She took two steps closer.

 Goddess, aid me now… "Good-bye, Dagmar," she gritted through her teeth. She made to pass on.

 The bigger woman blocked her way, grin widening.

 "Aw, now, honey, you ain't gonna let a little thing like a headache come between us, are you? I was just following orders, Prissy. And I sure am glad to see you again."

 "I'm not glad to see you. Good-bye." She turned away.

 Dagmar grabbed an arm and yanked Priscilla forward, while her other hand found a breast and squeezed.

 Priscilla swung with all the force in her, slamming five knuckles backhanded across the other woman's leer as she twisted, just managing to get free.

 Dagmar lunged, grabbing a handful of shirt. Priscilla continued her twist. The fabric tore, and Dagmar pitched backward, scrabbling for support.

 It was time to run. Priscilla dived forward.

 It was easy.

 Dagmar was bigger—and no doubt stronger. Certainly she was more accustomed to this kind of business than was her prey.

 But she wasslow .

 Priscilla had the measure of the game now. Moving with pilot swiftness, seeing with pilot eyes, she landed an astonishing number of blows, though the ones she received were telling.

 She ducked back, slammed a ringing blow toward the ears that was only partially successful, and suffered a numbing crack to her right shoulder.

 Several more passes and she saw how it might be ended—quickly and to her advantage. She began the spin to get into position—

 The hum warned her, and she snapped backward, rolling heavily on her right side, wishing she had had the sense to run before.

 Dagmar had pulled a vibroknife.

 Gordy was late.

 He streaked across the municipal park, causing consternation among the local duck-analogs, and careered into Parkton Way. He passed the window containing the chessmen without a glance, though he did slow as he came abreast Teela's Treasures, out of respect for the policeman halt a block ahead.

 A side street presented itself, wending portward. Gordy took it—and froze in disbelief.

 Before him was Priscilla Mendoza, shirt torn nearly to the shoulder, bent forward like some two-legged, beautiful, and quite deadly predator, carefully circling a larger, broader woman, who circled in her turn.

 The position of the two changed sufficiently for Gordy to see the rest: The larger woman held a knife.

 Gulping, he turned and ran back the way he had come.

 Priscilla considered the knife dispassionately. It could be done. She was fast. Dagmar was slow. Her objective was only to dispose of the blade—shewas no knife fighter.

 Priscilla moved.

 Dagmar twisted—so slooow—and Priscilla's fingers swept through hers, dislodging the evil, humming thing and sending it spinning into the shadows. The larger woman finished her twist and slammed heavily into her opponent, trying to grab and hold two slender wrists in a big hand, hugging her tight, and Priscilla could not breathe…

 "Here now, here now! That'll be enough ofthat kind of carrying on!" Strong hands grabbed and pulled—and breath returned.

 Priscilla sagged backward, too grateful for the boon of air to resent the hand irons so competently slapped into place. Dagmar, she saw presently, was in worse shape. She had apparently taken a stunner charge and was retching against the wall, her face already beginning to purple.

 The cop finished affixing irons and turned away—and his eyebrows went up with his stunner. "All right, my boy, fun's over. Give it to me, please."

 Gordy blinked, reversed the vibroknife, and held it out. The cop took it gingerly, then jerked the comm from the boy's belt and clipped it to his own.

 "That's mine!"

 "Then you'll get it back after the trial. Hold out your hands."

 "I won't wear irons." The round chin was rigid.

 "Then you'll go unconscious, over my shoulder." The cop considered him. "Might drop you, though."

 Gordy looked over the man's shoulder at Priscilla. She managed a ragged smile and a nod. He held out his hands.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ARSDRED PORT
MAGISTRATE'S CHAMBER
LOCAL YEAR 728
EVENING BAZAAR

 The exhibits were on a table against the far left wall: a vibroknife, a portable comm, a pile of glittering shards that had once represented a triglant at rest.

 The prisoners were to the right. The slender woman and the boy sat next to each other, as far away as possible from the bulky woman with the battered face. Sedatives had been administered to all, in keeping with the magistrate's order. Though there had been no renewal of hostilities, the arresting officer was keeping a sharp eye out. One never knew with outworlders.

 Priscilla fought the tranquilizing haze, struggling for clear thought. They were waiting, the cop had said, for the arrival of a ranking officer fromDaxflan and fromDutiful Passage so that the trial could commence.

 Kayzin Ne'Zame, Priscilla thought laboriously. She dislikes me—here's a Goddess-sent opportunity for her to be rid of me altogether.

 Lina. What would Lina think? Would Priscilla be allowed to speak with her, explain what had happened, before thePassage left orbit? She caught her breath, her mind suddenly clear of fog, aware of a nearly overmastering desire to fling herself down and sob.

 Fool, she told herself harshly. You should have run.

 There was a rustle of robes in the outer hallway, and Gordy shifted next to her. "Maybe that's the judge," he said drowsily. "I sure hope so. Crelm, Priscilla! Do you know how late we are? Shan's gonnaskin me!"

 Her reply was cut off by the arresting officer.

 "All rise for Magistrate Kelbar!"

 She stood; she started when Gordy slipped his hand into hers, and then squeezed his fingers.

 "That's you, too!" the cop was telling Dagmar, who mumbled something and climbed to her feet.

 Magistrate Kelbar swept into the room, an imposing figure in his sun-yellow robes of office. Out of stern brown eyes he considered the three of them before seating himself with a flourish upon his throne. He waved a hand in a languid gesture that the cop translated sharply.

 "Prisoners sit!"

 Dagmar grunted and slouched back onto her bench. Priscilla sat quietly, though Gordy heaved a sigh.

 Let it be done quickly, Goddess, Priscilla prayed.

 As if in answer to that thought, the door was opened from without, admitting a small, fair man.

 Sav Rid Olanek had been called from a party, Priscilla thought: His shirt was shimmering rose silk; the pale trousers surely were velvet. Jewels glittered in his ears, on his hands, and from the buckle of his belt, and around his throat was a titanium collar worth double the pay she would never collect at Solcintra.

 Recognizing a person of consequence, the magistrate snapped his fingers at the prisoners to rise and swept forward. "Good evening, gentle sir!" he said in affable Trade, extending a wide hand. "I am sorry to have had to summon you here. A small matter, I am sure, and easily settled, once your honored colleague arrives. I am Magistrate Kelbar."

 He was accorded a flickering glance from bright blue eyes, and the barest possible bow. "I am Sav Rid Olanek, Trader onDaxflan , out of Liad," he said coldly. "I am afraid you may be too optimistic, however." He pointed at Priscilla, who returned his gaze with determined serenity. "Thatperson is a desperate criminal. She is without doubt a thief. What else she may be—"

 "Good evening!" a voice called in cheerful Terran, preceding its owner into the room by a heartbeat. Sav Rid Olanek bit off the rest of his sentence, and Priscilla felt Gordy shift next to her.

 It was not Kayzin Ne'Zame, after all.

 He wore a shirt barely less bright than his hair, and soft black trousers. His belt buckle was merely silver, its design changing from a fanciful bird to an impossible flower as Priscilla watched. An amethyst drop exactly matching the color of the gem in his master's ring hung from his right ear.

 He was the most welcome sight Priscilla had ever beheld. It'll be all right now, she told herself, and didn't even wonder why she thought so.

 He smiled at the magistrate and bowed easily, then came forward with hand outstretched. "I'm Shan yos'Galan, sir. Am I very late? Forgive me, please. I was at Herr Sasoni's—but perhaps I should say no more. Except that I was on the verge of concluding a very—interesting—piece of business, so it was fortunate your message reached me when it did."

 The magistrate actually laughed, taking the more slender hand in his. "But this is dreadful!" he cried. "Surely you were able to procure her key for later use? I should never forgive myself, sir—"

 "No matter," the captain interrupted easily. "I'm sure we'll be able to clear this matter up in a moment or two, and I'll return—whatis the matter, by the way, sir? I—" He turned his head, eyes alighting, apparently for the first time, on his glaring colleague.

 "Good evening, Sav Rid," he said politely in the Liaden High Tongue.

 "You!" the other snarled.

 "Well, of course, me. I couldn't very well be anyone else, could I? Has this little inconvenience put you out of temper? I'm sure we'll be shut of it in a moment. The magistrate seems very amiable, don't you think? As I just said to him—but I've forgotten, you don't speak Terran, do you? A sad pity, since so many other people do, but no doubt you have your reasons."

 "I do, and they are not yours to inquire into." Trader Olanek waved his hand in their direction, though his eyes did not leave the captain. "You might wish to turn your limited understanding to the matter at hand. It may be that you have undervalued the inconvenience."

 "Yes?" The silver eyes swept the three of them vaguely. "Well, I must say, your crew member—I assume she is yours—looks as if she's taken rather a tumble. In her cups, perhaps. But you're too experienced a Trader to allow a little drunken sport among the crew to spoil your whole evening."

 "Gentles?" Magistrate Kelbar said in firm Trade. "If we may get on with the hearing? I am certain we would all rather be elsewhere." He resumed his seat with another flourish and waved the prisoners forward. "Will you two gentlemen please identify these persons?"

 Trader Olanek pointed. "That is Dagmar Collier, second mate onDaxflan ."

 "And, as her superior officer, you are willing to speak for her?"

 After a slight hesitation, the Trader said, "Yes."

 "And the two remaining," the captain said cheerily, "are mine, sir. The young gentleman is Gordon Arbuthnot, cabin boy on theDutiful Passage and my kinsman—"

 "You mean to say you acknowledge that connection?" The Trader's High Liaden carried outrage. "It's full Terran! Have you no sense of the honor due your Clan?"

 "Well, we'rehalf Terran, after all," the captain said mildly. "You knew that, didn't you, when you propositioned my sister? And he's a good lad."

 "You cannot be serious."

 "He is under Korval's wing." The captain's inflection shifted subtly, his voice nearly cold. "Do not mistake me."

 "Pah! Korval's wing unfurls too far for health. Does the same apply to the bitch beside him?"

 She stiffened, outrage erupting—

 "Priscilla!" the captain snapped, and she stilled, cheeks flaming.

 "You keep it on a short leash," the Trader commented. "How much do you pay it? Or does it serve for the pleasure of looking at your beautiful face?"

 The captain shook his head. "On Priscilla Mendoza's home world, Sav Rid, you would have just now uttered an insult demanding your death for balance. It's fortunate, isn't it, that her knowledge of our tongue is a scholar's? But I am forgetting my manners again! You are acquainted!" The light eyes were on her. "Have you no greeting for the honored Trader?"

 She stared at him. Did he really expect her—And then she smiled, recalling another of Fin Ton's lessons. Loosing Gordy's hand, she bowed low.

 "Forgive me the situation, Master Trader," she said in her careful High Liaden, "and believe me all joy to see you."

 "What!" Sav Rid cried, visibly shaken. "How is it possible that—"

 "Gentles," the magistrate said. "I must insist that we keep to the matter at hand."

 "Of course, sir." The captain was contrite. "Do forgive us. My colleague is an avid student of lineage and sought enlightenment regarding Gordon's place in the family tree. To continue, indeed. The lady with the torn shirt is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. She is under personal contract to the captain of theDutiful Passage , serving as librarian, pilot, and apprentice second mate." He smiled. "I'm quite happy to speak for both of them."

 What was this? Pilot? Second mate in training? Priscilla tried to recall the precise phrasing of her contract, but the magistrate's voice defeated the effort.

 "As all three have someone in authority to speak for them, the hearing now commences. What we know is this: Yonder knife is the property of Dagmar Collier. We have taken imprint readings and find it to be so. She does not deny it.

 "It is important to note that two other sets of prints are found on the hilt, besides those of the arresting officer those of Gordon Arbuthnot, and a faint, very blurred set which we believe to be those of Priscilla Mendoza." The magistrate paused to clear his throat importantly.

 "We will hear from the arresting officer."

 The cop's statement was brief and to the point. He had been hailed by Gordon Arbuthnot, who cried that there was a fight in Halvington Street. Arriving on the scene, he had found "those two persons there" in close embrace, the larger apparently engaged in squeezing the smaller breathless. The arresting officer was of the opinion that this project was near completion and so had administered a judicial stunner blast to the larger person, hand-ironed both combatants, and turned to find Gordon Arbuthnot with "that knife, there, sir," in his hand. So, in the interest of fair play, Gordy had been ironed as well, and all three brought in. The officer paused, scratched his head, and added that he had also taken from Gordon Arbuthnot a small rectangular object with a belt clip—very likely a portable comm and no harm to it. But at the time he had seen no reason to take unnecessary chances.

 "Quite right," the captain said approvingly, and the cop grinned shyly.

 The magistrate motioned him back. "We will now hear from Dagmar Collier."

 Dagmar came forward slowly and darted a glance at Trader Olanek. He did not meet her eyes.

 She made a woeful attempt to square her shoulders. Her voice when she spoke was hoarse, the words mushy. I hope I broke every tooth in her mouth, Priscilla thought.

 "Prissy and me are old friends," Dagmar was telling the magistrate. "Used to serve onDaxflan together. It was just natural for me to go over and say 'hey' when I saw her walkin' down the street." She shrugged. "Must've been drunk, I guess, Your Honor, 'cause she just hauled off and hit me."

 There was a short pause before the magistrate asked dryly, "Is that your statement of the affair?"

 Dagmar blinked. "Yessir."

 "I see. We are willing to hear you again, should something else occur to you after Priscilla Mendoza speaks."

 Priscilla stood forward. "Ms. Collier and I were never friends," she began hotly. "She has stolen from me and sold my things to a—a thrift shopon Parkton—"

 The magistrate raised his hand. "That is not the issue at trial here. Please limit your remarks to the incident in Halvington Street."

 Priscilla bit her lip. "I saw Ms. Collier in Halvington Street," she began again, "as I was on my way back to the port. She spoke to me. I returned the greeting and tried to pass on. Ms. Collier blocked my way and grabbed me—Ibelieve she intended rape, but that may be unjust. At the time it seemed exactly what she meant, and I—" she broke off, her eyes seeking the captain's. "I lost my temper," she said wryly. He nodded, and she turned back to the magistrate.

 "I tried to defend myself against what I thought was an attack. Ms. Collier continued to block my way and at some point pulled a knife. Idid disarm her, but she grabbed me. Which is how I came to be in the absurd situation from which the officer rescued me." She sighed. "That is my statement, sir."

 "Very clear, Ms. Mendoza. Thank you."

 "I would like to point out," Sav Rid Olanek said abruptly, "that the animosity between these two individuals seems of long standing—"

 "Exactly," the captain interrupted. "In which case, Magistrate, I venture to say that each has had ample opportunity to vent her spleen. A fine, of course, is in order, for breaking the peace. But, since it is highly unlikely that they will meet again soon…"

 Magistrate Kelbar beamed at him. "I am sure you can be trusted to control the members of your crew during the rest of your time in port, sirs. My trust in your discretion prompts me not to demand that both individuals be rendered ship-bound for that period. They will, of course, be confined to the port proper. And, there is a fine." He coughed gently. "For engaging in fisticuffs in a public thoroughfare: one hundred bits each. Drawing a deadly weapon: two hundred fifty bits. Possession of said weapon without Arsdred certificate of permission: six hundred bits. Resisting arrest—" He looked up and smiled, first at Gordy, then at the captain. "I think we might dispense with that. Transport fee: fifty bits each.

 "So then, owed from Dagmar Collier, through her superior, Sav Rid Olanek: one thousand bits. Owed from Priscilla Mendoza, through her superior, Shan yos'Galan: one hundred fifty bits. Owed from Gordon Arbuthnot from his superior, Shan yos'Galan: fifty bits. You may pay cash at the teller's cage as you leave, gentles." He arose and sailed from the room, the arresting officer in his wake.

 Shan considered Olanek's set face. "One thousand bits," he murmured in sympathetic Trade. "Will it put you out of pocket, Sav Rid? I can extend a loan, if you like."

 "Thank you, I think not!" the other snapped, jerking his head at his crew member.

 Shan sighed. "So short-tempered, Sav Rid! Not sleeping well? I do hope you're not ill. At least we know you don't have a guilty conscience, don't we? By the way, Ms. Mendoza seems to have lost a very special pair of earrings. Do you know Calintak, on Medusa? Wonderful fellow, very good-tempered. And the things he can fit in just alittle bit of space: built-in sensors, trackers—that sort of thing. If you're ever in the market for something, since you wear somuch jewelry…"

 Dagmar Collier was hovering close, eyes riveted. "Sensors?" she asked with a kind of fascinated dread. "How small a space?"

 "Oh, are you interested? He's quite dear, you know—but hardly any space at all. An unexceptional earring, for instance, is all the room he needs to work in. An artist—"

 "Oh, have done!" Sav Rid snarled, turning on his heel. "Pay him no mind, he's a fool. Now, come!" He was gone, Dagmar following.

 Shan shook his head and held out a hand to Gordy, who came and slid his own into it. "Well now, children—Ms. Mendoza?"

 She was at the exhibit table, picking up the shards of crystal, one by careful one, and settling them in her palm.

 "Crelm!" Gordy muttered, and went to her side. "Priscilla, what're you doing? It's busted."

 She did not look away from her task. "It's all I own, anywhere, and I'm taking it with me." Her tone was perfectly flat, with an absence of emotion that raised the hairs on Shan's neck. He stepped forward quickly, pulled a square of silk from his sleeve, and dropped it in front of her.

 "You'll cut yourself, Priscilla. Use this."

 "Thank you." Her voice was still flat, though he fancied he detected a quiver ofsomething …

 Hand in hand, he and Gordy waited until she had finished and tied the silk into a knot. Gordy took her hand, and, so linked, they went out to pay the cashier.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 143
FIRST SHIFT
2.00 HOURS

 "You will do me the favor, won't you, Gordy," the captain murmured, "of neglecting to inform your mother that you've been arrested?"

 "Was I?" the boy asked hazily. "I mean, I wasn'treally . They didn't do anything to me."

 The man laughed. "Arrested, I assure you. The details may vary by world, but the larger outlines remain constant: irons, hearings, magistrates, fines—not at all the kind of thing mothers enjoy hearing of, even when it's carefully explained mat you were completely without blame. Which reminds me—how did your imprints come to be on that thing?"

 "Priscilla was losing," Gordy explained. "And the knife was just lying there. I was trying to figure out how it worked…"

 "Yes? To what end, please?"

 "Well, I thought if I cut Dagmar's arm, she'd let go."

 "It's a theory," the captain admitted. "Report to Pallin Kornad after breakfast, please. I see it's time you learned how to protect yourself."

 "Yes, Cap'n." He paused. "Shan?"

 "Yes, acushla?"

 "Is it—can I tell Grandad I was arrested? I didn't do anythingwrong …" This last was spoken, it seemed to Priscilla, with considerable doubt.

 A boot heel scraped on the pavement as the man went down on one knee, eyes level with Gordy's.

 "You willabsolutely tell your grandfather," he said firmly, his big hands on the boy's round shoulders. "He will be proud of you. You acted with forethought and with honor, coming to the aid of a shipmate and a friend." He cupped a soft cheek. "You did very well, Gordy. Thank you."

 "Yes." Priscilla heard her own voice from far away. "Thank you, Gordy. You saved my life."

 He blinked at her over his cousin's shoulder. "Idid !"

 She nodded, not sure what her face was doing. "She really was winning. I couldn't breathe. You did exactly right."

 She should, she thought vaguely, find something more to say, but it was unnecessary; doubt had vanished from the young face. He grinned. "I'm a hero."

 "You're an impossible monkey." The captain stood and held out his hand. "And you're well behind your time to return to the ship. Come along."

 They walked a little way in silence. The drug was gaining the upper hand again, and Priscilla stumbled; she caught herself and asked over Gordy's head, "What was that about your sister?"

 "Sav Rid's little joke," the captain said easily. "It amused him to propose marriage to the eldest of my sisters."

 "What!" Gordy was outraged. "That—person? ToCousin Nova ?"

 "Indeed, yes. Exactly Cousin Nova. Why? Do you think Anthora might suit him better? I admit it's a thought. He so fair and she so dark… But he was more enamored of fair with fair. You can't really blame him, Gordy; it's merely a matter of taste."

 "What did you do?" Gordy demanded awfully, ignoring this flow of nonsense.

 The man looked down at him. "What could I do? I was from home. Besides, Nova is well able to take care of herself. Simply told the fellow she'd rather mate with a Gehatian slimegrubber and sent him about his business." He sighed. "I'm afraid he didn't take it in very good part. Well, how was she to know he had a horror of the creatures? I'm sure she would have thought of something else just as revolting to compare him with, if she'd had the least idea. Very resourceful person, Cousin Nova. The more I think on it, the more certain I am that you're right, Gordy! Anthora would certainly suit him far better! A pity he didn't see it that way and allowed himself to be enraptured by a mere pretty face. Perhaps we should suggest—"

 "Pretty!" the boy choked. "Cousin Nova'sbeautiful ?"

 "Well," the lady's brother conceded, "she is. But I wouldn't let it weigh too heavily with you, Gordy. Sort of thing that might happen to anyone. And she's really quite clever."

 They came at length to the cradles and crossed to their shuttlepad in silence. A shadow loomed at the door, bringing two fingers up in a casual salute. "Evening, Cap'n."

 "Good evening, Seth. Two passengers for you. Take good care of them, please; they both seem a bit yawn-some—is that a word?"

 "Bound to be," the lanky pilot returned good-humouredly. "Not going up yourself?"

 "Business, Seth. Duty calls."

 "He has to get her key," Gordy said helpfully.

 "Brat." His cousin sighed. "Don't forget Pallin next shift, Gordy."

 "No, Cap'n—at least,yes , Cap'n. I'll remember."

 The captain laughed and began to move away, then checked himself and came back, fishing in his belt. "My terrible memory! I knew there was something else. Ms. Mendoza!"

 She started. "Captain?"

 He was holding out a flat rectangle, a card of some sort. She took it automatically.

 "Do take care of it, Ms. Mendoza," he chided gently. "It's really not the sort of thing you want to leave lying around. Good evening." He was gone.

 Priscilla frowned at the card, but the uncertain light or her sedative-fogged eyes defeated the attempt to identify it. She put it in her pocket with the knotted kerchief and followed Gordy into the shuttle.

 Gordy was asleep when they docked. The snap of the board being locked jerked Priscilla out of her own doze, but even the most stringent effort she was able to make would not rouse her companion from his.

 Sighing, she fumbled her webbing loose, then opened his. Her several attempts to pick him up should have roused one dead, she thought foggily, but Gordy only grumbled a few sleep syllables and tried to curl farther down into the chair. Priscilla rubbed her forehead with the back of a hand and tried to apply her mind to the problem.

 "Out for the count," Seth commented from beside her. "I gotta get back down. Can you carry him, or should we call Vilt?"

 Priscilla gave him what she hoped was a smile. "I can carry him. Getting him up is the problem."

 "Naw. Not when somebody's that far out." He bent, grabbed an arm, heaved, turned, and offered Priscilla an armful of boy.

 She took Gordy and allowed herself to be escorted to the door of the cargo dock. It slid open for her, and she stepped into the corridor, blinking a little in the directionless yellow light.

 Before her she saw, with the vivid disconnection of a dream, a bronze-winged dragon hovering. No. It was a painting on the wall, a smaller reproduction of the design in the reception room. Under Korval's wing, Priscilla recalled. She shifted her burden and began the long walk to the crew's quarters.

 She had made it, staggering only now and then, to the top of the corridor where Gordy had his room, when she heard quick steps behind her and an exclamation.

 "Priscilla! Is that Gordon? What has—is all well, my friend?"

 "Well?" She considered Lina muzzily. It took several seconds to formulate an appropriate response. "Gordy's all right. It's mostly that stupid stuff they injected us with at the police station. Makes you… makes you groggy. Half asleep, myself."

 "An." The other woman fell in beside her. "The police station? Does the captain know?"

 Priscilla nodded, then paused to regain her balance. "He came to bail us out—dear Goddess!" She stopped, arms closing convulsively around Gordy, who muttered. "Dear Goddess," she said again, though not, Lina thought, prayerfully. "One hundred fifty bits! Out of a tenth-cantra? And the clothes…" She took a hard breath and began to walk again. "Broke. No money at all."

 Lina's worry increased, but she refrained from pursuing questions, merely remarking that they had reached Gordon's room and lifting his hand to lay it against the palmlock.

 Priscilla laid him on the bed, pulled off his boots, straightened the blanket, and pulled it up. Lina stood by the door, watching and saying nothing.

 The boy disposed comfortably, Priscilla glanced around the room, and nodded slightly, then bent and ruffled the silky hair.

 "Ma?" Gordy inquired from the depths of sleep.

 She started, then completed the caress. "It's only Priscilla, Gordy. Sleep well."

 Lina followed her out, stretching her short legs to keep up with the pace her friend set, even half-drugged.

 At the top of the hall Priscilla made to turn right. Lina caught her arm. "No, Priscilla. Your room is this way."

 "Have to go to the library," she protested. "Now."

 "Not now," Lina said with decision. "Now, you must rest. The library will be in place next shift."

 Priscilla shook her head. "Have to see my contract."

 "Your contract? Priscilla, it is—conselem—an absurdity! What good does your contract do when you must sleep? You are signed until Solcintra. You may look at your contract any time these next four months. Come to bed."

 "He lied," Priscilla said flatly, a decidedly mulish look about her lovely mouth.

 Lina sighed. "Who lied? And why must—The captain lied?" She stared up at her friend. "That is not much like him, denubia. Perhaps you misunderstood."

 "I'm very tired," Priscilla said clearly, "of misunderstanding. I must see my contract."

 "Of course you must," Lina agreed. "It would be very bad to have misunderstood the captain. Let us go to your room and access the file from there." She slipped her arm around the other's waist.

 Priscilla stiffened and moved away—a very little. Lina's eyes widened, but she said nothing, only withdrew her arm. And waited.

 "All right," Priscilla said presently, the mulish look much abated. "Let's do that. Thank you, Lina."

 "I am happy to help," Lina said carefully as they turned left down the hall. "What happened, my friend?"

 There was a long pause before the taller woman shook herself and answered. "I was attacked on the street. Gordy tried to help, and we all three got arrested. They called the captain out of a party to—to speak for us."

 "Most proper," Lina said, and stopped, waiting for Priscilla to lay her palm against the lock.

 It seemed for a moment that she did not recognize her own door. Then she shifted and placed her hand in the center; when the panel slid away, she entered, with Lina trailing after.

 "Most proper," Priscilla repeated, standing in the middle of her cabin and staring around as if she had never seen the place before. She spun.

 "It costone hundred fifty bits tospeak for me!" she cried with an unexpected but wholly gratifying flare of passion. "One hundred fifty! And I'll have earned a tenth-cantra by the time we reach Solcintra,and I already owe the ship for my clothes—and all my things—my things are gone." Abruptly, she sat on the bed, running violent fingers through the curly cloud of her hair.

 Lina came forward, daring to lay her hand on a rigid shoulder. She frowned at the startled jerk. "I did not attack you on the street," she said severely.

 Priscilla looked up, apology in her eyes. Lina smiled, lifting the tips of her fingers to a pale cheek.

 "Of course I did not. I have been very well brought up." She rugged gently on an errant curl. "Of this other thing: The ship has a—legal fund. Sinceyou were attacked, I think the fund will pay the expense of your bail. It is a thing you should speak of with the captain. Was he angry with you?"

 Priscilla blinked. "I don't think so. Does he get angry?"

 Lina laughed. "If he had been so, you would not be in doubt. So, then, I would not worry about my wages. It is very likely that they remain intact. Now, allow me to call your contract up." She went to the screen.

 Behind her, Priscilla stood, moved unsteadily to the mirror shelf, and began to pull things from her pocket. The knotted silk she placed carefully to one side of the usual oddments. Patting her pocket to be sure it was empty, she felt a flat thickness—the card the captain had given her at the shuttlepad. She pulled it out and examined it, her breath catching.

 "Lina!"

 The Liaden woman was at her elbow instantly. "Yes?"

 Priscilla held out the card in a hand that was not at all steady. "What is this, please?"

 Lina subjected it to a brief, two-sided scrutiny and handed it back, smiling. "It is a provisional second class pilot's license in the name of Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. Ge'shada, my friend, you have done very well."

 "I've done very well. Done well…" Priscilla stared and suddenly threw back her head, uttering a sound so shattered that no one could have called it laughter. Then she bent double, torn with sobs.

 Lina put her arms about her and probed with a Healer's sure instinct, evading weakened defenses and slashing at the protected reservoir of pain.

 Priscilla cried out and went to her knees. Lina held her closer, withdrawing somewhat, content for the present to have the storm rage.

 After a time, the sobbing eased and she coaxed her friend to the bed. When they were lying face to face, she probed again, projecting on all possible lines.

 Priscilla stirred, sodden lashes lifting, then extended a tentative finger to trace the lines of her friend's face, exhausted wonderment on her own.

 "I see you, sister," she murmured. Then her hand fell away, and she slept, bathed in warm affection and comfort.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 143
SECOND SHIFT
6.00 HOURS

 "But why can't we sell the perfume here?" Rusty demanded, staring at Lina over a suspended forkful of ice-toast.

 The Liaden woman sighed. "It is—bah! I have for gotten the word. It is toforce one to love another, a…"

 "Aphrodisiac," Priscilla supplied, looking up from her own breakfast. "Aphrodisiacs are illegal on some planets. I guess Arsdred's one of them."

 Rusty scowled at his plate.

 "Rah Stee, do not!" Lina was laughing. "You will spoil your food! It is not so bad. We will sell at another port." She shook a slender finger in mock severity. "You believe I have given us a loss! But I claim the dice for more than one throw. You will see, my friend: the perfume will sell—and at high profit!"

 Rusty looked dubious, and Lina laughed again.

 "Priscilla?" a breathless young voice asked at her elbow. She turned her head to discover the cabin boy, clutching a box.

 "Good morning, Gordy," she said, offering him a storm-beaten smile. "I thought you were supposed to be learning self-defense first thing this shift."

 "Crelm!" he said scornfully. "I did that an hour ago!" He held out the box, plainly expecting her to take it. She did, full of wonder.

 "Cap'n's compliments," he said formally. "And his apologies for sending you planetside alone." Gordy tipped his head. "He said he was a fool, Priscilla, but he can't have meant me to tell you that, do you think?"

 "Very likely not," she agreed. "So we'll pretend you didn't."

 "Right. Gotta jet. Morning, Lina! Rusty!"

 She sat holding the box in her lap until Rusty inquired, a little impatiently, if she was not going to open it.

 "Yes, of course," she murmured, making no move to do so. Allowing me planetside alone? A test, Goddess? she wondered. To see if I would choose revenge, after all? It occurred to her to wonder if the captain's watch over her had been rather closer than she had supposed. She shook her head and reached for a blunt-edged jelly knife.

 The sealing tape broke easily. She laid the knife aside and unfolded the flaps. The box contained several objects, each wrapped in bright gossamer paper.

 Very slowly, she pulled out the first object. She unwrapped it as slowly, refusing to acknowledge what weight and shape told her until her eyes added irrefutable evidence.

 The object was a rosewood comb, intricately carved with a pattern of stars and flowers, the tines satin-smooth from years of being pulled through a waist-length cascade and, more recently, a brief, unruly mop of hair.

 Priscilla took a breath, laid the comb aside, and returned to the box. One by one she uncovered them: the brush and hand mirror that matched the comb, several fired-clay figurines, a thin folder of flatpix, a brass-bound kaleidoscope, four bound books, nine music-tapes, and three thin silver bangles.

 Priscilla held the bangles in her hand for a moment before laying them with the other things. Once, there had been seven: the full complement of a Maiden-near-Wife. Four she had sold at different times, as need had dictated. They would have been worth far more as a set, sold to a collector of the occult. She never let one go without a wrench that was almost a physical illness.

 She laid the bracelets carefully beside the other objects. In the bottom of the box was one more item: a small red velvet box. Frowning, she picked it up.

 "What is all this?" Rusty demanded, breaking the silence that had fallen on the three of them.

 "My—things," Priscilla said hesitantly. "My personal things that were left behind onDaxflan ." She held out the red box. "Except this. I don't know…" She lifted the lid.

 Earrings.

 Nother earrings, which had been ornate and old. These were new, not at all ornate, just simple hoops; their plain design was deceptive, for the weight and sheen said platinum, and the individual who had crafted them had signed each with a proud flourish.

 Priscilla looked at Lina. "They're not mine."

 "Ah."

 "Why?" Priscilla whispered.

 Lina moved her shoulders. "He sent apologies. Perhaps he felt you were owed. You should, perhaps, ask."

 "Yes…" She closed the lid carefully and put the box with the rest of the items.

 Rusty picked up the kaleidoscope and peered through it. "Nice," he murmured.

 "Mother, look at the time!" Priscilla cried suddenly, pushing her chair back. "I'm as bad as Gordy! And Ken Rik will skin me! Lina—"

 "I will take care of them," her friend said, picking up the mirror and beginning to rewrap it. She looked up with a fond smile. "Go. Give Ken Rik a kiss for me."

 "You do it, if you want him kissed," Priscilla retorted, and was gone.

 Rusty picked up a piece of tissue and clumsily crumpled it around the kaleidoscope. "Funny sort of thing for the cap'n to do," he said thoughtfully.

 Lina glanced up. "Do you think so?"

 "Yah, I do." He looked at her closely before returning to the remains of his breakfast. "And don't try to bamboozle me into thinking you don't think so, either. We been on too many rounds together for that to pass."

 "Well," Lina said conscientiously, "there are many reasons why he might do so."

 Rusty grinned and drank the rest of his coffee. "Knew you were fuzzed," he said triumphantly, pushing back his chair. "You think of more than one, come on up to the tower and tell me what it is."

 Ken Rik had done no more than glare at her rather breathless arrival. He slapped a clipboard in her hand and set her to supervising the emptying of Hold 4, adding a caustic rider to the effect that he hoped she knew enough to balance the load properly for the shuttle.

 Priscilla rounded her eyes at him. "Thank you," she said in an awed whisper. "I would never have done it without a reminder. Lina said you were kind."

 The old man looked at her suspiciously, saying he knew very well Lina had said no such thing. But Priscilla thought he sounded somewhat less cross.

 Hold 4 contained the agricultural plants belmekit and trasveld, both stasis-held items; both on their way—so the clipboard informed her—to the warehouses of one Herr Polifant Sasoni, Offworld Bazaar, Arsdred. The last pallet came up on her board as "samples." She followed the jitney bearing it to the shuttlebay, her mind on breakfast.

 Ken Rik took the clipboard, rechecked her figures, approved the weight distributions with a sniff, and waved her into the shuttle.

 Automatically, Priscilla started for the copilot's place, to be sharply called to book by her companion.

 "Are you a moonling?" he demanded, dropping into the co's chair himself. Priscilla stared at him until he snorted in exasperation and pointed at the board. "Come along, woman! Don't waste my time."

 "You want me to take us down?"

 "No, I want the shuttle to fly itself," Ken Rik snapped with relish. "I am told you are a pilot. You will, therefore, pilot." He folded his arms over chest and webbing, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

 Priscilla webbed into the pilot's chair. Slowly at first, then with more assurance, she ran her fingers over the board, calling up rotations, distance, wind speeds, upper atmosphere. Then she chose her approach, cleared the site, and signaled ready.

 They left thePassage in a neat tumble, skimming toward the planet in a matching arc, hit atmosphere a little later with the barest possible bump, and slid into the approach approved by Arsdred Port. The wind gave her a little trouble, but she managed to hold the craft steady, her teeth indenting her lower lip, her hand unfaltering over the board.

 In a glass-smooth glide, they settled on the pad. Priscilla rechecked and locked the board, then flipped the toggles that unsealed the hatch and snapped her webbing loose.

 Ken Rik was already standing. "Not too bad," he allowed grumpily, "for a first attempt."

 Priscilla grinned. "Praise, indeed."

 "Hmmph," Ken Rik said, and turned away.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ARSDRED
OFFWORLD BAZAAR
LOCAL YEAR 728
DAWN BAZAAR

 "In addition," said the fat man in the electric purple overrobe, "we have fourteen dozens of the finest quality firegems in a multitude—a double rainbow!—of colors. It is certain that the honored Trader must feel impelled to acquire so worthy an item."

 Shan took a careful puff on the hookah that his host had so graciously provided for him. The smoke was narcotic—mildly to the individual across from him, rather more than that to even a large Liaden well fortified with anti-intoxicants.

 "Firegems," he said, blowing a thoughtful smoke ring. "But surely the honored merchant jests. Why should I wish to purchase firegems of any quality, when all the galaxy carries them? More profitable to ship ice. Or atmosphere."

 The fat man smiled with unimpaired good humor. "I see the honored Trader is a man of discrimination, with an eye for the beautiful and the rare. Now, it happens that we also have in our warehouses Tusodian silks of the first looming, elbam liqueur, essence of joberkemey, praqilly furleng, tobacco such as we now enjoy…"

 The honored Trader yawned and blew another smoke ring. "Herr Minata, do, please, forgive me! When Herr Sasoni spoke of you—of your warehouses, the rarities—but I misunderstood! My command of your language falls short. A thousand apologies for having wasted your time, sir! Believe me, your most obedient…" He stood, bowed with more courtesy than abjectness, and turned to go.

 "Master Trader!"

 He turned back, concern apparent in his face. "Yes, Herr Minata? How may I serve you?"

 The fat man dropped his eyes and toyed with a fold of his robe. "Perhaps we might speak again," he suggested delicately.

 "That would be pleasant," Shan said with apparent delight. "We will have our pavilion in Ochre Square within the port, as always. Anyone will tell you the way. Please do come. I will be most happy to see you there."

 He bowed again and turned away. This time the merchant let him go.

 Outside, Shan took a deep breath of double-baked air and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation.That fish was well netted and no mistake. Praqilly furleng—essence that was mere perfume for some, and a religious necessity for others—Tusodian silks… a vivid mind-picture of Priscilla Mendoza draped in diaphanous garnet silk presented itself for his inspection.

 That will do, he told himself sternly, banishing the picture and merging with the flow of pedestrians heading toward the Outworld Bazaar. The sample case would be down by now, and Ken Rik would surely have something choice to say if his captain were not present at the raising of the pavilion in Ochre Square.

 The shipment had been taken to Heir Sasoni's warehouse and handed over to a capable-looking young man who inspected the packing and gravely counted the crates before signing the receipt and handing it back.

 Returning to Ochre Square and Ken Rik, Priscilla maintained a sedate pace through the bustling pedestrian and jitney traffic, prolonging her first opportunity for quiet thought since the previous evening's encounter with Dagmar.

 The second class provisional in her pocket had proved to be neither counterfeit nor imaginary. Sworn to by Master Pilot Shan yos'Galan, it had been issued and registered at the Arsdred branch of the Galactic Pilots Commission yesterday.

 A pilot—even a provisional second class pilot—could always find work, she thought, steering her jitney carefully through a crowded corner. The red and yellow plastic card in her pocket represented a solid, respectable future; it represented a breathing space, if she required one when they hit Solcintra, before looking about for another berth.

 She slowed as she reached another knot of traffic, then stopped as it became apparent that the driver of the jitney stuck sideways across the thoroughfare was going to be some time in righting his error. Sighing, she leaned back and ran her eyes absently along the crowded street.

 What a difference from Jankalim! The air was filled with the whine of jitney motors and the deeper throbbing hum of the monotrains running on the maze of catwalks and rails that roofed the whole of the port. And, of course, voices: raised in conversation, song, argument.

 Priscilla yawned and reached for the thread of her thoughts. She had not yet reviewed her contract. That was the first thing to be attended to, next off-shift. Then she would speak with the captain.

 With her eyes on the bustling, bright crowds, it occurred to her that she had several things to speak with the captain about. That he should restore her belongings was a puzzle. Lina had said something about owing, but that made no sense. She was Terran; no Liaden could feel honor-bound to balance accounts with her. And if honor had not prompted him to return her things, what in Her name did a gift of earrings mean?

 Priscilla sat up suddenly, eyes sharpening on the crowd, catching sight of a familiar bulky figure just turning the corner into Tourmaline Way.

 Dagmar.

 Her hands clenched the steering rod convulsively even as her breath hissed out between her teeth. Stop it! she ordered herself sharply. That one who has been in the service of the Goddess should feel hatred for a fellow being…

 She swallowed hard and sent her thoughts back to the comfort of her friend—to meet with mockery even there. Done well, Lina?

 "C'mon, honey—move that thing! Coast's clear!"

 Priscilla shook herself, automatically shifted into gear, and sent the jitney forward again, resolutely declining to think of anything at all.

 "Took your time, did you?" Ken Rik asked, though not with the air of one who expected an answer. "Found the warehouseman amusing?"

 "There was a jitney jammed across Coral Square," Priscilla said tonelessly, sliding out of the seat and offering him the clipboard.

 He took the board and glanced at her sharply. Priscilla shrugged. Sharp glances, after all, were not unusual in the old cargo master.

 "All right," he said after a moment. "Help me with the samples. When the captain arrives, the pavilion will be raised."

 "And the captainhas arrived, so work may proceed without interruption," concluded that gentleman, walking toward them with a grin. "Thank the gods. I was certain I was late and living in terror of a tongue-lashing, Master Ken Rik!"

 "You're a bad boy, Captain," the old man said repressively.

 "My expectations fulfilled! Thank you, old friend. Now—" He spun slowly on one heel, surveying the immediate neighborhood. "Wonderful, a temporary-permanent next door. We shall ignore it, secure in the knowledge of our superior taste. The southeast corner, I think, Ken Rik, and we'll have the nerligig for catching eyes. Heir Sasoni's order has been safely delivered?"

 "Priscilla Mendoza has just returned from the warehouse. The trip down was unexceptional."

 "Unexceptional?" Priscilla demanded. "You told me it wasn't too bad."

 Ken Rik sniffed and burrowed into the depths of the sample crate.

 "Carried away by exuberance," the captain explained. "It's the sort of thing that happens to Ken Rik rather often. My father had to speak to him frequently."

 The subject of this palpable untruth turned his head to glare. "Are you going to help raise this pavilion or not?"

 "Absolutely! Nothing could induce me to miss such an undertaking! I was only just now having the most delightful chat with Merchant Heir Minata. We could have gone on for hours, so at one did we find ourselves on all matters of importance. But no, I said to him, making my excuse, Imust go and help raise the pavilion, for Master Ken Rik rules me with an iron hand."

 A small sound escaped Priscilla, somewhere between a sneeze and a cough. The captain looked at her curiously.

 "Are you well, Ms. Mendoza?"

 "Perfectly, sir. Thank you." She took hold of the slippery pavilion cloth and kept her eyes lowered.

 "Now," Ken Rik said, shoving a portion of fabric into the captain's hands, "we begin."

 It took some time to arrange the corners to Ken Rik's satisfaction. Eventually it was accomplished; the valves were closed, and the pavilion began to inflate.

 Priscilla, standing a little way back and watching the first wriggling upheaval, caught sight of a tip of bronze against the bright yellow fabric and inclined her head, as if welcoming a friend.

 "Is Korval the dragon or the tree?" she wondered to no one in particular.

 "Neither," the captain said. "Or both. The Tree is Jelaza Kazone, originally the cipher for Clan Torvin—Line yos'Phelium. The Dragon is Megelaar, for Clan Alkia—Line yos'Galan. Together they're Clan Korval."

 She frowned a little. 'Two Clans merged to make one?"

 "Oh, well," he said, smiling, "they really didn't have a choice. Cantra yos'Phelium was the only member of her Clan on the colony ship—when it landed on Liad, you understand—except for her unborn child. Tor An yos'Galan was in the same fix. At least he wasn't pregnant, so perhaps his fix was worse. She had been pilot; he'd been co. When they finally raised a world—landed the ship safely—she asked him to raise her heir, should something happen to her. He accepted it, poor child, ready to abandon Alkia to the void and become Clan Torvin. But Cantra seems to have been a fair-minded sort of person, among her other faults, so Torvinand Alkia ceased to be, and Clan Korval emerged." He moved his shoulders. "Family history. But you asked for it."

 "Yes, I did. Your Clan was made when the ship landed on Liad?" Priscilla was still frowning; it seemed a very long time.

 "A young House," he said cheerfully. "An upstart. There are some who trace their ancestry back to the Old World. Sav Rid's family, for instance—"

 "Captain?" Ken Rik said from the seat of the jitney. "I'll go to Thessel's now and see if there's news. Unless you would rather go?"

 "I," the captain said, "would rather get my hands dirty setting up the nerligig. By all means go to Thessel. Anddo say all those polite things she seems to find so necessary to her comfort."

 Unexpectedly, Ken Rik grinned. The jitney slid easily into the flow of traffic, heading west.

 The captain wandered over to the sample case, rummaged about for a few moments, and emerged with a toolbox in one hand and a dark nerligig in the other.

 Dropping the toolbox, he sat on a crate before the slowly inflating pavilion and put the nerligig on his knees.

 "Might as well put waiting to work," he murmured with the air of quoting someone. "Why don't you take a walk, Ms. Mendoza? There's nothing for you to do here right now."

 Priscilla hesitated, nettled by this casual dismissal.

 But his head was bent over the mechanism, and he was to all appearances absorbed in making the necessary adjustments, so she eventually stalked away.

 Ochre Square was a crowded, busy block under the shadow of the monotrain station. Over the buzz of the track, the jitney traffic kept up a perpetual whine. Priscilla considered the other Traders' displays and tents from a distance that said she was not a potential customer. Several things tempted her, and she regretted her lost money. Presumably Dagmar had kept the cash she had found in Priscilla's cabin.

 He was still concentrating on his work when Priscilla came leisurely back toward the fully inflated pavilion with its striking dragon and tree design. It was comforting, she thought suddenly, to see him there, patiently working, the big, clever hands manipulating the tools with precision.

 Frowning, she shook her head. There was no reason at all for her to be comforted by the captain's presence, yet twice now she had distinctly had that sensation. She was not altogether certain she approved of it. Irritably, she looked away.

 The jitney was driverless. It was speeding, helped along by the double load gripped in its front claw. And it was on a collision course with thePassage's tent.

 Later, Priscilla was never sure if she had run or merely flung herself across the distance that separated them. She struck the captain with brutal force and knocked him rolling from the crate, rolling herself as he twisted away, hearing sounds of destruction from too near at hand until she caught up, gasping, against the wall of the temporary-permanent.

 She came to her knees, horror-filled.

 He lay a little distance from her, his back against the wall, his eyes closed. If he was breathing, he was going about it very quietly.

 "Captain?" she whispered. She laid her hand along his cheek.

 The slanted brows contracted, and the dark lashes snapped up. "Don't do that, Priscilla."

 "All right." She dropped her hand and looked at him uncertainly. "Are you hurt?"

 "No," he said shortly. "I'm not hurt." He sat up and looked past her, his silver eyes enormous. Priscilla turned.

 The pavilion was gone, tangled crazily about something that surged and tottered and whined like a nettled wilmaby. A crowd was beginning to gather.

 "Your arm please, Priscilla," said the captain, eyes still on the wreckage.

 She rose and offered a hand. He accepted the aid and linked his arm in hers, his hand curved lightly about her wrist.

 "Captain?" she said softly, hating to say it but certain it should be said. "I saw Dagmar earlier, on Tourmaline Way…"

 "She has a right to be here, Priscilla; this is the port. Ah, a policeman. How nice." He started toward that official, and, arm-linked, she went with him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 143
SECOND SHIFT
10.30 HOURS

 Thankfully, the library was empty. Priscilla had no wish to speak to anyone at the moment, not even Lina. She located an isolated screen by the door to the pet library and sat down, fumbling with the keys.

 The interview with the policeman at the port had been interesting. Disentangled, the jitney was identified by an emaciated gentleman in cherry and white robes as belonging to his employer, one Herr Reyes. He had noticed its absence approximately twenty minutes before and had reported the disappearance to the police before undertaking a rather lengthy walk back into the city. By coincidence he had been turning into Ochre Square as the Tree and Dragon suddenly shrieked, shuddered, and folded in on itself.

 A quick examination by the policeman at the site showed that the steering rod bore no imprints at all.

 At that point Priscilla had opened her mouth. The captain's fingers tightened briefly on her wrist. Priscilla closed her mouth.

 This happened three more times during the course of the captain's conversation with the cop and once as he was speaking with a visibly shaken Ken Rik. He then gave Priscilla into the cargo master's care and instructed him to escort her to the shuttle.

 "What!" she cried. "Why?"

 The captain returned her stare calmly. "You've had a hard shift, Priscilla. Take the rest of it off and come to me at prime. Be back as soon as you can, Ken Rik. There's a bit of cleanup to do. I'll be speaking with Merchant Reyes's clerk." He had turned away.

 The screen chimed, bringing her back to the present. She fed in her request, then waited a few anxious moments until the proper file was retrieved and displayed.

 SERVICE RECORD. PRISCILLA DELACROIX Y MENDOZA.

 She began to scroll through it impatiently. Suddenly she hit PAUSE and went back a screen.

 STANDARD 1385, TULON. TEMPORARY BERTHDAXFLAN, CARGO MASTER. TRANSSHIP JANKALIM AS AGREEDDUTIFUL PASSAGE, PILOT (PROV SEC), LIBRARIAN. NOTATION: COMMAND POTENTIAL; SECOND MATE TRAINING INSTITUTED.

 She read it twice, each time going back to the beginning and scanning every line to the end. There was no mention of thievery or of jumping ship.TRANSSHIPPED JANKALIM AS AGREED.

 At the end of the file she paused again, staring at the certification from the registry office on VanDyk.

 It was dated one Standard Week ago.

 "Impossible," she told the screen.

 The words persisted. She read them again and keyed in her next request.

 CONTRACT SIGNED BETWEEN PRISCILLA DELACROIX Y MENDOZA, FIRST PARTY, AND SHAN YOS'GALAN AS CAPTAIN,DUTIFUL PASSAGE, SECOND PARTY. FIRST PARTY SHALL AGREE TO PERFORM DUTIES INHERENT IN THE POSTS OF PET LIBRARIAN AND ALSO TO UNDERTAKE PILOT TRAINING ONE SHIP WATCH OF EVERY NINE, WITHOUT FAIL, AND ALSO TO UNDERTAKE ANY ADDITIONAL TRAINING OR DUTY DEEMED REASONABLE AND JUST BY SECOND PARTY.

 Priscilla leaned back. There it was. She briefly and belatedly recalled advice given a much younger Priscilla: "I tell you what, youngster. Don't you ever sign a Liaden's contract. I don't care how careful you read it. If he won't sign yours, let the deal go. Safer that way."

 Still, there was nothing wrong with undergoing second mate's training. She would have appreciated being told, but she was sure that he had meant it for the best.

 It was not until she had cleared the screen and left the library that it occurred to her to wonder why sheshould be sure of it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 143
THIRD SHIFT
16.00 HOURS

 Priscilla exited the lift and walked resolutely toward the captain's office. She was dressed in the yellow shirt and khaki trousers she had worn when she first walked down this hall. In her pocket was the provisional second class. The rest of her belongings were in the cabin that had been hers, the clothes neatly folded and stacked beside the scrounged plastic box. She must remember to tell the captain to offer the bracelets to a collector. The price they would bring as curios would go far toward paying her debt to the ship.

 She rounded the corner by Hold 6 and nearly walked into Kayzin Ne'Zame.

 The first mate recovered first and swept a surprising bow, as deep as one would accord the captain, augmented by an odd little flourish that mystified Priscilla entirely.

 "We are well met, Priscilla Mendoza," she said in a light, quick voice much unlike her usual manner of speech. "I have been remiss in offering you an apology for my behavior several shifts gone by, when we spoke near the central computer." She took a breath and looked up. "Pray forgive it. I was discourteous and in error."

 Priscilla blinked, collected herself immediately, and bowed in turn, though not as deeply, nor did she attempt to copy the flourish.

 "Do me the honor of putting the incident from your mind, Kayzin Ne'Zame. I shall do the same."

 The Liaden woman inclined her head. "You are kind. It shall be as you have said. I leave you now."

 "Be well, Kayzin Ne'Zarae," Priscilla murmured, laying her hand against the captain's door. "Cornel-He was standing, hands hooked in his belt, his bright head bent over a chess problem. It was a new one, Priscilla saw, and she wondered if the other had had a solution, after all. He glanced up as the door closed and smiled. "Hello, Priscilla. Did you rest well this past shift?"

 "I visited Master Frodo for a while," she said, hesitating between desk chairs and couch.

 "A very restful companion. I've always found him so, at any rate. Ken Rik labels him terminally cute. But Ken Rik likes snakes. What may I give you to drink?"

 "Nothing, thank you, Captain." She decided on one of the chairs before his desk, drifted over, and perched on the arm.

 "Nothing?" The slanted brows drew together as he crossed the rug. "Are you angry, Priscilla? Or am I angry? If it's me, I assure you that I'm not. And if it's you—but surely you knew I had to send you away? It would have been unforgivable to keep you by, especially when I'd put you in so much danger already."

 "You put me in danger?" She stared at him. "It's the other way around, Captain. I putyou in danger. Which is why I would rather not accept a drink. I'm not stopping long." She forced herself to meet his eyes calmly. "I think it would be wisest for me to leave thePassage immediately."

 "Do you?" He paused. "What a very odd notion of wisdom. If you were staying long enough to have a drink, Priscilla, what would you prefer? Purely hypothetical, of course." The light eyes were mocking her.

 "Idle speculation, since I'm not staying that long," she said crisply. "I came only to say that—"

 "It would be wisest for you to leave thePassage immediately," the captain interrupted, holding up his hands placatingly. "Youdid say it. I heard you. Now, Priscilla, please pay attention—this is very important. You might at least have some consideration for my feelings in the matter. I'm thirsty, and you're telling nonsense stories, which you could as easily tell while having a glass of wine with me like a civilized person." He tipped his head. "Do strive for some courtesy, Priscilla."

 She felt laughter rising and clamped down, with limited success. A small sound woefully reminiscent of a hiccup emerged. "Red, please," she said, glaring.

 "Red," he repeated, moving toward the bar. "An excellent choice, as even Gordy will tell you. Though, of course, there's nothing wrong with the white or the jade or theblue ." He was back and handing her a cut-crystal glass. Her fingers curved around the stem automatically. "And the red won't ruin your taste for prime—you will have time to dine with me, won't you, Priscilla? I agree that I should have first found if your schedule was clear, but it did seem rude to ask you to come to speak with me at dinnertime and then rob you of dinner."

 She sipped her wine and tried again. "Captain, surely you must see that the longer I stay with you—with thePassage —the more danger you're in? If I'm gone, then you—"

 "Priscilla, you have a woeful tendency toward single-mindedness," he interrupted, sitting on the edge of the desk and swinging a leg.

 She clamped her jaw and stood. "Thank you for all you've done, Captain, but I really must be going."

 "You can't do that, Priscilla; you have a contract. You're bound to this ship until Solcintra. That's four months, as the route runs. You don't have the buy-off fee, do you? I didn't think so." He raised his glass. "It looks like you're stuck, child. Might as well sit down and finish your wine."

 "I'm not a child!"

 "Well, I can't be expected to know that, can I, if you persist in acting like one? You really must try to curb these tastes for melodrama and resignation."

 "Melodrama!" She glared at him, her fingers ominously tight about the glass. "At least I'm not highhanded and—"

 "High-handed!"

 "High-handed," she asserted with relish. "And dictatorial. Andobstinate . As if you couldn't see why—"

 "High-handed! Of all the—Priscilla, when we reach Solcintra, I engage to introduce you to my brother's Aunt Kareen. Callme high-handed! Before that, you'd best improve your grasp of the High Tongue—your accent'sexecrable . And another thing! How dare you profess yourself all joy to see me? Have you no sense of propriety? I hardly know you."

 "Nor will you know me any better," she stated, suddenly calm. She set her glass on the edge of his desk. "Because I'm leaving. Contract or not. Sue me."

 "I won't. But I will arrest you, if you force me to it." He was in front of her, his face quite serious. "Priscilla, have some sense. Don't you realize you saved my life this afternoon?"

 She gaped, aware of a strong desire to take him by the shoulders and shake. "Doyou realize it? You act like—Captain yos'Galan, if you know it, thenlet me go!! Surely you see that the sooner I'm gone, the sooner you're safe! People will stop trying to kill you—"

 "No, wait." A big, warm hand closed around one of hers. "Priscilla, please—a favor. Come sit down… here's your wine. Now, if you please, tell me what happened at the port today."

 She sat carefully, accepted her glass, and took a sip, steadying heart rate and breathing, embracing serenity. "You know what happened, Captain. You were there."

 "I was there," he agreed, back at his station on the edge of the desk. "But I'm Liaden. You're Terran. From what you've said, it seems clear we think that two different things occurred." He leaned forward, eyes intent on her face. "Tell me, Priscilla. Please?"

 She took another sip and looked at him straightly. "Today someone deliberately tried to kill you by aiming a jitney at you, jamming the rod, and jumping out. By the grace of the Goddess, I was close enough to knock you out of the way." She took a breath. "I believe—though I have no proof—that Dagmar Collier made the attempt. I also believe that it was ordered by Sav Rid Olanek, striking at you because you gave me sanctuary. So, if I leave thePassage , show myself to be a free agent, no more attempts should be made on your life."

 "There it is," he said softly, brows pulled slightly together. "Why sacrifice yourself to keep me safe, Priscilla? Assuming all of what you say is accurate, of course."

 "I brought danger to you," she said patiently. "It's only just that I take it away again. It's what is honorable."

 "Is it?" He raised his glass, reconsidered, and lowered it. "Then I'm afraid we have a conflict of honors. The code I was raised to says that, having been so careless as to have necessitated your saving my life, I am very much in your debt. Setting aside the fact that allowing you to go would be murder, if my assessment of Ms. Collier's character is correct, I owe you the protection of this ship—of my resources, say rather. To send you away—unprotected and unprepared—to decoy danger from me is lunacy. And also highly dishonorable. It makes far more sense, is within the limits of honor—and duty!—to stay where it is relatively safe and work to balance what is owed them!" He did drink this time, slowly, then lowered his glass and shook his head.

 "The fact is, Priscilla, you don't know the rules. I grant that the admission of Ms. Collier and yourself into the game alters things somewhat, but not enough to matter. Certainly the larger points remain constant. Am I being sinister enough, or should I wrap myself in a cloak and snigger?"

 "Can you snigger?" she asked with interest.

 "Probably not." He grinned. "But I'll do my best if it takes that to convince you to let me have my highhanded, dictatorial, and—what was the other one?"

 "Obstinate," Priscilla supplied, though she had the grace to blush.

 "A fairly accurate reading of my faults. Though you omitted inquisitive and meddling. Your suspicion of Sav Rid does him less than justice, by the way. I don't think he ordered me eliminated. It's my belief Ms. Collier was acting on her own initiative. Sav Rid has his limitations, even in stupidity. And it would be extremely stupid to murder me." He drank. "Besides, I don't think I scared him that much."

 She blinked. "Were you trying to—oh, the earrings?"

 "The earrings. But that seems only to have frightened Ms. Collier into an indiscretion. Lamentable. Sav Rid really ought to screen his people more carefully. I saw Ms. Collier's record—idle curiosity, you understand. She had been a marine. Dishonorable discharge. Personnel complications." He tipped his head. "I said that she used to be a marine, Priscilla; please pay attention. How close did you come to killing her?"

 "I didn't—" The lie choked her, and she looked down, then looked back at him. "She's soslow . But I misjudged the knife, so she almost killed me, not the other way around."

 "An error of inexperience, I believe. I doubt it would happen again. Forgive me, Priscilla, it had seemed a good idea."

 This was more than usually convoluted. She put it away for later thought. "What are the rules, Captain?"

 "The rules are—" He paused and looked at her consideringly. "Whose life did you save, Priscilla?"

 "Shan yos'Galan's," she said, wondering.

 "Did you? Good. It makes things somewhat simpler. Now, what—oh, the rules. Wouldn't you rather have the story first? I always need something to hang the rules on, don't you? My dreadful memory. But maybe yours is better."

 "It's awful," she told him seriously. "I'd better have the story."

 He grinned. "Not too bad, Priscilla. With a bit of practice you should be quite convincing. More wine? No? Oh, well." He finished his glass and set it aside, lacing his fingers around a knee.

 "For the sake of argument," he said pensively, "we'll say that the story begins with Clan Plemia, Sav Rid's family. A very old, most respected House. And also one that's fallen on hard times these last hundred Standards or so, which makes money… oh, not as plentiful as it once was. Fortunes rise, fortunes fall, and Plemia's case, while no doubt uncomfortable, isn'tdire . There's every reason to expect that a bit of careful husbandry will bring them about. In time." He paused, then shrugged.

 "Unfortunately, Sav Rid doesn't seem a patient man. He wishes to restore Plemia to its pinnaclenow . I assume that he cudgeled his brain and finally hit upon the happy plan of taking a lifemate. He possesses lineage; address, a comely face, an elegant person—an extremely eligible individual in all ways. It need not be said that one of Plemia might look where he chose."

 Priscilla smiled. "Which is how he happened to propose to your sister."

 The captain grinned. "Well, it does make a certain amount of sense, you know. Nova's of age; she might choose whatever husband or lifemate suits her. She has lineage, address, a comely face, an elegant person—and is, incidentally, of course, quite wealthy. There was no reason why they shouldn't have been very happy with each other."

 A sound escaped Priscilla, neither a hiccup nor a sneeze—a chuckle, low and obviously delighted. "But she sent him off with a flea in his ear."

 "So she did. But she was sadly provoked, you know. The silly creature wouldn't take no for an answer—kept asking and asking. The final time, he paid a morning call for the sole purpose of pleading his case once more." He sighed. "We none of us have gentle tempers—very hotheaded family, the yos'Galans; and the yos'Pheliums are worse. At any rate, the morning call was the nether end of too much, and she threw him out." He looked at her earnestly. "I wouldn't have you think less of her, Priscilla. She really did try very hard to be civil."

 "I'm sure she did. It's irritating when people won't believe what you tell them." Her grin faded. "But if there's a—vendetta—it would be on Trader Olanek's side, wouldn't it, Captain? If he wanted to believe your sister had insulted him?"

 "I should have warned you," the captain said, picking up his empty glass and sighing, "that it's a rather long story. Will you have some more wine? Thirsty work, talking."

 "I'd have thought you'd be used to it."

 "You wrong me, Priscilla; I'm often quiet. Reports are that I hardly ever talk in my sleep, for instance." He was at the bar. She turned in her chair, considering the fit of his shirt and the worked leather of his belt, the gentle bell of cloth from knee to instep. He always dressed with immaculate simplicity. She saw now that the fabrics were costly, the tailoring precise—not ready-mades from valet or general stores.

 He turned around, brows twitching. "Yes?"

 "You had said your Clan—Korval—is an upstart?" She stopped short of all she wished to ask, unsure of the polite way to do so.

 He grinned and handed her a glass. "Oh, we're respected enough. After all, we trace our lines to Torvin and Alkia, and thence to the Old World. It is, of course, to be regretted that my father should have seen fit to allow Terran blood into the Clan, but there's nothing wrong with Terran blood that I know of. Does its job just as well as anyone else's blood. Purists may frown, but not many Clans can recite a lineage that doesn't include the odd Terran or two. My brother tells me that the Clutch-turtles simply call everyone "The Clans of Men" and let it go at that. In a little while—according totheir view of things—we'll all be one race. No Terrans. No Liadens. No half-breeds." He raised his glass. "Ready for Chapter Two?"

 "Please."

 "Again we start with Sav Rid, I think. Why not? He and Chelsa yo'Vaade, both of Clan Plernia. Chelsa isn't too bad a pilot but doesn't have any brains to speak of. She does what Sav Rid tells her to do. A pity.

 "Also important to this story is Shan yos'Galan, who is, please remember, a fool." He paused, brows twitching. "You said, Priscilla?"

 "I wanted to know how a fool became Master Trader," she repeated.

 He grinned. "It's easier than you might think. And my father would settle for nothing less from me." His face became more serious. "Several people hold the opinion that Shan yos'Galan is a fool, Priscilla. There's a certain advantage to that. Several other people believe that Shan yos'Galan isnot a fool, if it comforts you, but Sav Rid isn't one of them.

 “To continue. In the course of his trading, Sav Rid took on a quantity of mezzik-root—highly perishable, but also highly profitable, if one happens to be going to Brinix. Sav Rid was, hence the root. He, in fact, jumped out of Tulon System, pegged for Brinix. And returned just an hour or so after thePassage docked at Tulon Prime. I met Sav Rid at the trade bar a little time after that and heard his tale.Daxflan was urgently required elsewhere on business of Clan Plemia. The mezzik-root would pass its time before he had any hope of delivery. Would I be going near Brinix? Would I consider buying the shipment at a flat figure, thus helping a fellow Liaden and enriching myself?"

 He shrugged. "It was an opportunity, and I took it. It does occur that one is suddenly called away on Clan business and must dispose of cargo as it's possible. I knew nothing of the honored Trader except mat he had annoyed my sister—easy enough to do. She's seldom completely in charity withme , for instance. The price was paid, the load transferred. Other business completed, thePassage jumped out-system, pegged for Brinix—which was found to be under medical quarantine and expected to remain so for the next local year, far past the time when the mezzik-root would have started to deteriorate." He paused to drink.

 "The tower manager was polite—and astonished.Daxflan , under Captain yo'Vaade, had been in orbit not many days since and had promised to deliver news of the quarantine to Tulon."

 Priscilla took a breath. "How much did you lose?"

 "Forty cantra. But I did enhance and improve my reputation as a most wonderful fool, which must be counted a gain." He shook his head.

 "By the time we got back into Tulon, the story was all over the trade bar. The report had been delivered two minutes after thePassage jumped out.Daxflan was gone, having hired a new cargo master."

 "All that for—balance—for being insulted by your sister?" Priscilla was frowning.

 "Now there," the captain said, "I'm not at all certain. Nova is old enough to mind her own honor. If Sav Rid had a quarrel with her reading of his character, then his satisfaction lies with her. He might have assumed that I forbade the match, as Head of Line, you see. I didn't, and probably wouldn't have, if she'd set her heart on him. It never came to me at all; I learn everything after the fact, and in pieces—which, come to think of it, is the only way you learn anything from him—from Val Con, who was kind enough to show Sav Rid the door on the occasion of his morning call." The movement of his shoulders was not quite a shrug.

 "For whatever reason, a debt is owed—has been owing. Sav Rid's belief that I am too foolish to be considered an able—" He stopped, brows contracting. "Here's a thing that doesn't happen often," he murmured. "Forgive me, Priscilla; my Terran seems to be lacking. Can it bedebt-partner ?" He sipped wine, considering the carpet with absent intensity.

 "Say debt-partner," he decided after a moment. "It makes less nonsense than the other possibilities."

 Priscilla shifted in her chair. "This happened at Tulon?”

 He glanced up. "Yes. At the beginning of our run."

 "And you still owe him for—dear Goddess—forty cantra?" The amount of the loss was staggering.

 "Forty cantra's the least of it. I owe him a lesson to treat me with courtesy and respect, not to mention honesty." He sipped, eyes on her face. "These things take time and planning, Priscilla."

 "So it was lucky that I came here asking for a job," she said, making the connections rapidly. "I could be a very useful weapon."

 "Now, Priscilla, for Spacesake, don't get into hyper again!" He was in front of her, hands spread-fingered and soothing. "I'd have given you a job if Sav Rid were my best friend! Only a lunatic would turn down someone of your potential." He grinned at her. "Foolish, yes. Crazed, no. And it's not a question of giving. You're earning your pay."

 "Am I?" she demanded, refusing to give in to her desire to be mollified. "And when will I start training as second mate?"

 "You've started," he told her, lowering his hands slowly. "Ken Rik thinks very well of you. So does Tonee. And Lina. And Seth, Vilobar, Gordy, BillyJo, Vilt, Rusty, and Master Frodo. If you keep on at this rate, you'll have the expertise by Solcintra. You already have the ability. Are you angry, Priscilla? Don't you want to learn the job?"

 "Of course I want to learn it," she said irritably. "I just would have appreciated being told instead of finding out by accident."

 "High-handed," he said mournfully. "I'll try to curb it, but don't expect miracles. I've been this way a long time."

 "You're not much older than I am," she told him severely. "How did you manage that trick with my record—dated last week! And no mention of theft or jumping ship."

 "Oh." He drifted back to the desk, hoisted himself up, and recaptured his glass. "More high-handedness, I'm afraid, Priscilla. Please try to bear with me." He drank. "I contacted the captainof Dante for a more specific recommendation, took every word as truth, and pin-beamed your updated record to VanDyk with a notation that it superseded all previously dated information."

 He grinned at her. "Sav Rid had ruined your record within the sector; but he's tight-fisted, and the courier bounce to VanDyk will take months. Just imagine his unhappiness when he finds his report of your nefarious activities returned to him marked Superseded by Data Attached! Do you think he'll file an official complaint? And risk a hearing into the specifics of your so-called crimes? Will he insist that his very negative report be inserted next to all those glowing ones?" He raised his glass in salute. "I think not."

 "You pin-beamed… Captain, do you know how expensive pin-beaming is?"

 "No. Tell me." The silver eyes were laughing at her.

 She frowned, rediscovered her glass, and took a healthy swallow.

 "Don't worry about it, Priscilla. We've got a pin-beam on board—Rusty's favorite toy. One of the services thePassage offers the more backward of our ports is the use of the pin-beam. For a fee, of course. I'm well paid, contemplating the expression on Sav Rid's face when he reads 'Data Attached'—Dinner at long last!" he interrupted himself as the door chimed.

 Gordy grinned from behind the serving table. "I'm on time," he pointed out with considerable pride. He parked the table and came around to Priscilla. "Now you're a hero, too."

 "No," she said with decision. "I'mnot a hero, Gordy."

 He tipped his head, clearly puzzled, and turned to the captain. "Shan? Isn't she?"

 "She just said she wasn't, didn't she, Gordy? People have a right to define who they are, don't they? If Priscilla doesn't want to be a hero right now, she doesn't have to be. It's probable that she's hungry. Very difficult to be heroic when you're hungry."

 The boy laughed and went to the table to begin unfolding leaves, and releasing odors. Priscilla suddenly realized that she was very hungry.

 "Ken Rik said to tell you the nerligig works fine," he said over his shoulder.

 The captain stared at him. "It does? He tried it on all settings?"

 Gordy nodded. "The case is pretty dented, he said, but since it's for attention getting, that doesn't matter." He paused to glance at his cousin. "He really did say that."

 "Of course he did. Ken Rik doesn't believe in curbing his tongue for anyone. I'd be seriously concerned for his health if he started now. Besides, he met me when I was younger than you are, and twice as clumsy. No doubt that makes it occasionally hard to proffer the appropriate respect. What about the tent? Has he gotten a new sample case together? And he'll—no, never mind; I'll wander over and speak with him later. Is prime ready yet?"

 "Whist, now, Johnny Galen," Gordy murmured in an exaggerated accent.

 The captain laughed and drank wine. "Intolerable puppy. I bear that from your grandfather. But I'm bigger than you are. Please try to keep it in mind."

 "Bully," Gordy said, settling plates amid an amazing amount of clatter.

 "High-handed," the captain corrected, and grinned at Priscilla, who dropped her eyes.

 Gordy stepped back. "Ready. Should I stay?"

 The captain glanced at him in surprise. "Did I ask you to dinner, Gordon? Forgive me, the invitation slipped my mind. I seem to recall a report that you've fallen behind in your studies, a circumstance your grandfather, my uncle, would not forgive me. We're due for a review, aren't we? At breakfast."

 Gordy swallowed visibly. "Yessir."

 "That bad?" He raised his glass. "Well, better see what you can catch up on beforehand. And mind you're in bed at a reasonable hour. I won't need you anymore."

 "Yessir," Gordy said again, looking so comically crestfallen that Priscilla had to forcefully swallow the rising laughter. "G'night, Cap'n. G'night, Priscilla."

 "Good night, Gordy," she said, smiling at him warmly.

 "Good night, Gordy." The captain reached over to the boy and ruffled his hair lightly. "Dosleep well."

 The boy smiled up at him, made an awkward bow, and departed, the door hissing closed behind him.

 "Now, then, Priscilla, if you'll pull up the chairs, I'll serve us. I hope you're as hungry as I am."

 A little time later, the edge of hunger blunted, she leaned back and considered the top of his head and the thick, well-cut hair gleaming in the room's soft light.

 "Johnny Galen?" she wondered.

 He glanced up, smiling. "It's my Uncle Richard's fancy that Liadens are the 'little people' of Old Terra's legends. Thus, Arthur Galen, Johnny, Nora, and Annie Galen. And their foster brother, the king of Elfland."

 "Oh, no!" A chuckle escaped, but she didn't notice.

 "Oh, yes," he assured her. "Complete with 'my Liege' and 'your Highness'. Pretty comical, actually. My father finally did manage to put a stop to it, but I think he had to resort to threats."

 "But he let himself be called Arthur, and you Johnny?"

 "Well, no, not exactly," he said, reaching for his glass. "He didn'tanswer to 'Arthur,' you see, so if Uncle Dick really wanted to speak with him, he had to use 'Er Thom.' I don't mind 'Johnny'—my mother called me 'Shannie' more often than not—and Anthora wasalways 'Annie.' To the best of my knowledge, Nova never did answer to 'Nora.'" He sipped. "I hope Val Con doesn't feel he owes balance for the king routine. I rather doubt it. Whatever his faults, Uncle Richard is a master storyteller. And Val Con's addicted to stories."

 Priscilla frowned down at the table, then glanced up. "Captain? What is a debt-partner?"

 He set his glass aside and picked up his tongs, readdressing dinner. Priscilla hesitated, then returned to her own plate, wondering if she had offended.

 "A debt-partner," the captain said slowly, "is one with whom you are engaged in a balancing of accounts." He glanced at her quickly from beneath his lashes. "There are, as I mentioned before, many rules governing revenge—balance—and how it might be achieved. One of them is that balance is only owingrespected persons . Animals, for instance, may not claim debt-right." He paused, watching her face carefully.

 "It," Priscilla whispered, her spoon forgotten halfway to her mouth. "He called us 'it,' Gordy and me."

 "So he did," the captain agreed carefully. "One of the least attractive things about the High Tongue is that it's so easy to deny worth." He looked at her closely. "I didn't call you 'it,' Priscilla. Of all the people in the galaxy, I'd be among the last to do so. But Sav Rid believes that people who aren't Liaden aren't—people." He raised his glass and took a sip. "What he had done to you on Jankalim, he would never have ordered done to another Liaden. Even one he considered a fool of the first order, completely careless of his personal honor, the honor of his Line, and of his ship." He grinned. "He thought he'd gotten away clean, Priscilla. Imagine his depression when I not only turn up to bail you out, after he thought you safely disposed of, but uttering threats about earrings, guilty consciences—little enough. But he knows he's gotten away with nothing. He may still doubt my ability to do it, but he knows I'll attempt balance."

 She laid her spoon down carefully. "But an—animal—has no recourse."

 He sipped, eyes on her. "But you're not an animal, are you, Priscilla? Aren't you a person? Isn't respect due you? You can be an animal, if you choose to say you are. Or you can show him quite clearly that you are a resourceful, intelligentperson , worthy of the dignity accorded all persons." He set the glass down, his big mouth tight.

 "He has stolen from you—possessions, money, personhood. And you speak of taking on the role of an animal, sacrificing your life for mine. Priscilla, don't you see that you are owed? Howdare he order violence against your person. Howdare he steal the money you earned, the things you own, your reputation? And by what right did he place your personal honor in jeopardy in the first place, hiring you as master over a cargo of contraband?" He held out a hand. "Wouldn't you rather stay, Priscilla? We'll bring him payment together."

 With no hesitation at all, she slid her hand into his.

 "Yes," she said clearly. "We'll do that."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 143
FOURTH SHIFT
18.00 HOURS

 Priscilla laid her hand against the door. It slid away to a soft "Enter" from within.

 Smiling, Lina bounced up from her seat at the desk. "Priscilla! How are you, my friend?"

 "Fine." Priscilla smiled back, sliding her hands into the small ones stretched out to her. "You're busy? I'm not on urgent business."

 "No, come and talk with me! If I look at that terrible report another minute, I shall develop asevere headache." She laughed, tugging on Priscilla's hands. "Save me!"

 They sat on the bed, Lina cross-legged in the center and Priscilla on the edge.

 "So, now, what is this not-urgent business?"

 "I'm afraid it isn't going to make any sense," Priscilla apologized, toying with the quilt. "At least, I can't think of a sensible way to ask it. Lina, isn't Shan yos'Galan the captain?"

 The smaller woman blinked. "Of course he is. Are you having a joke, my friend?"

 "I said it didn't make sense," Priscilla pointed out. "I just had dinner with the captain—" She stopped. Lina folded her hands together, waiting.

 "I had dinner with the captain," Priscilla repeated slowly. "As I was leaving, I asked him about having returned my things. He said the ship bore the expense of buying them back, that I was to consider it my bonus for having been put in danger." She paused, frowning a little. 'Then I asked about the earrings, because theyweren't mine."

 "And?" Lina prompted softly.

 "He said the earrings were a gift from Shan yos'Galan, and the captain had nothing to do with it."

 "He said so?" Lina moved her shoulders. "Then it is true."

 Priscilla sighed. "Yes, I'm sure it is. But Lina, if Shan yos'Galan is the captain…"

 "Surely you know that the captain speaks—acts—for the ship," her friend said carefully. "Yes? So, Shan speaks for himself. It is—I do not know the Terran word. Shan yos'Galan has many…roles! He is captain, Master Trader, pilot—three voices with which to speak on thePassage . On Liad he is also Lord yos'Galan. He only made certain that you understood which face he used—from which role he acted—when he gifted you."

 Priscilla stared at her. "It makes a difference? But he's the same man, no matter what title he's using!"

 "Of course he is. But the captain has specific duties, responsibilities, different duties than the Master Trader. A pilot has yet another set." Lina chewed her lip uncertainly. "It is only melant'i, Priscilla." She sighed at the blank look on her friend's face and tried once more. "It is true that Shan yos'Galan is the captain. But the captain is not Shan yos'Galan."

 "I'll work on it," Priscilla said, smiling apologetically. "There might not be a Terran word, Lina." She tipped her head. "Is my Liaden accent horrible?"

 "No. Who said it was? You are very careful and listen hard, but it is true you are just learning."

 "The captain—at least Ithink it was the captain, but it might have been Shan yos'Galan—told me my accent was execrable and that he was going to introduce me to his aunt—his brother's aunt."

 "To Lady Kareen? Illanga kilachi—no. Priscilla, did hepromise that he would do so?"

 "He said he wouldengage to," she said, somewhat amused. "How awful can she be?"

 "You cannot imagine. She is very proper—ah, he is bad! We will practice, the two of us, very hard. And tomorrow I will choose enhancement tapes. You can sleep-learn? Good. Also protocol lessons." She looked up at her friend, hands fluttering. "What made him say such a thing? To Lady Kareen—"

 "I told him he was high-handed," Priscilla confessed.

 "So he now wishes to show you what that is." Lina grinned. "You are well served, then. However did you come to say something so rude?"

 "It slipped out right after he told me I had a tendency toward melodrama."

 Lina laughed. "It sounds as if you had a fine dinner! Compliments all around."

 "Protocol lessons are a necessity," Priscilla agreed, smiling. She sobered. "Lina? Why is it wrong for me to tell the captain—the Master Trader—that I am all joy to see him?"

 Lina looked at her in horror. "You said that? To Shan? In public?"

 "And in the High Tongue," her friend admitted sheepishly. "Am I beyond redemption?"

 "No wonder he gives you earrings!" Lina cried, taking her hand. "Priscilla, you must never do so again! It is a phrase reserved for… a brother, perhaps, or an individual one has grown up with… a lifemate."

 "Really? I'm glad I said it, then. It was exactly right."

 "Priscilla," Lina pleaded. "It is most improper! You must not do so again."

 "All right," she agreed sunnily. "I don't think I'll ever need to again." She laughed then, very softly, and Lina held her breath. "Poor Sav Rid!"

 Lina found Shan in the gym. Just inside, she stopped to watch him swing the paddle, strike the ball, spin, connect, dive, connect—faster and even faster, the ball a white blur trapped between wall and paddle, the man moving with lithe intensity, never missing, never pausing.

 After a moment, she walked forward, angling toward the wall, then heard the ball strike just beyond her shoulder.

 "Lina! Are you courting suicide? You could have been hit!"

 "No," she told him calmly, changing her course. "You are far too quick for that, my friend."

 "Accidents happen." Shan walked to meet her, paddle in one hand, ball in the other. His hair stuck in wet points to his forehead, lending him a slightly satanic air; he was breathing hard, and the wine-colored shirt showed darker patches. Lina set aside a spurt of fond sympathy; she stopped at precisely the proper distance and looked sternly up at him.

 "You are meddling!" She spoke in the High Tongue, as senior to junior.

 "I always meddle," he returned in mild Terran. "You know that."

 "You will cease to do so in this instance. Immediately." Her words were still in the High Tongue, commanding, as was proper.

 "Dear me," Shan murmured, looking down with a fine show of bewildered stupidity. "Do you mind if we sit down?"

 She laughed and turned with him toward the side benches. "You are impossible!" she told him in Terran. "You deserve to be scolded!"

 "Often," he agreed cordially, flipping paddle and ball into the wall slot and dropping into the first chair he came to. He thrust his long legs out before him. "Scold me."

 She frowned. He was in a chancy mood. She began tentatively. "Shan, it is serious. Please. You could do harm." She extended a mental tendril.

 She was met with opposition, the familiar Healer's barrier. He rarely took such complete refuge; never in all their years of friendship had he done so with her. Not at the time his mother had died so tragically, nor when Er Thom yos'Galan had turned his face from kin and from duty to follow her.

 Lina withdrew the tendril and considered him quietly. "It is a bad thing," she offered, "for Healers to argue over a proper approach. Most especially when Healing has begun."

 "I agree," Shan said.

 "That is good. Now, I will tell you that I am puzzled. We spoke, did we not? And it was agreed that I should proceed, though Priscilla was drawn as much to you as to me. You insisted, old friend, saying you were captain, not Healer."

 "True. I do not act as Healer in the matter."

 Lina stifled a sigh. This was Shan at his least tractable, showing the streak of stubborn reticence that characterized Korval at the fore. In a way it was a blessing—if she could not read him through the protective barrier, neither could he read her. The Wall, like so much of healing, was reciprocal.

 She considered that last thought. One did tend to become entangled with those one Healed. Priscilla… He may have feared reciprocity, having felt the strength of her—even half-crazed with pain. And if he had been drawn enough to fear the Healing process…

 "What is it that you want, old friend?" she asked.

 He stirred. "I want to be her friend."

 So. "And her lover!" She put a lash to that. If he did not yet know…

 "I am not," Shan said carefully, "made of stone. You will have noticed this."

 "Better you should have taken her to Heal yourself, then! The bond was there, from the beginning! Healing across sex is more rapid—you know that! Why—"

 "And have her think herself hired to be the captain's slut? Thank you, no." There was Korval ice in that.

 Lina blinked and gave a flickering thought to her own protections. "Why should she have thought so, old friend?"

 Shan sighed. "She came to me—as captain—for protection. One Liaden had already robbed her of status as a person. It would not have seemed at all wonderful to her if another continued—" He shifted irritably. "Priscilla's Terran, Lina. She wasn't raised to melant'i. Iam the captain to Priscilla. She believes it. It would have been nothing short of rape, a violation of trust so basic…" He took a breath and ran his fingers through his hair, standing it up in sticky spikes. "I was in error, old friend. I act as Healer in the matter, in that I refused to act as one."

 "I am Liaden," Lina said softly. "I am her superior."

 "You are also friends. And I believe that the amount of influence a senior librarian exercises over a junior is somewhat less than what a captain may exercise over a crew member."

 There was a silence that grew lengthy. Then Shan leaned forward abruptly and took her hands between his.

 "I want her to be well. Joyful and complete. That most. I want her friendship, but I don't—won't—force it. A pair of earrings? Call it restitution for another wrong done her by Trader Olanek, if you like, Lina. If it will make all easier—"

 "You have already said they are your gift to her," she reminded him. "But I do not think harm was done." She smiled warmly. "It is a good thing to have friends."

 "I think so, too." He leaned back. "I leave the Healing in your hands. My word on it."

 "So, then," she said, satisfied. She brought a finger to the side of her head. "I had almost forgotten the other. She did not mean it, Shan, when she welcomed you in esteem. I have explained, and it will not happen again. You must not be angry with her."

 "Angry with her?" He laughed. "I'm delighted with her! She would have done no better if I'd coached her beforehand. What a devastating setdown for poor Sav Rid! The look on his face! I could have kissed her."

 "You must not encourage her to behave improperly," she scolded him. "You talk of being her friend! It is important that she learn to behave with propriety. Especially if you will present her to Lady Kareen!"

 "Yes, Lina," he said with wholly unconvincing meekness.

 She shook her head. "No,that will not do. I know you. Priscilla and I will work on her accent, and she will use sleep tapes. Lady Kareen will find her above reproach."

 "A matter of your own pride, in fact?"

 She laughed and stood. "Completely impossible. Good night, old friend." She touched his cheek, very gently, noting that the Wall was yet in place. "Sleep well."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 144
FIRST SHIFT
1.30 HOURS

 He didnot sleep well. Nor did his interview with Gordy do anything to mend his badly frayed temper. He had begun by snarling at the boy, and his mood was not improved by the realization that he sounded rather like his father in that tone.

 Irritably, he crossed to the bar and poured himself a glass of morning wine. There were a few things to attend to here before going worldside to begin a local week of trading. He dropped into his chair and spun the screen around.

 Buzzzz!

 Shan looked up, not quite placing the sound.

 Buzzzz!

 Brutally, he rearranged the mob of documents on top of the desk and eventually uncovered a shiny blue pad set with two unmarked keys. He depressed one at random. "Yes?"

 Buzzzz!

 Shan sighed and pushed the other key. "Yes?"

 "Cap'n? Rusty here. Sorry to bother you."

 "Rusty? Aren't you scheduled for world leave today? I thought you'd be dancing in the streets with a lover on each arm."

 "Well, I'd planned on it," Rusty said seriously. "But when we hit port, there were two—oh, individuals—waiting for us. They say nobody from thePassage is allowed on-world and that they're coming up." There was a tiny pause. "They say they've got a warrant, Cap'n."

 "Do they? What are we to do with that very interesting piece of information, I wonder? And what does it have to do with the crew's leave? Do strive for clarity, Rusty—I'm afraid I'm a bit dense this morning."

 "Well, they say they want to see you. I guess they'll explain it personally."

 "Wonderful. What sort of… individuals, Rusty? Ambassadorial? Mere policepersons? Concerned citizens?"

 "Ummm…" Rusty's voice drifted, then came back. "Didn't Cap'n Er Thom used to say that if your host wore a dagger, you should wear a dagger and a dirk?"

 "It sounds very like him."

 "By those rules, you ought to wear three daggers and a machete."

 Shan grinned. "And these very formidable persons wish to call on me? How pleasant. Do me the favor, please, Rusty, of asking Seth to bring our visitors up as quickly as possible. Gordy will meet them and serve as escort. You needn't bear them company, if you'd rather not."

 "Right you are. I'm not losingmy breakfast. I'll catch a lift with Ken Rik, since they're evacuating him, too."

 "Marvelous. Thank you for the call, Rusty. You always have such cheerful topics of discussion."

 The other laughed and broke the connection.

 Shan spun in his chair, hit the toggle that would summon Gordy, opened a drawer, and began to sweep papers into it.

 The door opened to admit a subdued and rather pale cabin boy. "Yessir?"

 Ruefully, Shan stretched out a hand. "Forgive me, acushla. My dreadful temper. I swear I didn't mean it to sound half as fierce as it did."

 Gordy actually produced a grin, albeit a faint one. "That's okay. I should've been workin' at it all along. Guess I deserved to get my head bit off."

 "That for me!" his cousin cried, snapping his fingers with a grin. Sobering, he shook his head. "An emergency, Gordy. Run to Selna and get a piece of the sample wood—so." He squared it off in the air with big, capable hands. "On your way back, stop and ask Calypso for the loan of his antique. Jet!"

 Gordy was gone.

 In an amazingly short time he was back, armed with the required items, which he placed on the pristine desk.

 "Good," Shan said, surveying things. "Another task. Shortly there will be two individuals in the reception hall. Please bring them here."

 "Yessir," the boy said, moving toward the door.

 "Oh, Gordy!"

 "Yes, Cap'n?"

 Shan grinned. 'Take your time."

 The visitors were not pleased. They followed Gordy with rustling aloofness, their sulfur-colored robes brushing the side walls, and kept their hands on the hilts of their swords. They came finally to the red door—after having traversed the length of the ship twice, had they but known it—and Gordy activated the annunciator.

 "Come!" Shan's clear voice was followed by a peculiar heavythump just as the door slid open.

 Gordy stepped into the room. Shan was lounging back in the chair behind the desk, which was clear except for a block of oak with a wooden-handled hatchet buried in it. He raised his glass and lifted his brows.

 Mindful of the proprieties, Gordy bowed. "Cap'n yos'Galan, here are Budoc and Relgis come to speak with you."

 "Good day, gentles. A pleasant one, isn't it? How might I serve you?"

 Relgis, who was bald, stepped around Gordy and executed a grudging bow. "Good day, Captain," he replied in hoarse Terran. "We are officials of Arsdred Court. It is my duty to inform you that we carry papers denying your crew access to the planet surface for the amount of time required for the municipality of Arsdred to inspect and verify your cargo. Under this same order, you are banned from trade activities until such time as investigation retires charges brought against theDutiful Passage , tradeship, and Shan yos'Galan, captain and Master Trader." He paused to glare sternly from beneath bushy eyebrows. Shan sipped wine.

 "The charge," Relgis continued in a goaded voice, "is smuggling illicit Pharmaceuticals and proscribed animals."

 "TheDutiful Passage is accused of running contraband?" the captain inquired in the mildest possible tone. "May I know the name of the accuser?"

 Relgis looked at him with suspicion, apparently formulating a reply. Into the silence stepped his partner, saying with ponderous affability that no such thing ascharges had been leveled at ship or master.

 "Relgis made a slip of the tongue, sir. The thing is, a complaint has been lodged with the court, citingsuspicion of contraband. I'm sure you'll agree that this is a very serious thing."

 "Oh, I do," Shan said, raising his glass. "Especially when suspicion names my ship."

 Budoc had the grace to look discomfited. "Well, of course you're bound to feel that way," he allowed after exchanging a startled glance with his partner. "I'm sure it will be inconvenient for you to deny your crew leave and forfeit a few days' trading. But if you're innocent—as I'm certain you are—then there's no harm done, is there? You'll be allowed to go about your business, just as you normally would."

 "The municipality," Relgis stated, revolted by this conciliating speech, "must be certain of either the truth or falsity of a suspicion of contraband. We cannot be too careful."

 "I see. Any other suspicions, sir? Or is this the awful whole?"

 Once again Relgis found that tone of vacuous amiability disconcerting. Budoc took over, clearing his throat noisily.

 "We also bear a warrant for the detention of one Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza, of the crew of theDutiful Passage . She is to be questioned under deep probe and held, pending arrival of further information."

 "On what charge?" Shan queried gently, leaning forward and setting the glass aside.

 "Suspected thievery." Relgis was back in the game.

 "Really?" Shan looked at him with interest. "Now I have found her to be scrupulously—no, make that excessively—honest. Who accuses her?"

 "Trader Sav Rid Olanek brought the matter to the attention of the court, sir. When the balance of his information arrives, determination shall be made as to whether the matter would be most properly handled by local or galactic authorities."

 "And if she's innocent?" Shan asked, resting his chin on his left hand. His right lay next to the wooden block.

 "If she's innocent," Budoc said magnanimously, "she will be released."

 "Which will," Shan said dulcetly, "do her a great deal of good if thePassage has moved on in the meantime." He ran an absent finger down the hatchet haft. "What is she suspected of stealing from Trader Olanek? The clothes on her back? She had nothing else when she came to me."

 The two officials exchanged glances. "No doubt that will be included in—"

 "Trader Olanek's further information," Shan concluded. "Of course. May I see the papers you carry, sirs? I must say that I think it extremely unlikely that Ms. Mendoza is a thief. As to allowing her to be removed from this vessel and placed in a detention block for—how long before this information comes forth? Stupid of me, but I don't seem to recall…"

 "We didn't say," Relgis said quellingly. "No longer than ten days, local."

 "Captain," Budoc added, with a warning glance at his partner.

 Relgis glowered, produced the papers from the depths of his robe, and handed them over with scant grace.

 "Thank you," Shan said, receiving them in the spirit in which they were offered. He glanced at the hovering cabin boy. "Gordon, fetch Ms. Mendoza, if you please."

 "Oh, no you don't!" Relgis snapped, leaping between Gordy and the door in a swirl of fabric. He fingered his sword hilt menacingly. "A very sly idea, Captain, but it won't work! Send the boy for her! Warn her, more likely! Next we'll be hearing from him that she's escaped!"

 "Escaped?" Shan blinked at him, striving for his best look of foolish interest. "Now, where would she escape to, I wonder? I do seem to recall rather clearly a statement to the effect that none of my crew would be allowed worldside." He picked up his glass and took a thoughtful sip. "Of course, thePassage is a large ship," he conceded. "But not that large, do you think? I'm sure you could run her to ground if she took a notion to hide from you."

 Perceiving a sheen of dew on Relgis's bald pate, he relented somewhat. "Go for Ms. Mendoza," he instructed Gordy gently. "Say that I wish to see her immediately. Please do not mention the presence of these two persons."

 Gordy goggled at him, then recovered enough to bow and mutter "Yessir" before turning toward the door.

 Speared by a glance from his partner, Relgis let him go—Shan had another sip of wine and began a leisurely perusal of the court's documents.

 In just under five minutes, the door chime sounded.

 "Come!" Shan called, eyes still on the documents he had already committed to memory.

 The two officials turned, hands on swords, ready to confront the desperate criminal herself as she stepped unescorted into the room.

 Relgis preserved his countenance. Budoc visibly gaped.

 Priscilla gave each a friendly, though curious, smile and stepped around them. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"

 He glanced up, sternly subduing the pang he felt upon seeing her ears yet unadorned. "Good morning, Ms. Mendoza. I'm sorry to have to call you to me so abruptly. These gentlemen, however—" He nodded at Budoc and Relgis and paused, frowning. "My terrible manners! Ms. Mendoza, these are Relgis and Budoc, officials of Arsdred Court. They have come to deliver this paper to you." He held it out.

 She took it, directing a sharp glance at his face before beginning to read. Her cheeks flushed, then went white. Shan overrode the impulse to hold out his hand to her; instead, he picked up his glass and brought before his inner eye a Wall.

 "Will he never stop?" Priscilla cried, slapping the paper onto his desk. "He hounds me, names me criminal, leaves me for dead—and now has me arrested! Questioned under deep probe! What good can he think it will do him? Trader on a ship crewed by lechers and motherless fools!" She spun, approaching the two officials with a tigerish tread. Relgis gave ground by a step. Budoc licked his lips.

 "Whose palm was greased?" she demanded awfully. "Suspicionof theft? Informationforthcoming ! And I'm to be detained and questioned, treated like a thief on the strength of information that will never arrive, and so I swear!" She straightened haughtily. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

 "Well," Budoc said carefully, "you've got no choice, miss. We've got the warrant, and you've got to come. It's the Law."

 Priscilla sniffed. 'This is a Liaden ship. You have no authority here."

 "You'reTerran," Budoc pointed out with a fair semblance of rationality.

 "I should perhaps explain," Shan broke in apologetically, "that Ms. Mendoza serves on this ship because of a personal contract between her and the Heir Apparent of Clan Korval."

 There was a moment's silence. Then, in accents between dread and wonder, Budoc asked if that wasn't the Tree and Dragon Family, trade representative for Trellen's World?

 "Exactly the Tree and Dragon." Shan beamed at him. "Precisely Trellen's World. The contract between us extends back nearly two hundred Standards. How clever of you!"

 That information might have impressed his partner, but to Relgis it conveyed nothing more than a blatant attempt to thwart the Law. He stiffened his resolve and advanced upon Priscilla's position by one step.

 "Be that as it may," he said sternly, "the Law is still the Law. This woman's Terran, and she goes with us." He shifted his eyes to the man behind the desk and thrust out his chin. "She's not Liaden, even if this heir or whatever it is, is. We don't have a warrant for her contract—we've got a warrant for her!"

 "Heir Apparent," Shan corrected gently. "Not, praise gods, the Heir. Ms. Mendoza is correct, you know. A personal contract of this kind assures her of the Heir Apparent's protection. Which amounts to the protection of Clan Korval. And Clan Korval is a legal Liaden entity." He finished his wine and set the glass aside. "An interesting point, isn't it? I'm sure the lawyers would be able to argue it for much more than ten local days, don't you?"

 "Now, Captain," Budoc said nervously, "be reasonable. No one wants to get into that kind of protracted debate. Think of the expense! Better to just let her come along with us. Maybe the judge will allow her back right after the questioning—in light of her contract, you know!" He licked his lips again. "I'm sure we can work something out."

 "Are your Shan asked. "Good. I think so, too." He picked up the disdained warrant and made a show of frowning perusal. 'There doesn't seem to be anything here about bail," he murmured, feeling Priscilla's gaze bent on him in speculation. "An oversight on the part of the judge, no doubt. Whowas —oh! Judge Zahre? What a delightful circumstance!" He smiled with exquisite stupidity at the two officials and avoided Priscilla's eye.

 "We'll have everything settled soon!" he said gaily. "I'm acquainted with Judge Zahre. What a fortunate circumstance!" He flipped a toggle on the panel by his desk.

 "Tower," a crisp voice informed him.

 "Good shift, tower. Are you busy? Would it be possible for you to find Judge Abrahanthan Zahre of Port City, Arsdred, for me? I'd like to speak to him."

 "Right away, Captain. Route the call to the office screen?"

 "That will be perfect, tower, thank you. Do hurry.

 We have guests, and I seem to be wasting their time."

 "Yes, sir." The connection was cut.

 Shan nodded to himself and called the commlink from its slot, then turned to the infoscreen and tapped in a quick series. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Priscilla drift over and perch on the arm of the nearer chair, dividing her attention between the two officials and her captain.

 Budoc and Relgis exchanged glances and remained uncomfortably silent. Relgis nurtured the hope that the judge would drop one of his thundering lectures on the heads of both captain and crew member.

 The commlink buzzed gently.

 Shan spun his chair, tapped the violet key set along the left margin of the screen, and inclined his head to the austere individual in ruby-colored robes. The other man also wore a ruby turban, held by a glittering nelaphan brooch. His eyes were dark and deep-set, and the authority of his nose exceeded that of Shan's own.

 "I am Judge Zahre," he said emotionlessly.

 "Yes, sir," Shan agreed easily. "We are acquainted, though I doubt you remember me. My father, Er Thom yos'Galan, and I guested you aboardDutiful Passage several Standards ago, upon the occasion of your Honesty's succession to office.”

 The face in the screen thawed somewhat; the lips bent a trifle. "Indeed, I do remember you, sir, and most kindly. How does your father do? It would honor me if you and he would dine at my residence, if the length of your stay permits it."

 Shan took a breath, hardly aware that it was deeper than the one before it. After so many repetitions, the phrase had become merely rote, and the inward voice that had keened "My father is dead!" was now but a wordless flicker of pain.

 "I regret to be the first to inform you," he said evenly, pulling the words verbatim from the High Tongue, "that my father's heart ceased its labor nearly three Standards gone by."

 The lines about the judge's mouth grew deeper as he bowed his head. "It grieves me to hear it. I am richer for having had his acquaintance, though it was for so brief a time."

 "I will tell my family you said so, sir. Thank you."

 The older man nodded. "Now, tell me what I may do for Er Thom yos'Galan's son."

 Shan smiled. "A misunderstanding has occurred. At least, I think it must be a misunderstanding." He held the warrant up so that the other could read it. "This was delivered by two officials of Arsdred Court—Budoc and Relgis. It's a warrant for the detention and questioning of one of my crew members, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. Apparently Trader Sav Rid Olanek accuses her of theft."

 Judge Zahre nodded. "I remember him. I admit I did not like to let him swear out such a thing and then immediately depart the sector, but he pleaded urgent business and paid penalty and swear-charge. All was according to Law, as he promised further information by bouncecomm, within ten local days. I performed my office, as set out in the Book."

 "I am certain you did," Shan said soothingly. "However, there are several points of which you could not have been aware. One is that Trader Olanek has taken Ms. Mendoza in severe dislike. I am not certain of the cause. It is a fact, however, that far from her stealing from him, he has stolen from her. A member of his command has within the last local day sold personal articles belonging to Ms. Mendoza at a shop in Parkton Way—Teela's Treasures. The proprietor is Frau Pometraf. She has a very good memory."

 The judge inclined his head. "I am grateful. The information, of course, will be verified." He looked up, his deep eyes shrewd. "You have yet to say what I might do for you, Shan yos'Galan."

 "A small thing, correction of an oversight." He rustled the paper. "There doesn't seem to be any mention of bail here, sir. Now, Ms. Mendoza is an important member of my crew. I can't spare her for ten days. Not for ten minutes! What shall I do?"

 The older man's lips twitched, though he gravely agreed that itdid seem to be an oversight. "You must understand that a warrant has been sworn to, sir. The Law must be served."

 "Of course it must." Shan spun the infoscreen around. "I had nearly forgotten! This is Ms. Mendoza's record, sir. Now, I ask you: Is it likely that a person possessing such a record would sully her honor by stealing?"

 After a longish pause, the judge said, "I believe bail of one cantra—cash, of course—is sufficient to this case. You will guarantee Ms. Mendoza's presence, should the matter in fact go to trial?"

 "Korval guarantees," Shan said formally, and jerked his head at the gaped-mouth officials. "These two gentles may take the money with them? It will be secure?"

 "Relgis and Budoc are completely trustworthy."

 "I'm sure they are. No thought of their venality crossed my mind, sir. It's only—a cantra, you said? You're certain they won't want an armed guard to escort them?"

 Relgis made an outraged noise; the man on the screen smiled.

 "I believe that no guard will be necessary, sir. I appreciate your concern."

 "One cannot be too careful," Shan said earnestly. "What with innocent persons being attacked by ruffians in the streets of the city." He sighed and spread his hands. "You've been very kind, sir. I find it necessary to impose upon you still further." He held the second document up.

 The judge scanned it quickly and shook his head. "This matter is out of my jurisdiction. However, I am acquainted with Judge Bearmert, who is among those signed. Allow me to call him and ask if he will speak with you."

 "You're very kind, sir," Shan said again. "Forgive me the trouble."

 "There is no trouble. It is my duty to see that the Law is served, not that the innocent suffer." He bowed stiffly. "Be well, Shan yos'Galan. Will you come to dine tomorrow evening?"

 "I would like nothing better, sir. But I believe that the ban on my crew visiting your pleasant world applies to me as well."

 "Nonsense," the judge said crisply. "I will send my yacht for you, sir. You will be conveyed directly to my home. You will experience no difficulty."

 Shan grinned. "In that case, of course. I'll be delighted."

 "Good. Until then." The screen went dark.

 Shan thumbed the yellow stud, and the screen slid back into the desk. Absently, he pulled open a small drawer on the right side and fished out a battered lacquer box.

 "Cantra," he muttered, and dumped the box over.

 Coins ringed and tumbled, rolled in tight circles, and sped away to catch against the block of wood supporting the hatchet: Terran bits of all denominations, Liaden coins, local money of half a dozen worlds, several rough-cut citrines, and a loop of pierced malachite.

 "Cantra," Shan murmured again, conscious that Budoc was drawing closer. With clumsy care, he selected ten tenth-cantra from the jumble of money and beckoned the man still closer.

 "One, two, three…" He counted all ten carefully into the sweaty palm and nodded. "Ten, are we agreed?"

 "Yes, Captain," Budoc breathed.

 "Good." He pointed at Relgis. "You, sir. A receipt, please."

 Relgis glowered but did as he was bidden. Shan flipped a toggle by the desk. The door chimed instantly and slid away on his word to admit a grim-faced Gordy.

 Shan smiled. "These gentles are leaving now, Gordon. Please conduct them to the reception hall and arrange for refreshment. Seth will conduct them worldside in good time." He turned his smile to the officials, striving for complete vacuity. "Thank you so much for your visit, sirs. I enjoyed it immensely. Good day."

 "Good day, Captain," Budoc said, bowing low. Relgis sniffed and bowed, silently and slightly. Both turned and followed Gordy out.

 The door closed, and Priscilla stood, holding out a hand. "May I refill your glass, Captain?"

 He considered her warily. "Thank you, Priscilla. The red, please. And pour yourself something."

 Priscilla stared a moment at the hatchet in the block of wood, then turned to busy herself at the bar.

 "It's Pendragon," she announced suddenly.

 Shan frowned at her back. "Pendragon? Oh, the fellow with the table. One of Val Con's favorite stories, I recall. Named one of his infernal felines Merlin." His frown deepened. "It's only Uncle Richard's fancy, Priscilla. Coincidence. Dragon-analogs are fairly common around the galaxy, you know."

 She nodded and handed him a glass before settling into the chair across.

 "One hundred bits the night before last, a terrible scare yesterday, a cantra today. What am I going to cost you tomorrow?" Her tone was mild, but her eyes were very bright.

 Shan considered the Wall; he left it in place and raised his glass. "I don't expect you'll cost me anything tomorrow, Priscilla. You didn't really cost me anything today. Sav Rid's thought was to cause me discomfort—so it seems I'm taken seriously! How gratifying." He sipped. "He has accused thePassage of running contraband. That's creative of him, isn't it? We're to be investigated—by officials of Arsdred Court."

 "Unless the friend of your friend brings his authority to bear," she said dryly.

 "Well, I don't think he will, do you? It's worth a try, of course. No sense rousing Mr. dea'Gauss until we need him. My sister the First Speaker prefers our man of business to stay close to hand. His tact and finesse are a good balance for her temper, you see. By the way, you were magnificent."

 "I thought that was it." She considered him for a moment out of half-angry black eyes, then shook her head and smiled a little. "Areyou Heir Apparent to Korval?"

 "Of course I am. It's not the sort of thing one lies about, after all. You could find yourself in a great deal of trouble if you did. Besides that, if you want truth, I'd rather not be Heir Apparent. Especially with Val Con adventuring around the universe, busy being a scout and making no push at all to place an heir of his body between myself and destiny." He sighed. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be a very good Delm."

 There was a pause while Priscilla tasted the wine, her eyes on the hatchet. Shifting her gaze to his face, she asked, carefully, he thought, "Will you do me a favor?"

 "I'll certainlytry , Priscilla," he said with matching caution. "What is it?"

 "I wonder if you wouldn't make me a list of all the people you are, so I know who to ask for."

 He grinned. "I'm afraid it might get a bit lengthy. And a few are so close that only a Liaden would make a distinction." He set the glass aside and began to count on his fingers. "Head of Line yos'Galan. Heir Apparent to Korval. Guardian to the Heir Lineal—that's a joke. Brother to Val Con, Nova, Anthora. Cousin to Val Con. Guardian to Anthora. Father to Padi. Master pilot…" He sighed. "This is too tedious, Priscilla. You could call me Shan if you get confused, and I'll sort it out for you."

 "Why don't I just call you Captain?"

 "Iknew you were going to say that," he complained.

 Surprisingly, she grinned and pointed at the hatchet. "What's the idea?"

 "My father used to say—so I was informed earlier—that if your host wears a dagger, you should wear a dagger and a dirk. I think he might have meant it in some other context, but Rusty did me the favor of calling it to mind this morning when he told me of the presence of our visitors." He wrenched the hatchet free, sending two sundered chunks of wood skittering across the polished desk top.

 "My brother, now, says there's nothing will give one pause like the sight of a naked blade." He extended it, and Priscilla leaned back in her chair. "He's right, I see. That's comforting. I thought I would give our visitors a visible reminder of might." He grinned. "Liaden tricks, Priscilla. Forgive me."

 She shrugged. "It worked, didn't it? Andthey were using tricks, too. Blustering and acting as if all justice were on their side."

 "High-handed, in fact."

 “I’ll never live it down." She sighed. "Will it help if I say I'm sorry?"

 "Areyou sorry? You might ask me to forgive it, if you think I'm offended. But Liadens don't in general say that they're sorry. It's an admission of guilt, you see. Asking forgiveness acknowledges the other person's right to feel slighted, hurt, or offended without endangering your right to act as you find necessary."

 She blinked at him. "Which is why Kayzin Ne'Zame was so infuriated with me when we met at the main computer! I kept saying I wassorry …" She sipped, working on the concept in silence.

 Shan toyed with the weapon, turning it this way and that, taking note of its balance and the feel of it in his palm. Laying it aside, he took up his glass again and sipped, allowing himself the luxury of watching her face.

 As if she felt his eyes on her, she glanced up, a slight smile on her lips. "Is there anything else, Captain? I'm supposed to be having a piloting lesson."

 "Teaching me how to run my ship?" He waved his glass toward the door. "Go back to work, then. And thank you for your assistance."

 "You're welcome, Captain," she said serenely. "It was no trouble at all."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 ARSDRED
PORT CITY
MIDDAY BAZAAR

 Mr. dea'Gauss leaned back in the seat and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. Progress thus far was satisfactory. Not, he reminded himself, that he was in any way reconciled to being shipped harum-scarum off Liad and flung out into the galaxy with barely an hour's notice. If his heir had not just recently entered into a contract marriage that tied her to the planet, Korval would have found itself represented by the younger, less-tried dea'Gauss; and so the elder had informed Korval's First Speaker.

 Lady Nova had acknowledged that statement with a slight tip of the head and continued outlining his task in her calm, clear voice. Mr. dea'Gauss experienced a reminiscent glow of warmth in the region of his mid-chest. She was a great deal like her father, and competent beyond her years.

 She'll do, Mr. dea'Gauss thought with satisfaction. They wouldall do eventually. It was simply a sad pity that so powerful a Clan as Korval should have been left untimely in the hands of persons too young for the duty. Even the eldest, Shan, now Thodelm yos'Galan, had not attained his full majority. And young Val Con, the Delm-to-be, was barely more than a halfling, no matter how gifted a scout he might be.

 The old gentleman lay his head against the cushion. It was his duty to insure that all continued as it should during this period of readjustment, just as Line dea'Gauss had kept Korval’s business for generations—to mutual profit.

 They were intelligent children, after all, he reminded himself with a shade of avuncular pride, and quick to learn. He and his would be unworthy indeed of the post they had held so long if Korval were to lose ground before Val Con placed the Clan Ring upon his finger.

 The taxi glided to a stop. Mr. dea'Gauss opened his eyes and glanced out the window. Satisfied, he gathered up portfolio and travel desk, slipped the proper Terran coin into the meter's maw, and exited the cab as the door elevated. He blinked once at the din and the colors and the smells of the Offworld Bazaar, then turned his steps with calm dignity toward the shuttlecradles.

 There was an armed guard before Cradle 712. Mr. dea'Gauss was untroubled; he had expected no less. What did puzzle him was the presence of two additional individuals engaged in vociferation with the guard.

 "I don't care," the fat woman with the jeweled braids was saying loudly, "if you've got orders from the Four Thousand Heavenly Hosts! I am Ambassador Grittle of Skansion! You've seen my identification. You've verified my identification. I have urgent business onboard theDutiful Passage —"

 "Off limits," the guard interrupted laconically. "Judge Bearmert's orders."

 The fat woman's face turned a curious purple color that contrasted not unpleasingly with the silver lines drawn around her eyes. The second individual addressed the guard.

 "I am Chon Lyle, sector agent for Trellen's World. It is imperative that I be allowed onboard theDutiful Passage . Clan Korval is the licensed representative of Trellen's World in matters of off-world trade. A charge of illicit dealing brought against its flagship must also be thought a charge brought against my world."

 Mr. dea'Gauss's brow cleared. Unmistakable here was the hand of Korval’s First Speaker. He stepped forward, affording the guard a tip of the head, as was proper for a person of consequence addressing a mere hireling.

 She surveyed him with boredom. "Don't tell me. You want to get up to theDutiful Passage ."

 "Precisely," he said, undeceived by the apparent readiness of her understanding. He proffered a piece of orange parchment folded thrice. "I have here a manifest from Judge Bearmert allowing me that privilege, and also whomever I deem necessary to the commission of my duties." He moved a hand, encompassing ambassador and agent. "These persons are such. Pray verify the document. I am in haste."

 The guard sighed, took the paper, and unfolded it with a flick of the wrist. Her eyes moved rapidly down the few lines, then returned to the top and moved downward more slowly. Eyes still on the page, she unhooked her belt-comm, thumbed it on, spoke into it briefly, then listened. She nodded.

 "Okay, shorty," she said, handing the paper back to Mr. dea'Gauss, who folded it precisely and replaced it in his sleeve, "you're legit." She craned her head around the entranceway. "Hey, Seth! Customers!" Then she took up her official stance again, arms folded under her bosoms, legs wide.

 A tall, rat-faced Terran appeared at the edge of the ramp and glanced at the three before bowing to the elderly Liaden. "Yessir?"

 He was awarded a slight smile and an actual, if shallow, bow. Korval employed persons of worth. It was as it should be.

 "I am Mr. dea'Gauss, Korval's man of business. Lord yos'Galan expects me.”He indicated his companions. "These are Ambassador Grittle of Skansion and Agent Chon Lyle of Trellen's World. His Lordship will be most gratified to receive them."

 Seth nodded and stepped aside. "Welcome aboard, sirs, ma'am. We'll be lifting as soon as the tower clears us."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 147
THIRD SHIFT
15.00 HOURS

 "That cargo is sealed!"

 The taller of the two inspectors turned and sighed down at the cargo master before repeating for the ninth time that their duty was to inspect and—

 "Verify the holds, goods, equipment, and general cargo of theDutiful Passage , out of Solcintra, Liad, under the captaincy of Shan yos'Galan, Master Trader," Ken Rik singsonged, and threw up his hands in exasperation. "Iknow . I also know that this cargo is sealed. Do you understand what sealed means?

 "Sealed means—one, that this cargo was delivered by the agency that leased the hold, made secure to their satisfaction and sealed with their lock.

 "Two. It means that, having sealed the cargo at their end, the agency expects—has paid for the certainty—that the hold will still be sealed when the cargo reaches its destination.

 Three. It means that, if you two—people—unseal that hold, theDutiful Passage will lose a shipping fee of approximately fifteen cantra—that's five hundred twenty-five thousand bits to you!—and very likely ten times that amount in commissions she will not receive for shipment of sealed cargoes in the future."

 The taller inspector sighed. "I am aware of the exchange rate, sir. I am also aware of my duty. Surely you understand that in cases of contraband, to rely upon the ship's own records is sheer folly."

 Ken Rik gasped. "Howdare —" The Terran words were insufficient, he realized suddenly. Setting his jaw, he inarched forward, placed himself before the hold in question, crossed his arms, and rooted his boot heels to the floor. 'This hold is sealed," he said with a calmness his captain would have instantly recognized as highly dangerous. "And it will remain sealed."

 “Quite proper," a dry voice said from the left. "Unless, of course, one of these individuals is a certified representative of the company whose seal is upon the cargo."

 "Mr. dea'Gauss!"

 Korval's man of business bowed. "Mr. yo'Lanna. I am pleased to see you well."

 "And I'm pleased to seeyou , sir," Ken Rik said, throwing a grin of pure malice over his shoulder at the inspectors. "How may I serve you, Mr. dea'Gauss?"

 The other man considered. "I will need a place to work. I apprehend these persons are inspectors from, ah,Arsdred Court!

 "Indeed, we are," the taller one asserted, coming forward with hand held out. "I am Jenner Halothi; my associate is Krys William. It is our duty to—" He cast a wary eye in the cargo master's direction. "—search this vessel for contraband and illegal goods."

 "But not, I think," Mr. dea'Gauss said, ignoring the hand, "the holds sealed by companies independent of Korval or theDutiful Passage , unless a representative of that company is present." He surveyed the inspectors with the air of one sizing up the opposition. "The purpose of this, of course, is twofold. The representative will be present to oversee the unsealing and search of the cargo and will be able to make testimony that it is, in truth, the proper cargo. Also, should the cargo prove to be—or to contain—illegal items, you, sirs, will have your culprit. Is there a representative of—" He glanced at the device on the hatch. "—Pinglit Manufacturing Company on board, Mr. yo'Lanna?"

 "No, sir, there is not," the cargo master replied happily. "There is, however, Ambassador May of Winegeld, Pinglit's world of origin. Also Ambassadors Sharpe, Suganaki, and Gomez, from trade-linked planets."

 "Excellent, excellent." The old gentleman's eyes were seen to glow with what Ken Rik knew to be the light of battle. "If these gentles will but follow—Mr. yo'Lanna, I regret. Is there a place I may work?"

 "You may use my office, sir," Ken Rik offered with exquisite cordiality. "This way, please."

 "With all due respect, Mr.—umm—dea'Gauss?—we have our duty."

 "Of course you do," he agreed. "We each of us have our duties. At this present, however, yours must wait upon mine." He executed a stiff, barely civil bow. "Attend us, please, sirs."

 Shan yos'Galan rounded the corner with lazy haste, a glass of wine in his right hand and a large green plant cradled in his left arm. Suddenly he stopped, plant fronds swaying over his head, and blinked with consummate stupidity.

 "Have the inspectors gone, Ken Rik? Or is it time for your midshift tea? Please don't think I begrudge you anything, but—"

 Ken Rik grinned at him. "Mr. dea'Gauss is here."

 "Is he? How delightful for us. Has he been shown his room? Oh, are you going visiting? Silly of me—of course you are. Very proper, since the two of you are such fast friends. A game or two of counterchance, a few glasses of wine, a bit of gossip. But theinspectors , Ken Rik?"

 "Mr. dea'Gauss is with the inspectors. He came directly to the holds, looking for your Lordship, and has taken matters into his hand. I am sent for a ship-to and a colorcomp, that he may do his work the better."

 "You left the inspectorsalone with Mr. dea'Gauss?” Shan grinned widely. "Poor inspectors. Should I succor them, do you think, Ken Rik? It wouldn't do if a charge of cruelty to those of limited understanding were lodged."

 "Mr. dea'Gauss summoned four ambassadors pertinent to the present situation to my office, where he is instructing the inspectors. I think they'll be safe enough for this while." He sniffed. "Did you know that we've engaged the services of a local accounting firm to tally the losses to port and to ship while thePassage is off limits?"

 Shan regarded him with awe. "Have we? That was clever of us, wasn't it? How did we do it?"

 "We put an advertisement," the older man explained, a bit unsteadily, "in the port business publication."

 Shan gave a shout of laughter, the plant shivering alarmingly in his arms. "Oh, dear. Oh,no! In the port business paper? Ken Rik, we have a blot upon our immortal souls: We've brought an expert to an amateur's game! Speaking of which, I believe I should be present, as referee. My Lordship wouldn't miss such a show for—never mind." He held the plant out. "Do me the favor of taking this along to Ambassador Kelmik's quarters. She tells me that she cannot feel comfortable without a bit of greenery about."

 Ken Rik sighed. "How are matters in the pet library?"

 "Lina and Priscilla seem to be holding their own. Really, we have a most remarkable crew. When I left, the inspectors were bloody, but game. Neither of the ladies had yet been touched."

 "Nor will they be," the cargo master predicted with delight. "Please tell Mr. dea'Gauss that I have not forgotten him, and that he will have his equipment very soon."

 "I will, indeed," Shan promised, moving off with his long, loose stride. Ken Rik grinned and proceeded toward the guesting hall, plant fronds bouncing over his head with each step.

 "Also," Mr. dea'Gauss was telling an attentive audience when Shan entered the cargo master's sanctum, "it must be taken into account that persons employed by Clan Korval receive wages that are between ten and fifteen percent higher than wages received by persons employed in similar positions on other vessels. This, of course, means great in-port spending on the part of Korval's crews. I expect to have the precise extrapolations in—your Lordship." He rose immediately and bowed low.

 Shan stifled a sigh and inclined his head. "Mr. dea'Gauss. I am happy to see you. Forgive that I was not on hand to greet you personally when you came aboard."

 "Your Lordship is gracious. It is understood that there are many demands upon your attention. Mr. yo'Lanna has seen to my needs. I believe it is not overoptimistic to state that matters progress well and an end to this misunderstanding will be speedily attained."

 "I am sure we all hope for that," his Lordship responded gravely. "Please continue. It's always an inspiration to watch you at your work."

 Mr. dea'Gauss acknowledged this with a tip of the head and reseated himself. Shan drifted to the left, exchanged polite smiles with the four ambassadors, and took up a position where he could watch the faces of the inspectors and Mr. dea'Gauss's workscreen.

 "We should shortly," Korval’s man of business resumed, "have a response from Pinglit Manufacturing Company. If they agree to the proposal offered—that is, your Lordship, to allow the presence of these four persons, Ambassadors May, Sharpe, Gomez, and Suganaki, to equal the presence of one of their agents—then we will proceed with the unsealing and inspection of Hold Forty-three. In the meantime, sirs…" He turned to the befuddled inspectors. "I shall require from you a list of areas inspected and a certification for each."

 "Certification, sir?" queried the shorter one—Inspector William, Shan recalled—with trepidation. "What sort of certification?"

 Mr. dea'Gauss regarded him from under drawn brows. "Why, certification that you found nothing illegal within the stated area, of course. I do not ask if that was indeed the case. It could not have been otherwise."

 Inspector William exchanged a glance with his partner.

 "Was it otherwise?" Mr. dea'Gauss demanded.

 The shorter inspector swallowed. "No, sir, of course—that is to say, we found no illegal substances in the holds thus far inspected. However, sir, it is our instruction to search the vessel entire and issue certification at the end."

 "Insufficient” Mr. dea'Gauss judged, turning back to the screen. "Also, I find it incredible that two teams of inspectors are assigned to this task. A vessel the size of theDutiful Passage —it is laughable. And while you pursue your efforts, Korval loses on the order of—" He touched a key with the reverence another man might reserve for stroking the cheek of his beloved. "Seven cantra per trade-night. Arsdred Port loses four point eight cantra per trade-night. This does not include the loss to those merchants who have offered guaranteed delivery for the goods we carry, based on our reliability. We must have at least two more teams of inspectors."

 "I," Ambassador Suganaki said quietly, "would consider it an honor to be allowed to supervise one of those teams. It is absurd that the crew bear all the burden when there are so many of my colleagues here, pledged to aid. I am sure the crew has its scheduled round of duties, which must go on, regardless."

 Shan bowed. "I thank you, ma'am. That's exactly the sort of assistance we do require. If I'd had any indication that thePassage was to have been boarded in this way, I would have signed on extra crew at the beginning of the trip."

 "It is, of course, an unlooked for and unprecedented event, Captain," Suganaki agreed gravely, though there was a twinkle in her eye. "Perhaps an announcement at the reception this evening will alert my colleagues to the need." She turned to Korval’s man of business. "It is possible, I think, sir, that evenfour more teams may not be excessive. TheDutiful Passage is a large ship."

 "A worthy suggestion, Ambassador. My thanks to you. I shall inquire of Judge Bearmert how best to obtain additional inspectors. Now—" The in-ship buzzed, and Mr. dea'Gauss tapped the speak key. "Yes?"

 "Tower here, Mr. dea'Gauss," Rusty's voice said formally. "Pinglit Manufacturing Company agrees to your suggestion. Hard-copy verification arrives via courier ship soonest. If there is anything else they may do, they beg you not to hesitate."

 "Excellent, tower. My thanks to you." He cut the connection and gazed around in satisfaction. "Let us repair to Hold Forty-three."

 Much later, after the inspectors had departed for the night, Shan walked with Mr. dea'Gauss toward the guesting hall.

 "I have a message from the First Speaker, your Lordship," the old gentleman murmured in the High Tongue. "She bade me inform you that the Clan bears all expense in this situation, since the blow seems aimed at Korval entire, not only at thePassage —or yourself."

 Shan nodded absently. 'The First Speaker, my sister, is generous."

 His response was most proper. Mr. dea'Gauss cleared his throat as a prelude to speaking further. It was not often that one found his Lordship so biddable. He did not at the moment recall that every period of docility he had previously observed in Shan's career had been immediately followed by some mad start. "I have also a message from Lord yos'Phelium."

 The big mouth curved in a smile. "Do you? And what has my brother to say?"

 Korval's man of business paused. The message was an odd one—flippant to the point of outrage. However, it seemed certain that young Val Con had inherited his father's devious directness, and Mr. dea'Gauss believed the true message lay far within the one he was bidden to deliver. Carefully, striving for the original phrasing, he said, "He asked me to tell you that he believes a successful scout and a successful thief must share certain vital characteristics. He thanks you for the suggestion of an avocation and asks further what he may be honored to steal for you first."

 Shan laughed. "Renegade. He should have been drowned at birth. How long does he stop at home?"

 Mr. dea'Gauss allowed himself a sniff to indicate his disapproval of this manner of speaking of Korval's Heir and replied stiffly. "He had been on Liad a bare quarter relumma when he was suddenly recalled to his duties as scout. He left the planet, I believe, the very day I was called before the First Speaker. It was only by chance that I was privileged to see him for a moment and exchange greetings."

 Shan considered him. "Suddenly recalled by the scouts, was he?"

 "Yes, my lord, and a sad blow it was to Lady Nova. She had invited Lady Imelda to guest. I believe she looked for a contract marriage in that direction, so that his Lordship might fulfill his duty to the Clan."

 "Is she feeling better now?" Shan asked solicitously.

 Mr. dea'Gauss blinked. "I beg pardon, your Lordship? Is who feeling better?"

 "My sister. Of all the ladies she might have tried to force down Val Con's throat!"

 "Lady Imelda," the old gentleman said severely, "is from a good Clan. She is honorable and quite complaisant."

 "Quitecomplaisant. And neither stupid enough nor brilliant enough to pull it off. Val Con would have been at the screaming point within a relumma." They paused by an indigo-colored door. "I will give you any odds you name, sir, that that sudden recall by the scouts came after a personal request to be recalled."

 There were several answers to this, none of them proper. Mr. dea'Gauss maintained an icy silence. His Lordship grinned and bowed. "Your room, sir. I trust you will find everything exactly as you wish it. The ambassadorial reception will be at Twenty Hours. I hope to see you among the merrymakers."

 There was nothing for Mr. dea'Gauss but to make his bow and enter his room.

 Shan moved toward his own quarters, his long stride eating distance while he frowned in thought.

 It was true that the lad must do his duty to the Clan. Everyone must provide the Clan with his or her personal heir. Even Shan, the reprobate, the cynic, had given Korval a daughter who would in time take his place at the head of Line yos'Galan; at the head of thePassage … Damn them both for being at such loggerheads! If only Nova would try to enlist Val Con to the task of discovering some suitable lady, all might yet come out right.

 Shan sighed, stopped in the middle of his sleeping room, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply and evenly, as he had been taught so long ago by the Master Healers. Slowly, the worries—familiar, professional, personal—stilled.

 One thing at a time, he reminded himself with forceful calm.

 An image of Priscilla as he had last seen her, the light of battle in her face as she confronted two harried inspectors, rose before his inner eye.

 With a groan, he dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes.

 You want too much, your Lordship, he told himself. Try to be worthy of her friendship. If you're very lucky, you'll manage it.

 He rose from the bed and wandered toward the 'fresher, stripping off his clothes as he went. He stepped into the needle spray, resolutely turning his thoughts to the coming reception and what profit might be earned from it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 148
FOURTH SHIFT
17.00 HOURS

 "You must have a dress!"

 "Lina—"

 "No!" the small woman cried, taking her friend's hand. "You attend the reception properly attired. I will hear no more!"

 Priscilla stood her ground and bit her lip. "Lina, I'm sorry—trulysorry. But I don't have any money, my dear. None. And I'm already into my wages for the cost of the clothes I'm wearing now. A—party—dress…"

 "Bah!" Lina flung up a tiny hand, then swung close, pressing lightly against the taller woman's side. "I shall provide the dress, and you shall wear it to please me, eh?" She smiled. "All is arranged!"

 Priscilla smiled and shook her head. "I can't ask you to do that, Lina. Why should you—"

 "Why should I not?" Lina interrupted. "We are sisters—you said it yourself! Should I allow my sister to go improperly clad? And far from asking, you make it astonishingly difficult to gift you!" She laughed and pulled on Priscilla's hand, urging her to the entrance of the general stores. "Come, denubia. You must learn to accept a gift with grace."

 The Terran woman chuckled. "Another protocol lesson? Next you'll be telling me to wear the earrings the captain gave me!"

 "And why should you not?" Lina demanded. "The design is pleasing; I think they will look very well on you. Shan is honorable—he does not gift and then cry 'owed!'" She looked up into her friend's face. "The earrings areyours , Priscilla. A gift, freely given. No hurt can come from wearing them." She pulled her companion through the first storeroom, past the working clothes and everyday boots, past even the festive tunics and softshoes, into the room beyond, where dream fabrics drew the eye from all directions and the air smelled of Festival-time.

 "I don't think…" Priscilla began, staring about her like a thing half-wild.

 "Bah!" Lina said again, allowing no time for refusals. "Why should you not have a dress that becomes you?" She came close once more and extended both a hand and a mental touch of comfort to still the beginning panic. "Priscilla, you are lovely. It is added joy that you are so. Why not pleasure yourself—and those who see you—by wearing beautiful clothes? The occasion demands it!"

 But Priscilla was no longer listening. She bent and stroked Lina's hair lightly, then slid a hand beneath the small chin and tipped her face so the light fell on it. Lina met the sparkling black gaze calmly, all Roads open and clear, the Wall at her back.

 "You are of the Circle," Priscilla murmured, perhaps to herself. "I can feel the warmth coming out of you, like a hearth fire, my friend. And before—the pain—then the healing…" The hand withdrew; Lina kept her face tipped fully up, eyes steady.

 "Are you Wife, Lina? Or Witch?"

 "I have been a wife—twice by contract, as is proper. And I am mother of two sons: Bey Lor and Zac. By trade I am librarian; by training I am Healer. I do not know what a Witch is, my friend."

 "Healer?" Priscilla frowned. "A Healer is—Soul-weaver, we say, on Sintia. When someone is sick in spirit…"

 "When one does not accept joy," Lina agreed. "Shan says the proper Terran word is 'empath.'" She hesitated. "I am not sure. It seemed from my readings—for a Healer may not aid everyone. There are those I cannot feel at all. And there is training to be undergone, protections to be learned, techniques to be mastered."

 "Yes, of course." Priscilla was still frowning. "But You," Lina interrupted, "were fighting joy, denying both laughter and the possibility of kindness. It could not continue so! I had the means to aid you. Why should I not?" She swayed close, regardless of other persons in the room, all Roads open yet. "Priscilla? Sisters. You said it. I do not deny it."

 There was a flare of pain like thrown acid, followed by a surge of joy nearly as searing. Lina put her arms around her friend's waist and hugged her tight, feeling Priscilla's arms pull her tighter.

 "Sister and friend…" After a final, nearly bone-crushing squeeze, Lina felt herself released and realized that the Roads bore the other woman's clear, singing happiness; she retained enough wit to shut herself away from the intoxication.

 "Come," she said, smiling and taking Priscilla's hand. "Let us choose you amagnificent dress!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 148
FOURTH SHIFT
20.00 HOURS

 Long after Lina left, Priscilla stood before the mirror, oscillating between terror and delight.

 The dresswas magnificent: black shimmersilk, shot with random silver bolts that glittered and danced as she moved. The fabric covered her from knee to neck, from shoulder to wrist, meticulously reproducing every line it adhered to. The slit on the right side made her accustomed stride possible while allowing a tantalizing glimpse of creamy thigh. Goddess knew how much it had cost. Lina had not answered when Priscilla had asked.

 She frowned at her reflection. She wore her three remaining bracelets on her right wrist, and a blue enameled ring borrowed from Lina on her left hand. A silver ribbon wove like lightning through her storm-cloud curls. Yet there was something missing.

 Slowly she went back to the wardrobe and rummaged within. The velvet of the box was warm in her hand. She worked the catch on her way back to the mirror, then carefully hung a hoop in each ear and stepped back to observe the effect.

 In a moment she nodded, which set the hoops dancing; laying the box aside, she left the room.

 Rusty frankly stared before coming forward and offering his arm. "'Cilia, you're gorgeous. How 'bout a cohab contract?"

 She grinned. "You've been in the tower too long, friend."

 "Well, that's true," he said morosely. "Between the cap'n and Mr. dea'Gauss, I thought I'd never get off that damn beam! We've got the fourteen prime points covered, I swear."

 "Sounds rough," she sympathized. 'Try coming to the pet library and defending Master Frodo's right to live."

 Rusty snorted. "Busybodies. Why don't they find something real to do? As if we'd ship contraband! Must've lost all their aces to try and pin that on thePassage ."

 Just then Lina approached, arm in arm with an elderly Liaden gentleman in formal dark tunic and strictly correct ash-colored trousers. "Priscilla, here is Mr. dea'Gauss, Clan Korval’s man of business," she said with a stateliness made tolerable by her smile. Turning to the gentleman, she repeated the formula. "Mr. dea'Gauss, here is Priscilla Mendoza, my good friend."

 Both pet librarian and man of business bowed. Straightening, Mr. dea'Gauss was seen to smile. "Lady Mendoza, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Lady Faaldom has spoken most warmly of you."

 "I am happy to meet you, Mr. dea'Gauss," Priscilla said cordially; she added a diplomatic rider. "I am certain that Lina's friendship must be a bond between us."

 "So I thought, as well," the old gentleman said, delighted to find her so well spoken. He inclined his head to her escort. "Mr. Morganton. How do you go on?"

 "Pretty well, sir," Rusty returned as if he had not spent the greater part of his day executing the old man's instructions. "How are you?"

 "I find myself in the best of good health, thank you, sir, in spite of the fact that I have recently been constrained to travel. Ah, there is Ambassador Kung." He executed a nicely gauged bow between Priscilla and Lina. "I beg to be excused. Duty must ever come before pleasure."

 "Pity Ambassador Kung," Rusty muttered as Mr. dea'Gauss moved off after his quarry.

 Lina laughed. "Ah, he is not so bad, the old gentleman. He sincerely tries to care for people. It is not his fault that he loves work more."

 "If you say so," Rusty said doubtfully. "At least he's not as strung-up as Lady Whatsis—Kareen? You remember that run we had her and her son? I don't think Shan showed his nose in the halls the whole time she was here! Even Captain Er Thom looked nervous."

 Lina smiled. "But it was only for a few weeks, after all. And the rest of the trip was very nice. Bah! Now I must ask to be excused! I did promise to speak with Mr. Lyle. And it is true that we should be pleasant, since we wish them to work for us." She executed the bow between equals and slanted a grin up at Priscilla. "Lady Mendoza. Mr. Morganton."

 Rusty shook his head and sighed down at Priscilla. "Well, she's right. I'd better find that silly woman who was so excited about the pin-beam and show off my manners." He raised a hand, grinning ruefully. "See you later."

 Priscilla looked about her. Mr. dea'Gauss was in earnest conversation with an emaciated and exceedingly tall Terran. Janice Weatherbee and Tonee had engaged the attention of three or four lesser officials; the conversation was liberally laced with laughter. Ken Rik listened politely to a fat woman with a painted face and a multitude of jewel-tipped braids, while Lina smiled winningly up at a clearly captivated gentleman who was, Priscilla supposed, Mr. Lyle. Rusty had disappeared into the crowded back of the room. And she did not see the other person she was looking for.

 Irritably, she shrugged her shoulders and moved at random into the crowd. What difference did it make to her if Shan yos'Galan chose to absent himself from the reception?

 "It would, of course, be unfortunate," Ambassador Gomez was saying confidentially to an elder in the robes of an Arsdredi, "should Clan Korval send word to its allies and trade-partners that it no longer stops here."

 "Generations to recover," another person murmured as Priscilla eased by. "Economic tragedy… second-rate port…"

 Was Clan Korval as powerful as that? she wondered, slipping by Janice and Tonee with a smile. Could they ruin a spaceport? Make thousands jobless? By refusing to stop? Merely by letting it be known that they would no longer stop there? It seemed incredible. And yet Shan yos'Galan had lost a middling fortune at the hands of Sav Rid Olanek and claimed the money as the least part.

 He's a truthful person, Priscilla thought. He'd have told me if the coin-loss was desperate.

 Spying a lone ambassador, important in beribboned tunic and sash-belt, she smiled and bowed. "Good evening. I am Priscilla Mendoza, of the crew of theDutiful Passage ."

 The ambassador, it turned out, had a thirst for knowledge. He wished to know everything concerning thePassage , her captain, Clan Korval, the pet library, and the crew. Priscilla obliged him, editing where it seemed appropriate, thankful for once that the possession of a comely face allowed her room to be just a trifle stupid. While she could not feel that her interpretation of the role was as inspired as Shan yos'Galan's, it was perfectly adequate for the audience.

 The patterns of the party altered, partnering Priscilla’s ambassador with one of his own. Liberated, she moved off. She saw Seth bent almost double, speaking into Tonee's ear; Rusty was near the bank of green plants with Kayzin Ne'Zame, his stance formal as he spoke to a half circle of listeners.

 And leaning against the far wall, beneath the very wings of the dragon, closely attending a blond woman in ambassadorial dress, was Shan yos'Galan. He wore a blend of Liaden and Terran formality: ruffled white shirt, brocade jacket, dark, form-fitting trousers. The amethyst drop hung in his right ear. Priscilla was aware of a feeling of relief and took an unconscious step in his direction.

 He glanced up, his big mouth curved in a smile. Priscilla froze, feeling her face flush.

 "Ms. Mendoza?" The voice at her elbow was unpleasantly shrill.

 She turned and smiled at the fat woman of the many braids. "Yes? How may I serve you, ma'am?"

 The woman smiled, creasing the intricate pattern of her facial decoration, and made a jerky forward motion, which Priscilla interpreted as a bow. "I am Ambassador Dia Grittle of Skansion. Cargo Master yo'Lanna tells me you are a native of Sintia."

 Her smile felt stiff on her face, and she was certain that she had lost color. Fortunately, Ambassador Grittle did not appear to notice.

 Priscilla cleared her throat. "Indeed I am, ma'am…" She let the sentence trail to a tiny note of inquiry.

 The ambassador nodded sharply. "Thought as much when I saw you walk in. Got the look of your mother."

 Priscilla took a breath, forcing air down her constricted throat. Not here, Goddess, she prayed. Notnow .

 "Lady Mendoza. Ambassador Grittle. Forgive the interruption. I have here one who is anxious to meet you, lady." The speaker was Mr. dea'Gauss. Priscilla felt her knees sag in relief. Silently she thanked the Goddess.

 The smile she gave Korval’s man of business was genuine. "Of course, sir." Ambassador Grittle muttered something inarticulate but no doubt proper. Mr. dea'Gauss bowed, indicating the gentleman at his side.

 "Priscilla, Lady Mendoza, may I make you known to Judge Abrahanthan Zahre."

 The gentleman stepped forward, his ruby-red robes rustling, and held out a smooth, thin hand. "I am pleased to meet you, Lady Mendoza. Especially as it affords me the opportunity to make my apologies in person."

 "Apologies, sir?" Priscilla's forehead puckered, then cleared. "The warrant!" she exclaimed, striving for a look of vacuous enlightment. "I had forgotten, sir. Please do the same."

 "You are kind." The judge bowed, smiling. "But I do wish you to know that it is not my practice to brand one a thief on such flimsy evidence as was presented to me by Trader Olanek. He was very persuasive, it is true. But I serve the Law, and I hold myself responsible. That warrant should never have been issued."

 "Warrant!" Ambassador Grittle was staring at the judge in what seemed to be disbelief. "You issued a warrant! Did you take no time tothink , sir? Did you take no time to consider with whom you dealt?" She took a deep breath, her voice rising ever more shrilly over the room at large. "To think that aMendoza of Sintia might be a thief—it is an outrage, sir! We of Skansion are trade-partnered with Sintia. I am myself acquainted with the Mendoza family. It is an insult, sir! And one nearly past bearing! Of all—was there bail set?" she shot at the white-faced and rigid Priscilla.

 "A cantra was set as bail," the judge murmured in a moment, "and has been paid byDutiful Passage . Clan Korval guarantees Lady Mendoza's appearance, should the matter go to trial." He smiled faintly. "Which I am certain it will not."

 "A Mendoza of Sintia needs no one to guarantee her word!" the ambassador snapped. She reached into the velvet pouch hung at her ample waist, produced a single dully shimmering coin, and slapped it in the judge's hand. "Skansion doubles the bond! Thus do we stand by our allies!"

 Priscilla ran her tongue over dry lips, then opened her mouth to say—what?

 Again Mr. dea'Gauss rescued her. He stepped forward and offered the ambassador his arm, smiling coolly. "Lady Mendoza is fortunate indeed that her home-world has so staunch a trade-partner. Allow me to procure a glass of wine for you, Ambassador."

 Priscilla inclined her head to Judge Zahre, then raised her eyes to find him smiling in real amusement. Her own lips bent in response. "Now I must begyour pardon!"

 His smile widened into a grin. "Without cause, Lady Mendoza.You were not rude." He glanced over her shoulder. "I see that refreshments have arrived. Allow me to escort you."

 "You're kind," she said breathlessly, "but I—I must see someone just now. Perhaps we'll talk again later."

 The judge's face turned quizzical. "Yes, perhaps we will." Bowing formally, he left her.

 Moving with pilot swiftness, pilot grace, she slipped through the press of people and into the corridor. She strode down the hall, turned a corner, and leaned against the wall, listening to the pounding of her heart.

 That dreadful woman! Who had heard? The entire room, most likely. And she claimed acquaintance with Anmary Mendoza! Allmother, what shall I do?

 "Good evening, Priscilla? Asleep? It's a terrible crush, isn't it? My Lordship isn't good for much of this kind of thing. I'm a sad trial to my sister—no manners, no address."

 She opened her eyes, breath snagging. "Captain."

 "Sometimes," he agreed, light eyes mocking. "Don't you like the party? Mr. dea'Gauss seems very impressed."

 Her face relaxed a little, her mouth curving toward a smile. "I didn't have the nerve to tell him I'm not a lady," she confessed, striving for lightness. "I'm afraid it would embarrass him."

 Shan laughed. "Mr. dea'Gauss never errs in these matters. I suggest you accommodate yourself to ladyhood." He tipped his head. "That won't be so hard, will it, Priscilla? After all, a Mendoza of Sintia—"

 Her face went white, eyes widening, one hand moving up and out, warding him away. "No."

 "Priscilla!" He snapped forward, hand outstretched. "Priscilla, it was a joke! I—I never wanted to distress you!" He took another step as he bit his lip. "I'msorry , Priscilla."

 Her hand wavered, fell, and closed about his. "It's all right," she said unevenly. Her hand seemed to tremble in his as she took a ragged breath. "Please, you mustn't ask…"

 "I don't ask. I have no right to ask, Priscilla. It was only a joke. You looked as if you needed to laugh so badly." He smiled ruefully. "My wretched tongue!"

 Her mouth wobbled on the edge of a smile. "Ambassador Grittle…"

 "Makes you stop and wonder, doesn't it? How could she have become an ambassador? Do you think she might have assassinated someone?"

 "There's a chance, if she did." The smile was there, finally; nor did she take her hand from his. "Maybe somebody will assassinateher ."

 Shan laughed. "We can hope." Then he sighed. "My Lordship is expected to return to the festivities. Will you come with me? Or are you retiring?"

 She removed her hand, though the smile remained. "I'll stay here for a moment or two, I think. Then I'll go back."

 "All right," he said, moving reluctantly away. At the corner he turned back. "Priscilla?"

 "Yes, Captain?"

 A shadow crossed his face but was gone before she could name it. He bowed slightly. "It was nothing. I'll see you later, Priscilla." She was alone.

 Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes and breathed in the way that was taught to every Initiate: breathe in serenity, breathe out confusion. Breathe in strength, breathe out weakness. Breath in hope, breathe out despair.

 In a little while she opened her eyes, stood away from the wall, and went back to the reception.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 155
FIRST SHIFT
4.00 HOURS

 Shan groaned and rolled over. One long arm swung out, smacking the alarmplate unerringly. Obedient to this prompt, the cabin lights came up and music began to play. Loudly.

 "Give me a break," he muttered, sitting up and running his fingers through his hair. The music abated somewhat, a boon to his pounding head. "Damn that stuff! Floats you on a cloud, then hits you over the head with a rock. Why would anybody want to smoke it?"

 The room offered no answer.

 Well, it had been a profitable week of trading, with the Arsdredi seemingly bent on recouping every cantra of "loss" the port business paper had kept such careful track of. It was merely a sad pity that profit had not yet been known to cure a headache.

 Shan groaned again, and the pounding intensified as memory returned. Mr. dea'Gauss wished to speak with his Lordship this morning on business concerning Clan Korval. Wonderful.

 He placed his feet carefully and stood, grimacing. Perhaps it's not too late to resign as a lordship? But there was no conviction in the thought. His brother and sisters needed him, so a lord Shan would be.

 "A shower," he told himself firmly. "And breakfast. Coffee. Lovely, hot coffee."

 Breakfast had been the right idea. Coffee had been inspired. Armed with a second steaming mugful, Shan moved back toward his office, nodding to and exchanging greetings with the crew members he encountered.

 The good news, he reflected, laying his hand against the plate, was that his interview with Korval's man of business must of necessity be brief. ThePassage had received permission to leave Arsdred orbit in one ship's hour.

 The bad news was that Mr. dea'Gauss could pack more well-mannered moralizing into an hour than a Moreleki proselytizer. The phrase "business of Clan Korval" was especially ominous.

 Unless he very much mistook the matter, Shan was in for a masterly rake-down.

 It was odd, he thought, setting his cup on the desk and disposing himself comfortably in the captain's chair, how lordhood's vaunted powers and privileges did nothing at all to protect one from the righteous nagging of those who held one's best interests at heart.

 The door chimed, and Shan sighed. He toyed briefly with the notion of remaining silent, then regretfully decided that it would not be seemly and picked up his mug. "Come."

 Mr. dea'Gauss walked three steps into the room and bowed low, as agent to lord.

 Shan inclined his head and took a sip of scalding coffee. "Mr. dea'Gauss. How delightful to see you looking so well! Adversity always did agree with you, sir. Please, sit down."

 "Your Lordship will have his joke, I suppose," the older man said repressively. "The business I come on is quite serious, however. I am certain that your Lordship will give me the closest attention for the next several moments."

 "Of course," Shan murmured politely.

 Mr. dea'Gauss regarded Shan steadily, feet flat on the carpet, hands folded, spine stiff and inches from the back of the chair. "In the course of following the instructions laid upon me by Korval's First Speaker," he said crisply, "I found that which seems to indicate that you have undertaken debt-balance with Sav Rid Olanek of Clan Plemia. I ask if this is so."

 Here it comes, Shan thought. He inclined his head slightly. "It is so."

 Mr. dea'Gauss exhaled sharply. "It is perhaps unfortunate," he suggested, though Shan failed to observe any note of delicacy in this tone, "that your Lordship took it upon himself to enter into such an enterprise without first consulting those of us who are more knowledgeable in affairs of this nature. If I had been apprised of the situation at its first occurrence, balance might have been quickly and, I will say, cleanly achieved. As it stands—"

 "As it stands," Shan interrupted, allowing an edge of irritation to be heard, "I am captain of this vessel. As captain, it is my duty to guard her honor, the honor of the crew, and my own honoras captain."

 "Very true," Mr. dea'Gauss agreed. "However, the situation is not so clear. It is not your responsibility as captain to plunge ship and crew into debt-balance without making the First Speaker aware. It is the First Speaker's duty, after all, to protect the honor of the Clan. And I believe this to be a strike at Korval entire." He paused, rubbing his hands together dryly. "You are aware, I think, that Sav Rid Olanek had previously given your sister, the First Speaker, cause to feel that she was owed?"

 Shan drank coffee and shrugged. "I think the case is that my sister, the First Speaker, gave Sav Rid Olanek cause to feel thathe was owed. But, yes, I was aware. It did not appear to alter things significantly."

 "Wherein," the old gentleman said with asperity, "lies the meat of my comments. I have grown old minding Korval's interests. It is vainglory for one as young and as inexperienced as yourself to think he might take up so weighty a matter, unaided by older, wiser counsel." He paused. It occurred to him that perhaps this was not the best tone to take with Shan, who was well known for his unpredictability.

 "It is true," he continued in a more conciliating mode, "that your Lordship is yet young. Experience comes with age, with observing the actions of one's elders and studying their thoughts. It is my dearest wish to aid you, your Line, your Clan. I have done so my life long. If I speak too freely, it is from the knowledge that youth errs most greatly when it strives to do what is most proper."

 There was a pause long enough to inspire Mr. dea'Gauss with the fear that he had indeed badly overstepped himself. It was within Shan's power—and certainly within the scope of his character—to refuse the aid offered and send his man of business straightaway back to Liad. In such a case, Mr. dea'Gauss's interview with the First Speaker could only be painful. Nova yos'Galan had a clear sense of her duty as First Speaker in Trust. She would not brook failure.

 "So, then," Shan said conversationally. "What do you wantfrom me, sir? Shall I give the captaincy of thePassage over to your capable self? Or call a halt to the balancing with what has already been done and hope that it suffices?"

 Shan's unpredictability, Mr. dea'Gauss reminded himself carefully, could run both ways. "I hear from all only that you are a most excellent captain," he answered quietly. "A Trader of the first rank. For this present… If your Lordship would apprise me of what steps have been taken?"

 "Pin-beams have been sent to four hundred twenty-eight worlds, issuing social and civil warning and citingDaxflan's unfortunate link with port violence. To date, three hundred have responded positively, via pin-beam and bouncecomm. The Trade Commission has likewise been notified and responds with thanks and a promise to investigate." He paused. "I trust you find these efforts not completely ineffective."

 Mr. dea'Gauss drew a careful breath. "I will, of course, desire to study your Lordship's records, for my own edification." He considered a moment before venturing further. "Lady Mendoza is partnered in this enterprise?"

 "Lady Mendoza," Shan said, his mouth suddenly tight and grim, "has had her person abused and her honor jeopardized—by order and by direct action of Sav Rid Olanek. You may find the details in her file." He leaned forward, tapped a one-fingered sequence into the keypad, and rose to his towering height. "If you will sit at the desk, sir, you will see what efforts have been made thus far. I hope you won't find them entirely without merit." He bowed slightly. "I'm sure you'll forgive me, sir. Duty calls me to the bridge. ThePassage leaves orbit shortly."

 "Certainly, your Lordship," Mr. dea'Gauss said, coming to his feet. He bowed as Shan swept out of the room and then moved behind the desk, pulling a note-corder from his sleeve.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 155
SECOND SHIFT
6.00 HOURS

 "Leaving Arsdred orbit," Rusty said pensively. "'Bout time. I tell you, 'Cilia, I don't think I've ever been so sick of a port before. Lost money hand over fist—well, not theship . Kayzin was saying at breakfast that the port-profit appeared to be adequate." He grinned. "That means the cap'n made a killing."

 Priscilla gave one of her nearly noiseless laughs. "But that's good news, isn't it? Your share will be more at Solcintra. And you didn't lose money on the spec cargo, did you? I thought the wood was preordered."

 "Yeah, that's all okay. Point is, we had to pay a stiff fine to—umm, convince the inspectors that Lina's damn perfume wasn't illegal insome places, even if it is on Arsdred, and that we never had any intention of trading it on Arsdred." He stopped, a riveted expression on his round face. "You know what, though? We'd been going to try and trade some here, except the cap'n nixed it. Whew! Close one! I tell you what, 'Cilia: Shan's damn good."

 "Well," Priscilla said as the door to the bridge slid aside to admit them, "heis a Master Trader."

 "Sure is. What're you doing after shift? Want to pick up Lina and have a picnic in the garden? My treat."

 "That sounds good. But Lina might have other plans."

 Rusty set his coffee cup on the comm island. "I'll check before we get started. See you later, Pilot."

 "Carry on, Radio Tech." She continued across the bridge, past Navigation and around Meteorology to Piloting. Smiling, she slid into the chair and inclined her head to Third Mate Gil Don Balatrin. He returned an absent half bow.

 "Early, aren't you, Mendoza?" Janice Weatherbee asked; she, too, was early. "Might as well start calculating." She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest elaborately, her eyes ostensibly on the blank screen over the co-pilot's board.

 Priscilla nodded, slid her card into the slot, logged on, and began to run the figures, building an image on her screen. She checked it frowningly, made several adjustments, checked again, and nodded. A slim finger touched the send key and the image coalesced on the coscreen. Priscilla leaned back and deliberately closed her eyes.

 "Looks okay to me, Mendoza. Feed it and lock it."

 She nodded, stifling a sigh as her fingers flew across the board. "Looks okay to me" was an accolade when Janice said it. It's childish, Priscilla thought, but it would be nice to hear that I'd done this or that well.

 A chime sounded, and the minor hum of voices faded, to be replaced by one voice, clear and soul-warming. "Good morning, all. Station reports, please. I assume everyone's ready to leave?"

 The screen was a uniform gray except for the red digits in the bottom right-hand corner, busy counting the "real time" they spent in hyperspace.

 Priscilla shifted in the pilot's chair, conscious of a glow in the vicinity of her stomach. From orbit-break to Jump-entry, the piloting had been hers. Janice had sat, watchful, throughout the shift but had given neither instruction nor assistance.

 Janice stood and stretched. "Okay, Mendoza. I'm gonna run down and snap a cup of coffee. Should be back before Jump-end. If not, you go ahead. This place is a real backwater. Nothing tough. You want anything?"

 "No, thanks."

 The second mate nodded. "Okay. Back in a couple minutes."

 "Your Lordship? May I speak with you a moment?"

 Shan sighed and stopped, waiting for Mr. dea'Gauss to come alongside. "Good afternoon, sir," he said politely. "How may I assist you?"

 "A few words on the matter lying between Korval and Sav Rid Olanek, your Lordship. I have taken the liberty of ordering credit checks onDaxflan at all ports in this sector. This is in the nature of a supportive effort to your Lordship's own tactic."

 Shan raised a hand. "Mr. dea'Gauss, I regret. We are due to break into normal space in less than five minutes. Duty calls me again to the bridge."

 "Of course," the old gentleman murmured. "May I walk with your Lordship?"

 There was no escape. Shan inclined his head. "Certainly, sir." He began to move, sternly suppressing a desire to continue at his usual long stride.

 "I am certain," Mr. dea'Gauss said, "that your Lordship will inform Lady Mendoza of the action I have taken. Also, it is necessary to ascertain whether she has notified her House of the fact that it is partnered with Korval in a venture of honor. I retain the impression that upon Sintia, Mendoza is a House of power, enclosing a varied melant'i. It would be wise to establish amicable relations." He paused, and Shan nodded absently. Matching the old gentleman's pace had kept him from reaching the bridge before Jump; the Jump alert sounded peacefully.

 They rounded a corner, entering the long hallway that led to the bridge. Mr. dea'Gauss cleared his throat as the tingle of pretransition raced through the ship.

 "Your Lordship has done quite well in the initial moves. The warnings will cost Trader Olanek much in time, in flexibility, in money. Of course, in this, as in chess, which I believe your Lordship studies, it is important for us to cast our minds ahead, considering the possible countermoves open to our opponent."

 The Jump-quiver came. From nowhere, from everywhere—the shriek of a siren. Above Shan's head, a lightplate snapped from yellow to red—and Shan himself was suddenly gone, running flat out toward the bridge.

 The digits in the corner of the screen told their final tally and faded as the break-Jump chime rang across the bridge. Priscilla extended a hand toward the board.

 COLLISION COURSEthe red letters screamed. Abruptly her hands were flashing over the keys, calling up defense screens, demanding data as her eyes scanned the instruments, assessing what it was, how big, how fast and—

 HOSTILE ACTION

 Second screens up, Jump alert, coords locked back in, coils—Hurry up, coils! She saw it now, the screen providing maximum amplification: a tiny ship, bristling guns, in position for a second run-by. Coils… coils—up!

 Her hand was at the Jump control, eyes on the distance dial. There was enough room—just. Now…

 "Well done, Priscilla." A big hand closed around her wrist, pulling her away from the switch even as he slammed into the copilot's chair and rammed his card into the slot. "Series A29, shunt 42—second screens up? Of course…"

 Priscilla's fingers flew in obedience, assigning control to him; she heard him snap an order to Rusty for a visual and another to someone unknown, regarding Turret 7.

 "Hurry up, please, Rusty."

 "Got 'em, Cap'n—your screen."

 The image filled both their screens: the bridge of the other vessel, smaller than thePassage by several magnitudes. A man was at the board. From off-screen, a woman's voice, initially inaudible, was becoming rapidly clear: "… tell Jury to start her run?"

 "You will observe," the captain said from Priscilla's side, "the position of the gun turret on our off side."

 The pilot of the other ship looked up in shock, made lightning adjustments to his unseen board, and swore. "Tell Jury to hang where she is!" he snapped over his shoulder.

 "A wise choice," the captain said gently. "I hate to belabor the point, but I believe we now have five turrets trained on your vessel. Do correct me if I'm wrong."

 The man took a deep breath. "You're right." He glanced behind him as another man came into the screen, a man older than the pilot, hard-faced and calm.

 "What goes, Klaus?"

 Wordlessly, the pilot pointed at something out of the range of the watchers on thePassage . The boss considered for a moment before turning back to the screen and inclining his head.

 "Nothing personal, Captain. A contract."

 "A contract," Shan repeated. "With whom?"

 The boss grinned and shook his head. "Confidential. But I'll tell you this: he wanted you out of the race real bad."

 "Did he? I hope you got your money in cash and up front, sir. No?" He shook his head at the look of sudden dismay on the mercenary captain's face. "That was careless of you. I suppose you're sure that you have the right ship?"

 "He gave me your break-in pattern, a time frame for arrival, approximate mass—real approximate."

 "But he gave you no name? And you didn't ask—no, why should you? This is theDutiful Passage , sir. Clan Korval. Tree and Dragon Family. Stop me when you hear something familiar."

 "I Dare." The voice of the unseen woman was breathless with awe.

 "A student of heraldry? Exactly. I Dare.'"

 The other captain seemed uncomfortable. His eyes strayed from the screen back to the pilot's unseen instruments, then came back to the screen again. "All right, Captain, what's the deal? You've got weaponry and the mass to back it. You gonna use it?"

 "That depends on you, doesn't it? I suppose you wouldn't be betraying a confidence if I asked if the name of the man you dealt with was Olanek or the shipDaxflan . You needn't say yes, only no."

 There was silence.

 Shan shook his head. "I hope you got at least half of your money in advance, sir. No? Forty percent? Thirty?Twenty-five!" He laughed suddenly at the acute distress on the other man's face. "I'm ashamed of you sir! Didn't your mother tell you never to sign a Liaden's contract? Twenty-five percent down on a job that would mark you all for the rest of your lives? Ask your crew member there if she believes a family with 'I Dare' for a motto would let you rest if you'd completed your mission successfully."

 The mercenary captain shrugged. "There wasn't a contract," he said sheepishly. "It was a gentleman's agreement. But I know where to find him."

 "No doubt you do," Shan said cordially. "I should perhaps mention thatDaxflan is also capably armed. And the captain is counted a very fair shot."

 The boss bowed his head. "What's the price?"

 "Get out of here," the captain snapped, his voice suddenly hard-edged and cold. "We have your ships recorded and filed. The information is being pin-beamed this moment to the Federated Trade Commission. I advise you to take up a different line of work."

 The boss glanced over his shoulder. "Tell Jury and Sal to scram. We'll do the same, if the captain'll deflect his guns."

 The last ship reached its Jump point and blinked out of existence. Priscilla's instruments showed empty space around theDutiful Passage for several light-minutes in all directions. In the chair beside her, Shan yos'Galan took a deep breath and spoke, voice glacial. "Second Mate."

 There was a slight hesitation before Janice answered from directly behind them.

 "Captain?"

 "You will report to the captain's office immediately before prime. You will bring hard copy of your contract. Dismissed to quarters."

 Priscilla caught her breath at the other woman's shock; she thought for a heartbeat that one of them would cry in protest.

 The second mate cleared her throat. "Yes, Captain." And Priscilla heard her go.

 Relief flooded through her, shocking in its intensity, mixed with outrage, pain, and near-manic glee. She gripped the arms of the chair, seeking serenity, buffeted by emotion. Adrenaline high, she told herself, keeping to the search for the path.

 "Ms. Mendoza."

 She took a breath and found her voice. "Yes, Captain?"

 "On behalf of this ship and of Clan Korval, Ms. Mendoza, all thanks. I could have done no better in your place, given the resources at your command. I only hope I would have done as well." He pulled his card from the slot and tucked it absently into his belt. 'There will be a meeting of the crew immediately after prime. I would like to see you in my office following it, please."

 "Of course, Captain." The inner chaos was subsiding somewhat. Daring to turn her head, Priscilla met a pair of quizzical pale eyes even as the feeling hit her again—differently, though as intense—an overwhelming impulse to fling back her head and laugh, to embrace the man beside her…

 Just as she knew she must be lost, she found the pathway. She flew down the inner way, found the door, and slammed it hard behind her.

 Beside her, Shan sighed sharply and snapped to his feet, spinning to face the incoming relief pilots. "Your boards," he said curtly.

 Vilobar bowed. "The shift changes, Pilots."

 Priscilla pushed herself out of the chair, still giddy from too much emotion experienced too quickly. But she found her path blocked by the captain, who was glaring down at Mr. dea'Gauss.

 "Well, sir?" Shan demanded.

 The old gentleman inclined his head. "Shall I draft a message to the First Speaker, your Lordship?"

 "I believe," Shan said icily, "that that is the captain's duty. I thank you for your concern."

 Mr. dea'Gauss bowed low. "Forgive my presumption, your Lordship. It is, of course, exactly as you say."

 "I'm pleased to hear it," the captain snapped, and swept by, heading for Communications.

 Priscilla watched him leave; realizing that she was watching, she moved her eyes, cheeks flaming, but found her instinctive step away hindered.

 Mr. dea'Gauss bowed to her, not as deeply as for the captain but with a hand flourish indicating profound respect. Priscilla forced herself to be still, to form the proper Liaden phrase.

 "Mr. dea'Gauss. How may I serve you?"

 "It is I who wish to serve your Ladyship. Will you accept my aid in contacting your family? They should, perhaps, be apprised of what transpires." He looked at her closely. "I ask indulgence, my lady, if the offer offends."

 Priscilla stared at him blankly, then recovered herself and inclined her head. "You are all kindness, sir. I thank you for thought and offer, but no. There is no need to trouble House Mendoza with my affairs."

 Mr. dea'Gauss hesitated fractionally. Then, recent contact with Lord yos'Galan having rendered him wary, he bowed again with no less respect. "As you will, my lady," he murmured. He stepped aside to let her pass.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 155
THIRD SHIFT
12.00 HOURS

 "No," Gordy answered Lina, "I don't." He took an appallingly large swallow of milk. "I guess I'm just dumb, or way too weak. No matter how hard I try, I justcan't hold on. Every day I go to the exercise room, grab on to the bar, and Pallin tries to pry me loose." He sighed. "Does it every time. And he keeps saying I've got to think about my strength being a river, all running down my arm and pooling in the hand that's hanging on, but you know what? That don't—doesn't—make any sense at all! Rivers don't hang on."

 "Indeed they do not," Lina agreed seriously. "But perhaps Pallin only wishes you to understand that strength is a fluid thing. A—a variable."

 Gordy stared at her blankly. 'That doesn't make sense either," he decided. "You're either strong or you're not. I'm pretty fast, but Pallin says I've got to learn to hold on before I learn how to hit back or run."

 "Ah," Lina murmured, momentarily stumped. She picked up her teacup and glanced at the third member of the dinner party.

 Priscilla sat with her hands curved around a cup of coffee, her eyes plumbing the dark depths. She had put her dinner aside untasted and had appeared lost in her own thoughts. But now she looked up, giving the boy frowning attention. "I know something that might help," she said softly. "It might sound silly to you, but it works."

 "I'll try anything," Gordy said, thumping his glass on the table for emphasis. "Nothing can be sillier than trying to think about a river making you strong."

 Priscilla smiled faintly and sipped coffee. "To do this," she said slowly, "you should close your eyes and sit up straight, but not stiffly, and take two deep breaths."

 He followed her instructions, shifting to set both feet on the floor and squaring his round shoulders.

 Lina froze, regarding both with Healer's senses. Gordy radiated trust and boy-love, untainted by alarm. And Priscilla…

 Gone were the grays and browns of unjoy, the coldness of unbelonging. Priscilla was a flame—a torch—of assurance, compassion. It was as if a door hidden within a dark and joyless cellar had been flung open to the full glory of a sun. Lina watched as Priscilla extended herself and surrounded the child's love and trust, saw her pluck one well-anchored thread of confidence from the glittering array of Gordy's emotions and expertly begin the weaving.

 "Now," she said, and it seemed to Lina that her voice had also taken on depth; a vibrancy that had not been there a heartbeat before. "You're going to become a tree, Gordy. First think of a tree—a strong, vigorous tree at the height of its growth. A tree no wind will bend, no snow will break."

 The boy's brows pulled together. "Like Korval's Tree."

 "Yes," Priscilla agreed, still in that supremely assured voice, "exactly like Korval's Tree. Think of it alive, with its roots sunk deep into the soil, pulling strength from the ground, rainfrom the sky. Think hard upon this prince of trees. Walk close to it in your thoughts. Lay your hand upon its trunk. Smell the greenness, the strength of it." She paused, watching Gordy's face closely.

 Lina carefully set her cup aside, watching the weaving with amazement. A Master of the Hall of Healers would do exactly what Priscilla was…

 The boy's face went from concentration to pleasure. "It's myfriend ."

 "Your friend," Priscilla reiterated. "Your second self. Walk closer. Lean your back against the trunk. Feel how strong your friend is. Lean closer; let the Tree take you, make you one with it. Feel how strong you are—you and your friend. Your back like a trunk, the strength running in you drawn up from the deep—clean, green, absolutely certain strength. You're so strong…"

 There was a small silence as Gordy sat, face joyful, wrapped in love, taking the image into himself. Lina heard the image strike home then, with a chime so pure that outer ears could not have heard it, and felt it click into place in the next instant. Priscilla withdrew slowly; Lina could see nothing in the fabric of the boy's pattern to indicate the new weaving.

 Beside her, Priscilla extended a hand to sketch a sign in the air before the boy's face.

 "It's time to say good-bye to your friend now, Gordy. Take another shared breath… take a step… another… you may come to visit as often as you like. Your friend will always welcome you."

 She picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. "Don't you want dessert, Gordy?" she asked, and her voice was entirely normal.

 The boy's lashes lifted. He grinned. "Pretty good," he said, still grinning. "Do it for me again tomorrow?"

 She lifted her brows. "Me? I didn't do anything, Gordy. You did it. All you have to do is close your eyes and think about your Tree whenever you need to renew your strength." She smiled. 'Try it on Pallin tomorrow."

 "Crelm! Won't he be surprised when hecan't yank me loose?" Gordy laughed, then glanced at the clock. "Guess I won't have dessert, though. Got to get to the meeting room and make sure everything's okay before the crew gets there. See you later, Lina! Thanks, Priscilla!" He was gone.

 "Will it work?" Lina asked carefully.

 Priscilla smiled. "It usually does. A small spell, but very useful. It's one of the first things an Initiate's taught when she's brought to the Circle for training."

 "Spell?" She was unsure of the word. Inwardly, Priscilla had shielded the flame, not hidden it. Lina wondered if her friend yet understood.

 "That's what it's called at—on Sintia," Priscilla was saying apologetically. "A spell. Other people would call it hypnotism, maybe, or voice tricks and psychology. Whatever the right name is, itdoes work. The image is so easy and so strong." She smiled again.

 "Is it so important for an—Initiate?—to be strong?"

 Lina wondered, feeling her way, taking care to keep all incoming paths open in case the other should reach out, Healer to Healer.

 Priscilla sipped coffee and nodded. "Learning to make decisions, learning to use your voice, the power-symbols… and later, the larger magics that might require the woven concentration of ten or twelve of the Circle. It's very important to be strong."

 Lina tipped her head, groping for the best phrasing. The chime announcing the end of the prime sliced across her thoughts.

 Priscilla stood and held out a slim hand. "Come to the meeting with me, friend?"

 Lina smiled and slid her hand into her friend's larger one. The inner roads were empty. Priscilla would not approach her that way. "Of course," she murmured, standing. "We should also save a seat for poor Rah Stee. He is always late."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 155
THIRD SHIFT
12.30 HOURS

 Janice had been stoic.

 Yes, she understood the reason for her dismissal. Negligence of duty was a serious matter. No, she did not think she would accept a position as shuttle pilot on one of Korval’s lesser ships, though she appreciated the captain's offer. She had friends on Angelas, fourth planet in the system they had just entered; she thought she would pay them a visit before looking for another job. After a small silence, she offered the opinion that Mendoza was a damn good pilot—ripe for first class.

 Shan nodded, counting out the coins that bought back her contract. Janice informed him that she was packed and could leave thePassage immediately. She had no good-byes to say.

 Again Shan nodded as he flipped a toggle and spoke quietly to Seth in the shuttlebay. Janice's departure was scheduled for Fourteenth Hour. They would be within shuttle distance of Angelus then.

 The door chimed, and he whirled about, snapping to his feet. "Come!"

 Kayzin Ne'Zame entered the room, checked, and bowed profoundly. "Captain."

 "If you've come to remind me that I'm to attend the crew meeting, Kayzin, you'd no need. My memory is quite sharp, though I daresay it will begin to deteriorate very soon."

 Covering her shock, her face neutral, she bowed again.

 Shan sighed sharply and strode past her to the bar. Glancing over his shoulder as he poured a cup of misravot, he strove for a happier tone. "Kayzin? Will you drink?"

 "Thank you," she said formally, "but no." She waited until he turned his face to her fully before continuing. "If it does not offend, Captain, I ask to walk with you. There is a thing to be discussed. A matter of reassignment of duty, to accommodate the lack of a second mate."

 "Very well." He moved to the door and bowed her through before him. That was highly improper: rank earnedhim that privilege. But what could she do when he waved at her so imperiously?

 "The case is," Kayzin pursued through her prickling hurt, "that the third mate does not wish promotion to second. He feels he lacks the proper qualifications, that his reaction time is insufficient to demands such as those present upon the bridge this shift just passed." She paused. Shan said nothing.

 "I agree with his assessment of his strengths—and his weaknesses. He is willing to extend his hand to those duties of administration for which the second mate is responsible." She looked up at him gravely. "It is the first mate's recommendation to the captain that this be done. For a short time. And conditionally."

 "The captain hears," Shan said unencouragingly. “The conditions?"

 Another nuance had developed in the symphony of emotion that was Kayzin. A chilly fogging… embarrassment, Shan identified, and was amazed.

 "In view of the first mate's imminent retirement," she said levelly, "and the lack of a second mate, coupled with the third mate's inability to step into that position, it is in the best interest of the ship that another be trained in the line of command as soon as may be. I request that the captain assign Priscilla Mendoza to the first mate, that she may be strenuously schooled in the duties of the second."

 "Reasoning, please."

 "She has the ability. You yourself placed her in a training position. I admit that track is not as rigorous as this proposed will be. However, it has been my observation that Priscilla Mendoza possesses a strong character, quick understanding, and sure judgment. I believe she may do well for the ship, were she but offered the means. And if she does not," Kayzin shrugged, "the ship is no worse off than it is at this present."

 "There is a phenomenon which Terrans call 'personality conflict.' The captain has seen indications of this phenomenon between the first mate and Priscilla Mendoza."

 "The first mate has mastered herself."

 Shan nodded. "Your recommendations have merit. They will be put into effect tomorrow First Hour, assuming Ms. Mendoza's acquiescence. The captain will require from the first mate a daily report of training and progress—or lack." He paused at the door of the meeting room and bowed. "Forgive my hapless tongue, old friend. I regret having caused you pain."

 Her relief was like a puff of Arsdredi smoke. She smiled and returned his bow. "It is forgotten."

 "By both," he answered properly, and preceded her into the room.

 Shan leaned back in his chair and sipped. The room was full. Those of the crew whose duties prevented their physical presence watched by monitor from their stations. The general hubbub indicated good spirits and confidence.

 He considered his inner Wall, then carefully allowed the merest slit to pan its impenetrable fabric.

 Hot, scintillating, brilliant iciness assaulted him. He took a breath, narrowed the slit, and began a Sort of the larger threads, flickering among webs of burning color, neither apart from nor completely of them.

 Satisfied, he closed the slit, took some wine, and held it for a moment in a mouth dry with effort. The crew was outraged, of course, by the attack. But there was no trace of panic, of terror. They were certain of their ship—of their captain.

 He wished he shared their certainty.

 He moved a hand, and the room's lights dimmed as the central screen glowed to life. The crew's chatter died.

 "You are all aware," Shan began conversationally, "of the day'ssecond Jump alarm. I'd like you to watch a tape of what led up to the pilot's activation of the alarm." From the corner of his eye he saw Priscilla start. Lina reached out, and the taller woman settled back, her expression wary.

 "We're at minus twenty seconds of the final transition from the scheduled Jump. Pilot Mendoza is at the board. Now—normal space."

 COLLISION COURSEthe screen shouted as Priscilla's hands flickered, hitting the screens up. "First defense barriers active."HOSTILE ACTION "Second screens up, coords fed, alarm on. We're waiting for the coils to come back up. Coils up and we're ready to go." On the screen his own hand stopped completion of the exercise. The action froze and faded as the room lights came on.

 "Reaction time," Shan said for the benefit of the pilots watching. "From time of first warning to full defense: one and one-half seconds. From full defense to Jump-ready, two seconds. We were ready to depart twenty-four seconds after the initial alarm. Most of that time was spent waiting for the coils to renew themselves."

 The silence in the meeting room was broken by the soft flutter of pilot hands over imaginary boards as pilot brains counted seconds.

 Over to the right, Seth stood. Shan nodded to him.

 "Yes!”

 "I move that Priscilla Mendoza be given an up-share bonus. She got us out of a tough one. That bomb was right on the drive sections. Would've done real damage if it'd hit."

 Rusty was on his feet before Seth was off his. "Second."

 "Third," Ken Rik said. "And a call for ship-points, Captain. The debt lies there."

 Gil Don Balatrin seconded that diffidently.

 Shan nodded. "Any comments? Disapprovals? Discussions? No? Show of hands, in favor?

 "First Mate?"

 "Unanimous, Captain."

 "So I counted, also. Thank you." He initialed a paper on his pad. "Recorded and done." He smiled slightly over the room. "Also recorded and done—two points hazard pay for all crew, payable at Solcintra. More business?"

 There was none.

 "Thank you. Dismissed."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 155
THIRD SHIFT
14.00 HOURS

 There was tension in the air, prickling the short hairs on her arm. She focused her attention on the tapestry over the bar.

 "Brandy, Priscilla?"

 She started, then managed a smile. "`Thank you."

 "You're welcome." He handed her the glass and went by, heading for the desk.

 She followed and settled into the right-hand chair, with the tension still singing around her.

 The captain took a sip of his drink. "Gordy tells me you've taught him to be a tree," he commented. "I don't say it's abad idea, Priscilla. I only wonder how his mother will react if I deliver him into her arms all green and leafy."

 Laughter escaped her, softly. "No, an inner tree. Pallin keeps telling Gordy to think of his strength as a river. But Gordy believes that strong is strong, without variation."

 "I see." The light eyes were speculative. He inclined his head. "It was kind of you, Priscilla. Thank you for your care of my kinsman."

 She moved a hand in a gesture learned from the tapes Lina had provided. "It's not akindness . I like him. He reminds me of Brand—my younger brother—the last time I saw him.”

 "My sympathy to you. But perhaps you'll find he's grown into a young gentleman when you go home next. I remember when that particular metamorphosis overtook Val Con." He laughed, and the tension shimmered. "em>Truly terrifying."

 She laughed also, softly and unconvincingly. Sipping, she noticed an undercurrent of warm admiration such as she had not felt since her days as a Sister at Temple.

 "The reason I asked you to come to me," the captain was saying, "is to discuss the new administrative structure of the ship."

 She waited.

 He sighed. "Janice Weatherbee has left us, leaving the post of second mate vacant. A problem, you will admit. The third mate has been approached and has graciously—one might say with comic haste—declined the promotion. The first mate has thus applied to the captain for another trainee." He leveled a blunt forefinger. "You."

 "Me?" She stared at him. "I'm not qualified to be second mate."

 "Did I say you were? I do beg your pardon, Priscilla. What I meant to say was that Kayzin had asked me to assign you to her so she could teach you to be second mate. What is the phrase? My dreadful, dreadful memory—aha!" He snapped his fingers. "On-the-job training."

 To tension and admiration was added confusion. Priscilla drank. "I don't—why me?"

 "Why not you? You were in the track already, after all. I do admit that the training Kayzin proposes will be more demanding, but it's the same training. Merely a difference in intensity." He stopped. "Kayzin is a very good teacher, Priscilla. She's been on thePassage for over fifty years, first mate for thirty. And she handled much of my own training, thankless task that it was."

 Priscilla took a breath. "She dislikes me."

 "No. She distrusted you, I believe. But I also believe that it's passed. Even if it hasn't, Kayzin is not one to let mere personal prejudice stand in the way of doing the best she can for the ship." He sipped, eyes quizzical. "Well, Priscilla? Do you want the job?"

 Want the job? Like she wanted breath. Shocked, she looked within and found the same surety that had allowed Gordy to find the Tree. "Yes," she said.

 "Good. Now, then, there are a few things to be explained." He paused, then nodded. "First, it is imperative that you acquire your first class license. You will come to the bridge every day immediately following your duty shift. I'll teach you. There's no reason why you shouldn't be a first class pilot by the time we reach Solcintra."

 She considered it. "Shan?"

 The tension altered in some indefinable way, though the warmth was constant. "Yes, Priscilla?"

 "Won't it work out…" She sighed and began again. "The captain."

 "What of the captain, my friend?"

 "If I'm to report for piloting lessons on my first off-shift, won't the captain be pulling a triple shift?"

 "Occasionally." He grinned. "The captain's made of stern stuff. When I was learning the ship, I often ran double shifts, between tutoring from Kayzin and tutoring from my father—and then stayed up half the sleep shift studying for the next day." He tipped his head. "Do you object to the captain's instruction, Priscilla?"

 "No, of course not…" She felt an echo of tension and an echo of warmth. The echo would overwhelm her if she did not take care.

 "Fine, then that's settled. Other points: Second mate signs a standard ship contract. That means you'll no longer be under my protection, but under the protection of theDutiful Passage ."

 Not under his protection? Panic added a sheen of ice to the echoes. No longer to be under Korval's wing, where there was comfort and friendship and aid? To be cast out? To be—

 "Priscilla." His voice was a flame of common sense, licking at the unreasoning ice. "ThePassage is owned and operated by Clan Korval. A ship's contract guarantees you assistance that a personal contract with Shan yos'Galan cannot. You will, of course, read it before you sign it."

 "Yes, of course…" Feeling foolish, she drank.

 "You'll want to know the rate of pay." He tapped on the keypad as he turned the screen to face her. "Second mate draws three cantra flat for the short run, plus one-half ship-share. Bonuses and increments—not applicable at present. You will, of course, be starting at the low end. We've got four months to go, so that's prorated… plus the amount owed under previous contract… crew's hazard pay… ship's points, can't forget them… oh, and the up-share… subtract ship-debt. Well, some of this can't be finalized until we hit Liad, but I think that's everything, Priscilla: the minimum. Is the sum agreeable to you?"

 It was staggering. The glowing amber letters named more money than she had ever seen at once. Enough to repurchase her bartered bracelets three times over. She could buy a hundred hours for Lina and herself, and still there would be money for clothing, for books, for tapes, for lodging, for food. It might be more money than she had made in her life… for one trip!

 "That can't—can't—be right."

 "Can't it?" Shan frowned and turned the screen around. "Well, then, let's do it again. Base pay for second, prorated…"

 She felt wave after wave of emotion: admiration, nervousness, exhilaration, exhaustion. Priscilla felt herself expanding under the assault, taking it in, sending it out, over and over. The exhilaration built, as it had not built since she and Moonhawk…

 Moonhawk was dead.

 And the echoes came faster, where there should never have been sound. Where there could be no motion. Dear Goddess… she pictured the Tree. She took a breath, hearing Shan's voice as he muttered the figures over and leaned into the familiarity—the comfort—of it. The Tree had worked. The Gyre might work, as well.

 She began the opening sequence and felt the image click into place and take on its own momentum. Thank you, Goddess. She would need to be in her quarters within the hour. Sleep was the room beyond Serenity: the end of the Gyre's dance.

 "No, Priscilla, I'm afraid the figure is correct. You do have to realize that this is the short run, and that we're less than four months out of Solcintra. If you renew your contract at the end of the trip, you'll net more. Simple matter of mathematics. You'll be on from beginning to end, and the next trip's the long one. Takes a year to finish the circuit. Priscilla?"

 She had passed through the First and Second Doors. The next was the Door to Serenity, where she would abide awhile before she came to Sleep.

 "The sum is more than adequate, Captain," she murmured. "I was surprised because it seemed like such a lot of money."

 "Oh, well, thePassage is the flagship of Korval's fleet, after all. You wouldn't want us to pay on the same scale as an ore shuttle, would you?"

 "No, Captain." Serenity was in sight… then achieved. Priscilla took a relaxed breath and a drink.

 Across from her, the captain stiffened: he shook his head sharply and stood. "I think those are the important points, Priscilla. You'll begin your training with Kayzin at First Hour. I will see you on the bridge for pilot training at Sixth. There will be a copy of the second mate's contract on your screen when you wake. Good night."

 Such abruptness was hardly like him. But he must be tired, too, she thought, and offered him a smile as she bowed.

 "Good night, Captain."

 The door closed behind her, and Shan's knees gave way. He hit the chair with a gasp and hid his face in his hands.

 He mastered himself with an effort, levered out of the chair, and turned toward the red-striped door to his personal quarters. Then he stopped.

 Turning away, he crossed the room and went down the hall.

 The crew hall was quiet and dimly lit: a blessing to his pounding head. He found the door by instinct and laid his hand against the plate.

 For a moment he despaired. She was not there…

 The door slid aside. Honey-brown eyes blinked up at him. "Shan?" Then she slid her arm about his waist and drew him within. "My poor friend! What has happened? Ahh, denubia…"

 Allowing himself to be seated on the bed, he pushed his face into the warm hollow between her shoulder and neck and he felt the Healing begin.

 "She shut me out, Lina. Twice, she shut meout ."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 155
FOURTH SHIFT
20.00 HOURS

 The contract was extremely clear; attached was an addendum providing the amount the second mate was due at Solcintra and the formula by which it had been figured. The addendum stated that the sum was not fixed and would be refigured upon final docking using the same formula and taking into account any additional bonuses, finder's fees, ship-points, or debts.

 Priscilla placed her hand against the screen and felt the slight electric prickle against her palm as the machine recorded the print.Beep ! Contract sealed.

 Her hand curled into a loose fist as she took it away from the screen; she stared at it. Then, grinning, she turned to put on her shirt.

 Lina's door was opening as Priscilla rounded the corner; she lengthened her stride.

 "Good morning."

 "Priscilla! Well met, my friend. I thought myself exiled to eating this meal alone, so slugabed have I been!"

 It had done her good, Priscilla thought. Lina was glowing; eyes sparkling, mouth softly curving, she radiated satisfied pleasure. "You're beautiful," she said suddenly, reaching out to take a small golden hand.

 Lina laughed. "As much as it naturally must grieve me to differ with a friend, I feel it necessary to inform you that among the Clans one is judged to be but moderately attractive."

 "Blind people” Priscilla muttered, and Lina laughed again.

 "But I have heard you are to begin as second mate in only an hour!" she said gaily. "Ge'shada, denubia. Kayzin is very careful, but she is not a warm person. It is her way. Do not regard it."

 "No, I won't," Priscilla agreed, looking at her friend in awe.

 "It is a shame that you will not have time to come regularly to the pet library now," Lina was rattling on. "You have done so much good there. I never thought to see the younger sylfok tamed at all. Others have remarked the difference there as well. Why, Shan said only this morning—"

 Priscilla gasped against the flare of pain, and flung away from jealousy toward serenity—

 To find her way barred and a small hand tight around her wrist as Lina cried out, "Do not!"

 She froze, within and without. "All right."

 "Good." Lina smiled. "Shan and I are old friends, Priscilla. Who else might he come to, when he was injured and in need? And you—denubia, you must not shield yourself so abruptly, without the courtesy of a warning! Ithurts . Surely you know… surely your instructors never taught you to treat a fellow Healer so?"

 "Fellow—" She struggled with it and surrendered to the first absurdity. "Do you mean you're openall the time ?"

 Lina blinked. "Should I huddle behind the Wall forever, afraid to use what is mine? Do you deliberately choose blindness, rather than use your eyes? I am a Healer! How else should I be but open?"

 Priscilla was bombarded with puzzlement-affection-exasperation-lingering pleasure. She fought for footing against the onslaught and heard her friend sigh.

 "There is no need to befuddle yourself. Can you close partially? It is not this moment necessary for you to scan every nuance."

 She found the technique and fumbled it into place like a novice. The pounding broadcast faded into the background. She took a breath, her mind already busy with the second absurdity. "Shan is a… Healer? Aman!

 Lina's mouth curved in a creampot smile. "It is very true than Shan is a man," she murmured, while Priscilla felt the green knife twist in her again. "It is also true that he is a trained and skilled Healer. Do I love you less, denubia, because I also love others?"

 "No…" She took another breath, pursuing the absurdity. "It—on Sintia, men, even those initiated to the Circle, are not Soulweavers. It's taught that they don't have the ability."

 "Perhaps on Sintia they do not," Lina commented dryly. "Shan is Liaden, after all, and Sintia's teaching has not yet reached us. Those of us who may bear it are taught to pay attention, to use the information provided by each of our senses. Shan is not one of those who may do nothing but learn to erect the Wall and keep their sanity by never looking beyond; nor am I. And it hurts, denubia, to be in rapport with someone, only to be—without cause and without warning—shut out. You must not do so again. An emergency is another matter: you act to save yourself. Should you find that you must shield yourself from another Healer, it is proper to say, Forgive me, I require privacy/ before going behind the Wall."

 Priscilla hung her head. "I didn't mean to hurt him. I meant toshield him. I thought I was generating a—false echo, because I was tired."

 Reassurance, warmth, and affection flowed in. Priscilla felt her chest muscles loosen and looked up, to find Lina smiling.

 "He knows that the hurt was not deliberate. The best balance is simply not to do it again." She held out a hand. "Come, we will have to gulp our food!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 TREALLA FANTROL, LIAD
YEAR NAMED TROLSH
THIRD RELUMMA
BANIM SECONDAY

 Taam Olanek took another appreciative sip of excellent brandy. Nova yos'Galan had been called from the party some minutes ago. "Business," she had murmured to Eldema Glodae, with whom she had been speaking. Olanek allowed himself the indulgence of wondering what sort of business might keep the First Speaker of Liad's first Clan—why, after all, dress the thing up in party clothes?—so long from the entertainment of which she was host.

 True, there was Lady Anthora, barely out of university and comporting herself with the ease of one ten years her senior. She was at present listening with pretty gravity to Lady yo'Hatha. He toyed with the idea of rescuing the child from the old woman's clutches, but even as he did, Anthora managed the thing with a grace that filled him with admiration. Not the beauty her sister was—too full of breast and hip for the general taste—but no lack of brains or flair.

 No lack of that sort in any of them, Olanek admitted to himself. Even the gargoyle eldest had wit sharp enough to cut.

 Their fault—collectively and individually—lay in their youth. Gods willing, they would outgrow, or out-maneuver, that particular failing without mishap, and Korval would continue bright and unwavering upon its pinnacle.

 While Plemia continued its slow descent into oblivion.

 Olanek sipped irritably. It seemed somehow unjust.

 "Eldema Olanek?" a soft, seductive voice said at his elbow. He turned and made his bow, no deeper than was strictly necessary, but without resentment. That she should address him as First Speaker rather than Lord Olanek or Delm Plemia was worthy of note.

 He smiled. "Eldema yos'Galan. How may I serve you?"

 "By your patience, sir," Nova murmured, pale lips curving in what passed for her smile. "I deeply regret the need. Is it possible that you might allow a moment of business to intrude upon your pleasure?"

 Odder and odder. He inclined his head. "I am entirely at your disposal." Clearly Nova wished to treat with him as a colleague. Now, why should Korval wish to discuss business with Plemia when they moved in such different spheres? And why at such a time, in the midst of this vast and enjoyable entertainment? Why not a call to his office tomorrow morning? Surely the matter was not so urgent as that?

 Still, he walked with her from the room, declining to have his glass refreshed. They went side by side and silent down the wide hallway to another, where the woman turned right.

 This portion of the house was older, Olanek saw. Its doors were of wood, with large, ornate knobs set into their centers. Nova yos'Galan stopped at the second, turned the knob, and stepped aside, bowing him in before her.

 The gesture was graceful—one could not accuse Korval of flattery. What could they possibly gain? Olanek inclined his head and passed through.

 He stopped just inside to consider the room. It was a study or office, warm with wood and patterned crimson carpeting. Korval’s device, the venerable Tree and Dragon, hung above the flickering hearth. He took a step toward the fire, heard a rustle, and turned instead to face his host.

 She gestured an apology—a flicker of slender hands—and moved to the desk. Olanek followed.

 "If you would have the kindness to read this message. I should say that it has been pin-beamed and arrived only recently."

 GREETING FROM CAPTAIN SHAN YOS'GALAN TO ELDEMA NOVA YOS'GALAN,the bright amber letters read. It was a formal beginning for a message from brother to sister, surely—but this was business. Olanek sipped his remaining brandy and read further.

 Finished, he stood silently. When he did speak, it was in icy outrage and in the highest possible dialect. "Plemia is not diverted by the jest, Eldema. We demand—"

 "No," she interrupted composedly, "you do not. It is conceivable that my brother could frame and execute such a jest. It is not conceivable that he would bring formal charge in this manner, as captain of theDutiful Passage , begging guidance from his First Speaker." She drew breath, and the sapphire rope glittered about her throat. "My brother is not a fool, Eldema. He understands actions and the consequences of actions. As was shown, I think, when he was himself First Speaker.

 "You should know that Mr. dea'Gauss was on the bridge of thePassage at the time of the attack. I leave it to you to judge whether he, at least, would be party to such a thing, were not every reported particular correct."

 "I would speak with Mr. dea'Gauss.”

 "Of course," she replied calmly. "I have sent word, recalling him for that purpose."

 "It might be wise for you to recall your brother's ship as well," he suggested ominously.

 She raised her brows. "I see no cause. The route is nearly done. Captain yos'Galan has received the tuition of his First Speaker, as requested. For this present, of course." She looked at him out of meaningful violet eyes. "It does not need to be said that Plemia will act with honor and good judgment, listening with all ears, seeing with all eyes. Korval depends upon it."

 To be thus schooled by a mere child, when he had been First Speaker—aye, and Delm!—longer than she had had breath! He gained control of himself, essayed a small sip of his dwindling refreshment, then inclined his head.

 "Plemia wishes only to make judgment for itself, as is proper, before negotiating further with Korval." He paused. "I would ask, if Korval's First Speaker has not yet in her wisdom done this thing, that Captain yos'Galan be… entreated… to stay his hand until the precise circumstances have been made clear to all concerned."

 Nova yos'Galan inclined her fair head. "Such was the essence of the First Speaker's instruction to Captain yos'Galan. I am certain that Plemia will instruct Captain yo'Vaade in like manner."

 "Of course," he said through gritted teeth.

 The woman bowed and smiled. "Business is then completed, Eldema. My thanks for the gift of your patience. Do enjoy the rest of the party."

 Somehow, Olanek doubted he would.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 155
SECOND SHIFT
6.00 HOURS

 Kayzin Ne'Zame was a thorough teacher—and a determined one. Priscilla's head felt crammed to the splitting point already. And there was so much more to learn!

 She was in a hurry, lest she be late for her piloting lesson with the captain.

 The captain! She dodged into the lift and punched the direction for the core and inner bridge. Rattled for the last six hours by a storm of information, she had nearly forgotten about the captain.

 He was a Healer—a Soulweaver—though no man she had ever heard of was master of that skill. He was constantly open, always reading, aware…

 Aware of her emotions. From the very beginning, he had scanned her and touched her feelings—and knew her as intimately as a… Sister-in-Power.

 No! It was not done. It was improper, blasphemous! The power to read souls came from the Goddess, through her chosen agents. Moonhawk, who was dead, had been such an agent, and Priscilla Mendoza her willing vessel. To use the power consciously, without divine direction…

 The door slid open, and Priscilla escaped into the corridor; she dived into the first service hall she saw and froze, heart pounding.

 Mother, help me, she cried silently. Help me… I'm lost…

 The Tree, the Gyre, the Room Serenity, the Place of Watching—each had she used within the past day. She, who was nothing and no one, save that once a saint had lived within her.

 Heedless of time, she closed her eyes and quested in the Inner Places, where the Old One's soul had sung in time gone past.

 Moonhawk?

 Silence surrounded the echo of the thought. There was no one there but Priscilla.

 Priscilla knew no magic.

 Magic had worked. She held to that thought and opened her eyes. Three times—four!—magic had worked. And the promise she had given Lina had held no taint of unsurety. She would not close the captain out. She would hold the Hood ready to muffle any strong outburst and spare him as much pain as she could.

 The hour bell sounded, and she gasped.

 Tarlin Skepelter, on her way to Service Hall 28 to replace a faulty sensor, was treated to the interesting sight of the new second mate running at top speed away from her, toward the inner bridge.

 "No! Completely useless!"

 She knew it before he said so and barely caught the blaze of self-fury in time to muffle it. Beside her, the captain snapped forward and swept his big hand across the board. He was out of his chair in a blur and towering over her.

 "Are youangry , Priscilla?"

 She winced at the volume and kept a firm hold on the Hood. "Yes."

 "Then be angry! You're a better pilot than that!Gordy's better than that! Of all the inexcusable, sloppyground-grubber piloting I have ever seen—"

 "And I suppose you could do better—keeping the board in half your mind and watching for echoes, too!"

 "Did I tell you to watch for echoes? I told you to mind that board, Pilot! If you can't keep your whole mind right there and nowhere else, we'll suspend all lessons, now! I'll not have this ship endangered because the pilot at the board was thinking about something besides the business at hand!" He was a glittering buzz of anger. Priscilla fielded it unconsciously, even as the hold on her own rage slipped.

 "I didn't ask to be on the board with a full-open empath! What am I supposed to do? Forget about the spill? What about—"

 "Yes! That's precisely what you're supposed to do! Damn it—" He slammed into the copilot's chair and flung his hands out. "Priscilla, am I made of glass? Will I break, do you think, at the touch of a little well-earned self-rage?"

 She was silent, seething without attempting to contain it.

 The captain sighed, his pattern now containing less anger than frustration overlaying interest-admiration-warmth-friendship. "I'm not wide open, Priscilla. I don't need to be. You're coming through quite clearly without it. Also, I am not a cretin. I can adjust the level of reception, if things are so intense I find my mind wandering. Further, I am a pilot! I've worked withdozens of people since I began training. One of the finest pilots I ever knew was terrified every moment of duty. Another I worked with fairly often was as nearly asleep as she could be, no matter what the emergency—and her reactions were perfect. Ask her why she had done a certain thing, though, and she'd panic…" He shifted, offering a smile. "I'm not fragile, friend. My word on it."

 It was a temptation to extend herself, to grasp his warmth and cuddle it about her. She shook her head. "I—Lina said that—Healers are open, except for emergency. On—I was taught to remain closed unless Soul-weaving was required, and to return to Serenity once the duty was done."

 His response was outraged puzzlement. "Then how do you make love?'"

 "It's not for that!"

 The captain moved his shoulders. "Forgive me, Priscilla. It seems our training has been very different. Forthis training, however, please be assured that I can take care of myself—except against slamming doors! You are here for lessons in piloting. The next time we meet, I expect your mind to be only on piloting! If you choose to remain outside of Serenity, then don't try to damp every little twitch of irritation or jubilation. If you wish to be closed, then please make sure you are behind your Wall before you arrive."

 He stood. "Today's lesson is done. I'll see you tomorrow, Priscilla."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 TREALLA FANTROL, LIAD
YEAR NAMED TROLSH
THIRD RELUMMA
CHELETHA SIXTHDAY

 Taam Olanek was finding the way to truth uneasy. Even the testimony of so irreproachable a witness as Mr. dea'Gauss was insufficient to rescue him from his quandary.

 In charity, Nova sat silent, though they had covered the salient points again and again. She found patience for the task by recalling the countless times Shan had befuddled her. When the charm of these palled, she could begin to list the occasions on which he had sent their father into fury with his ways.

 All the world knew of the unpredictability of Thodelm yos'Galan. Recrimination was useless, of course. To remind Shan of his position as Head of Line yos'Galan was to invite a blizzard of outrageous behavior, all calculated, one would swear, to bring her to the blush.

 But it never had been said that Thodelm yos'Galan was less than honorable.

 Still, she thought, how much easier, in Taam Olanek's place, might it be to suppose that Shan had crossed finally into dishonor than to believe that Plemia had fired upon Korval?

 "This person Mendoza," Olanek said to Mr. dea'Gauss now. "I do not properly understand, I think. Who is she, sir? What is her claim in the matter?"

 So, they were at last beyond Shan and into deeper questions. Matters were progressing, she assured herself. Well and good.

 Mr. dea'Gauss cleared his throat. "Lady Mendoza is of a high House on the world of Sintia, in the Thardom Sector. Ship's records indicate that she has been offered reasoned harm by Clan Plemia, in the person of Sav Rid Olanek. Or by those to whom he stands as lord. Verification is being sought. I am certain, however, that we will find the records from theDutiful Passage accurate." He paused.

 Delm Plemia inclined his head with Nova's silent approval. A lesser person would have murmured "Of course" to Mr. dea'Gauss in such a face. Plemia merely awaited further explanation.

 It came. "There appear to be considerations of melant'i involved. Lady Mendoza is of Terran extraction; thus, it may be some while before matters become sensible. Word has been sent to House Mendoza, informing them of the situation as it was before my return to Liad.

 A response has not yet reached me. In the interim, Lady Mendoza is content to walk Korval’s path, so I speak for her, as well."

 "Her position?” Olanek pursued. "Some melant'i must be obvious, sir. For an instance: here it is said that she serves under personal contract. Do I learn from this that Captain yos'Galan extends the protection of Korval entire to a pleasure-love?"

 A reasonable question, Nova admitted, from one unfamiliar with Shan's habit of rescuing every lame puppy and kitten in the galaxy. Certainly nothing so untoward that Mr. dea'Gauss should stiffen and draw sharp breath.

 "At the time of my departure," he informed Plemia in accents of ice, "Lady Mendoza served theDutiful Passage in the capacities of apprenticed second mate and second class pilot. It was she who was the pilot of duty when the attack came against thePassage , and she who prevented damage and life-loss. That she honors Captain yos'Galan with her friendship is clear. Lady Faaldom enjoys like regard. The person we speak of could bestow no honorless esteem."

 Great gods, what a paean! Nova very nearly stared at Korval's man of business.

 Taam Olanek gestured peace, light sliding off the bright enamel work of his Clan ring. "I meant no disrespect to the lady or to the captain, sir. In the service of clarity, the question demanded asking. You yourself mentioned complications of melant'i."

 Mr. dea'Gauss inclined his head. "Melant'i enters in another guise, sir. Information from House Mendoza will no doubt make matters more obvious. Are there other questions that demand the asking? Is there a way in which I might serve you further?"

 Olanek wiped his screen with a sharp wrist twist and sighed. "I believe the questions remaining are those best asked of my kin. Eldema, I will go toDaxflan and ascertain what has, and what has not, been done. I ask, in the interest of both Korval and Plemia, that Mr. dea'Gauss be allowed to accompany me.

 "I am," the old gentleman murmured, as one giving just warning, "Korval's eyes and ears."

 "For that reason do I crave your company, sir. You are known as a person of long sight and careful counsel. In such a tangle as this, it is wisdom to see that Plemia will require both."

 "Korval," Nova said calmly, "has no objection."

 Mr. dea'Gauss caught her eye for a brief moment; almost it seemed that he smiled. He inclined his head to Olanek, gesturing his willingness to serve. "I am ready to travel at Plemia's word."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 171
THIRD SHIFT
14.00 HOURS

 Priscilla came to him with pilot grace, one slim hand extended, a smile of dawning delight upon her face. Scarcely breathing, he waited, dizzy and joy-filled. She had erected no Wall, shut no door—and this her choice, freely made! He turned his face into the caress, eye lashes kissing her palm even as he moved outside his own defenses.

 There was an intake of breath, expelled on soft laughter. "Shan…" Her hand slid along the other cheek, cupping his face for enrapt inspection. The feeling sang between them, soaring unbearably. He felt his heart pounding and knew that hers kept pace.

 She kissed him.

 For a frenzied heartbeat he simply stood there, prisoned in reflected rapture, then he felt her question and turned his mouth more sharply; he stroking her body closer to his as their shared songs twisted each about the other, creating one.

 An alarm began to scream.

 She started—and was gone, even as he tried to hold her. "Priscilla!"

 His own cry woke him, though the alarm's din was louder. Snapping around in the tumbled bed, he slammed a violent palm against the shutoff and collapsed, eyes screwed tight against the rising lights. "Damn, damn, damn,damnit"

 The music came up: Artelma's "Festival Delights” rendered with passion on the omnichora, by his brother Val Con.

 "Damn," Shan said once more, and headed for the 'fresher.

 Some time later he passed through the dining hall on his way back from the cargo master's office. Ken Rik had been a bit less testy this morning. Perhaps he was getting over his pet at Mr. dea'Gauss's abrupt summons back to Liad.

 Priscilla and Rusty were sitting with their heads together at a corner table. Belly tight with jealousy, he helped himself to a cup of coffee and a ripe strafle melon.

 Healer! he jeered at himself. You can't even control your own emotions. And what does she project that you dare be jealous? Friendship? Those small bursts of appreciation, of comfort perceived, of desire… He drew a hard breath and bit into the fruit with a snap. Those are the sorts of things one might feel about anyone. Do strive for some conduct, Shan.

 "How do, Cap'n!" BillyJo greeted him from the door of the galley. "You'll be havin' a real breakfast, won't you? Can't live till luncheon on an apple."

 He grinned at her, talked a few moments about kitchen operations, accepted the sweet roll she pressed upon him, and refilled his cup. He left the dining hall by the side door, resolutely keeping his eyes away from the private corner.

 The message-waiting light was blinking on the captain's screen. He put the sweet roll on the edge of the bar and hit GO as he slid into the chair.

 No more pin-beams from his sister, he noted. That was one fear laid to rest. He sipped coffee and scanned the directory. Nothing urgent. Well, tag the letter from Dortha Cayle. Maybe this time they had a deal. What was this?

 A pin-beam from Sintia, directed to Mr. dea'Gauss?

 He queried the item, frowning, found it was in reply to a message sent, and called it up, his memory stirring. Priscilla was from a powerful family, wasn't that it? Mr. dea'Gauss had wished to apprise them of circumstances.

 TO DEA'GAUSS CARE OF TRADE VESSELDUTIFUL PASSAGE. PROM HOUSE MENDOZA CIRCLE RIVER SINTIA. RE QUERY PRISCILLA DELACROIX Y MENDOZA. DAUGHTER OF HOUSE BEARING THAT NAME BORN [LOCAL] YEAR 986, COMMENDED TO GODDESS [LOCAL] YEAR 1002. MESSAGE ENDS.

 He stared at the screen. "Commended to the Goddess"?Dead ? His heart stuttered as he thought of Priscilla dead, then he shook his head sharply.

 "Don't be stupid, Shan."

 He cleared the screen and demanded Priscilla's filed identifications as well as those requested from Terran census as a matter of mindless form.

 The figures appeared side by side on the screen: retinal pattern, fingerprints, blood type, gene map.

 The woman who called herself Priscilla Delacroix y Mendozawas Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza, to a factor of .999.

 A Mendoza of Sintia… He remembered the clammy wave of desperation, Priscilla's colorless face, her hand, warding him away: "You mustn't ask…"

 But Mr. dea'Gauss had asked, damn him, and the answer returned was worse than none at all.

 He had an impulse to destroy the message. But he knew that was childish—and useless. If a reply did not arrive within a reasonable time, Mr. dea'Gauss would merely query again.

 Well, she was rather active for a corpse. He sipped coffee, staring at nothing in particular. Save the captain. Save the ship…

 "What in space can she have done?"

 He sighed and finished his coffee.

 The easiest—simplest—explanation was that she had run away. It was not hard to see how Priscilla might have become disillusioned in a rigid societal structure, with all power belonging to the priestesshood.

 So, then. The young Priscilla departs; her family declares her dead, for honor's sake. What choice, after all, would they have? The local records reflect the "fact."

 But Terran census, above mere local politics, still carries one Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza, alive, alive-oh.

 Simple. Comforting. Even logical. Except something was missing.

 "She could be a criminal," he told the room loudly. "I don't believe it. Lina wouldn't believe it. Mr. dea'Gauss, with no hint of empathy about him, wouldn't believe it. Ah,hell …"

 Local crimes were varied and interesting, as any space traveler could attest. A felony on one planet was conduct that on the next would not cause even the mildest of middle-class grandmothers to blanch.

 Ostracism. A crime earning that punishment would have to be extreme.

 From world to world there was some variation in the most heinous crimes. Not much.

 Kin slaying. Rape. Child stealing. Murder. Mind tampering. Enslavement. Blasphemy.

 Murder? She had certainly been ready to wreak mayhem upon Sav Rid Olanek. He retained a vivid memory of that initial interview, with its racket of fury, terror, and exhaustion. Murder was possible.

 Kin slaying?

 Child stealing?

 Mind tampering? Enslavement? She was an empath—and a powerful one. Those crimes, too, were possible.

 Blasphemy?

 He sighed. Wonderful word, blasphemy. It might mean anything.

 An exact definition of her crimes was required—for the ship, and for the Clan. Korval owed her much. It was vital that the person to whom the Clan was in debt be known—in fullness. Priscilla Mendoza had demonstrated aboard theDutiful Passage a melant'i both graceful and strong. She had not, however, come into existence two months ago, much as he might wish it.

 The captain of thePassage could order the necessary actions, or Mr. dea'Gauss could order them, for the good of Korval. In either case, Shan yos'Galan's wishes and desires meant nothing. Necessity existed.

 Hating necessity, he tapped in a new sequence and turned to issue instructions to the tower.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 171
FOURTH SHIFT
16.00 HOURS

 "Priscilla?" Gordy interrupted apologetically. "Morning, Rusty. Priscilla, I was thinking. Could you teach me to be a dragon?"

 Rusty glowered; she caught the flicker of his irritation and let it pass.

 "Dragons are possible," she admitted, considering the radiance of the boy's anticipation, "but very difficult. Some people work for years and never achieve the Dragon. It requires study and discipline." And the soul of a saint? Lina had been at pains these last busy weeks to demonstrate how empaths conducted themselves in the wide universe. Melant'i figured prominently in these lessons. Souls did not.

 At her elbow, Gordy sighed. "Butyou know how, don't you?"

 Did she? The Dragon was a spell of the Inmost Circle—but Moonhawk's soul was an old one. She had known the way…

 Before her mind's eye the pattern rolled forth; the Inner Ear caught the first rasp of leather wings against the air. She took a breath and reversed the pattern.

 "Yes," she said, around her own wonder, "I know how. If you truly want to learn, I can begin to teach you. But there's a lot of study between the Tree and the Dragon, Gordy, and no guarantee that you'll be able to master it."

 "Could Rusty be a dragon?" Gordy asked, trying perhaps to establish a range.

 "I don'twant to be a dragon," that person announced with spirit. "I like being a radio tech just fine. Don't you have someplace you need to be, kid?"

 "Not right now. I've gotta help Ken Rik in twenty minutes. Priscilla, how come not everybody can learn this dragon thing? The Tree's easy."

 "So it is." The Tree, the Room Serenity—anyone might learn these. The larger magics? Lina claimed no soul but her own. "The Tree is a very simple spell, Gordy. Only a good thing. The Dragon is both—a weapon and a shield. It's not to be used lightly. You could live a whole life without knowing need great enough to call the Dragon."

 He frowned. "You mean the dragon is a good thingand a bad thing? That's as goofy as Pallin's river."

 "Paradox is powerful magic. The River of Strength is a basic paradox. The Dragon is immensely complex, Gordy. You must learn to balance the good against the evil, the strength that preserves against the fire that consumes. You must be careful that the fire does not consume your will, or sheer strength override your… heart. You must not—soar—too close to the sun."

 Rusty's uneasiness pierced the wordnet. She pushed away from the table and smiled at them both. "Or be late for your piloting lesson with the captain. Talk with me more later, Gordy. If you're still interested. Rusty, thank you, my friend. I won't see you at prime, I'm afraid. My schedule's blocked out for the next two shifts."

 He whistled. "That's some piloting lesson."

 "No time with Kayzin Ne'Zame today." She grinned. "A vacation."

 Rusty's laughter escorted her to the door.

 She reached the shuttlebay before him. Just.

 "Good morning, Priscilla! On time, as usual."

 "Good morning, Captain."

 He stopped in his tracks, swept a bow that the carryall slung over his shoulder should have made impossible. "Second Mate. Good things find you this day. I perceive that I am in disgrace."

 "As if it would matter to you if you were!" she retorted, receiving the first rays of his pattern with something akin to thirst. Two weeks ago she would have wondered at such temerity. It was incredible how quickly she had come to depend on a sense that could not be hers.

 "It would matter a great deal," he said, waving her into the bay before him. "Nice day for a shuttle trip, don't you think?"

 It was at least reasonable. ThePassage was currently in normal space, ponderously approaching Dayan in the Irrobi System.

 "If, in the judgment of the master pilot, one requires more board-time in shuttle” she said.

 "High in the boughs today, aren't you? Practice makes perfect, as Uncle Dick is wont to say. Roll in, Priscilla. Won't do to be late."

 He dropped the carryall by the copilot's chair and slid in, his eyes on the board as he adjusted the webbing. Priscilla strapped herself into the pilot's seat, feeling his excitement as if it were her own: sheer schoolboy glee at finagling a day without tutors or overseers, the thrill of some further anticipation riding above his usual pervasive delight. And a glimmer of something else, which she had first taken for his well-leashed nervous energy but now perceived as an edge, almost like worry.

 "Board to me, please,” he murmured, hands busy over the keys.

 Obedient, she shunted control of the ship to the copilot's board and leaned back, watching.

 Lights glowed and darkened; chimes, beeps, and buzzes sounded as he ran the checks with a rapidity that would have dizzied any but another pilot. Air was evacuated from the bay; the hatch in thePassage's outer hull slid down, and they were tumbling away. Shan laughed softly, executed a swift series of maneuvers, cleared screens and instruments with the same flourish, and reassigned the board to her.

 "Screen, please."

 She provided it, wary now that it was too late.

 TheDutiful Passage was ridiculously far away, big as a moon in the bottom left grid. Irrobi's four little worlds hung placidly beneath her.

 Shan pointed at the second planet. "I want to be there, please. In—" He paused for a swift silver glance at the boardclock. "—eight hours, I wish to be docking at Swunaket Port. See to it." He spun the chair, snapped the webbing back, and reached for the carryall. At his touch it became a portable screen and desk. Radiating unconcern, he began to work.

 Priscilla clamped her jaw on a caustic remark and began the dreary task of determining where exactly they were in relation to where the captain wished them to be.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 DATAN
FIRST SUNRISE

 "Swunaket Port, Captain. The pilot regrets that we have landed five Standard Minutes beforetime."

 He looked up, blinking absently. Since his pattern for the past two hours had been the steady buzz of concentration—as perhaps when one played chess—this ploy failed to deceive her.

 "Still steamed, Priscilla?" The absent look faded into a grin.

 She willed her lips into a straight line. "It was arotten trick."

 "I remember thinking so when my father pulled it on me," he said sympathetically. "Other things, too. Most of them sadly unfilial. You did quite well, by the way, especially when we hit that bit of turbulence—all the lovely hailstones! Really, the local weather has cooperated beautifully!"

 The laughter caught her unaware, filling her belly and chest, heart and head, and, finally, the cabin. "You are a dreadful person!"

 Shan sighed and began to reassemble the portable desk. "My brother's aunt, my eldest sister—now you. I bow to accumulated wisdom, Priscilla."

 "I should think so!" The webbing snapped back into its roller as she stood. The pilot awaits the captain's further orders."

 He set the box aside and stood, stretching with evident enjoyment. "The captain does not require the pilot's services at present, thank you. He does, however, desire the second mate to accompany him to a certain place in the town where business is to be conducted."

 She regarded him suspiciously. "What sort of business?”

 "Come, come, Priscilla, I'm a Trader. I have to tradesome time, don't I? To preserve the illusion, if nothing else."

 He bowed slightly, ironically. "And I have need of your—countenance—here. I will be walking a proper distance behind you. The address we go to is in Tralutha Siamn. The name of the firm is Fasholt and Daughters." He waved a big hand, ring glinting. "Lead on!"

 She stopped in the shadow of the gate, Shan close behind her, and stared into the street.

 Bathed in the butter-yellow light of the smaller sun, women hurried or strolled, singly or in pairs. Behind each, at a respectful three-pace distance, came a man or boy, sometimes two. One elderly woman strolled by on the arm of a younger one, both expensively jeweled and dressed, followed by a train of six boys, each heart-breakingly lovely in sober tunic and slacks.

 Priscilla frowned after them. The boys radiated a uniform contentment. Playthings, she thought. Well cared for—perhaps even beloved—pets.

 "Well, Priscilla?" His voice was very quiet, with mischief and something more sober spilling from him.

 She turned her head to glare. "Am I supposed to own you?"

 He nodded. "But don't repine." He felt the fabric of his wide sleeve between two judgmental fingers, tapped the master's ring and the intricate silver belt buckle, and stroked light fingers down a soft-clad thigh. "You obviously pamper me."

 She flushed. "I can't think why."

 "Unkind, Priscilla. I'm counted not unskilled. Also, I'm a pilot, a mechanic, a good judge of wines, fabrics, spices—"

 "And an incurable gabster!" she finished with half-amused vehemence. "If you were mine, I'd have you beaten!"

 The slanted brows lifted. "Violence? You might damage the goods, exalted lady. Best to attempt to barter for one less noisy if this one's voice displeases you."

 "Don't," she begged him, "tempt me." Back stiff, she turned and marched off.

 Head down to hide his grin, Shan followed.

 Lomar Fasholt was round-faced and rumpled; her tunic was a particularly pleasing shade of pink. She smiled widely and dismissed her daughter with a nod as Priscilla entered her office.

 "A good day to you, Sister Mendoza," Lomar said heartily, coming around the gleaming thurlwood desk and extending a fragrant hand. Priscilla took it and grinned with relief.

 "A good day to you, also, sister."

 Lomar laughed gently, her eyes going over Priscilla's shoulder. "Shannie! What a sight for old eyes you are! Have you decided to marry me, after all? Your room stands ready."

 He laughed and came forward to bow: the bow of honored esteem, Priscilla saw. "It's good to see you, Lomar," he said gently. "How many husbands do you have now?"

 "Eight—can you believe it? But it's no use, Shannie, I can'tnot make money! And the more I make, the more husbands they insist I take." She shook her head. "The newest is only a cub, the same age as my youngest daughter! What do they—" Her hands fluttered. "Oh, well, I've set him to be schooled, poor lamb. Though it's hard to find tutors who don't feel it below their dignity to teach a boy. But here I'm rambling on, and you both standing! Come, sit down."

 "I don't think I'd do well, do you," Shan pursued, "as the ninth? There are certain freedoms I'm accustomed to." He grinned and slouched into a chair, legs thrust out before him. "Besides, I have a minor skill at making money, too. How many husbands can you support?"

 "Oh, a few more, certainly. Though not as many as they'll insist upon. If I were twenty years younger, I'd leave this silly planet and set up somewhere else. I don't know why my daughters stay—true speech!" She sat, embracing them with her smile. "Well, I thought you'd say no, my dear, but one can hope. You'd certainly keep me laughing. Why are you here, Shannie?"

 Priscilla caught the flicker of his puzzlement before he replied.

 "I'm here because I have items to trade. Korval has traded with Fasholt these last two generations."

 "And will do so no more. I'd hoped my message was clear." The round face turned sad. "It's true, isn't it, Shannie, that your family—your Clan—is headed by a man?"

 He frowned and straightened a little in the chair. "Val Con is Heir Lineal, surely—Delm-to-be. But the yos'Pheliums aren't traders, Lomar; the yos'Galans are. Two different lines."

 She considered that for a moment, then: "Who is the mother of your—Line—then, Shannie? No, that's wrong, isn't it? I don't know the right word."

 "Thodelm," he supplied, his puzzlement increasing. "I am. Lomar, what is this? Have we slighted you in some way? Have you complaint of our policy, our price? Surely it can be mended. We've dealt together so long."

 "Do you think I don't know it? Long, mutually profitable, and always such pleasant visits! Your father, always willing to sit, take a glass or two, and tell me about goings-ons in the wide galaxy. You the same as he…" She smiled wistfully. 'Things would have been better, Shannie, if you had been a girl."

 Shan was sitting very tall, intent on the woman's face. "Lomar, I'm at a loss. I've been male all my life, and my father before me! The trade has always gone well."

 "Didn't I say so?" She sighed, radiating grief and affection. "It's a new law, Shannie. From the temple.

 The thrice-blessed have instructed us to have no trade with any families but those who are properly headed by a female. To trade with no ship, except when captain and Trader are women." She fidgeted with an oddment of stone on her desk, then looked up sharply. "It'sLaw , Shannie."

 "Lomar." Shan was speaking very carefully. "The contract between Clan Korval and the Fasholt family dates back to our grandmothers. It reads—if memory will serve me today—yes: 'Between Petrella yos'Galan, or assignees, and Tuleth Fasholt, or assignees.'" He moved his shoulders—not quite a shrug—and smiled. "Assignees, both."

 "I know," she said, shaking her head. "It seems to hold some hope, doesn't it? I put the case forth, adding that it is the custom among outworlders to consider women and men equal." She grimaced. The thrice-blessed were quite clear: trade is permitted only with those families or ships which are now headed by women. Because outworlders follow unnatural custom is no reason for us to do the same."

 "After all," Shan said softly, “the Goddess made us all in Her image."

 "Don't blaspheme, Shannie."

 Priscilla stirred. "That is what we are taught—on Sintia."

 The older woman smiled sadly. "This is not Sintia, sister. Here we follow the temple's instructions. Or find ourselves broken into bits and scattered, mother from daughter, and sister from sister, across the world."

 Priscilla raised her hand and traced the Sign to Forefend in the air between them. Lomar nodded.

 "So, I hope, as well. But it seems that my wishes are not to be fulfilled in this lifetime. Perhaps the next turn of the Wheel will find me in a happier time."

 "So might it be," Priscilla murmured and Lomar bowed her head.

 Shan cleared his throat. "Is it permitted by the—thrice-blessed?—that I speak to you of an item which belongs to a member of my crew? Lady Faaldom, who is Head of her Line—and female! Priscilla will attest my word. Or shall we go away?"

 She considered him. "Is this item truly the possession of Lady Faaldom, Shannie? Why didn't she come to me herself?"

 He looked, Priscilla thought, a little hurt. "Of course it's Lina's cargo. I said so, didn't I? As to why she didn't come herself, why should she? I'm Master Trader, she's librarian. It's reasonable that I speak for her in the matter."

 Lomar shook her head. "If she's sworn to you, Head of her Family or not—I'm sorry, Shannie. The Law is the Law. I don't dare."

 With a flash of vivid concern, Shan leaned forward abruptly, extending a hand across the desk. "Lomar, come away!"

 She reached out and patted his hand. "There, now, dear… What a good boy you are, Shannie! But it will be all right."

 "It will not be all right!" he snapped. "You know and I know that it will become less and less right. Cut off trade with half the galaxy? It's insanity—worse! Suicidal. You'll starve. If the luck rides your shoulder. If not—a society that enslaves half its population? Lomar, what happens when the slaves see the masters are weak?"

 "Revolution," Priscilla said in a low voice, feeling prophecy stir within her. "War. Hatred. Death."

 "I have read history, sister." Lomar sighed and stroked Shan's hand again. "Should I go without a bit to buy a guidebook, Shannie? My assets must be liquidated. That takes time, careful planning. And my daughters. It's not possible. Not now." She sat back. Priscilla thought she looked older all at once.

 Shan sat poised, tension singing through him. Then he, too, sat back, sighing. "Of course. You'll do as you think wise. Do you have my pin-beam code, Lomar?"

 She laughed a little. "Your personal code and the code for theDutiful Passage . Why?"

 "A favor, for the friendship we hold each other. When you're ready, call me. Transport will be provided. Also, I'll engage to be second partner in any business you care to establish."

 She laughed. "Absurd creature! Why, again?"

 Shan did not even smile. "Your credit is here. To set up elsewhere, you'll need local credit. With me as your second partner, there will be no problem." He did smile then, tiredly. "You do make money, Lomar. I know it. Why shouldn't I lend you aid in return for a profit I don't have to work for?”

 She shook her head. "But you're local on Liad, Shannie. I don't—"

 "Korval's credit," he interrupted gently, "is local everywhere. Except, perhaps, here."

 There was a brief pause before she spread her hands. "A silent partner, then. For, say, five years? Then, it had better be. Then I'll buy you out."

 He nodded. "Easily arranged. But a mere business matter. The important thing is that you move you and yours as soon as may be—forgive my presumption, old friend. Line yos'Galan will be happy—joyful—to guest you for a time, so you may look about and make informed decisions."

 "You're a good boy, Shannie," she said again. "I'll remember. Now, my dear, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bid you both good-bye."

 "Have we endangered you, sister?" Priscilla a asked as they moved toward the door.

 Lomar smiled and patted her hand, too. "Bless you, child, things aren't that bad yet. But it's best not to push what Shannie calls' the luck.' Walk in Her smile, now, both of you."

 Priscilla set a rapid pace through the morning streets, with Shan's uneasiness feeding her own. She felt the chill of worry at her back, eclipsing his warmth.

 Mother, grant us safety, she prayed.

 The port gate loomed, and she increased her stride, breathing a sigh of relief as she crossed into the outworlder's preserve. At her back, Shan's worry diminished somewhat.

 Thank you, Goddess, she breathed silently.

 Then she sensed startlement—and outrage like a zag of lightning.

 She spun in time to see the white-robed woman shake Shan sharply.

 "Creature! How dare you pass by without obeisance?" Her staff snapped toward his head, calculated to cow, not to strike. Shan's fury flared, and the woman shook him again. "What are you called, soulless?"

 "Frost, exalted lady." The quiet voice was in sharp contrast to the din of his rage.

 "Frost, is it? Exalted lady, is it? Have you no manners, creature, or are you too stupid to know one of the temple when you see her?"

 Priscilla felt a surge of bruising power. Aspect! She extended herself, deflected the other woman's intention, and felt her own expansion…

 "Enough!" she snapped.

 Both spun, staring.

 "Frost," she snapped. "An apology to the thrice-blessed. And then behind me!"

 For a heartbeat she thought he would not play along. Then, stiffly, he bent, forehead brushing knees.

 "Forgive this one, thrice-blessed. No insult was intended your holy self."

 It was scarcely the most abject of abasements, with the highborn fury crackling from him like electricity. Nor was the thrice-blessed appeased. Her staff whipped out, slashing the air between him and escape.

 "Forgiven, indeed. After punishment, as it is written. A public scourging—"

 "I had said enough!" Priscilla cried, projecting stern authority, soul-strength, and awe. "Would you mete violence to this person, with the Mother's own mark upon him?" She extended a hand and traced the sign, glowing, before Shan's face for the other to read.

 "This man is more than you can know. He has power, as a temple-sister might have it! Depth of learning, skill of use—a mystery. And more!"

 The priestess was fairly caught—the wordnet enveloped her, glittering. Priscilla pulled strongly on awe, mystery, belief, and began to weave—then became aware of something else: a single, sustained note, building passion and power, swelling, scintillating, magnificent—a lance of greatness overwhelming in its majesty.

 It was Shan, projecting on all levels.

 Within the wordnet, the thrice-blessed gasped; she raised a hand to shield her eyes from his radiance.

 The note built further as Priscilla made adjustments. He must be caught, held in the echo of the thrice-born's trap…

 The note paused, then glissaded, power fading with each downward thrum, until the last hung, vibrating rainbows… and was gone.

 The thrice-blessed hung in her net of glamour, reverberating mystery. The man was merely a man, radiating nothing.

 "So have you seen," Priscilla intoned, loosing the net carefully. "So have you heard. So shall it be. We live in blessed times, young sister, when mysteries and miracles abound. Look closely at all you see and trust that the Goddess holds each of us protected."

 "Ollee," the priestess murmured. "I am blessed beyond counting, having beheld this wonder. Elder sister, I ask pardon. And your blessing."

 Priscilla's hand rose and traced the proper signs at eyes, ears, and heart. "In Her name, forgiveness, as She forgives each of Her children. Walk in Her grace. Live well. Serve long."

 The other effaced herself, and Priscilla turned, motioning to Shan. Unhurriedly, and without looking behind, they walked away.

 Shan collapsed into the copilot's chair, his head thumping into the headrest. He opened one silver eye. "I would appreciate warning, please, Priscilla, the next time you feel the need of such support." His voice held a thread of amusement, another of exhaustion. His pattern… his pattern—was gone.

 No! She sat, graceless, and reached along the inner ways, seeking his warmth as a blind person would seek the sun's touch upon her face. The questing encountered smoothness, cool and slippery, like a mirror, denying without repelling. And he must be beyond it…

 "Priscilla?"

 She brought her attention to the outer ways, striving for calm. "I didn't think to ask. I thought—I was afraid you'd been caught in the echo."

 He snorted. "I haven't been caught in an echo since I was twelve years old, Priscilla. Give me credit for some ability."

 "Yes, of course…" But this was a nightmare, with him before her and she unable to hear, unable toknow … "Shan—"

 He leaned forward and extended a hand, the master's ring flashing its facets. "I'm here, my friend."

 There was concern in his voice and on his face, while within there was only the horrible, unyielding coolness. She gripped his fingers, feeling that warmth. It was not enough. "Shan…"

 "I'm tired, Priscilla," he said gently. "It's been a long time since I've needed to travel outward along all roads. Grant me rest." He considered her face, squeezed her hand. "I'm in your debt again."

 "Please," she began, and drew a breath. She found a phrase in High Liaden. "Pray do not regard it."

 He sat back, his fingers slipping out of hers. "Kayzin is a thorough teacher, I see." A quick glance at the board took in the white proximity light. "ThePassage is in orbit. Wonderful. Let's go home."

 Home. Even with him locked behind his private mirror she felt a sense of relief, and heard the sound of need.

 "Yes, Shan," she said, and then, in urgent correction, "Yes, Captain."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 177
SECOND SHIFT
9.00 HOURS

 Ken Rik stared in disbelief. "Prepare Hold Thirty-two to receive cargo?" he asked finally.

 Shan raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose for good measure. "You're up to the task, aren't you, Ken Rik? Or is Hold Thirty-two already full?"

 "No, it's not full," the old man snapped. "As you well know. You're not taking on that—ah, damn this language!—that lanza pel'shek!His cargo!"

 "I'm not? Well, I'm pleased to know that, Master Ken Rik, thank you. But, do you know, I had the impression that Iwas going to take it." He paused, then delivered the punch line gently. "I had the further impression that the cargo master takes orders from the captain."

 Ken Rik had tears in his eyes. "Shan—he tried to kill thePassage ." He spoke in the High Tongue now: elder to youngling of a different Clan. "Now you take up his cargo, guarantee delivery! Your father—"

 "Would have done exactly the same!" Shan finished in ice-coated Terran. 'This is outside of balance. The goods are needed—required—on Theopholis. The port master appealed to us because of need. We guarantee delivery—because of need. We're going to Theopholis, aren't we, Ken Rik? Have some sense, for pity's sake! A pretty set of sharks we'd look when it came known that thePassage was petitioned at Raggtown and refused to take the load."

 "Yes, of course." The words were nearly whispered, but they were in Terran. He bowed the bow of one instructed to instructor. "Forgive—"

 "Oh, bother, you annoying old man! You've been ripping up at me for years! Don't, I beg you, begin to act properly now!"

 Ken Rik laughed. "It would be something of a strain, I admit." He made a second bow, as subordinate to superior. "With the captain's permission, I will now go to prepare Hold Thirty-two for cargo."

 "Thank you, Ken Rik," Shan said gently. "I'd appreciate it."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 MASTER'S TOWER, THEOPHOLIS
HOUR OF KINGS

 Port Master Rominkoff eyed the elderly gentlemen. That they stood there at all spoke of resourcefulness as well as resources. The amount of cumshaw required to pass two persons up the ladder of subordinates and into her presence was no doubt large. She made a mental note to find out the current rate. One liked to know the value of one's services.

 The younger of her two visitors bowed, not deeply. "I," he said in careful Trade, "am Taam Olanek, Delm Plemia. My Clan possess a tradeship, calledDaxflan , which was to have been in port at this present. I find it has not arrived."

 The port master sat up. Perhaps the old gentlemen had not paid so much, after all. "I am in agreement with you, sir," she said urbanely. "Daxflanhas not arrived."

 "I had hoped," Taam Olanek, Delm Plemia, pursued, "that you might teach me what you know of circumstances. I have learned from other persons here that berthing space was reserved—that it was not canceled. That there are goods awaiting?"

 "And goods awaited," she finished, shedding a little of her urbanity. "Just so. You seem to know all I can teach you of the situation, sir.Daxflan is late by some four local days. Reassure yourselves that nothing ill has overcome it, however. I have had reports of her within the sector, doing business at certain—ahh,free-duty ports. It appears previous commitments have not been recalled." She steepled her fingers in front of her. "This is unfortunate. It is, of course, unfortunate for you, but it is even more so for Theopholis. Among the thingsDaxflan was to deliver are two shipments from Raggtown, consisting of medical supplies imperative to the conclusion of our vaccination program, and the jewelry the regent will wear at his coronation next week. Our last information from Raggtown is that those shipments are still in the warehouses, awaiting pickup."

 There was a moment's silence, during which the port master wondered if her explanation had been too rapid for the old gentleman to follow.

 He bowed. 'The situation is very serious. Plemia has guaranteed delivery. There will be delivery. If you would allow me use of your facilities, I will make arrangements to employ a subcontractor for the delivery of the goods from Raggtown."

 Well, now.Here was something. The port master inclined her head. "I will have you escorted to the beam room, sir. One moment." Her hand approached the keypad, but hesitated as the door to her right clicked open, admitting a breathless adjunct.

 "Port Master," he began. The belated sight of the two gentlemen gave him abrupt pause.

 Master Rominkoff raised her brows. "Continue."

 "Yes, Port Master. We have had a pin-beam from the tradeshipDutiful Passage . It tells us they carry the shipments from Raggtown." The adjunct took a deep breath and finished his message. "Anticipated docking time is within the next local day."

 "So, then." She smiled at her visitors. "It seems the problem is solved for us, sirs."

 But Taam Olanek did not seem appreciative of his good fortune. He rounded on the adjunct, his face set in anger. "How doesDutiful Passage carryDaxflan's cargo?"

 The boy blinked and looked for guidance. She nodded. "The port—the port at Raggtown, gentle," he stammered. "Dutiful Passagewas asked to transmit the goods that were urgent, that were perishable. There was room, and the—the captain did the kindness…"

 "Quite proper," the second gentleman murmured surprisingly, and the first spun to stare at him. "I suggest that we await the morrow. Captain yos'Galan will certainly be happy to lay every detail before you."

 There was a moment of singing tension before the first gentleman bowed to the second. "Even so," he said softly. He turned back to the port master and bowed more deeply this time. "I thank you for your kindness and ask forgiveness on behalf of my Clan. Contracts must, of course, be honored. I pledge that they will be so, in the future."

 The port master thought without sympathy ofDaxflan's Trader. The wrath in the old gentleman's eyes was well earned.

 "I am glad that the present crisis has been resolved in so timely a manner, of course. It will not be forgotten that your first thought was of that, sir, and of the solution." She stood and bowed to both. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you. May we meet again."

 "May we meet again," the second gentleman echoed, performing his bow with precision. He offered an arm to his companion and guided him gently to the door.

 The port master nodded at her adjunct. "Inform me whenDutiful Passage takes orbit. I think I should greet Captain yos'Galan—personally."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 RAGGTOWN
LOCAL YEAR 537

 The sum was enormous. Standing at the Trader’s shoulder, Captain yo'Vaade was hard put to maintain her countenance. The trade at Drethilit had not earned them half so much, besides having gone to the port master to pay for the unused berthing. And the goods were gone as well, so there would be that loss, and another bill was awaiting them at Theopholis.

 "What do you mean," Sav Rid demanded, his voice beginning to rise in that way she dreaded, "that my cargo is not here? You give me a spurious invoice and in the same breath say that the goods are not in your warehouse? Where are they?"

 The warehouseman shrugged his wide Terran shoulders. "You didn't show, the client got worried, asked somebody else to take the stuff along. Shipped out yesterday."

 "By what right—who! What ship took my cargo? Because I say it is nothing less than theft!"

 Again the man shrugged. 'That's between you and your client, Mac. Tree and Dragon took the stuff. Now, about the—"

 "Tree and Dragon," Sav Rid repeated blankly. Then he shouted, the Trade words nearly unintelligible. "yos'Galan! Thieves, whores, and idiots! My cargo! Mine! And you release it to yos'Galan? Fool!" He shredded the bill, flung the pieces into the man's startled face, and stormed away, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Chelsa yo'Vaade hesitated, tempted—strongly tempted—to let him go. Then she spun back to the warehouseman, tugging the nireline ring from her finger and stripping the heavy chased bracelet from her arm. "They are old," she said quickly, pressing them into his hands. "It will be enough, if you sell to a collector of antiquities." She left him then, running.

 Sav Rid was striding across the shuttle field, Second Mate Collier hulking at his shoulder. He had not been unguarded, then. Chelsa was aware of a certain relief as she laid a hand on his sleeve. "Sav Rid? Cousin, I beg you—let it go. It is—you have let it prey upon your mind. End now. Cry balance.”

 "Balance?" He shook her off, lips tight, eyes glittering. "Balance? In favor of that frog-faced, half-Terran lackwit? yos'Galan is the reason we lose in every endeavor we undertake! yos'Galan steals our cargo, slurs our name, hounds us from port to port—there can be no balance!" He held out his hand, fingers clenched tight. "I will crush them—both of them! The idiot and his whore sister!" He paused. "And the Terran bitch who puts her cheek to his!"

 Chelsa's stomach clenched with fear—of him? for him?—as she cupped his shaking fist in her hands. "Sav Rid, it isKorval! Let be. Let it all be," she pleaded suddenly, her eyes tear-filled. "Let us go home, cousin."

 "Bah!" He jerked away, his rings tearing her palms. "Korval! A pack of half-grown brats, born to wealth and ease—no more! But you are like the rest—sayKorval , and they tremble lest they offend." He spat into the dust and marched off, the second mate keeping pace. "Coward!"

 The tears spilled over. She struggled for a moment, then achieved control and started slowly after him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 CROWN CITY, THEOPHOLIS
HOUR OF KNAVES

 Dagmar fingered the knife and gave her quarry a little lead time—but not too much. She had almost lost them, right at the beginning, when she had still figured that there was some kind of sense to their explorations, before she had understood that they were simply following the boy's whim.

 She eased out of the doorway and sauntered after them, picking up speed as they turned a corner. The boy was tugging on the woman's hand—they were heading toward the port. Slowly, doubling back on their own tracks now and then, they were completing a rough circle. Dagmar lengthened her stride.

 Soon. Soon Prissy would pay for setting the white-haired half-breed onDaxflan , eating their profits—eatingDagmar's profit, Dagmar's share. Yes, her share. Without her, the Trader would not have thought of shipping the stuff. She had been the one who had showed him how profitable it would be for the ship, and for his precious Clan. She had been the one with the contacts at first, the one who had shown him how to play the game. So she got a piece of the action. A sweetheart bargain. What a Liaden would call balance.

 They had stopped again. Dagmar slid into an alley mouth, then edged out to watch. Prissy was laughing and pointing to something in the window of a shop six doors distant. The boy had his nose pressed against the glass.

 It would be the boy. She had decided that. Satisfying as it would be to hurt Prissy, to purple that white skin, to snap fragile bones… Dagmar wiped wet palms down the sides of her trousers, savoring the thrust of desire that the image imparted. Maybe…

 No. She would take the boy. That would cause the deepest hurt—both to Prissy and to her half-breed lover.

 They were moving again. Dagmar fingered the knife and let them get a little ahead.

 DILLJBEE's DIGITAL DELIGHTS, the sign read. Gordy checked and drifted closer to the glassed-in display, joy flowing out of him in a purr so strong that it was a marvel the outer ears did not hear it as well. Priscilla smiled and rested her hands lightly on his shoulders. He wriggled comfortably, his attention on the gaudy goings-on beyond the glass.

 Five minutes went by without a sign that his rapture would soon pass off. Priscilla squeezed his shoulders. "Let's go, Gordy."

 "Um."

 She laughed softly and ruffled his hair. "Um, yourself. The shuttle leaves in exactly one ship's hour. Your credit with the captain may be up to missing it, but mine isn't. Let's go."

 "Okay," he said, still gazing at the display.

 Priscilla sighed and walked away by a step or two. "Gordy?”

 "Yeah, okay."

 Shaking her head, she went farther down the block, adjusting her awareness so that the matrix of his emotions remained clear.

 A bolt of terror impaled her as his voice wrenched her about.

 "Priscilla!"

 Pilot-fast, she was moving back toward the woman and the struggling child. A scant two steps away, the woman twisted, her shoulder against a garland-pole, the boy held across her thigh with one hand as the other snaked to the front over his shoulder and held something that gleamed beneath the uptilted chin.

 "Freeze, Prissy."

 The gleam was a vibroknife, not yet alive.

 Priscilla froze.

 "Good. That's real good, Prissy. You stay right there." Dagmar grinned. "Where's the white-haired boyfriend? Not gonna bail you out today?"

 Fury and terror poured from Gordy. Priscilla shut him out. She opened a thin hallway: her heart to Dagmar's. Then she heard, tasted and saw kill-lust, fear, rage, and desire, a fragmented cacophony that held no pattern but shifted, froze, and broke apart again and again.

 Dementia.

 Gordy twitched in Dagmar's grip, then gasped as it tightened brutally.

 "You be a good boy," she snarled, "and I'll let you live." She made a sound like a laugh. "Yeah, I'll let you live—a minute. Maybe two."

 Seeking a tool, Priscilla groped within and found a rhythm; she picked it up even as she felt another stirring and saw a flicker of light and darkness, outlining the Dragon's broad head. The vast wings unfurled as she passed the spell-rhythm to her body; she swayed to the right, not quite a step.

 "Stay there! You want this kid to have as many seconds as are coming to him, Prissy, you freeze andstay froze!" Dagmar grinned and moved the knife but did not thumb it on. "An’ don't you look away, honey. I want you to tell the boyfriend exactly what it looked like."

 "All right," Priscilla agreed, her voice pitched for magic, the words like strands of sticky silk. "I'll watch, Dagmar. Of course I will. But should I tell him everything? That might not be wise. If I tell everything, then they'll have you, Dagmar. They'll know who you are. They'll know where to find you." The faraway wings filled, then hesitated. She dared another half step, her eyes watching Dagmar's eyes as her heart watched Dagmar's heart.

 "Best to let him go. Let him go, and they'll let you go. Let him go and be free. Let him go and rest. Rest and be peaceful. Free and at peace. Let him go. Walk away. No hunters. No hunted. Let him go…"

 Dagmar's pattern was smoothing, coming together into something reminiscent of sanity. Far off, the Dragon hesitated, wings poised for flight.

 A heavy-hauler slammed by in the street beyond, shattering the circle she had woven. The knife straightened in Dagmar's hand.

 "Freeze!" she hissed.

 Priscilla stood calm, her eyes on her enemy, not allowing her to look away. "Dagmar," she began again, taking up the thread of the weaving.

 "Boyfriend buy your stuff back, Prissy?" Dagmar rasped across her words. "He did, didn't he? Except not the earrings. Not the earrings. Nobody'll see them again. Bugged, were they? Not now. Took a hammer, pounded 'em to dust. Spaced the dust." She gave a jagged bark of laughter. "Let him try and trace that! Tryin' to follow where we're goin'. Tryin' to catch us sellin' the stuff—but he didn't! Not so smart, after all, is he?"

 "It was a trick," Priscilla murmured against the sudden whirlwind of a Dragon in flight. She was cold. She was hot. She resisted, trusting yet to the power of voice and words. "Only a trick, Dagmar. He wanted to scare you, that's all. Like you've scared me. I'll tell him how it was. I'll tell him you mean business. That you wanted balance. That you have balance. The score's settled now, Dagmar. You can let the boy go. Let him go, Dagmar. A little boy. Only a boy. He can't hurt you. Let him go and walk free."

 Footsteps in the street beyond cut the fragile strand. Dagmar shifted her grip on her hostage. "Little public here. Move it, boy. Nice and slow. Prissy, you stay put till I tell you to move."

 "No!" Gordy twisted, and one hand shot out to grip the garland-pole. In her mind's eye, Priscilla clearly saw a Tree, green and vital, roots sunk through paving stone, soil and magma, to the very soul of the world…

 Dagmar swore and yanked at Gordy, her already mad pattern splintering into a thing hopeless of order. She yanked again, then gave it up—and thumbed the knife to life.

 Priscilla heard it hum, low and evil.

 And within, the sound of wings was like thunder as a hurtling body blocked out heart and sight and sense and soul, screaming like a lifetime's accumulated fury—Dragon's fire!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 MASTER'S TOWER, THEOPHOLIS
VISCOUNT'S HOUR

 It will be interesting to see how she contrives to send Mr. dea'Gauss away without me, Shan thought, sipping wine. The port master's desire washed him with warmth, and he curled into it shamelessly. Mutual pleasure was intended, neither hinged upon old friendship nor waiting on richer desires—the very thing he needed.

 Healer, he instructed himself wryly, heal yourself.

 The wine was excellent.

 "Confess then, Captain," the port master drawled lazily. "You're intrigued by the proposition."

 That was a masterly move. They had been discussing a possible investment of her own, the talk shared evenly between himself and Mr. dea'Gauss. Shan smiled, slanting his eyes toward her face in a sweep of black lashes.

 "I am always intrigued," he answered audaciously, "by a lady's proposition."

 She laughed, well pleased with him. "Perhaps you and I might meet to discuss the matter more fully." She inclined her head, including the old gentleman in her smile. "Mr. dea'Gauss must accompany you, of course.

 I'm sure we will both require his counsel."

 He raised his glass. "The trading will keep me—tomorrow, the next day. You understand, ma'am, that there are persons I must see, in the normal course of business."

 "Of course," she said appreciatively. "Perhaps I should stop by your booth in the Grand Square in a day or so. By then you may know your commitments more fully."

 "Why, that would be lovely!" he exclaimed, smiling widely. "I'd be delighted to see you there, ma'am." And so he would, though he would be more delighted to see her this night—as she yet intended.

 "Then naturally I will come." She began to add something more, then checked herself as the door to her right opened, no doubt admitting the third course.

 But the individual who stepped into the room bore no tray, pushed no cart, and looked not a little worried.

 The port master frowned. "Yes?"

 "I beg your pardon, madam," her aide said formally. "Precinct Officer Velnik calls on your private line. He assures me the matter is one of urgency."

 After a moment's frowning hesitation, a hand flick directed the aide toward the wallscreen. She turned back to the table. "Do excuse the interruption, sirs. This post has many privileges. Privacy is not one of them. It will be but a moment. Please do not regard it."

 "That's quite all right," Shan assured her, smiling sympathetically. Mr. dea'Gauss inclined his head.

 The precinct officer looked nervous. As well he might, Shan thought. The port master's displeasure was plain on her face.

 "Well?"

 The officer swallowed. "I'm sorry to disturb you,

 Thra Rominkoff," he said breathlessly. "It seems routine on the surface. But the boy insisted we call. Says he's the ward of a—Captain yos'Galan?"

 Shan stiffened, all attention on the screen.

 The port master nodded sharply. "He is here. Is the boy injured?"

 Relief flooded Velnik's face. "No, Thra Rominkoff, he's just fine. But we've got a dead Terran female—"

 No! And then he was expanding in all directions, an explosion of seek-strands, streaking past the port master's pattern, and Mr. dea'Gauss, and the liveried servant here, and those in the kitchen beyond, stretching, stretching as no Healer could, trying to read the city beyond the walls, searching for one signature, one life—Priscilla !

 In his far-off body something snapped, followed by pain and more pain as the search slammed hard against its limits, rebounded…

 He dropped the shattered stem next to the sharded crystal bowl in its puddle of bright wine and blood, and wrapped a napkin around his hand as the port master spun back to the screen, snapping her fingers.

 "Quickly! Who has died?"

 "Dagmar Collier, Port Master." The man was stumbling over his own words, his eyes flicking from Shan to the woman and back. "Native of Troit. Second Mate onDaxflan , out of Chonselta."

 Which should not be here! Shan swallowed his curse and saw the thought reflected in the port master's face.

 "Bring the boy here," she instructed the precinct officer.

 He shook his head. "We have the woman who killed Collier, Thra Rominkoff. She confesses. But murder requires a formal trial, since rehabilitation is the fee—"

 "No!" That was out before he could stop it.

 The port master slanted a quick glance at Shan's face and returned her attention to the screen. The woman who confesses is a friend of the boy's? He refuses to come away without her?"

 "Yes, Thra Rominkoff."

 "Port Master." Somehow he had control of his voice against the tearing pains in hand and head and the terror in his heart. "The person in question is a member of my crew. Am I not allowed to speak for her?" Rehabilitation. Gods, rehabilitationhere . "It is possible that she does not understand. She is not native here. And perhaps not all of the—circumstances—have been made clear to the precinct officer."

 She nodded. "It is, of course, your right to speak for your crew member, Captain." Her eyes were back on the officer. "We shall arrive within the hour. So inform the captain's ward. And arrange for the guard to pass us without delay."

 "Port Master." He gave a formal salute, and the screen went dark. The port master rose.

 "A medkit," she snapped at the frozen aide. The woman scurried off, returning in a bare moment. Mr. dea'Gauss took it from her and himself applied the lotion, sealed the sharp edge of the cut, and wrapped it in soft cloth, radiating concern.

 The old gentleman's pattern set Shan's teeth on edge with anguish: the complex spill of rage, puzzlement, and—admiration?—from the port master nearly had him in tears. Painfully, he began the sequence to seal himself away, to leach the worst of the pain from the rebound shock so that he might unseal himself in an hour, perhaps even to some purpose.

 "My car awaits, sirs," the port master said, concern on her face.

 "You are all kindness, ma'am." He managed the formula, stood, and made his bow.

 "Nonsense!" she snapped. "It is my duty to monitor what goes on in this port, Captain. That includes seeing justice done." She indicated the patient aide. "Melecca will see you to the car. I will join you very shortly. There is an urgent matter I must attend to." She was gone in a swirl of bright fabric.

 "Daxflan’s in port," Shan murmured to Mr. dea'Gauss as they followed Melecca to the car. "That's interesting, isn't it?"

 "Very," the old gentleman agreed. He sighed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 PRECINCT HOUSE
CROWN CITY, THEOPHOLIS
HOUR OF DEMONS

 There were far too many people in the room. Port Master Rominkoff paused to sort out the crowd. The young captain never broke his stride.

 "Shan!"

 The boy was smallish and pudgy, running pell-mell toward them. The young captain went down on one knee, caught the child as he skidded to a halt, and returned a hug just this side of savage.

 "Gordy." He set the boy back, ran his hands rapidly over the plump frame, and touched a smooth cheek. "You're all right, acushia?"

 "Crelm!" the boy snorted. "I'mokay." The round face clouded. "Shan—they wouldn't listen! I told them—I did! They wouldn't fix her arm and—"

 "Hush." He stroked the boy's cheek again, then laid a gentle finger over his lips. "Gordy. Just relax for a moment, okay?" The small body lost some of its tension, as if those words were all it took. "Good. Where's Priscilla now?"

 Tears filled the brown eyes. "I tried to make them not—" He took a ragged breath. "They put her in a cage."

 "Here now, young man!" the precinct officer said, approaching warily, his eyes flicking from the port master's face to the man and boy, then back to her face. "Not acage! Just a holding cell, I promise!"

 The captain rose smoothly and inclined his head. "A holding cell," he repeated softly. The precinct officer ran his tongue over his lips. The port master forbade herself the smile.

 "I am captain of theDutiful Passage ," Shan continued clearly. "Ms. Mendoza is a member of my crew. I am here to speak on her behalf, as set in the trade compacts. You will liberate her from the—holding cell—and guide her here so that all may be done… lawfully."

 The port master denied the smile more sternly. Really, the young captain pleased her more and more.

 The precinct officer was shaking his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Captain. She's a confessed murderer. We asked her twice, according to law. She understood the questions and answered them. Twice. She talked crazy about other stuff, but not about that. The law says in those circumstances, we hold the prisoner for a next-day trial. It's most likely the judge will rule rehabilitation in light of the confession, and lacking witnesses—"

 "What do you mean, lacking witnesses?" the captain demanded. "The child says he told you what happened—and that you refused to listen!"

 Officer Velnik held up a hand. "Not admissible, Captain. He's underage."

 "On his home-world," came a dry voice from the port master's side, "Master Arbuthnot is of an age where his testimony is considered admissible."

 "I'm sure it is, Mr.—ah?"

 "dea'Gauss," the old man supplied, going forward. "I am the man of business for Clan Korval, of which Captain yos'Galan and, by wardship, Master Arbuthnot are members. Pray elucidate the reason for your refusal to admit testimony from a witness of sound mind and honorable character. You have yourself cast doubt by stating that Lady Mendoza spoke irrationally of subjects other than the specific mischance. It behooves you to place before a judge all interpretations of the event that are available. Justice could hardly be served in any other way."

 "See here—"

 It was time for the port master to take a hand. "Mr. dea'Gauss raises a valid point and asks a pertinent question," she drawled from the doorway. "Why is the boy forbidden to testify, Velnik? I have monitored trials where children much younger than he appears to be have spoken and been heard."

 "Thra Rominkoff, it is law that all witnesses in cases of violent crime must testify under the same drug administered to the accused. Persons under majority—nineteen Standard Years—may not be compelled to submit to the drug."

 "What drug?" the young captain asked very quietly.

 ”Pimmadrene," she replied. "It's been used for many years. The ego is temporarily dissolved, which nets quite truthful answers." She considered the precinct officer. "And yet it does still seem to me that I have seen very young children testify. The law speaks of 'impel.' What if free choice is offered?"

 He moved his shoulders. "The parents gave permission for the drug in the cases you mention, Thra Rominkoff."

 "Or guardian of record?"

 He bowed.

 "But it is dangerous?" the captain asked quietly.

 "Dangerous? No. The doctor adjusts the dose to body weight and stays by to monitor. But it's unpleasant. Not the sort of thing to force on a person who can't—a child. The side effects are dizziness, stomach cramps, fever, disorientation. Some people go blind for a few days, but that's not common. Doc over there could tell you specifically."

 "I'll do it," the boy said suddenly, and tugged on the captain's sleeve. "Shan? Tell them I'll do it. I'm your ward. Grandpa told me!"

 "Acushla, think carefully. The side effects sound very bad. And the intended effect isn't good, either. I'll do what you tell me to do. It's your decision. But be sure, Gordy."

 "Shan, it'sPriscilla" He grabbed on to a big hand, looking up worriedly. "They said—do you know what they're going to do to her, if the judge says she's got to be—to be rehabilitated?"

 "I know, Gordy. Hush."

 But Gordy would not be hushed. He hung on to the captain's hand and looked at Mr. dea'Gauss, making the explanation to him in a voice that washed against every wall in the room.

 "They said—since she's amurderer —she'll go to the organ bank. They'll float her in a tank and feed her through tubes and stuff until somebody maybe needs an eye. Then they'll take one of Priscilla's eyes. And she'll float some more till somebody needs another eye, or a kidney, or a lung, or a leg, and they'll cut her up, piece by piece…"

 "Gordy!" The captain was on his knees, pulling the boy tight against his shoulder and rubbing his face in the sandy hair. "Stop it, Gordy. Please."

 There was silence.

 The boy pulled back, lifted a tentative hand to the man's static cheek, and snuffled. "Shan, you better tell them I'll be a witness. They can't—Priscilla'sgood"

 "Yes," the captain murmured, coming slowly to his feet. "I know that, too."

 He bowed to the precinct officer very slightly. "It has been determined that my ward will testify at Ms. Mendoza's trial. Please tell us its time and location, as well as the proper manner in which to present ourselves."

 "There is no reason," the port master cut in, "why the trial should not be held at once. I am empowered to act as judge in affairs of the port—as soon as my robes arrive and a room is made available." She glanced at the desk officer, who hurriedly placed a call.

 The robes were heavy on her shoulders. Perhaps it was their unaccustomed weight: she rarely took part in such affairs, usually letting things run the legal course in their own time. Perhaps it was the boy's involvement, or the young captain's. They sat together by special permission, the giant, white-haired Liaden austere, and the boy with his empty, drug-toned eyes.

 She sighed heavily, rang the bell to order, and read the preliminaries without expression. Having established the identities of those present, she glanced at the monitor; she nodded satisfaction and looked back at the boy. His face was slightly damp, eyes wide open, pupils dilated black with a thin ring of brown iris.

 "What is your name, boy?"

 "Gordy." His voice was blurry, like a sleep-talker's.

 The port master consulted the card and frowned. She addressed the boy again. "All right, Gordy. What is your full,legal name?"

 "Gordon Richard Arbuthnot."

 She nodded. "What is your planet of origin?"

 "New Dublin."

 "In Standard Years, what is your age?"

 "Eleven."

 "What is your father's name?"

 Silence.

 She frowned. "Gordy, what is your father's name?"

 "His father," Mr. dea'Gauss whispered in her ear, "is dead."

 "I see." Damn this drug! It was clumsy—misleading. "Gordy, whatwas your father's name?"

 "Finn Gordon Arbuthnot."

 That was another match. "What is your mother's name?"

 "Katy-Rose Davis."

 And another. She turned her head. "Doctor, have we established that the drug is in force?"

 "Yes, Thra Rominkoff."

 "Excellent. We shall proceed with the testimony."

 She paused to order her thoughts, mindful of the drug's limitation. "Gordy, when did you and Priscilla Mendoza arrive on-world?"

 "First shuttle."

 First shuttle? What sort of time was that?

 "Approximately Regent's Hour," the young captain said softly, and she nodded her thanks.

 "Why were you with Priscilla Mendoza, Gordy?"

 "We were leave-partners."

 "You were assigned to each other?"

 "No."

 She sighed. "How did you become leave-partners?"

 "I asked Priscilla if she'd be partners, and she said okay."

 "Who chose where you went in town?"

 "I did."

 ""You chose to be in Nietzsche Street?"

 "Yes."

 Why?"

 "It looked interesting."

 "Did Priscilla Mendoza ask you to go down Nietzsche Street?"

 "No."

 "Did Dagmar Collier ask you to go down Nietzsche Street?"

 "No."

 "Did Priscilla Mendoza kill Dagmar Collier, Gordy?"

 "Yes."

 She swallowed a curse at that simple damnation; she heard Velnik shift beside her, and saw the young captain's lips shape one word. She gave it voice.

 "Whydid Priscilla kill Dagmar, Gordy?"

 "To save me."

 On the other side, Mr. dea'Gauss leaned forward infinitesimally, his attention centered on the blurry young face.

 "Were you in danger, Gordy?"

 "Yes."

 "How did you come to be in danger?"

 "I didn't come when Priscilla said to."

 The port master made a mental note to explore drugs other than Pimmadrene for use in interrogation.

 "Gordy, I want you to tell me exactly what happened from the time you didn't go with Priscilla in Nietzsche Street to the time the arresting officer came."

 "Priscilla said the shuttle was leaving in a ship's hour and if my credit with the captain was up to being late, hers wasn't and we had to leave. She went two steps away and said 'Gordy?' I said 'yeah,' and she went farther away and I was getting ready to go with her when I got grabbed and it was Dagmar and she yanked and held on when I tried to run and held us against a pole and held me over her knee and Priscilla was running toward us and Dagmar had a knife and she said 'Freeze, Prissy.' And Priscilla stopped." There was a tiny pause as the boy licked his lips.

 "Where did Dagmar hold the knife, Gordy?”

 "Across my throat. Under my chin."

 "All right, Gordy. Priscilla stopped. Then what?"

 "Dagmar said Priscilla had to stay there. She asked where Shan was. I tried to get away again, and she—she hurt me. She said if I was good she'd let me live for a minute or two." There was another small pause. The port master snapped her fingers, never taking her eyes from that damp face.

 "She said Priscilla had to watch. To tell Shan what it looked like." An aide arrived with a glass of water. The port master waved her to the boy.

 "Rest a minute, Gordy, and drink."

 He did, draining the glass thirstily.

 "All right, Gordy. Dagmar said Priscilla had to watch, so she could tell Shan what it looked like. Then?"

 "Priscilla started to talk. I don't remember what she said, but it made my head feel funny. She talked and walked forward a little bit and Dagmar's arm got loose and I thought about running away but then there was a noise in the next street and Dagmar's arm got tight again and she made Priscilla stop. Priscilla tried to talk some more, but Dagmar asked if Shan had bought Priscilla's things. She said she broke Priscilla's earrings into dust and then spaced the dust. She said Shan wasn't smart and that he wouldn't catch them selling the stuff.

 "Priscilla started to talk again and my head felt funny again and then there were footsteps and Dagmar tried to make me go with her 'cause it was too public, she said. But I was scared and I didn't want to go with her and I grabbed on to the pole and held on and thought about the Tree like Priscilla'd taught me and Dagmar turned on the knife. I heard it hum and I was scared and I hung on and thought about the Tree and I heard a—roar. Like a big animal. And Priscilla was running fast—faster than Shan runs and Dagmar let me go and Priscilla—it was sofast! She grabbed Dagmar and twisted and did something with her hands. I heard a snap, like a stick breaking. Dagmar fell down. Priscilla stood for a minute and then she fell down, too." He swallowed.

 "I went and kicked the knife away from Dagmar and then I tried to make Priscilla get up. It was hard and I thought she was—I thought she was dead. But she woke up and called me 'Brand' and her voice was all funny, like it hurt her to talk. Then she stood up and told me to go back to thePassage . I told her Shan wouldn't like it if I left her alone when she was in a scrape and she hugged me and threw a stone into the window of Marcel's Tailoring Emporium. Then she said she'd killed Dagmar and the cops would come in a minute and arrest her for murder. She told me to leave again, but I wouldn't. Then the cop came."

 The port master leaned back in her chair and counted to twenty-five, eyes closed. She opened her eyes.

 "Precinct Officer Velnik," she said very carefully. "I will now see the recording of Priscilla Mendoza's… confession."

 The woman was slim, middling tall by Terran standards, doubly dwarfed by Velnik and the arresting officer. Her hair was short and black and curly, her face dirt-smeared; her eyes were enormous, ebon—and exhausted. "Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza," she answered the precinct officer. Her voice was a ragged whisper.

 "Planet of origin?"

 "Sintia."

 "Are you employed on a trading vessel?"

 "Yes."

 "State the name of the vessel, its home port, your rank."

 "Dutiful Passage. Solcintra, Liad. Pilot, first class pending. Second mate."

 "Did you kill the woman Dagmar Collier?"

 "Yes."

 "Did you deliberately murder the woman Dagmar Collier?"

 "Yes."

 "Where did you kill Dagmar Collier?"

 "In front of Dillibee's Digital Delights in Nietzsche Street in Crown City on Theopholis."

 "When did you kill Dagmar Collier?"

 "One hour ago."

 "Did you attempt escape after you killed Dagmar Collier?"

 "No."

 "Why?"

 "There was no place to go."

 From the young captain came a wordless protest.

 As if cued by that slight sound, Precinct Officer Velnik asked Priscilla Mendoza, "Why didn't you return to theDutiful Passage?

 "No murderers are allowed on thePassage ."

 The captain drew a sharp breath.

 "Your name," the precinct officer pursued, "is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza?"

 "Yes."

 "Did you intentionally kill the woman Dagmar Collier?"

 "Yes."

 "Describe your actions that brought the death of Dagmar Collier."

 "I called the Dragon. When it was with me, we roared and threw a fireball to distract Dagmar's attention from Gordy. Then I broke her neck."

 There was a slight pause while precinct officer and cop exchanged glances.

 "You, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza," the precinct officer said carefully, "broke the neck of Dagmar Collier, fully intending to bring about her death?"

 "Yes."

 "Are you a native of Troit?"

 "No."

 "What is your legal name?"

 "Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza."

 "What is your planet of origin?"

 "Sintia."

 "Did you kill Dagmar Collier?"

 "Yes."

 There was a small pause. "Where is the Dragon now?"

 "Above the Tree."

 "How much is two plus two?"

 "Four."

 "Have you said any lies since you were brought here by the arresting officer?"

 "No."

 "Did the dragon kill Dagmar Collier?"

 "No."

 "Who killed Dagmar Collier?"

 "I did."

 "You see," Velnik said to the room in general as the lights came up. "Dragons, trees…"

 "The Tree and Dragon," Mr. dea'Gauss cut him off, "is the shield of Clan Korval. It depicts a dragon, guarding a full-leafed tree. The motto is 'I Dare.' Lady Mendoza is quite familiar with the shield. It is displayed prominently on theDutiful Passage ."

 "So they had meaning for her; she was self-aware."

 "Yes," the port master snapped, coming to her feet. Velnik retreated a step. "She knew what she was doing. The boy is alive. The person he names his potential assassin is dead. Priscilla Mendoza was not askedwhy she willfully and intentionally killed Dagmar Collier, Precinct Officer. Your interview was less than thorough."

 Velnik licked his lips and came to rigid attention.

 "Doctor, is the serum you gave Mendoza still in force?"

 He shook his head. "It runs through the system pretty fast. She'll be on the downside by now." He glanced at the bench. "Can't give her another shot for two days. That's a medical fact. She mightn't recover."

 She nodded. "It won't be required, thank you. My ruling in this case is that Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza is found not guilty of murder. Defense of a child is not a crime here! Arresting Officer, bring Priscilla Mendoza here, so that she may be released into the care of her captain."

 Mr. dea'Gauss caught the young captain's eye. "Daxflan—"

 "My office is currently dealing with that difficulty, sirs," she said, turning back. "Granting even unheard of levels of inefficiency, it should at this moment be sealed in close orbit. And there, I think, we may all let it wait until the morrow."

 The old gentleman bowed. "It is as you have said, madam. I should mention that the feud between Lady Mendoza and Dagmar Collier is one of long standing. Dagmar Collier threatened her ladyship and Master Arbuthnot with violence once before to my certain knowledge. On Arsdred."

 "I would appreciate receiving the particulars of that event, sir. Also—Captain. I am deeply ashamed that my inefficiency has caused this circumstance. Dagmar Collier should never have been in this port. I am responsible, and I am grieved. Please consider me at your disposal in the resolution of the matter."

 "You're very kind, ma'am," he replied, smiling wearily.

 "Port Master," the arresting officer said, arriving alone and looking very nervous. "Port Master, she—won't move. I open the door and call, but she just sits, Port Master."

 "I'll come." The young captain slid away from the boy, beckoning to the old gentleman. "By your kindness, sir."

 "Certainly." Mr. dea'Gauss sat carefully and slid an unaccustomed arm about young shoulders, enduring the head resting upon his chest.

 "Let's go," the captain snapped at the cop as he strode by. She had to run three steps to catch up.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 PRECINCT HOUSE DETENTION HALL
CROWN CITY THEOPHOLIS
HOUR OF FOOLS

 The room was mercilessly bright—shadowless. In the center of the cot huddled a ragamuffin creature, legs crossed, arms hugging her waist, head leaning against left knee. She was trembling minutely and constantly.

 "Let's go, Mendoza!" the cop called briskly, unlocking the cell port.

 The bundle of misery did not stir.

 The cop licked her lips and tried again. "Come on, Mendoza! Your boss is here!"

 Nothing.

 Shan laid his hand on the cop's arm. "Leave us. I'll bring her."

 She began to shake her head, lips parting to prate some senseless law.

 "Go!" He augmented the command with a lash of fury. The cop jumped—and fled.

 The anger was blue-hot in him—Korval rage. With an effort he contained it, banked it, and shut it away until it might be used. Calmed, he went to the edge of the cot. "Priscilla."

 She flinched, and he caught his breath; he calmed himself again and hunkered down before her, his hands resting on the edge of the mattress. "Priscilla, it's Shan."

 "Shan." There was anguish like a knife in the ragged whisper. "Shan, there wasn't enough time to be sure!"

 Her agony caught him by the throat, even shielded as he was. The next moment he had cast protection aside, spinning a line of comfort, of love…

 He was met by terror-desire-longing-grief-shame-love—a whipping windstorm of emotion, punishing in its intensity. He gasped, fingers clawing into the mattress as he scrambled for the line he had spun for her—he gripped it, following it back into himself by painful jerks, and finally called up the Wall.

 It slammed into place with a force that drew a soft moan from Priscilla, though she did not lift her head.

 "My dear friend…" Slowly he unclenched his hands. "Priscilla, please look at me."

 She was silent, motionless but for the constant shivering.

 "Priscilla?"

 "I'd rather—talk—to you. Please, Shan… They're going to—to kill me. I—can you stay with me? Please… Until they come…" She drew a shuddering breath. "You keep—going away…"

 He forced his brain to work, to consider that last. "Have I been here before, Priscilla?"

 "I think—yes. I was talking to you—trying to tell you… I tried to—to reach athetilu, but you were closed and I tried to—to hold you and you went away and I thought I'd made you angry…" She moved a fraction, tightening her arms about her waist. "Cama se mathra te ezo mi…"

 Sintian. He was losing her, crippled as he was, not daring to step beyond the Wall. Shaking, he extended a hand and stroked the bedraggled curls.

 "Priscilla,please look at me. I grant I'm hardly a feast for the eyes, but it would spare my feelings."

 She gave no sign that she had heard him. Then, slowly, almost clumsily, she unbent and sat straight, her right arm cradled in her left, her eyes bottomless ebony pits in a filthy, exhausted face.

 He smiled and dropped his hand from her hair to her knee. "Thank you. Now, since I seem prone to this fading in and out—your hand, please, Priscilla."

 It took a moment for her to manage the movement, but she held a quavering left hand out to him.

 "Good." He tugged the master's ring from his finger and slid it onto her thumb, where it perched precariously. "If you find I've gone away again, notice that you have my ring. I'll come back for that, at least, won't I?"

 She considered it. "Yes."

 He sighed, holding her hand lightly. "What a brute I am! It's a wonder I'm allowed your friendship at all, Priscilla; I marvel at you. What's wrong with your arm?"

 "I burned it."

 "Throwing fireballs?"

 She jerked. His fingers tightened on hers, and she relaxed, licking her lips. "Yes. I'm not—accustomed—to throwing fireballs."

 "I'd think not. Are you well enough to walk?"

 "Yes."

 "Good." He stood. "Let's go."

 She stared up at him, her hand moving in his. "Go where?"

 "To thePassage . You're hurt and sick and tired, and I'm tired and Mr. dea'Gauss is tired and even Gordy's tired." He grinned. "The port master's tired, too, but she doesn't come with us."

 She tried to pull her hand away. He did not allow it.

 "I can't…"

 He frowned. "Can't?"

 "Shan…" Tears welled out of her eyes and spilled over, making streaks down her face. "Shan, I killed Dagmar."

 "Yes, I know." Bending to take her other hand, he found her face close, so that he might lay his cheek against her—Priscilla, I love you… He fought the emotion and found the control to address her gently. "I'msorry , Priscilla. It should never have come to that. You should never have had the need. Forgive me; I've taken poor care of you."

 "You said—"

 "I said ‘no murderers,' may my tongue be damned! But self-defense isn't murder—nor is protecting the life of a friend." He took a breath, cooling the sharpest of the pain. "Please, Priscilla—for the friendship we have between us—allow me to take you to thePassage . You need care, healing—a sheltered place to sleep. When you are able, I will personally escort you anywhere you choose to go. Let me aid you."

 There was confusion in her face and in her eyes. She was silent.

 He raised a hand to touch the platinum hoop in her right ear and stroke the curls above it. "Please, Priscilla."

 "The trial…"

 "Has been performed. Gordy testified. The port master sat as judge. You are acquitted of murder. No one is going to come and take you away to die. Only Shan is come, to take you home."

 "Home." Her hands clutched his, then relaxed. She looked into his face, her expression unreadable through the grime. "Please, Shan, take me home."

 "Yes, Priscilla."

 She staggered when she stood, clutching his arm for support. "Are you well enough to walk, my friend? Or shall I ask the port master to provide a chair?"

 "No." She straightened, face set.

 "Very well." He slid his arm around her waist, turning her toward the door. "Mr. dea'Gauss," he predicted with a merriness he did not feel, "will be appalled."

 If Mr. dea'Gauss was appalled, he hid it well. The bow he performed was profound. "Lady Mendoza."

 She inclined her head, which was all that dizziness and Shan's arm about her waist allowed. "Mr. dea'Gauss. I'm pleased to see you."

 "You are kind." He glanced at Shan. "The physician has given Master Arbuthnot a drug he feels may counteract the worst of the side effects, or at very least allow him to sleep through them. He has also provided a printout of the structure of both drugs."

 "Well enough," Shan said calmly, as if it were no surprise that Gordy should be lying so white and quiet upon the bench.

 "I don't—" She shifted, half intending to go to the boy. The arm tightened about her fractionally, and she turned to look into silver eyes. "He was all right! They were going to send him to thePassage ."

 "But he would not go without you," a new voice explained. "Afterward it became necessary that he be given the drug, that his testimony might be heard."

 Priscilla blinked, clearing her vision. The tall, handsome woman in glittering evening dress smiled formally and bowed. "Ms.—Lady—Mendoza. I am Elyana Rominkoff, port master in the regent's service. Allow me to present my apologies: this should not have befallen you in the city under my care. When you are rested—at your convenience!—please contact me, that we may sit together and discuss fair recompense."

 "Yes, of course," Priscilla mumbled, unable properly to attend to what the woman said to her. She was sinking into an indigo blur where the only realities were Shan's arm about her and the warm strength of his body steadying hers. Abruptly she pushed at the creeping indigo and reached out, tapping that near source of energy.

 Strength flowed unstintingly from him to her, clear and bracing. She straightened as the room came back into focus and inclined her head to the woman before her. "Port Master, forgive me. I am—unwell—at the moment. I will call you, and we will talk."

 "That is well, then." The woman shifted her gaze beyond Priscilla, smiling with warmth rather than mere formality. "Captain yos'Galan, remember what I have said. I am entirely at your disposal in this matter. My eyes and ears are yours to command at any hour." She bowed then and moved back, cutting off his reply with a wave of her hand. "At this hour, you have folk to care for. My car awaits you. If you allow, the precinct officer will carry the boy. Lady Mendoza, Mr. dea'Gauss holds your license and your papers."

 "Thank you," Shan said gently. "You're all kindness, ma'am."

 The walk to the car was blessedly short. Priscilla settled into the seat, Shan's arm still about her waist, his strength buoying her. She curled her fingers around her thumb, gripping his ring tightly. Then she reached within and turned off the tap.

 The last thing she remembered was resting her head upon his shoulder.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 181
THIRD SHIFT
14.00 HOURS

 He poured unsteadily, brandy splashing the bar top and, incidentally, the cup. Gritting his teeth, he managed to fill the thing halfway and set the decanter decently back into the rack.

 Priscilla was in sick bay, under Lina's capable eye, and Gordy was there too. Both were asleep and abed—which was where he should be, working through the exercise that would grant his pounding head relief and rest. Brandy was not the best cure for an empath in his condition.

 He sipped, frowning in momentary puzzlement at the stain on his cuff. Blood.

 Yes, of course. Must remember to send the port master a set of crystal. Stupid Shan. Doesn't know his own strength.

 Sav Rid Olanek. Gods, to have his hands about Sav Rid Olanek's slim throat…

 And then? He jeered at himself, drinking again. The flaming ice of Korval rage stirred behind the barriers he had built about it. And then he would pay balance with his life! Shall he threaten lady, fosterson, ship?

 Priscilla. That punishing outage of self-hate, terror, and confusion. A trace effect of the drug? Or something more permanent? Lina would know.

 He stopped himself on the way to the comm. Lina would know, sooner or later. And when she knew, so would Shan yos'Galan. He would do nothing now but distract her from an essential task.

 "Go to bed, Shan," he told himself.

 But he tarried, sipping his drink, staring sightlessly at the tapestry above the bar.

 When the annunciator chimed, he jumped.

 "Come!" he called.

 Mr. dea'Gauss entered, papers rustling in hand, face full of import. It was indicative of his weariness or the value of his news that he broke at once into speech, neglecting even his bow.

 "Your Lordship, I have received the report of Ms. Veltrad, whom you sent to Sintia on the matter of Lady Mendoza. It is—"

 "No!"

 Mr. dea'Gauss blinked. "I beg your Lordship's pardon?"

 "I said," Shan explained, voice thin with strain, "no. No, I do not wish to hear Ximena's report. No, I do not wish to hear the name of the crime Priscilla is supposed to have committed. No, I do not wish to find the report on my screen next on-shift. No, I do not want Ximena to call or visit so that she may tell me in her own voice what she has reported. No."

 Mr. dea'Gauss took stock. Shan stood near the center of the room, holding a quarter-full glass in his bandaged hand, the blood-stained ruff falling gracefully about taut knuckles. The stark brown face might have been hewn from strellwood, and there was a slightly mad look around the silver eyes.

 "The report from Sintia," he began again, "indicates that—"

 "No!" Shan was across the room in a blur, was towering over Mr. dea'Gauss, his face set in cold fury, the syllables of the High Tongue crackling. "I do not hear you! Go."

 Mr. dea'Gauss gave no ground. He had seen this before—from Er Thom yos'Galan. The proper answer had never included giving ground.

 He drew himself up and took a firmer grip on his papers. "Will you hear it from me? Or from your First Speaker? It is a matter of ship's debt. The captain's attention is required."

 For perhaps a heartbeat Shan was utterly still. He turned, went to his desk and sat, placing the glass precisely aside.

 "yos'Galan hears," he said in the High Tongue, Thodelm to hireling.

 Mr. dea'Gauss walked forward. He was not waved carelessly to a chair. Shan's face was expressionless, waiting. Mr. dea'Gauss bowed.

 "Thodelm, it becomes my knowledge through the words of Ximena Veltrad, who was offered coin in return for verified truth, that Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was ostracized from her world for the crime called 'blasphemy' ten Standard Years gone by. The details of this crime are covered most fully by Ms. Veltrad's report. I wished only to assure you at this present that Sintia's melant'i suffers greatly by the reported incident. Lady Mendoza's actions were, as always, above reproach."

 "And yet someone reproached her. Strongly." The High Tongue exuded no warmth. "You will explain this paradox."

 "Yes, Thodelm. I am not conversant with the depth of the situation reported by Ms. Veltrad. My understanding is that Lady Mendoza, as an apprentice in Circle House—what is called there a 'Maiden' or novice priestess—called recriminations upon herself for an act of heroism. I confess that I do not understand why the saving of three lives should have caused these recriminations. Ms. Veltrad's report indicates doctrinal, rather than rational, causes. In any wise, Lady Mendoza was called before the masters of the craft and offered a chance to disown her act and be properly chastised. Lady Mendoza refused to recant. She was then stripped of her goods and her title, and banned from the craft. In order to keep face, her House cast her forth as well." Mr. dea'Gauss paused, considering the icy eyes. "Politics, Thodelm. Not balance."

 "So." Shan drank the rest of the brandy slowly, then replaced the glass. "yos'Galan has heard. You will leave the report with me. Have you anything else that I must hear at this present?"

 "No, Thodelm."

 "Good. You are dismissed."

 Korval’s man of business bowed, then turned away.

 "Mr. dea'Gauss."

 He turned back. “Thodelm?"

 Shan smiled wearily, his bandaged hand resting on Ximena's report. "Sleep well, sir. And thank you."

 Mr. dea'Gauss felt absurd relief as his lips bent in reply. "Sleep well, your Lordship. You are quite welcome."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 181
THIRD SHIFT
16.00 HOURS

 Shan lifted his head, groping after the sound. Surely… Ah. The door chime.

 "Come."

 The door parted, and she entered, slight and small, her face Liaden gold. "Old friend."

 "Lina." Memory returned with a force that shuddered pain through his misused head, and he was half out of the chair. "Priscilla—"

 "Resting. And well." Her small hands flickered, soothing. He sank back as she came around the desk. "More—she is herself. We spoke. She is rational; she knows what has transpired; she knows that necessity existed and that she acted as best she might." Lina sighed. "Much of the confusion you reported must be counted an effect of the drug—and of despair. Life has taught her to expect neither rescue from trouble nor surcease from pain. Healing had gone far, but that lesson is not easy to unlearn."

 Shan had closed his eyes. Now he opened them, and Lina felt shock at the depth of weariness there. "She'll be all right," he murmured, his beautiful voice blurred and uneven. "Thank you, Lina, for coming to tell me. This is your rest shift, isn't it?"

 "And yours, as well," she said briskly. "Priscilla sent me to make sure you slept. You were angry, she said, and hurt."

 He rubbed his forehead absently. "Stupid. Trying to scan the whole planet…" He tapped a sheaf of papers. "Had to read Ximena's report. Mr. dea'Gauss… An act of heroism. She'll have to stop that, Lina. Get herself hurt. Saves three lives, using some sort of thing she wasn't taught yet. But she said the old soul—give 'em old souls, the Initiates, with the old names attached. Priscilla's soul was named Moonhawk. Very powerful lady. Much respected. Said the old soul had done it, for the glory of the Goddess and—and… who knows? Long and short, she gets thrown out. All very well and good to have a tame dramliza on your hands, but when she starts demanding her due, that's dangerous."

 Lina frowned, noting the empty glass by his hand. "Is Priscilla a wizard, Shan?"

 "Very good chance. Should see her—no, I hope you don't see her. Does things above and beyond us mere Healers. Got a definite flair…" He rubbed at his face again. "Gods, gods, she'sstrong ."

 She leaned forward and stroked the warm, thick hair. "Shan. Come to bed."

 He blinked at her. "Bed?"

 "You are tired. You must rest, let yourself heal. How much brandy have you had?"

 "Half a beakful," he muttered, and then grinned. "But it's quite a beak, eh?"

 She laughed, between frustration and relief. "Come to bed, denubia." She grabbed the unbandaged hand and tugged. "Shan, have pity! I have promised my cha'leket to see you resting. Would you have me turn my face from her need?"

 "Cha'leket?"

 "Priscilla herself named me sister. I find my heart agrees.Will you come to bed?"

 "Since you ask so nicely. Not likely to do you much good though, my precious." He wobbled to his feet but would not lean his weight upon her. Unsteadily, he laid his hand against the inner door.

 She coaxed him to lie flat, unsealed the tight dress shirt, then sat stroking his hair and murmuring, weaving a net of warm comfort and loading it with the desire to sleep deeply and long.

 After a time his eyes closed, his breathing lengthened.

 Lina continued her weaving and stroking until she sensed that he had reached the first depths, where prime healing begins. She slid from the bed and spread the coverlet gently over him, dimmed the lights, and disarmed the alarm. Kayzin had agreed that the captain's rest should not be interrupted untimely.

 Affairs ordered to her satisfaction, Lina bent and stroked his cheek. "Sleep well, old friend." And then she was gone.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 CROWN CITY, THEOPHOLIS
JUDGE'S HOUR

 The cab pulled to the edge of the pedstrip and stopped. The driver looked over his shoulder and said something in a barbaric garble. Sav Rid stared at him coldly.

 "The vehicle can go no farther," the driver announced in abrupt Trade. "Pedestrian traffic only inside the port. The fare's fivebit."

 Sav Rid extended the proper coin silently and exited the cab. Behind him the driver spat between his teeth and muttered, "Louse!" But the action was beneath Sav Rid's notice, the single word in Terran.

 He walked cautiously through the crowded port, intensely aware of his lack of guard. Dagmar Collier had not been at the rendezvous point this morning. He wondered what might have happened to the creature, then put the thought away with an impatient shrug. Who, after all, really cared? If Dagmar Collier chose to jump ship before the run was through, that was certainly its own affair.Daxflan would make good use of the unclaimed wages.

 A man was coming purposefully toward him down the pedstrip: older, with more gray than black in his thinning hair. Sav Rid froze.

 His Delm continued briskly forward, then stopped at the proper distance and inclined his head. "Kinsman. I give you good day."

 He managed a bow. "As I give you good day, kinsman and Delm. It surprises me to find you here, so far from home and House."

 "No more," the elder said dryly, "than it surprises me to find you here, when the port master reportsDaxflan absent."

 "We hold orbit about the fourth planet out, my Delm. It has been found more—convenient—to use another vessel to bring goods fromDaxflan to prime orbit."

 "Indeed." Taam Olanek extended an arm, smiling coolly. "Walk with me, I beg you. I am curious about this so convenient method. Have you subcontracted your cargoes to others, Sav Rid?"

 They walked a few paces in silence.

 "It became necessary," Sav Rid murmured, "forDaxflan to purchase a subsidiary vessel to act as shuttle fromDaxflan to berth. The method is quite simple, sir, and serves us well."

 "Am I to understand," Plemia demanded, "that you have madeDaxflan , in essence, awarehouse ?"

 "Exactly so," Sav Rid said, pleased.

 His Delm drew breath. "I see. Forgive my question, kinsman, but such a purchase as a trading vessel… It seems that I surely would have noted the passage of a so large a voucher across my desk. Yet I recall nothing."

 Sav Rid smiled, triumphantly oblivious to the worry in the other's face. "It was a small matter, sir; there was no need to resort to credit vouchers. We paid cash."

 "Cash," Plemia repeated tonelessly. He was silent a moment or two as they walked. Then he straightened abruptly, renewing his grip on Sav Rid's arm. "It only now returns to me, kinsman—that matter of which I wished to speak. I have heard from the port master that a member of your crew—one Dagmar Collier—has been found dead in the city outside the port."

 "So, that is what became of it," Sav Rid said calmly. "I had wondered. Well, it always had a quarrelsome nature."

 "Had she?" Taam asked softly around the sudden ice in his throat. "And how long had Dagmar Collier served you, kinsman?"

 Sav Rid moved his shoulders. 'Two or three trips, I believe."

 "Ah." Taam stopped, whirling on the other. "Sav Rid, a woman who has been in your service these four years has died! Do you not at least go to the precinct house and claim the body, that it might be sent properly to her kin?"

 There was honest puzzlement in the young face. "No, why should I? I doubt it had kin. It was Terran, you see," he explained more fully in the face of his Delm's further silence.

 "Terrans are not all kinless folk, Sav Rid," Taam murmured, his eyes filling as pity unexpectedly overtook dread. 'They are people, even as we are." Still there was only puzzled confusion in the eyes watching his. He touched the smooth cheek gently. "And if they were not, my child,we are people. It is our burden and our pride to behave with honor, always."

 "Yes, surely. But a Terran, sir…"

 "Never mind, child. It will be attended to." He took Sav Rid's arm again and resumed the walk. "I hear from Korval that you and young Shan attempt to balance some puppy accounts. Are you not too old for such mischief, Sav Rid?"

 The arm in his had stiffened, as had the young face. "It is not mischief, sir; it is earnest. I will have yos'Galan on its knees—hideous brother and first sister! Aye, and young Val Con, as well! How dare he treat a guest so? It was sheer insult, sir! They gave no consideration to that due one of Plemia! They will learn—and not soon forget! 'Korval,' Chelsa bleats, with fear in her face! A rabble of ill-raised brats! There is balance owing, sir, and it will be obtained. That I promise!"

 "I see," Taam said again sadly. He took a breath. 'Then you will not be adverse, I think, to this other news I bring. Korval demands a meeting, in sight of port master and witnesses, to establish balance and put paid to all accounts. The time is set for this local evening, if you find yourself able to attend."

 "Korval demands a meeting!" Sav Rid laughed. "But they must, after all! How could they allow the idiot eldest to ruin himself?" He disengaged and bowed gravely. "I will accompany you with the greatest pleasure, sir."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 182
SECOND SHIFT
8.30 HOURS

 Sleep receded, and she opened her eyes. The room had an uncertain familiarity—not her own quarters, nor yet the prison cell…Sick bay , memory provided. Lina had sent her into sleep, riding the wave of one resounding note, to wake when the healing reverberation was at last still.

 How many hours? She wondered without urgency. She stretched, catlike, where she lay, noticing the cramp in her right hand, her thumb tucked tightly into her fingers.

 Slowly, she eased the tension, the great amethyst of the master's ring sparkling in the room's dim light. Priscilla smiled. Goddess bless you, my dear, for bringing me home.

 She stretched again, relishing the sensation, then sat up, pushing the thin cover away. Time to be about, whatever time it was. And she wasstarving .

 The door to her left opened with a soft sigh.

 "Morning, gorgeous!"

 She started, then grinned at the gangling medic. "Vilt. Do you always terrify your patients when they wake up?"

 "Makes sense," he pointed out, taking her arm and beginning to unwrap the gauzy dressing. "If they're gonna have a heart attack, might as well have it here, where there's somebody to take care of 'em."

 "Who?" she wondered, and he laughed, laying the dressing aside.

 "Go ahead, do your worst. Just remember who runs the inoculation program around here. Arm looks great. Damnedest burn I've ever seen, though: inside, between wrist and elbow." He shook his head. "How'd you do it?"

 She looked him in the eye. "Throwing a fireball."

 "That a fact? Lucky you didn't lose some fingers. Better use a glove next time."

 "Goddess willing, there won't be a next time."

 "If you say so. How's the throat?"

 "Okay."

 Vilt shook his head in mock severity. "Think I'm taking your word for it? Open up, gorgeous—and don't even think about biting."

 She submitted resentfully. Vilt made a thorough and, she suspected, leisurely exam, then grunted and stepped back.

 "Looks good. Be careful of the voice for a couple days, just in case."

 "Let the captain do the talking," she suggested.

 He laughed again. "He will, anyway. I've known Shan since I was apprentice medic on this ship and he wasn't any older than Gordy. Been talking nonstop all that time. Likely born talking. His mother was a linguist, which probably accounts for it. Genes, you know," he explained sagely as Priscilla chuckled. He stepped back, abruptly sober. "All right, gorgeous, pay attention. Sometime between leave-time yesterday and arrival time, you lost one-tenth of your mass. The kitchen has been provided with special menus, just for you. You will eat everything on your tray until you've regained that weight. And just to keep you honest, you'll weigh in before you begin each duty-shift." He glanced at his watch. "A tasty, high-caloric breakfast will be here in three minutes. After you've eaten everything on the tray, you can use the 'fresher across the hall. Lina put fresh clothes in there for you. Any questions?"

 "No."

 "Great." He slapped her shoulder lightly and grinned. "See ya later."

 "Vilt!"

 "Yah?"

 "Is Gordy okay?"

 He snorted. "That kid? Been up for hours. Demanded to see you. Lina took him off to help in the pet library. Said you'd call him there when you woke up."

 "I'll do that, then."

 "You'll eat that breakfast before you do anything. Aha!" He stepped triumphantly to one side, allowing the orderly to push the meal cart up to the bed. "Enjoy!"

 Priscilla stepped out of the dry cycle, running her fingers through unruly curls and frowning at her reflection. Her teachers had ever been anxious about her slenderness, saying that her body—Moonhawk's vessel—was not robust enough to endure the working of larger magics.

 True enough, by the mirror's testimony. Fourteen pounds lost meant countable ribs and jutting hipbones, the knobs at wrist and collar painfully apparent. She cupped a breast, sighing. She looked like a disaster victim. She turned sharply away to rummage in the closet.

 The fresh clothes were unexpectedly fine. Priscilla wondered where Lina had gotten them, for they had the air of things handmade to personal specification rather than bought from general stores. Wonderingly, she unfolded the silky shin, noting the flaring collar and the wide, pleated sleeves gathered tightly into ruffled cuffs. Its color was a pure and shimmering rose. The trousers were river-blue and soft. Velvet? she wondered, running light fingers down the nap. They belled slightly at the knee and fell precisely to the instep of the new black boots. She ran the tooled leather belt around her waist, fastened the rosy agate buckle, and turned again to her reflection.

 "Thodelm," she breathed, touching the collar that framed her face and lent blush to her cheeks. Lina had provided clothing that the Head of a Liaden Line might wear when about the business of the Line.

 Hesitantly she approached the mirror, and put out a finger to trace the features of her own face: the slender brows, the straight nose and startling cheekbones, the stubborn chin, the full mouth, and all around them the tumbling mass of midnight curls, relieved at each ear by the pure curve of a platinum hoop.

 "Priscilla Mendoza," she said aloud.

 On her hand the borrowed amethyst glittered—and that was wrong. She was not Master Trader.

 Nor was she outcast.

 She stared into the purple depths, considering that thought. "Moonhawk is returned to the Mother."

 Truth.

 And what did that truth mean, after ten years, a double-dozen worlds—a death? What did it mean here, in the place her heart called home, surrounded by friends, buoyed by a power she had thought had fled?

 Lady Mendoza, the old gentleman invariably addressed her with profound respect. Lina had not found it unusual that her friend possessed power, only that she had not been taught courtesy in its use. Shan…

 But it was not possible to think clearly of Shan. Certainly he regarded her abilities, like his own, as natural and acceptable. "How do you make love?" she recalled him asking, and she put a hand to a cheek suddenly flaming. Don't do that, Priscilla…

 Last night… How much had been drug-dream, how much true actions? He had come—she wore the proof on her hand even now! He had brought her home. What else besides these was fact?

 Disturbed, she turned slowly and left the 'fresher.

 In the hall she hesitated. It was time she reported for duty. Yet Vilt had not released her, and the finery she wore was not meant to withstand a second mate's rounds.

 "Hello, Priscilla. Can you spare me a few moments?" Shan's voice interrupted her thoughts.

 "All the moments you like," she told him gladly even as she groped for his pattern.

 It was subdued, though she caught an indefinable jolt of something as he paused and looked at her closely.

 "Are you well, Priscilla? Tell me the truth, please—no heroics."

 "Well," she caught doubt and drifted an unconscious step forward, smiling reassuringly. "I lost some weight—strong magics have that effect. Vilt has me eating the most incredible amount of food! But I am well. In fact, I was getting ready to sign out of here and go back on duty."

 "Duty? Priscilla…" He paused, glancing about. "Is that the room you were in? Do you mind if we speak there? I…"

 Something was wrong. She expanded her scope, trying to read it from his pattern, but received only a discord of pain, bitterness, anger, despair—a medley so unlike Shan that she would hardly have known him had her outer eyes been closed.

 "Of course."

 He stood aside to let her enter first, then closed the door behind them and dropped into the single chair. Uncertainly, she sat on the bed.

 The silence was uneasy; scanning was worse than useless. She pulled the Master Trader's ring from her thumb and held it out.

 He stared, despair increasing: taking the ring, he sat holding it between thumb and forefinger, toying with the lights among its facets.

 "Have you decided," he asked, looking at the ring, his voice husky, "where it is I shall take you?"

 She stared at him, ice blossoming in chest and belly.

 "Why," she managed, "should you take me anywhere?"

 "I gave my word," he told the amethyst. "You only said you would stay until you were—well, Priscilla."

 Through the isolated, tangled scenes of the night before, she recalled it and licked her lips. "You said you—had come to take me home."

 "Did I?" Still he did not meet her eyes, but stared at the ring in his hand. "I will then, Priscilla. But you must tell me where that is. Home."

 "Shan!" Anguish knifed through her; she made no attempt to damp it, and felt his answering surge of concern as he at last raised his face.

 "You don't want me to go!" she cried, knowing it was truth. "Why—"

 "It doesn't matter what I want, Priscilla! What matters is what you want! If there is a place that is home to you, where you know, if you are in need, that there is someone—anyone!—who will aid you, I'll take you there. See you safe—settled…" His voice cracked on the unaccustomed harshness. Instantly the black lashes flicked down, shielding him.

 He took a breath, then another, his emotions an unreadable riot. "That a member of this ship's complement should feel there was no place to go when she was in direst need… I am ashamed, Priscilla. I've failed you as a captain… and as a friend."

 "I want to stay." Her words came as barely a breath of sound. She gripped the mattress and tried again. "Captain, please. You never failed me. I failed, by not learning soon enough… by not understanding what it means to be a crew member." Tears ran her cheeks, unheeded. "Shan, by the Mother! ThePassage is my home. Don't—don't make me leave!" She drew a shuddering breath and loosed the mattress to wipe her face with shaking fingertips.

 "Really, Priscilla, you might tell me in advance if I'm expected to provide handkerchiefs for us both."

 She gave a startled gasp, groping perhaps toward a laugh, and took the proffered cloth. "Thank you."

 "Don't give it a thought. I have dozens. I just don't happen to have them all with me at the moment." He leaned back, his face less bleak, his pattern showing a glimmer of what might be hope.

 "The ship would miss the services of the second mate," he said carefully. "The captain's information is that the second mate progresses excellently in her training, taking over more responsibilities each shift. The first mate is pleased. The captain is also pleased."

 Melant'i. She drew a deliberately even breath, relaxing tight chest muscles as she recalled sleep-lessons and Lina's tutoring. "The second mate wishes with all her heart to continue serving the ship and the captain."

 Relief like a draught of ice-cold water cascaded from him to her. "Good. You will take your duties up again in four shifts." He raised a hand to still her protest. "There is a meeting at local midnight in the port master's office, Priscilla. Since you are intimately involved, it's best that you be there. Also present will be Delm Plemia, Sav Rid Olanek, Port Master Rominkoff, Shan yos'Galan, Gordon Arbuthnot, Mr. dea'Gauss, and Lina Faaldom, as observer."

 "Balance?"

 "Balance, indeed. Which reminds me, Thodelm. Mr. dea'Gauss wishes to meet with you in a very few moments now to ascertain the extent of debt owed you by Plemia and Korval—"

 "Korval owes me nothing!" she cried. "If anything, I owe Korval for giving me a job, for—"

 "Priscilla, do be reasonable. If you hadn't been on this ship, there quite possibly wouldn't be a ship right now, whether or not there was a captain. Ship's debt exists. As well as a personal debt."

 "No," she said stubbornly. "I won't take payment from you. There's no debt now, if there ever was one." She leaned forward, extending a tentative hand. "Shan? You gave me—a life. I gave you a life. Balance."

 He hesitated, then put his hand into hers. "Balance, then, Priscilla." He smiled. "You drive a hard bargain. Mr. dea'Gauss awaits us. May I escort your Ladyship to the meeting?"

 "No," she said, gripping his hand and drinking in his lightening pattern with giddy joy. "But you may escort your friend."

 Shan grinned and stood. "Much better, I agree." He flourished the bow between equals. "After you, Priscilla."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 MASTER'S TOWER, THEOPHOLIS
WITCH'S HOUR

 Ten minutes before the hour.

 Taam Olanek sternly forbade himself the luxury of fidgeting with the papers before him. It was not expected that a Delm betray uneasiness. At his right hand, Sav Rid sat silent. He still did not grasp it, Taam knew, pity warring with anger. He wondered briefly what had caused the younger man's madness, and set wonder aside. It hardly mattered.

 Across the room, Mr. dea'Gauss was in quiet conversation with Port Master Rominkoff. The balance of the group had yet to arrive.

 The door buzzed and was opened by the guard stationed there. Taam Olanek felt his breath snag.

 A plain-faced Liaden woman in the costume of Thodelm entered, a tow-headed Terran child at her side. Taam Olanek's breathing eased. Of course Korval would arrive last. It was proper.

 "I'm not sitting at the same table with him!"

 The child had stopped, eyes fixed on—Me? Taam thought. No. On Sav Rid.

 The woman had her hand on the boy's arm and was speaking in gentle Terran. "Gordon? We are here to settle past difference. You know this. To do so we must sit and speak together."

 "I'm not," Gordon said through clenched teeth, "sitting at a table with him. He called me 'it,' and he said Priscilla was a thief."

 With a feeling of infinite sadness, Taam Olanek rose and went across the room. A child, Sav Rid? he thought.

 He and Mr. dea'Gauss reached the spot at the same moment. Asking permission with a flicker of fingers, Taam bowed to the child: elder to young person of rank. The boy eyed him narrowly but returned the bow properly, then straightened and stood waiting.

 "I am," Taam said, speaking the unaccustomed tongue with great care, "Taam Olanek. The person you object to is one who will obey my word. Will it satisfy you, young sir, if I pledge that my kinsman Sav Rid will behave with fitting courtesy during the time we meet together?"

 The brown eyes looked into his: a weighing glance. Taam returned it calmly. The boy looked to Mr. dea'Gauss.

 "Is that true?" There was no insult in the tone; he was merely requesting information. Taam Olanek found himself amused.

 Mr. dea'Gauss inclined his head. “The word of Delm Plemia is above reproach, Master Arbuthnot. What he has said will be."

 "Okay." The boy inclined his head. 'Thank you, Delm Plemia."

 Taam bowed graciously. "Thankyou , Master Arbuthnot."

 Mr. dea'Gauss indicated the patient woman. "Plemia, here is Thodelm Faaldom, Clan Deshnol."

 He inclined his head. "Thodelm, I am pleased to meet you."

 She bowed, as Head of Line to Delm of another Clan. "I am pleased to meet you, Plemia." Neither voice nor face betrayed her thoughts. Her behavior was most proper.

 As observer, Thodelm Faaldom sat at the bottom left of the table. The boy sat to her right, near Mr. dea'Gauss. Sav Rid eyed both coldly; he made neither overture nor introduction.

 The hour struck on the clock above the door, nearly covering the sound of the door buzzer.

 The woman was tall, though not much taller than Shan yos'Galan, who walked just behind her right shoulder, and black-haired and slender. But for its paleness, her face might have been Liaden. She wore calm authority like a silken cloak over the clothing of Thodelm.

 Gliding, she crossed to the port master and bowed as between equals.

 Pilot, Taam Olanek thought, seeing the woman's grace mirrored in her white-haired escort. He understood now Mr. dea'Gauss's moment of outrage. Pleasure-love she might be, but this regal lady was no one's plaything.

 "Port Master," she was saying, her voice soft and deeper than one expected, "I'm happy to see you again. Please accept my gratitude now for your kindness to myself and my friend."

 The port master smiled in momentary pleasure, then waved a dismissing hand. "You owe me no gratitude, Lady Mendoza. My duty was clear. I believe there are still amends to be made; we must meet again before you leave."

 The black-haired woman murmured assent and stepped aside.

 Shan yos'Galan made his bow to the port master. "I'm pleased to see you again, ma'am. Please accept my gratitude as well, to be flung aside with Lady Mendoza's."

 She laughed. "A lesson in manners, Captain? Very well, I accept the gratitude of all—including the boy's, though he hasn't offered it. Perhaps he's a realist." She indicated the rest of the table. "We are all gathered now. Mr. dea'Gauss?"

 Korval's man of business rose to his spare height and bowed profoundly to the two just arrived.

 ‘Thodelm yos'Galan. Thodelm Mendoza. Here are Elyana Rominkoff, port master; Taam Olanek, Delm Plemia; Lina Faaldom, Thodelm and observer; Gordon Arbuthnot, fosterson and witness; Sav Rid Olanek, Trader."

 Plemia inclined his head. Beside him, Sav Rid shifted and snapped, "LadyMendoza!"

 The woman's face remained coolly serene; she might not have heard. Certainly yos'Galan had heard; the light eyes glittered steel.

 Plemia turned his face. Deliberately, using the Command mode of the High Tongue, he instructed for the ears of all, "You will exercise fitting courtesy here!"

 Impossibly, Sav Rid looked hurt. "Certainly, sir."

 Taam sighed to himself and saw a flicker of a reaction cross Lady Faaldom's face. At the top of the table, Lady Mendoza sat, Lord yos'Galan at her right. Plemia very nearly sighed aloud. Korval thus demonstrated its support of Thodelm Mendoza's demands and subordination of its claims to hers.

 "It must be known," Mr. dea'Gauss announced, "that a pin-beam has been received from Eldema yos'Galan. It reads thus—" He plucked a sheet of hard copy from the pile before him. "'In the present affair between Plemia and Korval, it shall be that Thodelm yos'Galan speaks with the very voice of Korval. I, Nova yos'Galan, First Speaker in Trust, Clan Korval." yos'Galan inclined his white head, his ugly face austere. "It shall be done as the First Speaker instructs."

 Mr. dea'Gauss lay the sheet aside. "For the purpose of balance, it shall be considered that Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza is indeed Thodelm. Since she has chosen to disassociate herself from House Mendoza, Sintia, she must also be considered Delm Mendoza, Offworld—"

 "Offworld?" Sav Rid cried, cutting the old gentleman off. "Outlaw, more like!"

 "Sav Rid!" Plemia allowed irritation to be heard. "I remind you again that I will have courtesy from you, for every person here."

 "What difference," the younger man demanded, eyes glittering fever-bright, "if the bitch chooses to style itself Thodelm? Our business is with Korval, which has the ill judgment to allow the fool to speak for it—"

 "You are silent!"

 A wave of heat washed past Taam's cheek, gone even as he understood the words to be in the High Tongue—ultimate authority to rankless person—and recognized the voice to belong to Thodelm Mendoza.

 Beside him, Sav Rid opened his mouth, throat working. No sound emerged.

 "Your Delm," the woman continued in faultless Liaden, "will speak for you. When your words are required, you will be permitted speech."

 "Most proper," Mr. dea'Gauss murmured.

 Taam looked quickly around the table. Shan yos'Galan was expressionless; the port master was puzzled but unshaken. Gordon Arbuthnot's brown eyes were stretched wide. Lady Faaldom was staring at the black-haired woman, awe and consternation in her face.

 "Korval," Lord yos'Galan said in quiet Trade, "acknowledges a subordinate position in these negotiations. Debts owed Lady Mendoza are by far the greatest and must be met. We support her claims and are guided by her thoughts."

 "Just so." Plemia inclined his head, carefully not thinking about the impossibility of what he had just witnessed. Beside him, Sav Rid sat mute and shivering.

 “Thodelm Mendoza. I have seen information provided by Mr. dea'Gauss regarding your grievance against Plemia. Also, I have heard privately from my clansman that which convinces me of the justice of that grievance. Without doubt, Plemia owes. The amount must yet be ascertained. I am interested in hearing your thoughts on this."

 The black eyes considered him calmly. "Sav Rid Olanek must be removed as Trader onDaxflan immediately."

 He stiffened. "That is a Clan decision, Thodelm."

 "Then it is a decision I require of the Clan," she returned serenely. "Sav Rid Olanek is unfit. If he were examined by the Trader's Guild tomorrow, sir, he would be found wanting and his license revoked. More." She lifted a hand, forestalling his protest. "I tell you now, sir, your kinsman gave scant attention to the honor of his crew—Liaden as little as Terran. His cargo included illegal Pharmaceuticals: bellaquesa, I will swear to; others I might guess. He is a danger to the honor of your Clan, the honor of your ship… and to himself." She glanced at the man on her right. "Is it permitted that I ask Lady Faaldom to speak—as a Healer?"

 "If Plemia agrees."

 Taam inclined his head. "Plemia agrees."

 "Healer Faaldom."

 "Lady Mendoza?"

 "I feel that Sav Rid Olanek is not—rational. Are you able to form an opinion? Would you tell us what it is?"

 The Healer gave the softest of sighs. "My opinion parallels your own. Sav Rid Olanek is deranged. The pattern is one I have only occasionally seen, most often in connection with ingestion of harmful drugs. Bellaquesa addiction, for instance, might cause such a pattern."

 "Can he be Healed?" There was hope in the Terran woman's voice. Taam Olanek looked at her in wonder.

 The Healer hesitated. "It is beyond my skill."

 "Beyond everyone's skill, Lina?" She spoke insistently, and Olanek felt his wonder grow.

 "On Liad, perhaps. The path would be a long one, I think, and tedious." She sighed once more. "If Plemia desires, I will provide names, an introduction."

 "You are kind, Healer. My thanks to you."

 "You will need that list, sir," Lady Mendoza informed him. "My second demand is that he be Healed."

 "Thodelm," he said with dignity, "you do not need to demand it. The child shall have what he requires."

 She bowed her head. "Forgive me, sir. I meant no offense."

 "None was taken, Thodelm. May I know what items further go to balance Plemia's debt?"

 "It must be recalled," yos'Galan said smoothly, before the lady could speak again, "that several attempts have been made on Lady Mendoza's life—which is the life of her House, entire. The first attempt must be laid directly upon Sav Rid Olanek, who ordered Dagmar Collier to strike. The second and third incidents must also be laid upon Trader Olanek for his inability to control the actions of one sworn to his service."

 "There are practicalities as well," Mr. dea'Gauss put in. "Unpaid wages, contract fee, clothing, hazard pay, recompense of personal indignities suffered while employed onDaxflan , family heirlooms lost—"

 "Korval," yos'Galan broke in, "owes for the heirlooms, sir. Evidence indicates they were destroyed in retaliation for words spoken by Captain yos'Galan."

 Mr. dea'Gauss made a notation. "So then. The sum owed, were there no further balance to be established: two cantra."

 Plemia inclined his head. It surprised him that the woman should have drawn so low a wage, that she should have possessed so little. "Plemia agrees to a payment of two cantra in balance for these things."

 "Lady Mendoza," yos'Galan said gently, "has declined her right to Trader Olanek's life as balance for his attempts on her own. The life-sum agreed upon by the Council of Clans for a first class pilot is three hundred cantra. It must be remembered that Lady Mendoza is currently the sum of her Line and Clan. It is to be assumed that one in her position would desire to establish a solid base for her House. Three children, I think, is not an unreasonable number. Nor is it unreasonable to suppose these offspring would inherit pilot reactions. Nine hundred cantra, then, for the children unborn."

 Twelve hundred cantra.

 "A just sum," Plemia murmured around the sinking feeling in his stomach. "Precise balance is intended. However, if Lady Mendoza permits, I would propose this alternate plan: Plemia pays a sum of fifteen hundred cantra, over four Standards, the money to derive fromDaxflan's profits—"

 "No!" she said sharply. "I want no money fromDaxflan ."

 Wearily he raised his eyes to hers. "Lady, I assure you, not all ofDaxflan's profits come illegally. A guaranteed payment of three hundred fifty cantra per Standard would be made, even shouldDaxflan fail to earn that sum. Is this plan acceptable?"

 She looked at him for a long moment, then glanced beyond. "Mr. dea'Gauss."

 "Thodelm?"

 "If Clan Korval permits, sir, I would like you to take charge of these—details. The sum of twelve hundred cantra at once or fifteen hundred over several Standards is agreeable to me. Otherwise, it would be—comforting—to know that you act in my interest."

 "Korval raises no objection," Lord yos'Galan put in, "if Mr. dea'Gauss feels he can undertake the task."

 "I accept the commission, Thodelm Mendoza. I am honored to give service." He inclined his head. "Perhaps Delm Plemia and I might meet on the morrow and discuss the matter more fully."

 "Certainly, sir. At your convenience."

 "We come now," Mr. dea'Gauss said, "to that owed Korval. There is deliberate loss engineered by Sav Rid Olanek. There is the paid attack upon theDutiful Pass-age—"

 "Korval," yos'Galan broke in, "makes the following demands for balance: From Plemia, twenty cantra toward the loss on the mezzik-root purchase. Captain yos'Galan will likewise pay twenty cantra to the ship, to remind him to hear more fully. Also, Korval does likewise insist that Trader Olanek be removed fromDaxflan immediately and sent home, that Healing may commence.

 "Last, Captain yos'Galan would speak with Delm Plemia and Captain yo' Vaade regarding the management of tradeships and the planning of trade routes. Plemia may reap profit from the discussion."

 Taam Olanek felt himself adrift. He managed to incline his head. "Plemia agrees to all terms of Korval's balance."

 "So be it," Mr. dea'Gauss said formally, and made notation.

 "I believe that Master Arbuthnot also holds a just claim," Taam ventured, still unsure of what had occurred.

 "Me?" The boy looked up in surprise. "Shan? Does this—does Delm Plemia owe me something?"

 "You were in quite a bit of danger through the Trader's mismanagement, you know, Gordy." From the mildness of the tone, yos'Galan might have been discussing a rather mediocre play.

 The boy frowned and shook his head. "The only thing he owes me is an apology for calling me 'it.' But if he's going to see a Healer, I guess he'll learn better, so that's okay. Dagmar's the one put me in danger, and she paid as much as she can." Surprisingly, then, he inclined his head, speaking in tolerably accented High Tongue. "Thank you, sir, but I believe our accounts are in order."

 Taam bowed his head. 'Thank you, Master Arbuthnot. Should you have need, Plemia's name is for you to use."

 "Thank you," Gordy said again in response to a glance from Lady Faaldom.

 Plemia glanced at the port master. "Madam, I would ask assistance.Daxflan must be searched, and all illegal substances must be removed. Is it possible you could instruct me in the proper procedure?"

 She nodded gravely. "Delm Plemia, I would be honored to assist you. Allow me to call on you tomorrow midday for the purpose."

 "You are kind, madam. I thank you."

 "I believe," Mr. dea'Gauss said dryly, "that the meeting may be adjourned." Seeing no dissent, he turned down his papers.

 At the head of the table, both tall Thodelms stood, bowed, and glided toward the door. On the threshold the woman turned and raised a hand, tracing an invisible pattern in the air.

 "Sav Rid Olanek," she announced in the High Tongue, "you may speak now."

 Then they passed through the door and were gone.

 Taam Olanek felt a sigh pass him, as if a bubble had given way. Beside him, Sav Rid burst into tears.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 SHIPYEAR 65
TRIPDAY 287
THIRD SHIFT
16.00 HOURS

 Acting First Mate Mendoza strode toward the captain's office. Hold 6, empty for the past two months, tantalized memory with the odors of leather, resin, spice. She took a deep breath, then sighed it out with a grin. It was hard to believe that they would establish orbit about Liad in five hours; hard to believe that so much had happened in five months. From pet librarian to acting first mate—she nearly laughed as she laid her hand against the captain's door.

 He was frowning at the computer screen, his mental signature laced with irritation. At her entrance he looked up, irritation fading. "Hello, Priscilla."

 She smiled, relaxing into the familiarity of his inner self. "You wanted to see me?"

 He grinned. "Very good. When in doubt, hedge. The captain has several things to discuss with the first mate. Also the first mate was to have discovered what Lina Faaldom was going to do with that damn perfume of hers."

 Priscilla laughed. "She's got a buyer in Chonselta City. They're going to package a distillate and sell it for a cantra the quarter ounce. The name is 'Festival Memories.'" She stopped because Shan was laughing.

 "Oh, no! Shameless, shameless! She'd have done better to turn her hand to trading than librarying, Priscilla. 'Festival Memories,' in fact! The woman's dangerous." He leaned back, grinning hugely. "She's reserved a quantity for the crew, I hope?"

 Priscilla nodded, lighthearted with his pleasure. "Anyone who wants part of their profit in perfume may take it that way, up to two bottles."

 He chuckled. "Wonderful, wonderful. Pour yourself a drink, Priscilla, and come sit down."

 She moved to the bar. "What are you drinking?"

 "Nothing at the moment. But I would like a brandy, if you'd be so kind."

 She poured them each a drink, brought him a glass, and settled into the right-hand chair.

 Shan sipped, his light eyes on her. "Have you decided what you will do, Priscilla?"

 "Do?"

 He waved an apologetic hand. "Of course, it's true that you're rather well off now. You might choose to do nothing at all. But I'll tell you frankly, Priscilla, doing nothing is a very boring line of work." He sipped thoughtfully. "Not that there aren't a great many people who don't seem to find it arduous at all. My cousin Pat Rin, for an instance. The first jewels, the most fashionable companions… Why, if he didn't play the wheel with suspiciously consistent luck, he'd have no money at all to call his own, and live within his quarter-share he could not."

 She smiled. "I don't think I'd do well as a gambler."

 "Well, neither do I, frankly. But there are other things you might be about. Buy a house, a bit of land, start talking to people—lay the foundation for possible contracts and alliances."

 "To set up my Clan," she surmised.

 "Exactly to set up your Clan. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

 She sipped her drink, considering him. Emotive patterns told too little. He was not desperate, but there was a—tentativeness—mixed somehow with the desire she had found herself responding to more and more of late.

 "I thought I'd invest my money," she said quietly. "Mr. dea'Gauss kindly offered his services."

 Shan raised his glass. "I see that Korval will have to begin casting about for a new man of business. Mr. dea'Gauss is clearly smitten. I had hoped it would prove to be merely a case of calf-love, Priscilla, I confess."

 She laughed. "More likely he thinks I'm too young to manage my own affairs! He helped me gain funds and status; how can he leave me alone to botch things now?"

 "A fair summation of Mr. dea'Gauss's melant'i in the situation," Shan acknowledged. "But you still don't tell me what you'll be doing, Priscilla."

 "Have you heard from Kayzin Ne'Zame?"

 The slanted brows pulled together. "She broughtDaxflan safely home and continues to work closely with Plemia to revise ship's procedures and work out a route that will not unduly tax available resources. I believe she had hopes of showing him the advantages of belonging to a cooperative, with which project I wish her luck. Plemia was rather resistant to the idea when I brought it up in our discussions."

 "Does she think she'll be able to finish her work there in time for thePassage's next voyage?" More tentativeness. She knew it for her own.

 Shan was surprised. "Kayzin warned me some time ago of her intention to retire at the end of this trip. Most properly, as Mr. dea'Gauss would no doubt agree. In a way, it was good thatDaxflan and all its troubles came along. It gave her thoughts a new direction, away from—endings." He sipped. "Kayzin's captain was my father, Priscilla. They ran this ship together thirty years. It's not easy for her to see another in his place, even though she helped train me for just that purpose. She only stayed this long to be certain I was able. Her last duty to her captain."

 "You'll be needing a first mate and a second?"

 "Indeed I will. Which brings us back at last to my original inquiry, Priscilla. Have you thought of what you will do? Your contract runs out in—what? A day?"

 "Fourteen hours," she replied, her mind racing. There was so much she did not know, so much training she would need; and there were people on thePassage who had been there all their lives, child and adult. Kayzin Ne'Zame, working on the ship for fifty years, at the captain's side for thirty of them, a captain she served even after his death…

 Shan sipped brandy. She sensed tension in him, and restraint. The decision was hers. Goddess, I'm a fool. How can it be easier to conceive of looking at his face, hearing his voice, sensing his moods for all of thirty years, than to consider myself without those things for even a week?

 She licked her lips. "If—I would prefer not to renew my contract as second—" she sensed shocked pain from him, quickly damped, as she hurtled on, "—and to sign a new one, as first mate!"

 She was swept by singing triumph and a tangled knot of other feelings, from which she isolated lust, and relief, and joy, and something that seared so she could not find its name before the whole concert was controlled and shackled into the merest background hum.

 "Thank you, Priscilla."

 Her heart was pounding; she was gasping with the force of his emotions, her own powerfully evoked. Mother, the echo… she thought. But it was no echo.

 "Priscilla?" He was before her, radiating concern. "Forgive me."

 "No." She set the glass aside, hand questing. He took it in his. "Shan…"

 "Yes, Priscilla?"

 She translated it from the High Tongue, because protocol said it was done this way between Liadens, and it was imperative that he understand, that he not think her grasping or unaware of her place as someone all but Clanless. "Will you share pleasure with me, Shan?"

 His fingers tightened as astonished joy flickered between them, weighted, though, with something else. Seeking, her inner eye perceived a wall, thick and impenetrable, with only a tiny slit in its smooth surface. As she watched, the slit enlarged, eating the wall until it was gone and there was only—Shan.

 The impression was not just sound now, or pattern, or even an occasional whiff of elusive spice. It was all: a woven whole spread before the inner senses—Shan without defenses, open for her to know completely.

 Priscilla cried out, jerking to her feet, gripping his shoulders. "No! Shan, you mustn't!"

 Then there was sadness, though not despair, and the inner landscape faded, becoming again the barely breached Wall as she sagged against him, craving what she had just denied, and pushed her face against his shoulder.

 "Priscilla, I ask your forgiveness yet again." His voice was very gentle in her ear. "I didn't want to distress you."

 She drew a shaky breath and stood away. "I—Words failed her. Goddess, she thought, twice a fool.

 He sighed and guided her to the couch. Sitting beside her, he took her hand. "When I came to get you from the precinct house in Theopholis, Priscilla, you said something." She tensed. Whatwas real from all she thought she remembered of that night?

 "What you said," he pursued gently, "was, Shan, there wasn't enough time to be sure."

 She relaxed. She did remember that. "True."

 "It might still be true, Priscilla. There's no need for haste. And many reasons to be… sure."

 She struggled with it, trying to balance the Liaden concept of pleasure-love with what she felt in him even now, with what she herself felt. "I asked… pleasure. And you want it!"

 "Priscilla, my very dear." He raised her hand, lips brushing her palm, cheek stroking her fingertips. "Of course I want it. But not at the expense of your certainty. I'd be a poor friend if I made that trade." He sighed. "And I've already made you angry with me."

 "Not angry," she protested, knowing he could read that lack in her. "It's—Shan, it'swrong to—to open up so far. To let someone see your—allness."

 "Even when that someone is my dear friend? Even when I wish to give the gift?"

 She opened her mouth, then closed it. "It is how I was taught," she told him humbly. "I never thought to question it." She had the name of the searingly bright emotion then, and felt tears forming. Too little time, indeed.

 He sensed her understanding and nodded. 'There are other reasons not to rush, as I said. Consider your new position, for one matter. Will you have people say that you are first mate because you and the captain are lovers?"

 Her chin rose. "It's our business, not theirs!"

 "Theirs," he corrected. "It's a matter of melant'i, and of ship's administration. The crew must know that the two people who run this ship are honorable, are trustworthy—arecapable . That proved, you may take any lover—and as many!—as you wish. You do have an extensive amount of training to undergo, you know, before you'll be up to Kayzin's level."

 Impossibly, she laughed. "As if I didn't know it!"

 He grinned, relieved and admiring. "Will you be staying on Liad, Priscilla?"

 She nodded. "I'm guesting with Lina until I find a house of my own."

 "Good. Then you'll be able to get a firm grounding during the time we're docked. And the next run is the long one—one full Standard. Enough time, I'd think, for everyone to know what works and what doesn't." He squeezed her fingers. "We might not make a very good team in spite of it all, Priscilla. That happens sometimes."

 "We're a good team," she said, startled to hear the Seer's lilt in her voice. "We'll be a better one. The best."

 The silver eyes glinted mischief. "You sound sure of yourself, Thodelm. Would you care to place a small wager? Say, a cantra? Issue to be decided at Solcintra docking, next run-end."

 "Done." She grinned, surprised at finding herself so easy, and read the same deep serenity in Shan. On some level, then, they understood each other. The pattern of the Goddess's dance would see to the rest. She gripped the big hand tightly, then let it go and stood."Sleep well, my friend."

 "Sleep well, Priscilla."

 She moved to the door.

 "Priscilla!"

 "Yes?"

 "May I call on you at Lina's, Priscilla? It might aid certainty."

 She smiled, peace filling her utterly. "I'll be all joy to see you."

  


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Carpe Diem

 Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  

  

  

  

  

 SECOND QUADRANT

  

 Ramal Sector

  

 The pilot stared at the readout in disbelief, upped the magnification, and checked the readings once more, cold dread in his heart.

 "Commander. Pilot requests permission to speak."

 "Permission granted," Khaliiz said.

 "The vessel which we captured on our last pass through this system is moving under power, Commander. The scans read the life forces of two creatures."

 "Pilot's report heard and acknowledged. Stand by for orders. Second!"

 "Commander."

 "It was reported to me that none were left alive aboard yon vessel, Second. Discover the man who lied and bring him to me at once."

 His Second saluted. "At once, Commander." He turned and marched from the bridge.

 Khaliiz eyed the screen, perceived the ship-bounty slipping through his fingers, and was displeased.

 "Pursue."

  

 Val Con cursed very softly, then snapped back to the board, slapped the page into its slot, and demanded data: coords, position, speed, and amount of power in the coils.

 "Could we leave now?" asked a small voice to his left.

 He turned his head. Miri was sitting rigidly in the copilot's chair, her eyes frozen on the screen and the growing shape of the Yxtrang vessel. Her freckles stood out vividly in a face the color of milk.

 "We must wait until the power has reached sufficient level and the coordinates are locked into the board," he said, keeping his voice even. "We will leave in a few minutes."

 "They'llbe here in a few minutes." She bit her lip, hard, and managed to drag her eyes from the screen to his face. "Val Con, I'mafraid of Yxtrang."

 Aware of the tightness of the muscles in his own face, he did not try to give her a smile. "I am also afraid of Yxtrang," he said gently. His eyes flicked to the board, then to the screen. "Strap in."

 "What're you gonna do?" Miri was watching him closely, some of the color back in her face, but still stiff in every muscle.

 "There is a game Terrans sometimes play," he murmured, dividing his attention between board and screen, fingers busy with his own straps, "called 'chicken'...Strap in, cha'trez."

 He flipped a toggle. "I see you, Chrakec Yxtrang. Pass us by. We are unworthy to be your prey."

 There was a transmission pause - or did it last a bit longer? - then a voice, harsh as broken glass, replied in Trade. "Unworthy? Thieves are always worthy game! That ship is ours, Liaden. We have won it once."

 "Forgive us, Ckrakec Yxtrang, we are here by no fault of our own. We are not worthy of you. Pass by."

 "Release my prize, Liaden, or I shall wrest it from you, and you will die."

 Miri licked her lips, steadfastly refusing to look at the screen.

 Val Con's face was smooth and calm, his voice nearly gentle. "If I release your prize, I shall die in any case. Pass by, Hunter. There is only I, who am recently wounded."

 "My scans show two, Liaden."

 Miri closed her eyes. Val Con, measuring board against screen, eased the speed of the ship higher, toward the halfway point.

 "Only a woman, Ckrakec Yxtrang. What proof is that of your skill?"

 There was a pause, during which Val Con slipped the speed up another notch and pressed the sequence that locked in the coords.

 "Will it please you, when you are captured, Liaden, to watch me while I take my pleasure from your woman? Afterward, I shall blind you and give you as a toy to my crew."

 "Alas, Ckrakec Yxtrang, these things would but cause me pain." Coils up! And the Yxtrang were finally near enough, beginning the boarding maneuver, matching velocity, and direction...

 "It would give you pain!" the Yxtrang cried. "All things give Liadens pain! They are a soft race, born to be the prey of the strong. In time, there will be no more Liadens. The cities of Liad will house the children of Yxtrang."

 "What then will you hunt, O Hunter?" He flipped a series of toggles, leaned back in the pilot's chair, and held a hand out to Miri.

 Slowly the ship began to spin.

 There was a roar of laughter from the Yxtrang, horrible to hear. "Very good, Liaden. Never shall it be said, after you are dead, that you were an unworthy rabbit. A good maneuver. But not good enough."

 In the screen, the Yxtrang ship began to spin as well, matching velocity uncertainly.

 Miri's hand was cold in his. He squeezed it, gave her a quick smile, and released her, returning to the board.

 More spin; a touch more acceleration. The Yxtrang moved to match both. Val Con added again to the spin but left the speed steady.

 "Enough, Liaden! What do you hope to win? The ship is ours, and we will act to keep it. Do you imagine I will grow tired of the game and leave? Do you not know that even now I might fire upon you and lay you open to the cold of space?"

 "There is no bounty on ruined ships, Ckrakec Yxtrang, nor any glory in reporting that a Liaden outwitted you. But," he said, sighing deeply, "perhaps you are young and this your first hunt - "

 There was a scream of rage over the comm, and the Yxtrang ship edged closer. Val Con added more spin. Ship's gravity was increasing - lifting his arm above the board the few inches required to manipulate the keys was an effort. His lungs were laboring a little for air. He glanced over at Miri. She grinned raggedly at him.

 "How much faster will you spin, Liaden? Until the gravity crushes you?"

 "If necessary. I am determined that you will collect no bounty on this ship, Chrakec Yxtrang. It has become a matter of honor." More spin. He paused with his hand on the throttle.

 "Speak not to me of honor, animal! We have toyed long enough. We shall - "

 Val Con shoved the velocity to the top, slammed on more spin, hesitated, counting, eyes on the board -

 Jump!

  

  

  

  

 LUFKIT

  

 Neefra's Tavern

  

 The Terran creature's name was Jefferson, and it was sweating; it talked jerkily, swigging warm beer down its gullet, moving its big, rough hands aimlessly about, occasionally plucking at its companion's sleeve - and talking, always talking.

 Much of what it said was of no value to the Liaden who stood beside it, delicately sipping at a glass of atrocious local wine; but Tyl Von sig'Alda was patient, by training if not by inclination, and the bits of useful information mixed in among the trash were jewels of very great price.

 "Yxtrang," the creature was saying, fingering its empty mug in agitation. "Well, it had to be Yxtrang, didn't it? Stands to reason - the way the ship was cleaned out but not ruined. Coming back for it, Tanser said. Sure to come back for it. Yxtrang get a bounty for captured ships..." It faltered there, and its companion waved at the barkeeper for another beer. The creature took it absently, drank, and wiped its mouth with the back of a hand. It glanced furtively around the noisy bar and bent close enough for its listener to smell the beer on its breath, the stink of its sweat, and the reek of its fear. It was all sig'Alda could do not to recoil in disgust.

 "Tanser knew it was Yxtrang," Jefferson whispered, voice rasping."Knew it. And he left 'em there. Alive. Could'veput a pellet into 'em - something quick and clean. But the turtle'd said let 'em go and the boss said okay..."

 Horror seemingly choked it, and it pulled back, eyes glistening, showing a plentitude of white all around the irises. The one beside him sipped wine and murmured soothingly that of course the ways of the Clutch were mysterious, but that he had understood them not to involve themselves so much with the affairs of - men.

 "This one did," Jefferson said fervently. "Claimed some kind of kinship with 'em both - brother and sister." It swigged beer.

 "Crazy alien."

 Most assuredly the victims were Val Con yos'Phelium and the female companion; though why an agent might be traveling with such a one was more than could be fathomed. Tyl Von sig'Alda assayed another sip of syrupy wine. The female...Headquarters had assumed a mischance during the journey home, assumed that the female had, perhaps, served for a time as camouflage. A sound enough theory.

 Unless, sig'Alda thought, training was somehow broken? At once the Loop flickered to life, showing .999 against that possibility. He was aware of some dim, faraway feeling of relief. The Loop was the secret weapon of the Department of the Interior, an impartial mental computer implanted only in the best of its agents. Its guidance was essential to the Department's ascendancy over the enemies of Liad. It was an essential part of training. Training could not be broken.

 Jefferson leaned close, breathing its beery breath into sig'Alda's face. "I have a son," it said hoarsely.

 "Do you?" he murmured. And then, because the creature seemed to await a fuller response, he said, "I myself have a daughter."

 It nodded its head in barbaric Terran agreement and withdrew slightly. "Then you know."

 "Know?"

 "Know what it's like," the creature explained, a trifle loudly, though not loud enough to signify within the overall clamor of the tavern. "Know what it's like to worry about 'em. My boy...And that turtle telling - bragging on himself, maybe. Maybe not even telling the truth. Who can tell what's truth to a turtle?"

 Was that relevant, or more of the creature's ramblings? sig'Alda gave a mental shrug. Who could tell?

 "But what did he say?" he inquired of Jefferson. "The turtle."

 "Talking about how his clan or family or egg or whatever it is will hunt down the first and the last of a family, if you don't do what he says to do." Jefferson gulped the last of the beer and set the mug aside with a thump, black despair filling its half-crazed eyes. "And Tanser put 'em right in Yxtrang's path, after the turtle'd said let 'em go free. Gods."

 There was a long moment's silence, while the Loop presented the chances of survival for Val Con yos'Phelium and his female, whomever and whatever she was, stranded in a ship marked for Yxtrang reclamation and deprived of coords and coils.

 .001

 So, then. He smiled at Jefferson. "Another beer, perhaps?"

 "Naw..." The Terran was twitching, suddenly eager to be off, perhaps conscious all at once that it had been spilling secrets wholesale into the ear of a stranger.

 sig'Alda laid a gentle hand on its sleeve. "Tell me, did anyone check to see if the ship was still there? Even the Yxtrang might make an error from time to time."

 The despairing eyes gazed back up at his face. "It was gone when we dropped back to look." It swallowed harshly. "Tanser laughed." Another painful working of the throat. "Tanser ain't got any kids."

 It stood away from the bar abruptly and held out a horny hand. "Got to be going. Thanks for the beers."

 sig'Alda placed his hand into the large one, forcing himself to bear the pressure and the up-and-down motion. "Perhaps we will meet again."

 "Yeah," Jefferson said, not very convincingly. "Maybe." Its lips bent upward in a rictus that might have been meant as a smile. "G'night, now." And it turned and strode away, leaving Tyl Von sig'Alda staring into the depths of his sticky glass.

  

 Jefferson went rapidly through side streets and back alleys, cursing his tongue and his need and the horrible, ever-present fear in his belly.

 The man had been Liaden - and maybe the woman, too. Yxtrang and Liaden had been enemies, blood and bone, for longer than Terrans had been on the scene. Jefferson swallowed against the fear's abrupt nausea. Yxtrang would have special ways to treat a couple of representatives of their old, most-hated enemy...

 Jefferson leaned against a convenient light post to get his breath and wait for the shaking to ease - but he only shook harder, gripping the post in misery and closing his eyes.

 He never saw the slender shadow take aim in the empty street, never heard the gun's discreet, genteel cough or felt the pellet enter his ear and rend his brain.

  

 The Terran crumpled slowly, as if falling into a swoon, and lay still in the puddle of light. Tyl Von sig'Alda slid his weapon away, glanced up and down the street, then walked carefully over to the carcass. He made short work of stripping the pouch and pockets of anything remotely valuable - it was to appear a mere murder for gain, as might happen to anyone walking alone in the dark back streets of Lufkit.

 Jefferson had given much information freely; its continued existence had been a threat to sig'Alda himself. More, its elimination was a minor balance for the act of putting a Liaden - any Liaden - in the way of the Yxtrang. That the Liaden had been a member of his own Department and one of its best was a sad fact. Tanser's name had been duly noted; sig'Alda's report would mention it, and another bit of balance would no doubt follow.

 sig'Alda stepped back, noting that the Loop gave him excellent chances of attaining the shuttle to Prime Station and the deck ofRaslain, his passage away. Yet he hesitated, nagged by a consideration that was by rights none of his, he who was assigned to determine what had become of Val Con yos'Phelium, lost en route to his debriefing. And still there was the damned female...No. He would leave tonight, information pertinent to the mission having been gathered on Lufkit. His report to the commander would reflect Jefferson's certainty that yos'Phelium and the female had fallen to the Yxtrang bounty-crew, as well as the corroboration of the Loop. It was futile to spend time backtracking the female. He was not assigned to provide her a eulogy.

 So thinking, he turned and faded into the shadows, leaving the street to the puddle of light and that which lay within it.

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Trealla Fantrol

  

 "No! Absolutely not!"

 "Shan..." Nova yos'Galan flung forward and caught her brother's sleeve in one slim hand. Head tipped back, she stared up into his face, seeing the ice forming in the silver eyes and the lines of Korval stubbornness tightening around the big mouth. "Shan, by the gods!"

 He made the effort - he took a deeper breath, then another. "You tell me that the First Speaker wishes me to contract-wed. Why now? Why not last week or next week? Have you some sweet offer for the stupidest of the Clan? This is arbitrary beyond sense, sister!"

 She recoiled from the anger in both his words and his face. "It is Val Con! I - I must consider what is proper. He has been missing all this while..."

 "Is he truly missing? I know I haven't seen him for some time, but missing?"

 Nova held up her hand, moved to the console, and touched several buttons, bringing the computer screen to life.

 He moved closer as she scrolled the information there, finally settling on a spot.

 "...the First Speaker's point is, however, valid insofar as it concerns the necessity of the Nadelm's education," she read. "I shall undertake to make myself available as soon as practicable following my thirtieth anniversary Name Day for instruction on the proper administration of a Clan from both the First Speaker and Korval's man of business. It is made extremely clear by the First Speaker, my sister, that I am expected to graduate to Delm very quickly."

 Shan sensed the underlying impatience in those few words as clearly as he felt the tension singing in Nova.

 "Hisword, from the last letter I had of him, nearly three Standards gone. His Name Day is more than a relumma past, and I have heard nothing! I must prepare, for the benefit of Korval.yos'Galan must prepare, as well!"

 "Is he dead, then?"

 His query was quite calm. Had she been less wrought up herself, she might have mistrusted such calmness. As it was, she gasped and stared up at him, dimly aware that somehow during the course of the interview the lines of melant'i had shifted so that it was no longer Korval's First Speaker, eldema-pernard'i, in conference with the Head of Line yos'Galan, but a younger sibling pleading with an elder.

 "Dead?" she repeated, golden fingers snaking about each other in agitation. "How can I know? They answer no questions! The Scouts say he was placed on detached duty to the Department of the Interior these three years gone by. The Department of the Interior says he has been offered leave and refused it; that it is not their part to force a man to go where he would rather not. They refuse to relay the message that he come to his Clan, when next he is able..."

 And that, Shan thought, was not as it should be. Even the Scouts, who had little patience with many things Liaden - even the Scouts, appealed to in need, had sent broadbeam across the stars that Scout Captain Val Con yos'Phelium was required immediately at home, on business of his Clan. So had Val Con come, too, in remarkably short time, shaky with too many Jumps made one after another, to stand and weep with the rest of them at his foster mother's bier.

 "If he will not come to us - " Nova was saying distractedly, "If he is so angry with me, even now..."

 And there was the nub of it, Shan knew. When last he had been home on leave, Val Con had quarreled with his sister, the First Speaker, over her insistence that he take himself a contract-bride and provide the Clan with his heir. That quarrel had been running for several years, with subtle variations as each jockeyed for position. There was very little real pressure that Nova as Korval-in-Trust could bring upon Korval Himself, whether he chose at the moment to take up the Ring and his Delmhood, or remain mere Second Speaker. However, the Second Speaker was bound to obey the First, as was any Clanmember, and the Clan demanded of each member a child, by universal Clan Law. A pretty problem of melant'i and ethics, to be sure, and one Shan was glad to contemplate from a distance. Obviously even Val Con had bowed to at least part of melant'i's necessity, as evidenced by that snappish letter. But still...

 "That's hardly like him, denubia. Val Con's never held a grudge that long in all his life."

 His attempted comfort backfired. Nova's violet eyes filled with tears, and her hands knotted convulsively.

 "Then he is dead!"

 "No." He bent to cup her face in his big brown hands. "Sister, listen to me: Has Anthora said he is dead?"

 She blinked, gulped, and shook her head so the blond hair snared his wrists.

 "Have you asked her?"

 Another headshake, fine hairs clinging to his skin like grade-A silk, and he read the two terrors within her.

 "Anthora is dramliza," he said patiently, beginning to pay out a Healer's line of comfort as pity overtook him. "She holds each of us in her mind like a flame, she told me once. Best to ask and know for certain."

 Nova touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, hesitating.

 "Ask," he urged, seeing with satisfaction that her agitation quieted under his weaving of comfort and gentle hope. "If this Department of the Interior flouts Clan tradition, then we will search ourselves. Korval has some resources, after all."

 "Yes, of course," she murmured, moving her cheek against his palm in a most un-Novalike demonstration of affection. Shan cautiously lowered his level of input and pulled his hands away. She would do, he judged. Korval's First Speaker had a cool, level head. Even without his aid, she would have taken up her charge again very shortly and done all she perceived as necessary to keep the Clan in Trust for Korval's Own Self.

 Shan shook his head slightly. He had briefly held the post Nova now filled and did not envy her the necessity of running a Clan composed of such diverse and strong-willed persons.Dutiful Passage was more to his taste, more in keeping with his abilities; yet the trading life had bored Nova to distraction.

 He smiled down at her - the only one of the three yos'Galans who had inherited all their Terran mother's height. "Ask Anthora," he advised again. "And tell me what I can do to help us find our brother."

 She returned his smile faintly, a bare upward curve of pale lips. "I will think upon it. In the meanwhile, do think upon what we discussed earlier..."

 Anger flared, but he held it in check, unwilling to give her cause to fear the loss of another brother. "I will not contract-wed. I have done my duty, and the Clan has my daughter in its keeping. I have done more than my duty - I hear that the child Lazmeln got from me aspires to be a pilot. Leave it."

 "If Val Con is dead - if he is eklykt'i - then yos'Galan must be ready to assume its position as Korval's First Line. You are Thodelm yos'Galan - head of our Line!You are A'nadelm, next to be Delm, if Val Con - "

 "IfVal Con!" The anger clawed loose for an instant before he enclosed it. "If Anthora claims our brother dead, I still demand to see the body: my right as kin, my right as cha'leket, my right as A'nadelm! You do not make me Korval so easily, sister. Nor do I contract-wed again, and so I do swear!"

 Her face was stricken; he felt the grief roiling off her like bitter smoke and made his bow, utterly formal.

 "With the First Speaker's permission," he said precisely, and left her before it was given.

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Solcintra

  

 Shan reached Priscilla's house at first dark, when the fairy lights within the transparent walkway glowed under his boots like snowflakes. Taking the four steps to the town house's narrow vestibule in two strides, he laid his palm against the door. It slid open to admit him, and his heart clutched in wonder of it, even after so many years.

 In the study, Priscilla lounged on pillows before a newly laid fire, papers in drifts around her, while Dablin, the resident cat, lay stretched in striped orange glory upon the scrubbed wood floor. His ears twitched at the sound of Shan's footsteps, but he did not deign to turn his head; the woman looked up, black eyes smiling, emotive grid a scintillation of joy/affection/caring/desire.

 "Hello, love."

 "You really should see to that door, Priscilla. Anyone might walk in."

 She laughed softly as he crossed the room, open to and treasuring her joy, knowing that she read his emotions as clearly as he read hers - or did she read more clearly? Priscilla was not a mere Healer, after all; she was of the dramliz - a full-scale wizard, though on Sintia, the planet of her birth, the proper term was "witch."

 "Have you eaten?" she asked, putting aside a sheaf of papers and extending a hand. "I can have Teyas bring you something."

 He took her cool hand in his and, obedient to the gentle downward tug, settled to the pillows, chin propped on fist. She curled around to face him, cheek resting on a white arm. She was naked to the waist, as was her custom at home, and the platinum hoops in her ears gleamed in contrast to her short mop of thundercloud curls.

 "I'm not hungry," he said, laying a hand over one breast; the nipple hardened against his palm, and he caught a flash of sheer lust from her. He looked up and smiled. "Hello Priscilla."

 "Hello, Shan." One long finger traced the stark line of his cheek and lifted to follow the slant of a frost-colored eyebrow. "Nova made you angry."

 "She has a very talent for it. Too like our father, poor child. Afraid she's driven Val Con away for once and all, or that he's gone and she must now command the Clan."

 His father had been two years dead before Priscilla Mendoza had taken berth on theDutiful Passage. However, she knew Nova and Val Con - Dablin, beginning the opening moves of his bathing ritual there before the fire, had been Val Con's gift to her.

 Priscilla frowned. "Surely that's not like him? Has she contacted the Scouts? Left word for him to come home?"

 Shan sighed and leaned back across the pillows, light eyes on the ceiling tiles. "She tried; but here's an oddity for you, Priscilla. The Scouts say Commander Val Con yos'Phelium hasn't been with them for more than three years, that he's on detached duty to something called the Department of the Interior. Ring any bells with you?"

 She shook her head.

 "Well, with me either, if it comes to that. Something to check on...At any rate, Nova calls this Department of the Interior, requests that a message be delivered to Commander yos'Phelium - kin-right, she tells them; his First Speaker requires him at Trealla Fantrol, on business of the Clan."

 "The Department of the Interior is delighted to comply," Priscilla suggested when the silence had stretched a time.

 Shan snorted. "The Department of the Interior informs Korval's First Speaker that Commander yos'Phelium is not at the moment available and adds that it is not Korval's lackey, to be delivering messages here and there around the galaxy. Nova points out that they are in violation of Clan Rule in that the commander has not returned home on leave in all the three years he has been with the Department. The Department replied that he has been offered leave several times and refused it; nor are they in the business of forcing a man to go where he would rather not."

 "Nova hangs up in a fury," Priscilla murmured.

 He laughed sharply. "Too true!"

 "But what did she want you to do? Certainly the voice of Korval eldema-pernard'i carries more weight than that of Thodelm yos'Galan?"

 "The First Speaker, in her wisdom, desires Thodelm yos'Galan to contract-wed."

 Shock lanced through her, edged with astonishment, confusion, and the beginning of grief.

 "Priscilla..." He reached for her, with both mind and hands, pulling her back down to lie beside him, her hand fisted on his chest despite the tide of comfort and love he poured out for her reading. "Priscilla, it will not happen! I will not allow it, and so I told her! My duty is done and - "

 "If the First Speaker commands it, you'll have to. But why?" Anguish was added to the blare of other pains, and betrayal; she counted Nova among her friends. "Val Con's dead, is that it? The Department of the Interior - they lied to her. No, they said unavailable - truth. Of a kind. If Val Con's dead..." She raised herself up on her elbow and looked down on him with wide black eyes.

 "You're Delm, aren't you? Korval Himself."

 "I amnot Delm, Priscilla. Strive for some sense! Scan me! Do I grieve for him - for my heart's own brother? Do I?"

 "No."

 He took a breath, feeling the warmth of her affection seeping into his bones like a draught of strong brandy. "Nova's duty as First Speaker is first to hold the Clan in trust for Val Con, whois Korval Himself. But the Clan exists even if Val Con doesn't, and a prudent Speaker must consider all contingencies, make plans for each - like captain and first mate, eh?" That drew a slight smile, though her eyes were tight on his face.

 "Nova must consider the possibility of Val Con's death, as well as the chance that he's left the Clan," he went on. "But her guilt makes her favor the worst of all worlds above any other. With some reason - yos'Pheliums lately seem prone to leaving the Clan.

 "There's Uncle Daav, for instance - Val Con's father - gone these twenty-five Standards and more. Nova forgets that he went for Balance, not anger. Not that it makes much difference, gone being gone. But you understand that the First Speaker must plan for yos'Galan to take its place as Korval's Prime Line, should Val Con's thirty-fifth birthday pass and he not, in fact, take up the Ring. She's simply beginning her strategy too early, and with too little information in hand. Korval must find its Nadelm, and the First Speaker must put the question to him plainly. That's all."

 "How old is Val Con? Thirty?"

 "Just turned," he agreed. "We've got five whole years to find him."

 She did not say that a Scout might easily stay hidden for twelve times that long, or that the universe was wide. Instead she bent close, eyes locked on his, lips above his mouth by the breadth of one of Dablin's whiskers.

 "You are my man," she said. It was not a command; it was a statement of her belief, open to his contradiction.

 He lifted his hands and ran brown fingers roughly into her curls. "With all my heart."

 The small gap closed, and she kissed him leisurely, then, yielding to his urgency, harder, hands at his shirt, at his belt; and they made love with body, heart, and mind, scattering pillows and papers every which way and boring Dablin to yawns.

  

 Much later, when they both had had a glass or two and a bit to eat, and had gone upstairs to the bedroom and curled beneath the coverlet, she spoke into his ear."Do you think Val Con's okay? Even if he's not dead, he could be - in trouble."

 Shan laughed sleepily and pushed his face into the hollow of her neck. "Trust me, Priscilla. Wherever Val Con is at this moment, he has the best of everything possible."

  

  

  

  

 ORBIT

  

 Interdicted World I-2796-893-44

  

 Miri rapped sharply on the wall at about the height of her shoulder and was rewarded with a solid metallicthunk. She sighed in equal parts of relief and frustration. The hallway had no hidden compartments, which meant that she would not have to deal with another bushel of amateur telescopes, or dolls, or jewels - but it also meant that there was nothing resembling a vegetable or vitamin anywhere on this tub, and she had, after all, a half-convalescent soldier on her hands.

 One of the other hideys had yielded up a solitary platinum necklace, set with twelve matched emeralds. Val Con had handed it to her with a flourish and a smile. "For you - a hand-cut set."

 "You keep it," Miri had told him. "Matches your eyes."

 He had insisted, though, and now the thing was in her belt pouch, sharing space with a flawed sapphire, a matching ring and necklace, an enameled disk, a harmonica, and a couple of ration sticks. She would have traded the whole bunch for a handful of high-potency supplements.

 "Damn it," she muttered, and settled her back against the cool wall, glaring at the pilfered elegance around her. Val Con had had a lot to say - for him, anyway - about the fineness of the yacht, pointing out the up-to-the-second water purification system, the lighted ceilings and side walls, and even the style and power of the coils they had blown to bits in that desperate Jump away from the Yxtrang.

 The boarding crew had pretty well cleaned things out in the initial raid. The galley was bare - even the menuboard had been dismantled and removed. It was just plain, dumb luck that the Yxtrang had not been looking for secret compartments, or else she and Val Con would not even have had salmon and pretzels to eat.

 What the hell are you doing here, anyway? she asked herself suddenly. Everything had happened so fast. Married. How in the name of anything holy had she wound up married?

 "Damn Liaden tricked me," she told the empty hall. She laughed a little. Tricked three ways from yesterday - married and partnered to a Liaden; sister to an eight-foot, bottle-green Clutch-turtle with a name longer than she was; stranded on a coil-blown pleasure yacht around a world her new husband assured her was most likely Interdicted.

 "Bored, were you, Robertson? Life not exciting enough with just the Juntavas after you?" She laughed again and shook her head, pushing away from the wall and starting back toward the bridge. Life...

  

 The bridge was a racket of radio chatter and computer chimes in the midst of which a slender, dark-haired man sat quietly. Miri froze in the doorway, heart stuttering, eyes sharp on the stillness of him, remembering another time, not so many days before, when he had been that still and a deadly danger to them both.

 Quietly she approached the pilot's board, noting with relief that his shoulders carried only the normal tensions of weariness and concentration - nothing of shock or the abnormal effort of attaining freedom.

 Nonetheless, standing unheeded beside him and watching the absorption on his face as he extended a long-fingered hand to minutely adjust a dial, she felt dread stir and chill her, and impulsively put her hand on his wrist, interrupting the adjustment.

 "Stop!" he snapped, glancing up quickly.

 "Still here, huh, boss?" She pulled her hand away. "Time for a break."

 "Later." He turned back toward the board and the senseless chatter coming up from the planet surface.

 "I saidnow, spacer!" Her voice carried all the authority of a mercenary sergeant, and she braced herself for retaliation.

 His eyes, brilliantly green, flicked to hers, his mouth straight in that look that meant he was going to have his way, come hell or high water - and suddenly he smiled, pushing the hair out of his eyes. "Cha'trez, forgive me. I was lost in the work, and only meant to say that I am attempting - "

 "To put yourself in a bad spot," Miri interrupted. "I don't think you been outta that seat for ten hours. You gotta eat, you gotta walk around, you gotta rest - wasn't all that long ago the only things between you and the Last Walk were an autodoc and a scared merc."

 There was a long pause during which green eyes measured gray. He was the first to sigh and drop his gaze.

 "All right, Miri."

 She looked at him suspiciously. "What's that mean?"

 "It means that I will take a break now - walk a bit and join you for a meal." He grinned weakly and reached up to brush her cheek with light fingers. "I do tend toward singlemindedness occasionally, despite my family's best efforts." The grin broadened. "I would not have you think that I was brought up as poorly as that."

 "Sure," she said uncertainly, sensing a joke of some kind. She pointed at the board. "You still doing the hunt-and-compare bit? 'Cause I can give a listen while you're off-duty."

 "It would be of assistance," he said, standing and stretching to his full height. Miri grinned up at him, liking the slim, graceful body and the beardless golden face. She extended a hand to touch his right cheek, and he shifted to drop a kiss on her fingertips. "Soon," he said, and slipped silently away.

 Shaking her head at the hammering of her heart, Miri dropped into the pilot's chair and picked up the earphones.

  

 Dinner was prime-grade Milovian salmon, Boolean pretzel-bread, and water, consumed while seated cross-legged on the carpet amid the desolation that probably had been the private quarters of the yacht's owner.

 Val Con ate his ration with neat efficiency, as if he were stoking his furnace with protein, Miri thought; as if taste and variety had nothing to do with the act of eating.

 She ate more slowly, weary of the taste but forcing herself to finish every bit of the stuff, and finally she looked up to find Val Con watching her closely.

 "This whole ship's a loony bin," she groused. "Triple-A prime salmon, telescopes, dolls, jewelry, secret compartments, and a coordinate page filled with Interdicted Worlds. How come?"

 "The luxuries are bribes," Val Con said softly. "And the extra compartments are to hide them. Simple."

 "Yeah?" She blinked. "Somebody's trading with Quarantined Worlds? But that's - "

 "Illegal?" He shrugged. "It's only illegal when someone catches you."

 "Hell of an attitude for a Scout."

 He laughed. "Did I ever tell you about my grandmother?"

 "Don't know when you would've had a chance. What about her?"

 He smiled. "She was a smuggler."

 "That a fact?" Miri said calmly. "What's the old lady doing now?"

 "Forgive me," he murmured. "I should have said my many-times great-grandmother, Cantra yos'Phelium, co-founder of Clan Korval."

 She grinned. "Not likely to go around embarrassing all the relatives then, is she?" Then she did a double-take. "Cantra, like the money?"

 "Indeed," Val Con said around a sudden yawn. "Exactly Cantra, like the money."

 "Better get some sleep, boss," she advised, hoping against all reason that he would forget about the blithering radio and the strings of signals to be overlaid and recorded.

 "Not too bad an idea." He yawned again and without ado stretched out, putting his head on her lap.

 "What the hell's wrong with you?"

 "I'm tired, Miri."

 She glared down at his shuttered face. "And you gotta put your head right there?"

 One green eye opened. "Shall I put it on the floor?"

 "Should you - I'll tell you what's wrong with you. You're spoiled."

 The eye closed. "Undoubtedly."

 "Rich kid from the good part of town; never had no trouble; never had to rough it; always a soft place to put your head..."

 "Inarguably. Absolutely. Cantras and coaches. Satins and silks. Malchek and feeldophin."

 She eyed him warily, noting without meaning to the long dark lashes and the firm, sweet mouth. "What's malchek and feeldophin?"

 Both eyes opened wide, staring upside down into hers. "I don't know, Miri. But I'm certain they must be something."

 "Think I'd learn." She sighed heavily and moved a hand to brush the hair away from his eyes. "I ain't good at sleeping sitting up, though."

 "Ah. A compelling reason for me to put my head on the floor, I agree." He did so and opened his arms. "Come to bed, Miri."

 Laughing, she stretched out beside him and put her head on his shoulder.

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Solcintra

  

 The priority gong clanged, and Shan was up in an eruption of bedclothes, slapping the stud before he was fully awake.

 "yos'Galan," he snapped into the speaker, only then aware of Priscilla at his side.

 "Tower here, Cap'n. Sorry to disturb you."

 "That's quite all right, Rusty; I enjoy having my rest broken for crew maneuvers. I assume that youare doing a dry run and that there reallyisn't a priority message for me lying somewhere around the Tower?"

 "Nosir - I mean,yessir, there's a message, all right, pin-beamed to you by name, priority wrap, balance in code. Hit about three minutes ago. But here's what's funny, Cap'n..."

 "I knew there was a punch line! Don't disappoint me, Rusty."

 "Yessir. We tagged the source of transmission as local - just north of Solcintra. Thought you'd want to know."

 "We'rein northern Solcintra..." Shan frowned. "You didn't by any chance send a priority message to me via thePassage, did you, Priscilla? There are more seemly ways to get my attention."

 "The thought had occurred to me," she admitted, grinning.

 "But action did not follow. Well, I doubt it's someone wanting to sell me a cloak." He touched a quick series of keys. "Transmit at will, Rusty - and thank you for your patience. It occurs to me that I'm becoming ill-tempered in my dotage."

 Laughter burst from the comm as the receiver lit and beeped. "How long've we known each other?"

 "Gods alone know. I recall the day they carried you on-ship, a babe in arms - "

 "And you a gleam in Cap'n Er Thom's eye! Tower out."

 "Good-bye, Tower." He shook his head and tapped keys - and the screen lit, displaying a bare line of gibberish, the word PRIORITY shrieking across the top margin. Shan sighed. "What day is it, Priscilla?"

 "Banim Seconday."

 "Ah, yes, and we're in the second relumma, year Trebloma..." He keyed in the information, added his ship-code, and stepped back, slipping an arm around her waist. Before them, the screen shimmered, null-words breaking, reforming, then becoming intelligible.

  

 INFORMATION RECEIVED RE PROBLEM VIA GREENTREES.

 COME HOME.

  

 "My sister studies espionage. How refreshing." He sighed again and gave Priscilla a slight squeeze before he withdrew his arm. "Adventures, Priscilla! Were you growing bored?"

 "Not especially." She hesitated. "Shall I come with you, Captain?"

 He reached to touch her cheek. "This is a Clan matter, beloved, not a ship matter; the first mate has no need to be with me. However, I was to have seen Sennel this morning - if you would do the kindness?"

 He read her disappointment, a reawakening of the previous night's uncertainties. "Fear not!" he cried with a gaiety his pattern did not reflect. "I very much doubt that this is a clever plot to whisk me away and marry me against my will to some lady from an outworld Clan - "

 She laughed in spite of herself as he went across to the dressing room. He was out again in a handful of minutes, sealing the cuffs of a wide-sleeved blue shirt.

 "Only see how obedient I am! My father would have expired of astonishment. First mate and captain are to meet with Delm Intassi this afternoon to discuss a possible cargo. If for some reason I cannot go, take Ken Rik with you and present my assurances to Intassi that nothing less than my First Speaker's word would have kept me from such an important appointment."

 "Yes." She had flung the balcony door wide and was staring down into the inner garden, her pattern overlaid with the hum that signaled concentrated thought.

 Shan stepped to her side and touched her shoulder. "Priscilla?"

 She started just slightly, ebon eyes flashing to his face.

 "Will you dine with me this evening? It seems we'd best talk again about the maggot in Nova's head." He took her pale hand and kept his eyes steady on hers. "I will marry no other lady, Priscilla. I swear it to you."

 Her eyes filled, even as his did. "Shan..."

 "Yes?"

 She took a hard breath, and then the words came in a rush. "Can't we declare ourselves lifemates? If we - act according to Liaden law...Nova can't insist you contract-wed if you're life-mated, can she?"

 "No, of course not. But Thodelm yos'Galan owes allegiance to Korval. Since we have no Delm, I must ask the First Speaker's permission to a lifemating and - "

 "The timing's bad."

 "Dreadful might be more accurate." He glanced down at their linked hands, saw the Master Trader's amethyst gleaming against his brown skin, bracketed by her slim white fingers, and looked back to her face. "The last time we were in port I went to the First Speaker to ask her permission..."

 Priscilla stiffened. "She refused?"

 "I never asked. Already the time was bad. I'm a Trader, Priscilla! It's lunacy to deal at a known disadvantage!" The bedside clock chimed their usual hour of rising, and he shifted. "I should go."

 "Yes." She loosed his hand and stepped back. "Give my love to your sisters."

 "Always." He hesitated on the edge of a kiss, read in her a desire for reserve, and so merely bowed the bow of affection and esteem. "I'll see you soon, Priscilla."

 "Walk the day in joy, my love."

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Trealla Fantrol

  

 Shan sent the fast little groundcar through the curve at the top of the hill, slipped the stick, and spun into the drive with a purring uptake of speed. At the base of the first hill, he downshifted in deference to the possibilities of children, cats, and dogs and proceeded at a pace only another pilot might have called sedate.

 Damn it, he thought, guiding the car through twists and turns he knew like the rhythm of his own heartbeat. It wasn't like Nova to indulge in espionage! That Department of the Interior had got her worried beyond sense.

 Or worried in very good sense. The car slid beneath a flowered archway and continued down a straight road lined with fragrant colmeno bushes. Shan felt a finger of cold down his spine and shivered in the warm Liaden sunshine.

 The car negotiated the final right turn, left turn, sharp right, and pulled into a space near the garage doors. Shan got out and slammed the door.

  

 The south wing was quiet. Despite the lesson of past experience, it seemed as if Padi and Syl Vor might actually be with their tutors this morning - or engaged in quiet mayhem in another part of the house. Anthora's brand-new twins would be sleeping or gurgling in the nursery, charming those who had them in their care into the belief thatthis set of yos'Galans, at least, were as even-natured as they were sweet-tempered.

 Nurses were so easy to fool. Shan shook his head and moved with lazy haste toward the main corridor, ears tracking the growing rumble of wheels across strellawood flooring. In contrast to nurses and tutors, Trealla Fantrol's butler was damn near impossible to fool.

 They met at the intersection of corridors. The butler rotated the orange glass ball that served as his head and waved two of three arms in salute.

 "Master Shan. Good day, sir. The First Speaker awaits you in the study." The voice, male and middle-aged, spoke Terran with the affected drawl of the upper classes and originated somewhere near the plate steel midsection.

 "Jeeves," Shan said calmly. "Good day to you. Have you seen the children lately?"

 "Miss Padi is in the garden with Mr. pel'Jonna, partaking of a botany lesson. Master Syl Vor and Ms. Gamkoda are engaged in geography, and Miss Shindi and Master Mik are having an early-morning nap."

 "Dear me, what exemplary behavior! I believe they may be ill."

 "On the contrary, sir, they enjoy their customary robust health. I believe, if I may say so, that this morning's quietude may be attributed to Miss Nova's promise that they would be allowed to visit you only if they behaved as became those of Korval."

 "Ever more terrifying! But perhaps they don't yet have a firm grasp of family history."

 "As you say, sir."

 Shan grinned and turned right. "To my sister in the study, then! Be well, Jeeves."

 "Be well, sir."

 He went perhaps half a dozen paces before turning back. "Jeeves!"

 "Sir?" The midsection rotated, and the orange ball lit in inquiry.

 "Is Miss Anthora in the house? And Gordy?"

 "Miss Anthora is with the First Speaker in the study. Your foster son has contracted an alliance of pleasure with Karae yo'Lanna and spent last evening in her company. Shall I contact Glavda Empri and inquire for him?"

 "Ken Rik's granddaughter, is it? No, don't disturb the child; just ask him to call me at his earliest opportunity. ThePassage will know where I am, if he doesn't find me here or at Pelthraza Street."

 "Very good, sir." Jeeves rotated once more and wheeled off in pursuit of other imperatives. Shan grinned and headed for the study.

  

 The door slid away and two heads turned toward him - one blond and one dark, violet eyes and silver. Anthora stood and came forward, small hands outstretched, welcome riding a warm wave between them.

 "Shan-brother."

 He ignored the hands and bent to hug her. "Hello, denubia. How's the contract-husband?"

 She laughed, nose wrinkling. "Many days gone, thank the gods! But the twins are very good, don't you think?"

 "Very good, indeed. I could have done no better."

 That earned another laugh as a tug on his sleeve pulled him across the carpet to where Nova waited in cool uncertainty.

 "Sister." He smiled and extended a hand, marking with what relief she took it. Not for the first time, he regretted that Nova's talent was one that gave her access only to the memories of those already dead, rather than to the living emotion all about her.

 "Brother. Thank you for coming so promptly."

 "The least I could do, when you'd gone to so much trouble and expense! Only why a pin-beam to thePassage, denubia, when a local call might have gotten you the same result?"

 She looked coldly into his face, every inch the First Speaker of Liad's First Clan, her hand gripping his until he feared for the bones.

 "Local calls can be too easily traced," she said. "Come see what we have." She waved to the comm on its corner of the wide desk.

 "I've seen it," Anthora said to his hesitation, her emotive grid suddenly and suspiciously bland. "Would you care for some morning wine to help you read, brother?"

 "Wine by all means - but not morning wine. A glass of the red, if you please." He glanced at Nova's face, but saw only waiting there while her pattern glimmered, chameleonlike, too changeable to read.

 He slid into the desk chair and tipped the screen to the proper height. Amber letters spelled out words in High Liaden:

  

 *COMMUNICATION BEGINS*

 GREETINGS.

 TO NOVA YOS'GALAN FIRST SPEAKER-IN-TRUST CLAN KORVAL, SHE WHO REMEMBERS, FIRST SISTER TO OUR SHARED BROTHER, VAL CON YOS'PHELIUM SCOUT, ARTIST OF THE EPHEMERAL, SLAYER OF THE ELDEST DRAGON, KNIFE CLAN OF MIDDLE RIVER'S SPRING SPAWN OF FARMER GREENTREES OF THE SPEARMAKER'S DEN, TOUGH GUY.

  

 Shan blinked and leaned back in the chair, absently accepting the glass from Anthora's hand, wondering at the significance of the final two words being rendered in Terran.

  

 KNOW THAT ON THE TWO HUNDREDTH AND FORTY-SECOND DAY OF THIS STANDARD YEAR NUMBERED 1392 OUR BROTHER AND HIS LIFEMATE, MIRI ROBERTSON MERCENARY SOLDIER, RETIRED, PERSONAL BODYGUARD, RETIRED, HAVE WEAPON WILL TRAVEL, DEPARTED FROM LUFKIT PRIME STATION BY TESTIMONY OF HE WHO WATCHES ON A SHIP OF THE CLAN, FLEEING NAMELESS ENEMIES.

 KNOW FURTHER THAT ON THE TWO HUNDREDTH AND FORTY-SIXTH DAY OF THIS STANDARD YEAR OUR BROTHER AND MY SISTER HIS LIFEMATE FELL INTO THE HANDS OF CLAN JUNTAVAS OF THE LINE WHICH LOOKS TO ELDER JUSTIN HOSTRO IN WHICH MISFORTUNE OUR BROTHER TOOK INJURY FROM THE KIN OF ELDER HOSTRO

  

 Dear gods, Shan thought. He damped his output, so that Anthora would not be pummeled with his dread. He sipped wine and touched the advance key.

  

 NEGOTIATION WITH ELDER HOSTRO PROVED SATISFACTORY TO THE POINT THAT OUR BROTHER'S INJURY WAS HEALED. IT WAS FURTHER NEGOTIATED THAT OUR KIN BE RETURNED THEIR KNIVES AND GIVEN A SHIP ON WHICH TO CONTINUE THEIR JOURNEY, THE SHIP OF THE CLAN HAVING RESUMED ITS LABOR DURING THE TIME THEY WERE HELD BY CLAN JUNTAVAS. EVIDENCE INDICATING THAT THESE THINGS WERE DONE PROVIDED BY JUSTIN HOSTRO AND FORTHCOMING TO YOURSELF VIA HASTIEST COURIER AVAILABLE.

 IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT JUSTIN HOSTRO IS THE MOST MINOR OF ELDERS WITHIN CLAN JUNTAVAS AND CANNOT GUARANTEE THE ACTIONS OF THE REMAINDER OF HIS CLAN. IN THIS CIRCUMSTANCE, I GO TO NEGOTIATE WITH THE ELDEST ELDER OF THE JUNTAVAS ON THIS, THE TWO HUNDREDTH AND FIFTY-FIFTH DAY OF STANDARD YEAR 1392. I UNDERTAKE THIS NEGOTIATION AS MIRI ROBERTSON'S BROTHER AND T'CARAIS AND AS THE BROTHER OF OUR SHARED BROTHER WHO TRAVELS AT HER SIDE.

 KNOW AT LAST THAT OUR BROTHER'S STATED DESTINATION WAS VOLMER DESIGNATION V-8735-927-3 AND THAT HE HAS NOT YET ARRIVED AT THAT PORT THOUGH A SHIP OF THE CLANS OF MEN MUST HAVE TAKEN HIM THERE BY THIS DAY. NOR HAS HE CONTACTED ME AS I FEEL HE WOULD HAVE DONE WERE ALL WELL.

 THAT JUSTIN HOSTRO MAY NOT HAVE BARGAINED IN GOOD FAITH IS A MATTER I SHALL DISCUSS WITH THE MOST ELDER OF THE JUNTAVAS. THAT OUR BROTHER AND SISTER HAVE ATTAINED THAT STATE KNOW TO MEN AS "MISSING" IS INFORMATION I FELT THEIR REMAINING KIN MUST HAVE WITH UTMOST ALACRITY SO THAT A SEARCH MAY BE UNDERTAKEN WITH ALL HUMAN SPEEDINESS.

 IN SHARED KINSHIP AND DUTY I SALUTE YOU. MAY SUCCESS MEET OUR MOST STRINGENT EFFORTS.

 BEAMED THIS DAY 255 STANDARD YEAR 1392 BY:

 TWELFTH SHELL FIFTH HATCHED KNIFE CLAN OF MIDDLE RIVER'S SPRING SPAWN OF FARMER GREENTREES OF THE SPEARMAKER'S DEN, THE EDGER.

 *COMMUNICATION ENDS*

  

 Shan leaned back and closed his eyes, thoughts tumbling. The first was that the message came from the old boy himself, Val Con's very brother Edger, in whom Shan had never quite believed, no matter how well told the tale. The second was that, of course, it would have to be checked, fraud being however dimly possible.

 The third thought bestirred him to open his eyes and lean to the comm, touching keys, banishing Edger's message to memory as he opened a line to thePassage.

 "Shan - " Nova began, her worry apparent.

 He finished his query, hit SEND, and picked up his glass. "Annie, my own."

 "Shan-brother?"

 "Is Val Con alive, denubia? Progress report, please, as of this very moment, if possible."

 "Alive?" She blinked at him. "Of course."

 "Good. Wonderful, in fact." He stared at her over the rim of his glass. "Where?"

 He sensed confusion; frustration quickly sublimated into thought. Anthora closed her eyes, casting this way and that, for all the worlds like a dog hunting a scent. Nova stirred and began to speak, but Shan held up a hand, his eyes on the youngest of them all.

 "There!" she cried suddenly, finger pointing roofward and beyond, to what might be the Second Quadrant. She opened her eyes. "But a long way away, Shannie. I don't - whenyou're on Volmer you don't feel nearly so far away..."

 "How far beyond Volmer?" He caught the edge of her frustration again and leaned forward. "Have I ever felt that distant? If you remember an approximate time, we can check the log on thePassage - "

 But Anthora was shaking her head. "None of us has ever been that far - no. When Father - when Father was dying, at the very end - the day before he - he was that distant then...Oh, no!" Nova's pain broke over them, and Anthora flew forward to hug her and shake her. "He'salive, sister!Physical distance, not spiritual! I can't tell you how I know the difference - but there is one! And another difference - " She paused, looking to Shan, who nodded.

 "There's a - an - echo - around Val Con. It's like - it's like how I sense Priscilla - not directly, you see - but through Shan..."

 "His lifemate," Nova murmured, and suddenly spun. "Lifemate! Did you know of a lifemate? Who is she?"

 Shan sipped wine. "I'd say she's a person with a sense of humor: 'Miri Robertson Mercenary Soldier, Retired, Personal Bodyguard, Retired, Have Weapon Will Travel'? Also a person to treat with a bit of respect. As for who else she is, as soon as thePassage gets through to Terran Census - aha! Right on cue!"

 He touched the glowing purple stud and the screen filled with amber letters once more, this time forming Terran words.

 "Well, let's see: Planet of origin: Surebleak...Date of Birth: Day 28, Standard Year 1365; Tag: mutated within acceptable limits. Parents: Katalina Tayzin; Chock Robertson. Job Fee paid: Half-bit; Day 116, Standard 1375, poor child...Outmigrated Day 4, Standard 1379...Reason for Migration: Job opportunity. And the job? Ah, here we are..." He hit ADVANCE and shook his head. "Apprentice soldier, Lizardi's Lunatics, Fendor. Angela Lizardi, Senior Commander. Poor, poor child."

 "Mutated..." Nova was hanging over his shoulder, frowning at the screen.

 "Within acceptable limits," Shan completed. "Now, on a backward, low-tech world like, shall we say, Surebleak, the phrase 'mutated within acceptable limits' can mean several things. But mostly it means 'half or full Liaden.'" He tapped the screen. "My guess is that Katalina Tayzin has gotten her name mangled into something more or less Terran-sounding. Chock Robertson seems rather definite."

 "But whois she?" Nova demanded, running the advance down to blank screen.

 "She's a soldier, sister!" Shan snapped. "Where have your wits gone begging? We'll run an employment check on her through thePassage if you like, to find where she went after being apprenticed to Lizardi's Lunatics - but you already know the most important thing about her."

 Nova drew herself up and glared down at him. "Which is?"

 "She's Korval's Own Lifemate," Shan said, and drank his wine.

  

  

  

  

 ORBIT

  

 Interdicted World I-2796-893-44

  

 Flesh against flesh was warm, promoting drowsy comfort, though her exposed right flank was getting damn cold.

 Unwilling yet to let go of the drowse, Miri nestled closer to Val Con's warmth, too comfortable even to care that a long lock of her hair was trapped under their combined weight and pulled at her temple. She smiled a little to herself.

 Things had gotten pretty intense there, for a bit. It had started with her reaching to touch his right cheek - the one the Juntavas had cut - by way of saying "good night."

 His eyes had opened wide; his fingers had lifted and traced the line of the scar. "It does not repel you?"

 "Huh?" She blinked, then shook her head against his shoulder. "People get hurt in fights sometimes. Better a scar or two than something more fatal."

 "Ah." Once more his fingers passed lightly across his own cheek; then they were at the lacings of her shirt, baring her breast and touching the faint white pucker where she had caught a near-spent pellet, way back on Contrast. Rolling with her so that he was half on top, he bent his head to kiss the scar.

 Miri had had her share of scrapes - maybe more than her share of scars, what with her father...But Val Con, unlike one loobelli of a civilian she had slept with, did not ask where they were from, but just patiently and thoroughly sought each one out to kiss and caress until she had gotten a little intense, herself.

 Now she snuggled even closer to his side, the steady beat of his heart filling her ears. He had even found the scars on her feet, from when she had kicked the grille out of the door and tried to walk away from the rehab center, her light house slippers hanging in bloody rags. She would have made it, too, except Liz had found her and made her swear to finish the therapy.

 No sense, of course, she thought. Went to all that trouble to make sure Klamath didn't get me and almost let Cloud have me for nothing.

 She stirred sharply, completely awake and almost breathless, as if she had suddenly found herself standing at the very edge of a sheer drop. Cloud. She had jammed so much of the stuff into her system by the time Liz had dragged her to rehab, she had barely remembered her own name.

 And what if he asks you where you got them scars? she demanded of herself. You gonna tell him the truth, Robertson? Huh? Rich kid from Liad, hobnobs with the best people? Think he's gonna stand by words he said to some snip from Surebleak who was so addicted to Cloud it's a wonder she ever came away whole? Think it's gonna matter to him how long you been clean?

 "Cha'trez?" His arms tightened, and he craned to see her, green eyes hazy and half asleep. "Is something wrong?"

 She started, then reached up, touched his lips, and brushed her fingertips over the scar, aching at the beauty of him.

 "You're on my hair," she said.

  

 Miri woke alone, her head pillowed on Val Con's folded vest. She sighed, stretched deliberately, and was wide awake by the time the stretch was done. From the bridge she heard the radio's unceasing blather; she sighed again, rolled to her feet, and hurriedly pulled on her clothes before heading that way, his vest swinging in her hand.

 Val Con stood, deep in thought. The bottle-shaped continent from the planet below had taken on three dimensions, overrunning the bridge: the neck of the bottle started in the companionway, and its bottom ran into the pilot's chair.

 Miri shook her head in wonderment and leaned against the doorjamb to watch.

 Duct tape from the repair box was rumpled into mountain ranges running north and south, gaps precisely cut out to allow river systems their courses. Spare instrument lamps dotted the map, some singly, others clustered. There were several pipe pieces in the map, each with a number written on the floor next to it.

 Marking pens had also been used with art. The rivers had boundaries of blue, while some areas were enclosed by curly green lines and others simply outlined in brown. Three paper spaceships sat next to the three largest lamp-clusters; Val Con held another in his left hand. In his right was a ragged block of metal the Yxtrang had torn from somewhere.

 Miri gazed at the arrangement thoughtfully. "If you bring your transport down 'round the oceanside of the blue lamps, you can take out the red ones before they know what hit 'em, then use their supplies to take the ship. Blue's gonna have to get involved to protect themselves, so you sit tight and let 'em bang their heads against your position for a bit, then mop up and go on a tiger hunt for green..."

 He looked up, grinning and bright-eyed. "Are we invading, then, Sergeant?"

 "Sure looks like a situation map to me, Commander."

 Val Con stepped out of his construction, gently placing the fourth paper spaceship near one edge of the continent before moving to her. He kept the chink of metal in his hand.

 "I don't doubt your invasion would work," he said, "but I am not a general, alas, and would hesitate to direct it."

 "Don't blame you. Invasions are messy. Course, garrison duty's boring."

 "And limited by supplies."

 "Like us." She nodded at the map. "What's with the world view?"

 He turned carefully to avoid stepping on a mountain range and pointed. "The lamps are towns, as lit when we pass over them at night. More lamps become a city - like here - and fewer are villages or less. So the blue is a large town or a small city, one with four transmissions from it."

 "The pipes are transmission towers?"

 He nodded. "The green is the largest city, and I suspect it has an airport of some consequence."

 "And that?" She pointed at the metal block in his hand. "Where does that go?"

 He hefted it, walked two graceful steps into the map, and very precisely placed it between the coastal mountains and a single red lamp, not far from where he had placed the paper spaceship. "There."

 "Fine," Miri approved. "What is it?"

 "Us."

 She frowned at the map, letting the picture build in her mind. "The idea is to leave the ship in the mountains, then walk down that pass there - if it is a pass - and hope there's some way we can work things out to meet peoplebefore we go to town?"

 He nodded. "It is the best course of action I can envision, given the limited data we have been able to gather." He sighed. "This is not a Scout ship." He seemed genuinely annoyed with the yacht for that shortcoming, and Miri grinned briefly before walking the perimeter and stepping in beside him.

 "When do we land?"

 "When the time is propitious," he murmured, idly adjusting the metal block with his foot.

 "You figure the propitious time will he soon?" she persisted. "Reason I ask is we only got another two days of fish and maybe three of crackers, and then what we got is water."

 "Ah," he said, shifting slightly to take another look at his creation before turning and smiling down into her eyes. "In that case, I would say that the most propitious time is immediately after lunch."

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Trealla Fantrol

  

 Korval's man of business was closeted with the First Speaker, but before being whisked away he had managed one minor bit of magic and produced a credit history on Miri Robertson, Terran citizen. Shan slid the disk from the old gentleman's fingers with a smile. "Exactly what I was needing, sir. My thanks," he said, and carried it off.

 Alone in his rooms, he fed the information to the computer and took a sip from his glass.

 Apparently financial institutions did not consider mercenary soldiers good credit risks. There was a string of six "Applied. Credit Denied" before a surprising "Loan granted, Bank of Fendor, one-half cantra to Miri Robertson payable over a period of not more than four Standard Years at interest of 10.5%. Co-signator, Angela Lizardi. Collateral in form of Pension Fund 98-1077-45581 carried by Ilquith Securities. Transaction completed Day 353 Standard 1385."

 Angela Lizardi again - apparently a commander who took active interest in her soldiers. And Miri Robertson pledges her pension for half a cantra cash, he thought. I wonder why.

 The screen supplied no answer, but it did reflect an exemplary payment record, and then the notation "Balance paid in full, Day 4, Standard 1388."

 She earned a bonus and killed the thing, Shan surmised, sipping wine. It was the best she could have done at ten point five. He touched a key and the credit file faded, to be replaced a heartbeat later by an employment history.

  

 1379: APPRENTICE SOLDIER, LIZARDI'S LUNATICS.

  

 The Lunatics had taken and fulfilled a series of contracts on a number of worlds: Eskelli, Porum, Contrast, Skittle, Klamath.

 Shan froze.Klamath?

 He had just extended a hand to request more information when the annunciator chimed.

 "Come!"

 The door whispered open behind him as he impatiently tapped keys.

 "Klamath?" Anthora asked, leaning on his shoulder. "What's Klamath?"

 "That is what we're trying to find out. We are, in fact, hoping my memory has finally deteriorated to the point that someone must be assigned to lead me about. Exercise your influence, sister, and see that it's Priscilla?"

 She laughed. "As if I had any! And what use would you be to Priscilla without a memory?"

 "The same use I'll be to her with impaired hearing. Do stop bellowing in my ear."

 She stuck her tongue in it.

 "That will do," he said. "Bring a chair over and sit nicely or leave."

 "Yes, Shan-brother."

 He glanced up as she moved away. "Tell me, denubia, did the contract-husband leave with all faculties intact? If yos'Galan owes for mental disability it would be best for me to settle it before thePassage leaves."

 "I was very nice to him, Shannie. Truly I was." She dragged the chair into place and sat primly, hands folded in her lap. "Like this?"

 "Precisely like that. Pretend you've had upbringing. Now if only the damned computer - Aha! Progress!"

 The screen filled with amber letters, scrolling. Shan let it run, then slapped PAUSE and was silent for longer than it should have taken him to read the information there.

 Anthora leaned back from her own perusal, frowning at his face and at his pattern, which had suddenly gone flat with pity.

 "The world shook apart?" she asked tentatively. "It is horrible, Shannie, but why are we looking at it? I thought you were trying to find out about Val Con's lady."

 "I am," he said expressionlessly, allowing the screen to continue a slow scroll. "She was there. Lizardi's Lunatics was one of the mercenary units hired to fight in the local civil war. A handful of people got off-planet before things went so unstable that rescue were hopeless. Countless people died, civilians and soldiers..." He touched PAUSE once more. "Survivors, Lizardi's Lunatics: Angela Lizardi, Senior Commander, Roth MacNealy, Brevet Lieutenant; Miri Robertson, Sergeant; Scandal Arbuckle, Private; Lassiter K. Winfield, Private.Five. Gods, a full-staffed unit is nearly three hundred!"

 "She has the luck," Anthora said gravely, and Shan felt the hairs rise on his neck.

 "Does she?"

 But his sister was frowning. "Isn't it odd? I always thought Val Con would chose a lady who was a musician, like he is."

 "We don't know that she's not," Shan pointed out. "Though gods alone know what she might have to sing about."

 Anthora turned wondering silver eyes on him. "She's alive."

 "So she is." He tapped another series, recalling the employment history. "Let's see what else she's done with her life, then, shall we?"

 Lizardi's Lunatics had been deactivated in 1384, and there was a two-year blank in Miri Robertson's record until she showed up again as sergeant with the Gyrfalks, under Senior Commander Suzuki Rialto and Junior Commander Jason Randolph Carmody. There followed another list of contracts accepted and fulfilled, interspersed with notations of the excellence of Sergeant Robertson's performance. In 1388 her rank was increased to sergeant master. In 1391 she resigned. Commanders Rialto and Carmody let the record show their sorrow at that decision and their willingness to take the sergeant back into the Gyrfalks at any time.

 Some months later Miri Robertson was certified as bodyguard to a Sire Baldwin of Naome, and there the record ended, except for a muted chime indicating that auxiliary information was available.

 Shan glanced at Anthora. "Well, sister? Do we press on?"

 "By all means!" she cried, and wriggled a little to show the intensity of her interest.

 Grinning, Shan touched the proper key. The auxiliary file clicked in and his grin faded.

 In 1392, five Standard months after Miri Robertson had become Sire Baldwin's bodyguard, a party of Juntavas attacked the estate, killing many of the household staff. Of those listed missing and presumed escaped: Baldwin himself...and Miri Robertson.

 The aux file faded, and Shan leaned back in his chair. "Well, sister? Does she still have the luck?"

 "It seems so," Anthora said softly. "After all, she got from Naome to Lufkit, and then from Lufkit to Lufkit Prime Station and as far as wherever she and Val Con are now, and they're both alive." She tipped her head. "Doesn't that sound like the luck to you, Shannie?"

 "Unfortunately," he said after a small pause. "it does." He sighed and rubbed the tip of his nose. "Does it occur to you that Clutch-turtles might well mistake relationships between humans? By Space, we don't even know that that damned message is from Edger!"

 "Mr. dea'Gauss had a tracer put on the pin-beam," Anthora said. "Verification hasn't been made yet, but he feels there's small doubt that the message is genuine. And Itold you, brother - I can see Val Con's lady through him, just like I see Priscilla through you!"

 He turned to stare at her. "So you did." He touched keys, shut down the screen, reclaimed the disks, and slipped them safely away. "Which reminds me that I'm to dine with Priscilla this evening. Talk about a coil! If Val Con had his heart set on the woman, why couldn't he bring her home? And when did he have time to court and lifemate anyone? Unless..." He pushed away from the desk, stretching to his full six feet, reducing Anthora to a plump, precocious child.

 "Unless?" she asked.

 He bent to kiss her forehead. "A question for Jeeves on my way out, that's all. Please assure Nova that I'm at her command. We'll be dining at Ongit's before going back to Pelthraza Street. And tell Gordy I'll expect to see him here early tomorrow morning. He's loafed long enough."

 "Oh, no," Anthora said earnestly. "He's been working very hard! Karea seems particularly pleased."

 "I'm delighted for them both." He gave her a gentle shove toward the door. "I'm off to visit Syl Vor and Padi - then a quick word with Jeeves and away! Be a good child, now, and help your sister."

 "All right, Shannie," said the most powerful wizard on Liad, and went docilely down the hall.

  

 With some difficulty Jeeves was discovered crouched in a corner of the hearthroom, swaddled in cats, head-ball dim in what Val Con had used to call "sleep." Shan cleared his throat.

 "Sir?" The ball glowed to gentle orange life.

 "Please don't get up! I only need to ask you a question - youare available for questions, aren't you, Jeeves? It wouldn't concern me quite so much except that you're the brains to Trealla Fantrol, and if we were to have an intruder while you're napping with the cats I don't know what would happen."

 "The intruders would be repelled, sir. I was not asleep, but merely offering comfort."

 Shan rubbed the tip of his nose. "Comfort? I am to understand that the cats are distressed?"

 "They miss Master Val Con, sir."

 "They do." Shan considered the various and varicolored felines draped around Jeeves's metallic person. "I hesitate to mention this - but Pil Tor and Yodel have nevermet Master Val Con."

 "Quite right, sir. But Merlin has told them all about him, so they feel his absence as keenly as the rest."

 A grizzled gray tabby curled near the head-ball opened one yellow eye, as if daring a challenge to that explanation.

 Shan swept a bow. "Never would I doubt you, sir."

 The cat closed his eye, and the man swallowed a laugh. "Jeeves, if I might ask you to cast your mind back seven or eight Standards - possibly more: Has my brother ever mentioned the person Miri Robertson in your presence?"

 There was silence. Shan bore it for nearly a minute.

 "Jeeves?"

 "Working, sir. I anticipate completion of the match in approximately - done. Master Val Con has never spoken of or to Miri Robertson in my presence." After a slight and unrobotic hesitation, Jeeves said, "Forgive me."

 "There's nothing to forgive, old friend. I had a notion Val Con had been lifemated for a few years and had simply forgotten to let us know. Exactly the sort of thing that might slip one's mind, after all. It was dimly possible that he'd said something to you, however, the dangers of Scouts and soldiers being what they are."

 "You speak in the context of a will."

 "Exactly in the context of a will."

 The orange ball flickered, and Merlin flicked a reproachful ear. "The will I have on file for Master Val Con has not been altered since Standard 1382. It does not mention Miri Robertson."

 "And that," Shan said, "would seem to be that. Thank you, Jeeves, you've been very helpful. Do continue comforting the cats."

 "The comfort is two-way, sir."

 Shan sighed. "Are you distressed, Jeeves?"

 "It is merely that I, too, miss Master Val Con."

 "I see. Forgive me if this offends, but Val Con and I built you, which means - "

 "I was Master Val Con's idea."

 Shan blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

 "I was Master Val Con's idea," Jeeves repeated, moving an arm to rub a restive tigerstripe. "You said so yourself, sir, several times during my construction."

 "So I did." And a more cork-brained scheme, he added silently, may I never again be party to! "My thanks for calling that so my attention. Carry on."

 "Thank you, sir. Good evening, sir."

 Shan's footsteps faded down the hallway, and in a moment Jeeves noted the opening and closing of the door to the south patio. One of the younger cats, Yodel, mewed faintly and twitched in her sleep. Jeeves moved a hand to stroke her.

 "There, there," he said. "There, there."

  

  

  

  

 ORBIT

  

 Interdicted World I-2796-893-44

  

 The sound of the ship around them went from solid hum to pulsing throb as Miri slid into the copilot's seat. Val Con sat in the pilot's chair, hands moving with precision over the switches and keys and toggles as if he were playing the omnichora. All screens were up, showing different and changing views of the world below while the radio mumbled to itself. A number of the lights on the central board glowed red, a fact that Miri decided to ignore.

 "No power left to shunt from the coils," Val Con murmured. "Altitude control jets low on fuel. Rocket thrust? Ah, well, rockets are only a luxury, after all..."

 Miri considered the side of his face. "Is this dangerous?"

 "Hmm? Strap in, please, cha'trez. We are approaching a mark." A slim finger touched a readout that was counting large blue numbers down from ten. Miri engaged the webbing as the numbers ran down. There was a sharp push and a heavy vibration as zero flashed. Val Con flipped a quick series of toggles, and the worst of the vibration faded.

 "Is - this - dangerous?" Miri asked again, spacing the words and increasing the volume a tad, on the slim chance he hadn't heard her the first time.

 His smile flickered, and he reached to take her hand. "Dangerous? We are descending with neither reserve rockets nor jet power to a planet without landing beacons, without an actual touchdown point chosen, and without being invited." The smile broadened. "A textbook exercise."

 "Sure," Miri muttered. "And how many people get hurt when a textbook crashes?"

 Val Con raised an eyebrow. "You doubt my skill?"

 "Huh?" She was startled. "No, hey, look, boss, I ain't a pilot! I just gotta know if we're gonna get down - " She stopped because he was laughing, his hand warm around hers.

 "Miri, I will contrive to bring us down as safely as possible, considering circumstances." He squeezed her fingers and let them go, turning back to his board. "As for whether wewill get down, the answer is yes. We are no longer moving rapidly enough to maintain orbit."

 She watched him go through another series of adjustments, then shook her head as he leaned back in the chair. "Tough Guy," she murmured.

 He glanced over. "Yes."

 "Tell the troops just enough to keep 'em honest, doncha?" she said, not sure if she felt admiration or frustration. "Got some guts - this stuff here." She waved a hand at the red-lit board. "Playing chicken with the Yxtrang...What were the chances of us getting out alive, when you pulled that hysteresis thing and we Jumped outta there?"

 "Ah." He faced her seriously. "The pilot did not expect to reenter normal space."

 "Thought we'd come apart in hyper," she translated and nodded to herself, thinking.

 At the conclusion of thought, she reached over and patted his arm. "Good. Best choice there was. Yxtrang boarding party, against us two, even if we are hell on wheels..." She shook her head. "And I wouldn't want to have to shoot you. Heard that was the best thing to do for your partner, Yxtrang ever gets you cornered."

 "There are sometimes," Val Con murmured, "other options."

 "Yeah? How many Yxtrang you ever talk to in person?"

 "One," he said promptly. "Though it is true that I took him unaware."

 Miri blinked at him, then glanced at the ruddy board and at each of the screens in turn. "Remember to tell me about it," she managed at last. "Later."

 "Yes, Miri," he said, sternly controlling his twitching lips, and turned back to the board.

  

 The planet spun beneath them five times on the inbound spiral.

 Miri watched the screens in fascination - she had never been on the flight deck ofanything on a trip downworld before - and meticulously copied information Val Con read off to her: coordinates of major features, drainage patterns of important river basins, the direction and strength of atmospheric jet streams.

 Her duties also included monitoring the radio, which still gave out its gabble of nonsense words and earsplitting music. But on the third pass over the continent south of their target something different came over the speaker.

 Bringing the volume up, Miri heard the excited voices and the boom and thunder of heavy guns.

 "Boss?" she asked quietly.

 He glanced away from his board, frowning at the radio noise.

 "Somebody's having a war," Miri said, and he sighed, hands and eyes already back to the business of piloting.

 Miri kept with it, hearing the despair in the man's voice on the radio and counting the rhythms of the bursts and explosions until they were out of range. She found the station again on the next pass, but it was only playing music. And on the next pass they were inside the ion shield and could not hear anything at all.

  

 The meager stars had given way to local dawn when Val Con finally brought the ship down. Miri found the switch from a ballistic trajectory to magnetic control unexpectedly harrowing: the deceleration reminded her all too vividly of their close call with the Yxtrang. The final lurch brought forth an involuntary burst of swearing, which she squelched in embarrassment, for by that time the ship was flying smoothly.

  

 Val Con sealed the hatch behind them and slid the key into his pouch, shivering in the crystal air.

 Miri tipped her head. "You cold?"

 "Only a little," he murmured, lifting a brow. "Aren't you?"

 She grinned, stretching tall on her toes. "Where I come from, Tough Guy, this is high summer." Then she, too, shivered as a random breeze ran through the ravine. "Course, when you get as old as me, your blood starts to thin out."

 "So? I had no idea you were as old as that."

 "You didn't ask; I didn't say." She frowned at the crouched ship, a pitted metal boulder among a tumble of rock. "Should we hide it better?"

 "This should suffice. The country does not look well traveled, and from the air it will seem just another rock. We are only in difficulty if local technology proves to include long-range metal detection." He sighed. "We could send it into orbit, but there might be a way to repair..." His voice drifted off.

 "So, for better or worse." She came closer and slid a small hand into his."Carpe diem, and all like that." She grinned, and he smiled faintly, squeezing her hand as she looked around. "Well, where's this town of yours? I could sure use a cup of coffee."

 "West," he said, and smiled at her confusion."That way," he elaborated, pointing.

 "Whyn't you say so? Though how you can tell up from down this soon after 'fall beats hell out of me." She shivered again in another eddy of breeze and wrinkled her nose. "Guess we better start walking."

 "It would seem best," he agreed. He slipped away, moving like a shadow over the broken shale, Miri silent at his back.

  

 An hour later they rested by a stream. Val Con knelt, cupped a hand into the rapid current - and turned his head as if he had heard the cry of protest she had stilled.

 "Cha'trez, the water is good," he assured her. "Nor do I think the vegetables or grains will do us harm. The meat should also be edible. Whether all the nutritional needs of our bodies are met we must wait and see." He cupped his hand again and drank, then rose, sighing. "Had we been abandoned in a Scout ship instead of a smuggler's yacht we would have known these things with certainty before landing. As it is, we ride the luck."

 Miri closed her eyes as he came to sit beside her."Carpe diem," she muttered, willing herself to relax.

 "What is that?"

 She opened her eyes to find him watching her. "What's what?"

 "Carpe - diem? It does not sound Terran - and you have said it several times."

 "Oh." She frowned. "Actually, itis Terran - at least, it'sfrom Terra. Latin, I think the language was. Real old. I remember reading that two or three of the languages Terran derives from came from Latin, first." She paused, but he was watching her face with apparent interest.

 "Time I was - sick - right after Klamath," she continued, "I got to read lots. Book I liked best was calledDictionary of Phrase and Fable. It was sort of a list of things that people had said or believed - and sometimesstill said - and next to each one was an explanation of what it was really supposed to mean.

 "Carpe diem,now - that's supposed to mean, 'seize the day,' enjoy yourself while you can. Seemed like good advice." She shook her head and smiled. "Great book. Sorry I had to give it back."

 "How long were you able to spend with the book?" he asked gently. "After Klamath?"

 "Hmm? Ah, not too long. Got busted up toward the end of things - my own damn fault. Got cocky." She shifted, breaking his gaze. "You want a sandwich before we get on?"

 Both brows rose. "Salmon?"

 "Got four," she told him earnestly.

 "I think that I am not hungry, thank you." He came to his feet in one fluid motion and reached down to help her up, though he knew she could rise as easily as he, unaided.

 "Besides," he said, pressing her hand warmly before letting her go. "I thought you wanted that cup of coffee."

  

 The town sat in a three-sided bowl made of mountains, clustered in the center of a valley that was merely a widening of the pass they walked through. It was not a large town, which was good, and no one was yet abroad, though the sun had been up for several hours. In the near distance Val Con made out a field of some type of grain, while closer in -

 Miri was not at his back.

 He turned slowly and found her seated astride a fallen log, staring down into the protected little town, tension sharp in the lines of her face, in the set of her shoulders, and in the slender hands folded too still upon her knee.

 He moved, deliberately scraping boot heel against stone. She started and looked at him.

 "Mind if I rest a minute?" she asked, tension singing beneath the words.

 "As long as you like." Silent again, he went to the log and sat behind her, putting his arms loosely around her waist, feeling her taut in every muscle. Laying his cheek against her hair, he exhaled gently. "What is it, cha'trez?"

 "Iwas gonna askyou." She flung her hands out with suppressed violence, directing his attention to the valley below. "What is it?"

 He considered. Then, he said softly, "A town. Civilians. Not, it is true, a very large town - but sufficient for our present needs. A pattern such as this many times includes outlying farms or homes. If this place is true to that pattern, then that is very good for us. It may be possible for us to go to a single home and offer to trade labor for - language lessons."

 She drew a deep breath."That's a town?"

 "Certainly it's a town," he said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. "What else would it be?"

 "The gods alone know. It's so small..." Her voice faded, significant of growing tension.

 "So? Then perhaps we should take a few moments to study what we see." He raised an arm, pointing. "That large affair, there, with the many windows? That's probably a government building of some kind. It seems to have the proper hauteur about it."

 She chuckled - a good sign - and it seemed that she relaxed, ever so slightly. "And that squatty one, with the railing around the front?"

 "A trading post," he guessed. "Or a small store." He pointed again. "What do you make of the little blue one?"

 "A barbershop? Or a bar?" She laughed a little, and the tension was definitely easing. "Both?"

 "Perhaps - though I think it would be a bit crowded for either. And the metal objects - they do seem to be metal, do you think? - along the sides of the thoroughfare?"

 "Cabs!" Miri announced with certainty, relaxing back into him. He moved his cheek away from her hair and slanted a glance at the side of her face. She was smiling slightly. Good.

 "So? Then tell me about that one - you see? Over behind the little blue one - with the tower and the knob on the top?"

 She was silent for a moment, then blinked and grinned. "A bordello."

 "Do you really think so?" he murmured. "Perhaps we should go there first."

 She laughed - a true laugh - her head against his shoulder, then abruptly sobered. "Val Con?"

 "Yes?"

 "You're a sneak."

 He lifted a brow. "It is a common failing, I am told, among Liadens."

 "That's what Terrans say." She frowned. "What do Liadens say?"

 "Ah, well. Liadens..." He tightened his arms around her in a quick hug. "Liadens are very formal, you know. So it is likely that they would not say anything at all."

 "Oh." She took a breath. "What do we do now?"

 "I think we should take off our guns and put them in our pouches. In some places the possession of a weapon makes a person suspect, even, perhaps, a criminal. And I think we should each have another sandwich - so that we do not grow proud - " He echoed her laugh softly. "After we eat, we should go down into the valley and look for one of those outlying farms I spoke of, to see if we might not trade the labor of our strong young bodies for a roof and food and lessons in language."

 "All that on a sandwich? Well, you're the boss."

 "And when," he inquired, "will you be boss?"

 "Next week." She stood, pulled a plastic-wrapped package out of her pouch, and handed it to him to unwrap while she stripped off the gun and holster and stowed them away.

  

  

  

  

 VANDAR

  

 Springbreeze Farm

  

 "Borril!Here, Borril! Wind take the animal, where - ahha! So there you are, sir! No skevitts this morning? Or did they all sit in the treetops and laugh at you? Ah, now, old thing..." She finished in a much sweeter tone, as the dog flung himself at her feet with awhuff and lay gazing up at her, worship in his beady yellow eyes.

 She bent carefully, rubbed her knuckles briskly across his head ridges, and yanked on his pointy ears. Straightening, she sighed and eased her back, her eyes dwelling on the marker before her: "Jerrel Trelu, 1412-1475. Beloved zamir..."

 Beloved zamir - what bosh! As if it had not just been Jerry and Estra, working the farm and raising the boy and doing what needed to be done, one thing at a time, side by side, him leaning on her, her leaning on him. Beloved husband, indeed!

 A wind blew across the yard, straight down from Fornem's Gap, ice-toothed with winter, though it was barely fall. Zhena Trelu shivered and pulled her jacket close around her. "Wind gets colder every year," she muttered, and pulled herself up sharp. "Listen at you! Just the kind of poor-me you hate in Athna Brigsbee! Mooning the morning away like there wasn't any work to do!"

 She snorted. There was always work to do. She bent creakily and gathered up the sweelims she had picked for the parlor - she liked a bit of color to rest her eyes on in the evening when she listened to the radio or read. "Let's go, Borril. Home!"

 The wind sliced out of the gap again, but she refused to give it the satisfaction of a shiver. The signs all pointed to a bad winter. She sighed, her thoughts on the house she and Jerry had lived a lifetime in. The shutters needed mending; the chimney had to be cleaned and the tin inspected for corrosion - though what she could do about it if the whole roof was on the verge of falling in was more than she knew. It was a big, drafty old place, much too big for one old woman and her old dog. It had always been too big, really, even when there had been Jerrel and the boy and, later, the boy's zhena - and the dogs, of course. Always four or five dogs. Now there was only Borril, last of a tradition.

 As if her thought had reached out and touched some chord within him, the dog suddenly bounded forward, giving tongue in mock ferocity, charging around the side of the house and out of sight.

 "Borril!" she yelled, but any fool would know that that was useless. She picked up her pace and arrived at the corner of the house in time to hear Borril, in full stranger-at-the-gate alarm.

 Across the barking cut a man's voice, speaking words Zhena Trelu understood to be foreign.

 She rounded the corner and stopped in surprise.

 Borril was between her and two strangers - barking and wagging his ridiculous puff of a tail. The taller of the two spoke again, sharply, and the barking subsided.

 "Be quiet, dog!" Val Con snapped. "How dare you speak to us like that? Sit!"

 Borril was confused. The tone was right, but the sounds were different than the sounds She used. He hesitated, then heard Her behind him and ran to Her side, relieved to be out of the situation.

 "Borril, you bad dog! Sit!"

 That was better. Borril sat, tail thumping on the ground.

 "Iam sorry," Zhena Trelu continued, trying not to stare. "Borril really is quite friendly. I hope he didn't frighten you."

 Again, it was the taller who spoke, opening his hands and showing her empty palms. Zhena Trelu frowned. It did not take a genius to figure out that he did not understand what she was saying.

 Sighing, she stepped forward."Stay, Borril." As she moved, the two men came forward also, stopping when shock stopped her.

 The shorter man was not a man at all. Not, that is, unless foreigners of whatever variety these were allowed a man the option of growing his hair long, braiding it, and wrapping it around his head liken vulgar copper crown. A woman, then, Zhena Trelu allowed. Or, more precisely, a girl. But dressed in such clothes!

 Zhena Trelu was not a prude; she knew quite well what useful garments trousers were - especially working around the farm. But these...

 First, they seemed to be made of leather - sleek, black leather. Second, they were skintight, hugging the girl's boy-flat belly and her - limbs - and neatly tucked into high black boots. The upper garment - a white shirt of some soft-looking fabric - was acceptable, though Zhena Trelu thought it might have been laced a little closer around that slender throat; and the loose leather vest was unexceptional. But what in the name of ice did a woman want to wear such a wide belt for? Unless it was to accentuate the impossible tininess of her waist?

 "Am Ithat funny-looking?" Miri asked, and Zhena Trelu started, eyes going to her face.

 No beauty, this one, with her face all sharp angles and freckles across the snubbed nose. The chin was square and willful, the full mouth incongruous. Her only claim to prettiness lay in a pair of very speaking gray eyes, at present resting with resigned irony on the other woman's face.

 Zhena Trelu felt herself coloring. "I beg your pardon," she muttered. She moved her eyes from the girl to her companion - and found herself staring again.

 Where the angles of the girl's face seemed all at odds with each other, the lines in her companion's face worked toward a cohesive whole. High cheeks curved smoothly to pointed chin; the nose was straight and not overlong; the mouth was generous and smiling, just a little. His hair was dark brown, chopped off blunt at the bottom of his ears, and one lock of it straggled across his forehead, over level dark brows and quite nearly into the startling green eyes. His skin was an odd golden color, except for the raw slash of a recent scar across his right cheek.

 He was dressed in the same sort of clothes as the girl, the clinging leather and the wide belt keeping no secrets regarding his own thinness.

 Zhena Trelu frowned. The girl's skin was pale, doubly so when compared to the man's rich complexion. And they both looked tired. Skinny, too - never mind the outlandish clothes - and foreigners to top it all, without even a word of the language.

 The wind sliced across the open lawn; the girl shivered - and that decided it. If the child was sickening for something she needed to be out of the wind. What was her zamir thinking of, to have her out in the chilly autumn weather with no jacket on and that shirt laced up so loose? Zhena Trelu glared at him, and one of his eyebrows rose slightly as he tipped his head, rather like Borril trying to puzzle out one of the rambling monologues she addressed no him.

 "Well," she told the young zhena sharply, "you might as well come on in. There's soup for dinner to warm you up, and you can have a rest before you get on." She turned and marched up to the house, treading carefully on the creaky porch steps.

 Realizing that he was in danger of being left behind, Borril jumped up and galloped across the lawn, taking the three wooden steps in a bumbling leap. Zhena Trelu, fidgeting with the chancy catch on the wind door, grumbled at him.

 "Borril, sitdown, you lame-witted creature.Borril!" she raised her voice as he jumped, almost knocking her down.

 "Borril." From her back, a steady voice spoke, firm with command. Woman and dog turned to look.

 The slender zamir stood on the second step, bent slightly forward, one golden hand extended. "Borril!" he repeated firmly. "Sit."

 Zhena Trelu watched in fascination as the dog waggled forward and thrust his blunt nose into the outstretched hand. "Sit," stated the owner of the hand again.

 Borril sat.

 The man reached out and tugged lightly on a pointy ear, turning his head as the girl came to his side.

 "Borril?" she asked, extending a wary hand. The silly creaturewhuffed and pushed his head forward. In careful imitation of her companion, she tugged on an ear. Borril flung himself onto his side in ecstasy, rolling his eyes and sighing soulfully. The girl threw back her head and laughed.

 Zhena Trelu turned back to the catch and pulled the door wide.

 "Well, come on," she snapped when they just stood there, staring at her from the second step. "And don't pretend you're not hungry. Doesn't look like you've had a full meal between you since last harvest-time." Irritably, she transferred the sweelims to the hand holding open the door and waved at her hesitant guests with the other.

 After a moment, the man moved, coming silently up the last step and crossing the porch into the hall; the girl trailed him by half a step, and Zhena Trelu bit back a sharp lesson on manners. Did the girl think the house was a den of iniquity, that she sent her man in ahead?

 They're foreigners, Estra, she reminded herself as she led them down the ball. You're going to have to make allowances.

 She dumped the flowers into the sink, turned the flame up under the soup pot, and looked back to find them standing side by side just inside the door, looking around as if neither one had ever seen a kitchen before.

 "Soup'll be ready in a couple minutes," she said, and sighed at the girl's blink and the man's uncomprehending head-tip.

 Feeling an utter fool, she tapped herself on the chest. "Zhena Trelu," she announced, trying to say each word clearly and pitching her voice a little louder than normal.

 The man's face altered, losing years as he grinned. "Zhena Trelu," he said, matching her cadence.

 So, it works, she congratulated herself. She pointed at him, tipping her head in imitation of Borril.

 He moved his shoulders, lips parting for an answer.

 "Tell the truth, Liaden," Miri muttered at his side.

 His eyes snapped to her face, both brows up. Smiling in rueful resignation of what he found there, he turned back to the old woman and bowed very slightly, fingers over heart. "Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval."

 Zhena Trelu stared, trying to sort the sounds. Valconyos Fellum Can Corevahl? What kind of name - no, wait. Corevahl? He was a foreigner, after all, with wind only knewwhat kind of barbaric accent. She pointed. "Corvill?"

 The level brows twitched together, and he frowned, green eyes intent. "Korval," he agreed warily, though still thumping harder on the last syllable than the first.

 "Corvill." Zhena Trelu decided, and pointed at the girl, who grinned and shrugged.

 "Miri."

 "Meri?" Zhena Trelu asked, frowning.

 "Miri," she corrected, refusing to look straight at Val Con, though a glance out of the corner of her eye showed him grinning widely.

 "Meri," Zhena Trelu repeated, and brought her finger back to Val Con. "Corvill."

 He inclined his head, murmured, "Zhena Trelu," and jerked his chin at the dog, curled on his rug next to the stove. "Borril."

 "Well, that's fine. Now we're all introduced, and dinner's almost ready." The old woman went across to the stove, lifted the pot lid, and stirred the soup with a long wooden spoon. Going over to the cupboard. she pulled out three bowls and three plates, shoved them into the girl's hands, and waved at the table. "Set the table, Meri."

 The girl turned hesitantly toward the table. From the depths of the cupboard, Zhena Trelu produced three glasses and three mismatched napkins, which she handed to the man. He took them without apparent confusion and headed for the table. Zhena Trelu nodded to herself and went back to the sink to rescue the languishing sweelims.

 "Hello, Meri," Val Con murmured, setting the glasses by the bowls and plates she had laid out.

 "Hello yourself, Corvill, my friend. Sounds like you rhyme with Borril. Speaking of which, whatis Borril?" She looked up at him. "Besides ugly, I mean."

 "Hmm?" He was considering the napkins - one each of white, green, and pink. "Borril is a dog, Miri - or, no," he corrected himself. "Borril is of the species that fills the watch-pet niche here." He smiled at her. "For all reasonable purposes, a dog."

 "Oh." She looked at the napkins. "Who gets what color?"

 "An excellent question. I was wondering the same." He placed them carefully in the center of the table. "We shall discover."

 She grinned. "Clever. Something still missing though - oh." She turned and made her silent way across the kitchen to where the old woman was fussing with her flowers. "Zhena Trelu?"

 Zhena Trelu started, nearly overturning the vase, and recovered with a breathless laugh. "Goodness, child, but you gave me a fright. What is it?"

 Miri blinked at the unintelligible tirade, opened her mouth to ask for the missing items - and closed it again. The old lady wasn't going to understand any more than she was understood.

 All right, Robertson, she directed herself. Use your brain - if you got one.

 She looked about, then picked up the wooden spoon lying on the stove and showed it to Zhena Trelu. She turned and pointed at the table, beside which stood her partner, watching the proceedings with interest.

 The old woman looked at the spoon, looked at the table, and then laughed. "Oh, is my memory going back on me! Silverware, is that it?" she asked the girl, who only smiled, uncomprehending.

 Taking the spoon and putting it back where it belonged, Zhena Trelu went to the cupboard once more."Spoons," she said clearly."Knives. Forks."

 "Spoons."the girl repeated obediently as each set was placed in her hands."Knives. Forks."

 "That's right," Zhena Trelu said encouragingly. She made a sweeping motion with her hands, trying to indicateall the items the girl held."Silverware."

 Meri's brows pulled together in a frown."Silverware," she said, and the other woman smiled and went back to arranging flowers.

 "Spoons,"Miri told Val Con, shoving them into his hand."Knives. Forks." She frowned. "That all seems simple enough. You savvysilverware, boss?"

 "Perhapsknives, spoons, andforks are separate names andsilverware is the name for all together?"

 "Not too bad, for a bald-headed guess."

 He laughed softly. "But that is what being a Scout is - guessing, and then waiting to see if your guess was correct."

 "Yeah?" She looked unconvinced. "Ain't the way I heard it."

 "Ah,you heard we were heroes, risking our lives among savage peoples, magically able to speak any language we hear and never misunderstanding custom or intent." Mischief glinted in the bright green eyes.

 "Naw. Way I heard it, only things Scouts're good for is drinking up fancy liquor and tellin' tall tales 'bout the dragons they killed."

 "Alas, I am found out..."

 "Meri! Corvill! Bring your bowls over here now. Soup's hot."

 Miri grinned at him. "That's us - wonder what we're supposed to do now?"

 He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the old woman pull a ladle from its hook over the stove. "Bowls, I think," he murmured, and picked up two, moving toward the stove with a deliberately heavy step.

 Miri blinked at the unaccustomed noise, then shrugged, picked up the remaining bowl, and followed.

 Zhena Trelu smiled and ladled soup into the two bowls Corvill held ready. Then she filled Meri's bowl and touched the girl's shoulder. "Wait."

 She opened yet another drawer, produced a half-loaf of bread, and held it out. Miri took it in her free hand and carried it to the table.

 Zhena Trelu hesitated, nodded to herself, and went to the icebox, pulling out butter. Her hand hovered over the cheese for a moment before descending. Skinny as they were? How could there be a question?

 Butter and cheese balanced in one hand, she hefted the milk pitcher with the other and pushed the door shut with her knee. At the table she poured milk for all before looking around for her seat.

 They had left her the chair at the head of the table, she realized then: Jerrel's place. The two of them sat next to each other, in what in later years had come to be the boy's chair, and his wife's.

 Zhena Trelu smiled, pleased to see that they had not touched their soup. Manners, then, foreign or no. She picked up her spoon and had a taste, and they followed suit. Certain that they understood they were free to go on without her, she laid her spoon down, pulled the bread toward her, and laboriously sawed off three ragged slices. Then she took the cheese out of its paper and hewed off a largish chunk for each of them, laying it on the plates next to their bread.

 Her own slice she slid into the toaster, reminding herself to pay attention to it. There was something wrong with the contraption; lately it burned bread to cinders without ever giving warning that it was done.

 She picked up her spoon again and addressed the soup, watching her guests but trying not to stare.

 The boy was left-handed and ate seriously, giving his whole attention, apparently, to the meal.

 Meri was right-handed and appeared distracted, darting quick bird-glances around the room. She picked up her bread and broke it in half, using it to soak up some broth while she said something to the boy, who laughed and reached for his glass, and then jerked his head up, staring at the toaster.

 "Oh, wind take the thing!" Zhena Trelu cried, smacking the release. The toasterchingged! and discharged a scorched rectangular object that smoldered gently and dripped charred bits onto the tablecloth.

 "Damn you," she muttered, mindful of her company, and pulled the plug vindictively. She sawed off another piece of bread and buttered it, sighing.

 She offered her guests more of everything, but they either did not understand or were too shy to avail themselves of her hospitality. Zhena Trelu finished her milk, wiped her mouth carefully, and folded her hands in front of her, wondering what to do. The most reasonable course was so send them on their way; and, truth told, they did look more rested, though Meri's face was still paler than Corvill's.

 Miri tipped her head, catching Val Con's eye. "Now what?"

 "Now we pay for the meal," he murmured. He pulled the toaster toward him, turned it around, pushed down on the lever, and peered inside the bread slot. Miri watched him for a minute, then slipped out of her chair and gathered the dishes together.

 As she carried them to the sink, she heard Zhena Trelu address one of her incomprehensible comments to "Corvill," and glanced over her shoulder.

 The old woman had risen and was beckoning to Val Con, indicating that he should follow her. Picking up the toaster, he obeyed, throwing Miri a quick smile as he left the room.

 She swallowed hard, slamming the lid on an unexpected need to run after him. Deliberately she turned to the sink and worked out the gimmick for the water, then puzzled out the soap and stood holding it in her hand.

 Month ago you didn't know the man existed, she told herself sharply. Now you can't let him outta your sight?

 Adjusting the water temperature, she began to lather the soap, carefully thinking of nothing. By the time Zhena Trelu returned alone, the glasses were washed and draining, and the girl was scrubbing diligently at a bowl.

  

  

  

  

 VANDAR

  

 Springbreeze Farm

  

 What with one thing and another, it was only reasonable that they spend the night. Corvill fixed the toaster like a charm; it took him the better part of the afternoon, but Zhena Trelu was not critical. She could not have fixed it at all.

 Meri had been set to dusting after the dishes were done, and Zhena Trelu went out to milk the cow. By the time she came back, Corvill was waiting to show her the repaired toaster, and she exclaimed over that for a bit, even toasting a celebratory piece for everybody and doling out the last of the poquit jam.

 A startled glance at the clock about then told her it was time to start making supper, for which she drafted Meri's help, first directing Corvill's attention to the carpet sweeper.

 After supper, she went out to give the scuppins their evening grain while Meri and Corvill did the dishes. On the way back to the house she stopped, shivering in the wind, to look up at the rock-toothed gash that was Fornem's Gap. It was fixing to rain tonight, for sure...

 And who but a two-headed, heartless monster would send the pair of them on their way with night coming on and a cold rain due out of the gap before morning?

 On the porch she paused again, listening to the soft sound of their voices, talking their foreign talk as if the weird word-sounds actually meant something. Shaking her head, she tramped back into the kitchen.

 Meri was in the middle of a yawn, which she belatedly covered with a slender hand.

 "Tired?" Zhena Trelu asked, and sighed at the girl's blank smile.

 She reached out and firmly grasped one small hand. "Come with me."

 Turning down the right-hand hallway, she marched the two of them up the main flight and turned left, past the upstairs parlor and the attic stairs to the boy's old room. Pushing the door open, she yanked on the light cord and finally released Meri's hand to point at the double-wide bed where Granic and his zhena had slept - the same bed the young zhena had died in, struggling to birth a child too big for her.

 "You sleep there," she told Meri.

 The girl moved soundlessly over the rag rug and scrubbed floorboards to sit on the edge of the bed. She smiled and raised her hand to cover another yawn, while Corvill waited quietly by the door.

 "That's fine," Zhena Trelu said. "Good night, Meri." She nodded to the man. "Good night, Corvill."

 "Good night, Zhena Trelu," she heard him say softly as she pulled the door shut behind her.

  

 Val Con turned down the bed and undressed, folding his clothes onto the bench against the wall. Slipping under the covers, he took a deep breath, consciously relaxing, and let his eyes rest on Miri.

 She undressed, letting her clothes lie where they fell, and went to the mirror across the room, unwrapping the braid from around her head. It seemed that she swayed slightly where she stood, but he was tired enough to believe it only a trick of his eyes.

 "Come to bed, cha'trez."

 She turned her head and gave him a faint smile. "You convinced me."

 It took her too long to walk across the room - she was, indeed, swaying - and she sat on the edge of the bed with abump. "Why'm I so tired?"

 "Altitude, perhaps. Also, we have had to think very hard today - everything is strange, the words must be heard and remembered..." He shifted, pulling back the covers. "Miri, come to bed; you're cold."

 "Nag, nag." But she slipped under the covers, her face beginning to relax as she closed her eyes - and tensing again as she snapped them open. "Light. Aah, the hell with it." She closed her eyes with finality.

 The hell with it, he agreed silently, and closed his own eyes, letting the tide of weariness take him.

  

 Someone shouted his name; there were rough hands on his shoulders, and he was fighting, and the voice cried his name again, and it seemed familiar, and he opened his eyes with a jerk, staring uncomprehending at the face suspended above him.

 "It's Miri," she told him, breathlessly.

 "Yes." He was shaking, he realized, even more bewildered. The room beyond Miri's shoulder was brightly lit, composed, empty of threat. He looked back into her eyes. "What happened?"

 She let out a shaky breath. "You were having a nightmare. A bad dream." She released his shoulders and slid to one side, her cheek resting on her hand.

 A bad dream? He cast his mind after - and found it immediately; he recognized it for what it was and knew he was shaking harder. The bedclothes were stifling, in spite of his chill. He pushed them away and began to get up.

 "Val Con?"

 He looked at her, and she saw the lines etched around his mouth and the shadow of fear in the green eyes. He was trembling so hard she couldsee it. She put out a hand and covered his, feeling the cold and the shaking.

 "There's this old Terran cure for nightmares," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Goes like this: You have a bad dream, you tell somebody. Then you never have it again." She offered a smile, wondering if he heard her. "Works."

 He took a slow, deep breath, then lay back down like a thing made of wood and pulled the cover back over him.

 Miri moved closer, not touching but offering warmth, hoping to ease the trembling. She reached out to brush the hair from his eyes.

 "Not a dream," he said, and his voice was as rigid as his body. "A memory. When I was put on - detached duty - from the Scouts to the Department of the Interior I - received my orders and went to fulfill them - immediately, as instructed. I entered the proper building and walked down the proper hallway - and every step I took down that hall it seemed there was something - crying out? - screaming - in me - telling me to run, to go far away, to on no account continue forward..."

 "And did you?" she asked softly.

 He made a sound, which she did not think was laughter. "Of course I did. What else would I have done? Disobeyed orders? The dishonor - the disgrace...Gone eklykt'i? My Clan..." He was holding himself so stiffly that she thought he would break.

 "I continued down the corridor, fighting myself every step of the way - against every instinct I had otherwise. Against my hunch. The only time in my life I failed to heed a hunch..." He closed his eyes.

 Miri shifted beside him, worriedly.

 "I went down the hall," he said tonelessly, "through the proper door, handed my papers in, and commenced training as an Agent of Change. And they lied, gods, and made it seem truth and twisted what I saw and how I knew things and pushed and pulled inside my head until Val Con yos'Phelium was hardly more than a memory. And it hurt..." He took a breath that could not have filled his lungs - and suddenly the horrible control snapped and he was rolling toward her, his arms locking around her, his head burrowing into her shoulder.

 "Ah, Miri," he cried, anguish twisting in his voice. "Miri, ithurt..."

 And he burst into tears.

 She held him until it subsided, stroking the dark hair, running her hands down his back, feeling the tension going, going - gone, finally, with the sudden last of the tears. She held him a little longer and sighed; his breathing told her he was asleep.

 She shifted, trying to ease away, but his arms tightened, and he moved his head on her shoulder, muttering, so that she sighed, resigning herself to a cramped and sleepless night.

  

 She woke to find him looking very seriously into her face.

 "Morning," she said fuzzily."Is it morning?"

 "Early morning," he said softly. "I do not think Zhena Trelu is about yet."

 "Good." She moved, meaning to give him a kiss - and stopped.

 "What is wrong?" he asked.

 She shrugged, glancing away from the brightness of his gaze. "I'm never sure whether you want me to kiss you or not."

 "Ah, now that is very bad," he said. "A problem in communication. I suggest that the best course is for you to kiss me whenever you wish to do so. In this way you will eventually be able to ascertain when it is I most wish to be kissed."

 "Yeah?" She grinned and swooped down, intending the veriest peck on the cheek, but he shifted his head and caught her lips with his. His fingers were as suddenly in her hair, loosing the braid, stroking lightly...

 When the kiss was over, Miri lay trembling on his chest, looking at his face, all blurred with longing and lust and love. "Any more kisses like that," she said, hearing that her voice shook as well, "and I ain't guaranteeing the outcome."

 He smiled gently, one eyebrow slipping up. "It's early."

 She closed her eyes against the sight of him, against the sudden stab of - what?

 Robertson, she pleaded with herself, don't go sappy on me. She felt his fingers, feather light and trembling, moving down her cheek, stroking the curve of her throat.

 "Please, Miri," he said wistfully. "I wouldlike another kiss."

 Opening her eyes, she obliged him to the fullest extent possible.

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Solcintra Port

  

 Yes, the middle-aged voice assured Cheever in uptown Terran, the First Speaker would be delighted to see Mr. McFarland as soon as he arrived. Should a car he dispatched from Trealla Fantrol, or did he have his own transportation?

 "I got cab fare," Cheever growled, mistrusting the voice, the featureless grid from which it emanated, the packet in his inside vest pocket, and very nearly the turtle who had gotten him into this, except there was no sense to that. The turtle had dealt straight. Turtles always dealt straight.

 "Very good, then, sir," the voice told him. "The First Speaker awaits your arrival." The connection stud went dark.

 "Yeah, great," Cheever muttered as he stepped out of the booth into the noisy tide of Port traffic.

 He was nearly to the city gate before he saw a cab and waved it frantically to a halt. The Liaden woman in the driver's slot slanted him a look he was not sure he liked as he settled in the passenger's seat.

 "I want to go to Trealla Fantrol," he snapped in Trade.

 "Ah."

 Cheever glared at her. "You know how to get there, or doncha?"

 "I know the way. The question becomes, 'Can you afford the fare?'"

 He took a deep, frustrated breath. Damn Liaden was laughing at him. "You want your round-trip upfront, is that it? Name your choice: Unicredit, bits, or Liaden money, if you got change for a cantra."

 She stared at him for a long moment, apparently oblivious to the confusion her motionless vehicle was causing among Port pedestrians."You wish to go to Trealla Fantrol."

 Cheever clamped his jaw and refused to look down at his worn leathers, though the shirtsleeve he saw from the corner of his eye was far from clean.

 "Yeah, I do. This is a cab, ain't it? You can take me to Trealla Fantrol, right?"

 "Indeed, this is a cab. As for taking you to Trealla Fantrol..." The shoulders rippled, conveying nothing. "It is a pleasant morning for a drive."

 Abruptly the cab swerved into traffic, gained momentum, dashed down a side street, and, a moment later, sped through the main gates. Cheever sat back in the seat, swearing at shortened leg room, and stared out the window, thinking about his ship.

  

 Solcintra went by in a blurring zigzag of tree-lined streets. The ground pilot knew her quadrant inside out, Cheever allowed grudgingly, then snapped upright in the short seat as they sailed through a second gate - this one old and stone and shrouded with purple blossoms - and were abruptly in open country.

 "Hey!"

 The cabbie turned her head, forward velocity unchecked.

 "Where the hell we going?" Cheever yelled, staring in confusion at jade-green meadow on one side, trees on the other, and a twisty road running toward some kind of tower leaping up out of a stand of trees way on the far side of the valley.

 "We are going to Trealla Fantrol. It is the destination you chose. I merely agreed to take you - as far as we are allowed to go."

 There was an unmistakable note of malice in that last bit. Cheever silently cursed the Liaden race, this specimen in particular, and his own stupidity in mentioning that he had a cantra on him. She was going to take him to Trealla Fantrol, okay - the long way.

 "Where I want to go's in Solcintra," he tried, keeping his voice reasonable.

 "Then you do not wish to go to Trealla Fantrol."

 "Oh." He frowned out the window, where the tower across the valley was taking on more details by the second. In fact, it did not look like a tower at all, but a tree, except who had ever heard of a tree that tall? He pointed at it. "That Trealla Fantrol?"

 The cabbie laughed. "Indeed it is not. That is Jelaza Kazone. Perhaps you'd rather go there? Though I hear the Korval is not presently in residence."

 "Trealla Fantrol," Cheever said firmly, "is where the First Speaker of Clan Korval lives. Iknow that."

 "Do I dispute it? Look to your left hand and you will see the chimneys."

 He found seven of them, crowning a tight cluster of trees, then lost sight of all as the cab plunged down a steep incline, dashed left into a sudden roadway, and proceeded at an abruptly conservative pace.

 They had gone perhaps a quarter mile when she glanced at him once more. "It appears you are expected."

 He looked back, laconic in the face of her surprise. "What makes you think so?"

 "The last fare I had to Trealla Fantrol was stopped a cab's length inside the grounds." There was another ripple of thin shoulders. "One assumes that she was not expected."

 They passed beneath an archway, and the perfume of the flowers was momentarily overpowering until driven away by a sharp, lemony scent from the bushes on both sides.

 The bushes ended and the cab spun through a quick right turn, left turn, emerged into a sweeping elliptical drive, and stopped smoothly at the base of a stairway.

 Cheever stared, hand curling into a fist on his thigh; the weight of the package in his pocket trebled, and he wished fervently that he had taken the time to buy a new shirt.

 "Trealla Fantrol," the cabbie said. "I will take Unicredit."

 He fumbled it out of his pouch and never even looked to see how much she charged him. The turtle had said it was urgent, that Cheever was to deliver the turtle's package to the First Speaker of Clan Korval at Trealla Fantrol, Solcintra, with all possible speed.

 The cabbie shoved the card back into his slack fingers. "My thanks, Jump pilot. Fare you well."

 He started, dropped the card back into his pouch, and took a deep breath as the cab door swung aside. "Thanks. Errr...maybe you better wait."

 "A waste of my time. Trealla Fantrol expects you. It is unlikely you will be sent forth in a cab." The door slid closed, and the cab was moving, taking the rest of the ellipse in smooth acceleration before vanishing down the long drive.

 Cheever squared his shoulders and went up the stairs.

  

 He laid his palm against the center plate in the big wooden door and composed himself to wait. They were not going to like him, the people who lived here. He had a sinking feeling that they were going to like the turtle's message even less.

 Beyond the door, there was a brief rumble. Then the door was pulled open from the inside, and the voice from the Port phone inquired, "Mr. McFarland?"

 For an instant he wanted desperately to deny it, to run down the stairs and the long drive, back to the Port and the loaned ship. Wanted to ditch the package and forget he had ever said he would deliver it.

 Wanted to back down on his guarantee to a Clutch-turtle?

 "Yeah," he managed, if a little hoarsely.

 "Do step inside, sir. I've been instructed to place you in the small salon. Please come with me."

 He stepped into the velvet-dim hall, turned toward his host - and felt his jaw drop. The squat metal cylinder did not seem to notice; indeed, it may have been too busy closing the heavy door to pay any attention to Cheever's lapse of courtesy.

 Door closed, the 'bot rotated on its axis and gestured with one of its three flexible arms. "Right this way, Mr. McFarland."

 "Okay...Uh, didn't I talk to you on the phone?"

 The orange ball balanced on top of the monstrosity flickered, and all three arms waved gently. "Quite right. I am the butler, sir; Jeeves. At, I might add, your service."

 "Sure you are," Cheever said. He shook his head slightly. "We're going to the - small salon?"

 "Exactly so. If you would be good enough to come with me, sir? It's just a step down the hall."

 Jeeves's step was most people's hike, Cheever decided some minutes later. It took more time to cross the slippery marble foyer than it did to go through a normal Terran house, and he added a second or two to the trip by stopping to stare at the sweep of strellawood stairs.

 "The grand staircase," Jeeves murmured as they moved on. "Each riser hand-carved with an episode from the Great Migration and other illustrious points of history. I'm told it's quite impressive."

 "Uh...yeah. Yeah, it's real nice," Cheever said, and followed the 'bot down a side hall only a little less wide than the foyer.

 There were wooden doors with crystal knobs set dead center; there were impossibly delicate lights glimmering here and there on the wood-paneled walls; there was more wood underfoot, resilient beneath his boots, muting the rumble of the 'bot's wheels. Cheever shook his head to clear it and nearly fell into his guide.

 "Here we are, sir. I trust you'll find the aspect pleasant, what with the ethaldom in bloom. Lord yos'Galan will be with you shortly."

 Three steps into the room, Cheever spun."Lord yos'Galan!" But the 'bot was gone.

 "I want to seeLady Nova yos'Galan," he told the empty room. "First Speaker of Clan Korval. The turtlesaid Lady Nova yos'Galan..." Hands tucked into belt, he prowled the perimeter of the room, wincing at the smudge his boot had left on the creamy carpet. Bookshelves filled to capacity - bound books mostly, which told how rich they were even if he had not had the evidence of the house, the grounds, and the grotesque, efficient robot. People who owned books at all owned book-tapes; Cheever's personal collection included several piloting manuals and the general concordance for the Traland Three Thousands, though of course he had done his own mods onLucyBug...

 The door at his back clicked and creaked, and Cheever spun with pilot quickness, the weight of the package pulling his vest a little wide.

 "Good morning!" an affable voice cried in Terran unsmirched by uptown twang or Liaden blurring. "Mr. McFarland, isn't it? I'm so very glad to meet you, sir!"

 The man coming toward him was Terran-high, though an inch or two shorter than Cheever himself, and dressed in exquisitely clean trousers and a full-sleeved, claret-colored shirt that set off the white hair shockingly. Beneath the old man's hair was a young man's face: big nose, wide mouth curved in a grin, pale eyes warm under slanting, silver brows. He held out a large, square hand on which an amethyst ring gleamed.

 "Shan yos'Galan at your service."

 Cheever grinned and slapped his own hand around the one offered. "Cheever McFarland. Pleased to meet you."

 "As I am to meet you - but I said that already, didn't I? Mustn't repeat myself. Has no one given you wine? My dear man...Our hospitality has been wanting, and you fresh from the Port. Very dusty sort of place, Solcintra Port. Don't you find it so?"

 "Errr..." Cheever said as the big hand came to his shoulder and coaxed him toward a discreet onyx counter.

 "Precisely," his host said. "Will you have some morning wine? Whiskey? Misravot? Brandy? We have an excellent jade and a passable white, but I confide in you, sir - the red excels them both."

 Whiskey...Cheever could almost taste it. A whiskey would be real good. Regretfully, he shook his head. "You wouldn't maybe have some coffee?" He smiled a little sheepishly at the other man. "Been up for a while, see? 'Fraid the booze'd go straight to my head."

 "We can't have that, can we? Jeeves," he said, apparently to the room at large. "Please bring Mr. McFarland some coffee."

 Glass clinked against crystal as he poured himself a healthy swallow of red wine. "I can't help noticing the insignia on your vest. Bascomb Lines, isn't it?"

 Cheever's hand went to his left breast, where the once-bright Sol System insignia had almost faded away. "Yeah..."

 "Do you work for the line?" Shan asked, lifting his glass. "I've just recently concluded some business with Ms. Lillian Bascomb and Captain Barney Keller - do you know them?"

 "Lillian - I know - knew Lillian real well. Barney an' me ran the board together on the big bruiser - he wasn't no captain then."

 "A pilot of some skill! What's it like, piloting a big cruise ship? Exciting?"

 Cheever shrugged. "It's okay. But I like a little ship - better handling, faster, put 'er in and out of someplace tight before anybody knows you been there. Can't do that kind of stuff with the big ones. Got to play it straight." He nodded. "Like running my own boat."

 "Do you?" Shan murmured as the door swung open to reveal robot and tray. "Reprieved, sir! I hope you find the coffee to your liking. Jeeves, Mr. McFarland tells me he's been up for days and that only a cup of your finest will see him safely through the next hour. Cream, sir? Sweetening?"

 "Just black, thanks." He took the steaming cup from the 'bot, stomach cramping as he remembered that the past days hadn't included too many meals, either.

 "I'm amazed," Shan yos'Galan was saying, "to see you so quickly. We were warned to look for you only yesterday."

 Cheever grimaced as he burned his tongue. "I left two days ago."

 "Really? You must have been very far away."

 "Farther than you think," Cheever told him with a glint of pride. "All the hell and gone in the Second Quad."

 "Quite a trip," Shan murmured appreciatively. "And so quickly! No wonder you're tired. If you like, I can take your charge to my sister. I should have made her apologies to you sooner - my dreadful manners, sir, do bear with me! She was called to speak with our man of business. But I assure you that I am completely trustworthy to - "

 Cheever set his cup on the bar with athckk. "Turtle said to give the package to First Speaker Nova yos'Galan. Said I was to put it in her hands."

 The light eyes quizzed him over the cup's fragile rim. "Commendable." He turned his head slightly. "Jeeves."

 "Your lordship?"

 "Please inform my sister that Mr. McFarland can deliver his package into no hands but her own. I trust her manners are equal to the task of excusing herself from Mr. dea'Gauss for half an hour."

 "Certainly, sir." The 'bot wheeled out of the room, dragging the door shut behind it.

 "She'll be by in a moment or two, and then we'll get you to bed, sir, never fear."

 "Huh?" Cheever frankly stared. "Hey, look - I mean, that's really nice and all, Mr. yos'Galan, but you don't need to put me up. I'll snatch a couple hours at the Port while I'm waiting for clearance - it's a borrowed ship, see? Turtle's deal was he'd pay for repairs toLucyBug if I delivered this stuff for him. Came into the bar asking for the hottest pilot there. I said I was - not bragging; stupid to lie to a turtle - and the rest of 'em said yeah, that's right."

 "I see. Very nice of the turtle. What was his name, by the way? My ghastly memory!"

 "Edger, he said to call him.Big somebody. Voice like to crack your eardrums." Cheever picked up the cup and gulped down the contents. "Real character, ain't he?"

 "So I've been told. But I really must insist that you guest with us, sir. It's the least we can do for the trouble you've gone to on our account! Do let me convince you!"

 "No, listen, that's - "

 "Shan?" The voice was soft, accented and thoroughly lovely.

 And the person who came with it was slim and small and golden and perfect. The violet eyes were huge in an adorable pointed face, framed by spun-gold hair. Cheever frankly stared.

 The diminutive goddess stared back, infinitesimal frown shadowing the smooth expanse between flawless brows.

 Into the growing silence swept Shan yos'Galan. "Ah, there you are, sister! Allow me to present Mr. Cheever McFarland, who has something he must deliver only to you."

 She bent in a bow so graceful that Cheever felt tears start to his eyes. "Cheever McFarland, I am happy to meet you."

 "And I'm ha - happy - to meet you..." Some nearly paralyzed grain of sense stirred. "I've got something to deliver to Nova yos'Galan, First Speaker of Clan Korval."

 "I am that person," she said softly. "You may unburden yourself."

 His hand started toward the inside pocket, then checked. "I'm sorry, but see - since I don't know you and all. Edger said I was to ask you to tell me your name."

 "My name." The frown line became more pronounced, and it was all Cheever could do not to go down on his knees and beg her not to tease herself about it; he wouldgive her the damn package, if only...

 "My name," she began, quite seriously, "is Nova yos'Galan First Speaker-in-Trust Clan Korval, She Who Remembers, First Sister to Val Con yos'Phelium Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den, Tough Guy."

 It was music; it was angel-song. He could have listened to her voice for hours - days - years. It was inconceivable that he would ever tire of hearing...

 "Uh - yeah," he stammered, reaching in at last and drawing the thing forth. "Here you go."

 She took it gravely in small hands and bowed once more. "My thanks to you, Cheever McFarland, for the service you do Korval. Please allow Jeeves to show you to the guesting room."

 "Yeah..." he said again, and managed a rough bow, mere parody of her smooth perfection. "I'll, umm, I'll see you later."

 "We will speak again," she agreed.

 He glanced back once as he followed the 'bot down the hall, and saw her hands already busy at the sealing tape.

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Trealla Fantrol

  

 "Cut that out!" Gordy brushed the screen, diverting Lady Pounce's attack from the cursor to his hand. "Cut that out, too! Dumb cat."

 She blinked angelic and slightly crossed blue eyes at him and tucked her paws neatly beneath her snowy chest.

 Gordy sighed gustily. "If you want to stay up there, you stay just like that. No more killing the cursor, hear me? I've got to finish this check."

 Lady Pounce slitted her eyes in amiable acquiescence and even purred a few notes, though Gordy did not believe a word of it. He turned his attention back to the gridwork of equations that represented the contents and balancing of theDutiful Passage's holds. The grid had already been checked by Cargo Master yo'Lanna, who had generated it; by First Mate Mendoza; and by Captain yos'Galan. Scant chance Gordy would find an error missed by that seasoned team. Nor was there truly any reason for an associate trader to concern himself with administrative details, except that Shan insisted, explaining, with a sweep that drew all eyes to the Master Trader's amethyst on his hand, that there was enough knowledge in the wide universe that Gordy never need fear learning too much.

 Immersed in checks and cross-checks, he did not hear the light step behind him, and he started badly at the sudden hail.

 "Well met, young Gordon! How do you go on today?"

 Gordy's fingers jammed home three keys at once, eliciting a peevishbeep as he spun in the chair, blood mantling his cheeks. "Oh," he said quellingly. "Hi."

 The slender, dark-haired gentleman performed a bow as exquisite as his clothing; to eyes unused to the nuances of such things, the movement was a confection of graceful delight. "Your enthusiasm does you credit. Indeed, the invariable warmth of your greetings has ever been numbered among my chiefest joys in our kinship."

 Sure it has, Gordy thought. He came out of the chair slowly, towering over the other man like a mountain over a molehill, and solemnly bowed the bow between Clanmembers.

 "Forgive me, kinsman," he said, the High Liaden words only slightly edged in Terran accent, "for the attention to my work that hid your approach and may have cloaked my greeting in less than cordiality. You must by this time in our association have the measure of my admiration for you."

 "Oh, very good," Pat Rin murmured, dark eyes gleaming. "Quite nearly a hit, I believe. Well done, young Gordon."

 Gordy ground his teeth, keeping face and voice smooth with an effort that became less with each trade deal he negotiated. "How may I serve you, sir?"

 "I seek your foster father, child. Is he within the house? Or must I languish upon Lady Mendoza's doorstep for a sight of him, like all the rest of the world?"

 Priscilla would have you arrested for vagrancy, Gordy thought savagely, while he politely inclined his head. "He was just up the hall, speaking to Jeeves."

 Pat Rin sighed delicately and flicked a wholly imaginary speck of dust from a moss-green sleeve, rings glittering on shapely fingers. "Speaking to the robot? But Shan will speak to anything, won't he? I've noted it time and again."

 "Shall I fetch him for you, sir? It would take but a - "

 "Pat Rin! Well met, cousin, how do you go on?"

 Gordy spun toward the door, face wreathed in disbelief.

 Pat Rin laughed his soft, malicious laugh and performed another beautiful, sarcastic bow. "Kinsman. I am exceptionally well. How do you find yourself?"

 "I leave that to Priscilla," Shan said, smiling vaguely and impartially on Gordy, Pat Rin, and Lady Pounce. "Morning isn't my best time, and if I had to spend half of it finding myself - well, you appreciate, cousin, I'd be in a fair way to getting nothing else done at all."

 Pat Rin frowned at the rush of Terran but answered competently in the same tongue. "You see me here on your word. How may yos'Phelium serve yos'Galan?"

 The silver eye sharpened. "yos'Phelium? Have you taken up Thodelm's melant'i?"

 "Certainly not," Pat Rin said, dropping his eyes to watch the play of light among his rings. "But you see, cousin, we of Line yos'Phelium find ourselves without a lord these several years, so that we grow accustomed to coming to Korval's First Speaker for resolution of matters belonging more properly to the Line."

 "A complaint, in fact."

 "An observation. You are yourself Thodelm yos'Galan. Would you run to the First Speaker with every up and down of your close kin?"

 Shan blinked, icicle-sharp eyes melting back to blandness. "Well, things are a bit confused these days, cousin, admit it. Korval has shrunk to a handful; the Nadelm fends the Ring from his finger; the lines of administration are crossed and recrossed a dozen times over." He smiled. "We muddle on."

 "While Nadelm Korval remains missing, and the Clan does its least to discover him."

 Shan said nothing.

 Pat Rin shrugged and looked up from admiring his rings. "One hears rumors, as one goes about. All the world notes the continued absence of Val Con yos'Phelium. Many remark upon yos'Galan's complaisance. They recall that Korval passes the Ring from pilot to pilot. They recall that Shan yos'Galan wears the badge of a master pilot." He dropped his eyes again and concluded softly, "While Pat Rin yos'Phelium is no pilot at all, nor ever shall he be one."

 The silence stretched. Gordy watched Shan's face, but saw only vagueness there.

 "Rumor is a dangerous song to heed," Shan commented. "But none of this bears on my need to see you, cousin! I wonder about your trip."

 Pat Rin actually blinked. "My trip?"

 "Exactly! Weren't you planning a jaunt to Philomen soon, for a bit of rest from your labors?"

 "Yes. My plans are firm, in fact."

 "Fine, fine, excellent! You'll be wanting a pilot, I know, and it - "

 "It happens that I employ an adequate pilot, kinsman. My thanks for your kind thought."

 "Yes, but you see, we have at hand a more than adequate pilot - and you need not be out of pocket an additional tenth cantra! Korval will balance any difference between payscales." He raised his glass and sipped. "The man requires occupation, kinsman! Surely you wouldn't deny him work to pass the time away?"

 Pat Rin considered him out of thoughtful dark eyes, and Shan bore the scrutiny patiently, seeing anew how much his cousin resembled Val Con: the same glossy dark hair, level brows, and firm mouth.

 "So," Pat Rin murmured. "And what am I to do with my new pilot when we reach Philomen? Shoot him?"

 "Well, certainly that's up to you," Shan said, "but I've no reason to expect his service will be as bad as that." He raised his glass. "The First Speaker strongly suggests that he enter your employ and remain there - oh, six Standard months should be more than sufficient."

 The smaller man bowed. "Of course it must always be my most ardent wish to obey the First Speaker's word."

 "Yes," Shan drawled. "I'd heard that."

 Pat Rin laughed. "Rumor sings dangerous songs, as I have only recently been reminded. Understand that nothing would induce me to doubt you, but I yearn to hear the First Speaker's wishes from her very lips. Might she be available to speak with me?"

 "I believe she's alone in the study. Shall I have Jeeves escort you?"

 "Thank you, but I know the way." He bowed farewell. "Kinsman. I think I will not see you again beforeDutiful Passage leaves us. Fare you well. You also, young Gordon." He was gone, mincing daintily in his fancy boots.

 Gordy let his breath go in a explosivepough!, spun toward his foster father, and hesitated.

 "Yes?"

 "Is Pat Rin - in love - with Cousin Nova?"

 Shan shook his head. "No...No, I don't think Pat Rin's in love with anyone."

 "Except himself!"

 Surprisingly, the response was another headshake. "Not at all."

 Gordy flung out his hands, startling Lady Pounce into opening her eyes. "Then why's helike that?"

 "Well," Shan said thoughtfully, swirling the dregs of his wine, "I suppose that, like most of us, he's not finished yet. Have you checked these equations?"

 Gordy flushed. "I'll be done in fifteen minutes."

 "Fine. I'll be back then. We'll be going up to thePassage tomorrow morning for the last checks; we've got departure scheduled for Solcintra sunrise, Treslan Seconday."

 "I'll have to tell Karea good-bye..."

 "Yes, of course." Shan sighed. "Finish your equations, Gordy." And he was abruptly gone, closing the door behind him.

  

 Shan touched the PLAY key and leaned back, eyes closed, to listen again to Val Con's recorded message to Edger.

 "I greet you, brother, and thank you for the lives of myself and the youngest of your sisters. I am to say to you these things, which are true: We are alive and have been well treated, having received food, a place to sleep, and medical aid. I regret that the ship of the Clan has continued its voyage without us. It was undamaged when it left us and should achieve its destination as planned, as it kept course without fail during the seven seasons of its labor."

 There was a small pause, then Val Con finished, "I am also to say that we will be returned our knives and given a ship in which in continue our travels. My thanks to you again, brother, for your care of two of your Clan who are foolish and hasty."

 A Korval ship had already been dispatched to the coordinates indicated in Val Con's message. Exact figures relating to the distance a ship of the Clutch would have traveled in "seven seasons of labor" had been included in the hodgepodge of information that made up the balance of Cheever McFarland's delivery. The possibility had to be covered, of course, but Shan felt no optimism that Korval's ship would find Val Con and his lifemate anywhere near those coords.

 The tape hissed briefly, and then the other voice came in, bright, clear, singsonging its nonsense as if there was nothing in all the worlds to fear:

 "Hi, Edger. Everything's fine. Wish you were here. Love to the family and see you soon."

 The tape hummed, clicked, and rewound noisily before the machine shut off.

 "I like her," Shan said to the dim and empty study. "But, gods, brother, the Juntavas?" The agreement between the intergalactic mob and Korval stretched back generations: You don't touch mine; I don't touch yours. Simple, effective, efficient. "Why didn't you tell them who you are? They would have dropped Korval Himself and his Lady like so many hot potatoes..."

 Chilled, he considered an alternate scenario. Val Con reveals himself. The Juntavas, horrified beyond reason by their act, knowing a balancing of accounts with Korval would ruin both, simply cut two throats, leave two bodies drifting...

 "Gods!" He snapped to his feet, covering the room in five long strides, to stare out at the twilit garden, where the fountain caught the sun's last rays, transmuting light to emeralds.

 Memory provided a boy's high voice, half-pleading: "But thereisn't a Delm Korval really, is there, Shan? Just a made-up person - it could as easily be you as me." And he heard his own voice, laughing in reply: "Oh, no!You're the Korval, denubia! I don't want to be Delm."

 "But youcould be, couldn't you?" the boy Val Con demanded in memory, and Shan turned cold in the present and whispered, "Only if you die, denubia." He shook himself, hard.

 "They're alive," he whispered, willing his hands to unclench and bringing his heartbeat down with a Healer's stern discipline. "You have that on the best authority. Do strive for some sense, Shan."

 And there were two to find now. Even if Val Con...His lifemate must be found and brought back to the Clan, for if they did not have a Delm, they might yet have a Delmae. Nova saw that, thank the gods. Korval ships Jumped in a dozen directions that long afternoon, seeking news, any news, of Val Con yos'Phelium or Miri Robertson. Lifemates will hold together, Shan told himself, staring at the shadows growing from the trees toward the house. Find one and we find both.

 Sighing, he shook himself free of his thoughts and slipped away from the house of yos'Galan to go home at last to Priscilla.

  

  

  

  

 VANDAR

  

 Springbreeze Farm

  

 She was never going to get it right.

 The minute she thought she had command of a word it slipped away, unmoored by a dozen or more others. It was all she could do to remember the name of the dog, never mind the word for its species. And all morning Zhena Trelu had been in a waspish mood, yelling and pushing at her when she did not understand. Which was mostly.

 After the third such incident, she had twisted away from the old woman's grasp and run, screen door slamming behind her.

 Flinging herself to the ground beside the scruffy little flower patch that marked the edge of Zhena Trelu's property, Miri scrubbed her hands over her face and tried to calm her jangling nerves.

 "This ain't like you, Robertson," she muttered. But that didn't help at all.

 Her head hurt. She reached up and pulled the braid loose; unweaving it slowly, she ran shaking fingers through the crackling mass, mightily resisting the urge to yank it out in handfuls, and hunched over, staring at her hands and just breathing.

 She found she was staring at her calloused trigger finger. What business did her hands have baking sweet things? Why should she have to sit and listen to endless repetitions of the names of the powders, granules, and dried leaves that went into food? She did not intend to be a bake-cook.

 Worse was all that zhena-and-zamir stuff. Why should Miri be asked first whenever Zhena Trelu wanted Val Con to do something? Since when was he Miri's trooper? But no, there were rules, and one of them was that a zhena - wife? mistress? lady? lover? - could tellher zamir what to do, and he, perforce, would do it. What kind of partner was that?

 They had figured out that Zhena Trelu owned the house and lived zamirless. They had gotten across that they were looking for a place to stay, and she had supplied some story for herself that Val Con was slowly getting down. But there! Barely a week had passed and Val Con could hold a conversation with the zhena while Miri's head hurt more and more...

 She wanted to shoot, dammit - a little plinking would calm her down. But Val Con had not seemed to think too much of that and after some thought she could see why: They were guests here, wherever here was, and it just wouldn't be good form to fill somebody's sacred tree all full of pellet holes.

 "Hello, Meri," he murmured from her side.

 "Myname," she gritted out, not lifting her head, "is Miri."

 There was a small pause. "So it is."

 She took one more deep breath and managed to raise her head and face him. "Sorry. Bad mood."

 "I heard." He smiled slightly. "Zhena Trelu tells me you are a 'bad-tempered brat.' What is that, I wonder?"

 She tried to smile back and was fairly certain that the effort was a failure. "Whatever it is, it ain't nice. I messed up something she was teaching me to bake. Told me to put inpickles and I put inmilk. Or the other way around.I don't know..."

 He frowned. "It must have beenmilk and notpickles. Milk is the white liquid we drink, isn't it?"

 "I don't know. Told you I didn't know. Every time I think I know what something means, got it all lined up in my head with what it means in Terran, she hits me with forty-sevenmore - " She flung her hands out in exasperation. "I ain't never gonna catch up at this rate!"

 "Cha'trez..." He tipped his head. "Why are you trying to match these words and Terran words? Surely that will only confuse matters. Perhaps if you waited until you have this language firmly before attempting to compile a lexicon, it would go better. For now, it might be best to simply learn the tongue, as you were taught in school."

 "I didn'tgo to school!" she snapped, hearing the rising edge to her own voice.

 Val Con frowned. "What?"

 "I said," she repeated with awful clarity, "that I didn't go to school. Ever. In my whole life. Accazi?" Her head was throbbing; she bent her face down and jammed her fingers through her hair.

 "No." His hands were on her wrists, insisting that she lower her hands. She allowed it, but kept her head bent, eyes on the ground, and heard him sigh.

 "Miri, don't run from me. Please. I don't understand, and I would like you to explain."

 "You don't understand?" She was on her feet, wrists yanked free - and he was up, too, hands loose, face wary and watchful.

 "You don'tunderstand? Ain't anythingto understand - it's all real simple. On Surebleak, if you paid the school tax, you went to school. You didn't pay the tax, you didn't go to school. With me so far? My parents were broke - youunderstand broke, or do I gottaexplain that, too? Real broke. Bad broke. So broke they could about come up with enough money every month to fool the landlord into thinking someday he'd collect the whole rent. And, while we're at it, there were rats - youunderstand rats? - and my mother was sick all the time and whenever wedid get some money Robertson would come home, drink it all up or snort it all down, smack us both around - " She caught her breath, horrified to hear how close it sounded to a sob.

 "So I didn't go to school," she finished tonelessly. "My mother taught me how to read; and when I joined Liz's unit she beat Trade and basic math into my head. Don't need a fancy education to get by in the Merc. Guess that's why I never learned the right way to learn a language. Doing the best I can. Sorry it ain't good enough."

 Val Con was standing very still, eyes on her face, his own features holding such a scramble of expression that she sat down - hard - and clamped her jaw against the sudden surge of despair.

 Now you've done it, you prize loobelli, she told herself, and swallowed hard, waiting for him to turn and go.

 "Miri." He was on his knees before her, hand outstretched, but not touching.

 "You understand now?" Her voice was a husky whisper; his face swam, unreadable, before her eyes.

 "Yes." He moved his hand slowly, keeping it plainly in sight as if she were some wild thing he wished not to frighten, and gently stroked his fingers down the line of her jaw. "I am sorry, cha'trez. I was stupid."

 The tears spilled over. "No,I'm stupid. Told you so."

 "You did," he agreed. "And I wish you will soon stop feeling it is necessary to lie to me." He brushed as her wet cheeks with his fingers. "There is a great difference between education and intelligence, Miri. You are not stupid. Normally." He offered her the slightest of smiles. "And - normally - I am not stupid. But everyone makes mistakes, I am told."

 Her lips twitched. "I heard that."

 "Good." He sat back on his heels, eyes serious on her face. "Having now made our mistakes, let us consider what may best be done to rectify them." One brow slid up. "Does your head hurt very badly?"

 She blinked. "Who said anything about my head hurting?"

 "I still get a headache when I try to translate from one language to another," he said. "Speak to me in any tongue I know, and I will answer in that tongue. Ask me what a word in one language means in another, and it may take me hours to decide." He paused to push the hair out of his eyes. "Will you do something for me, cha'trez?"

 "Do my best.

 "That will suffice," he murmured, reminding her so forcefully of Edger that she laughed. He glanced at her from under his lashes before adding his own grin. "Are you comfortable here? Would you prefer to go inside?"

 "I'm fine," she said hastily, visions of Zhena Trelu dancing in her aching head. She crossed her legs and tried to look alert. "What's the job?"

 Val Con was rummaging in his pouch. "It is only to help me think more properly about the best way for you to learn this tongue..." His hand moved sharply, and her eyes followed the movement, seeing that he had flung several objects to the ground.

 "Close your eyes!" he snapped, and she did, instantly. He slipped two fingers under her chin and raised her head until her closed eyes were directed to a point slightly over his head.

 "Keep your eyes closed," he said more gently, "and tell me what you saw just now on the ground."

 Her brows twitched. "Starting nearest you and moving east: credit card - metallic orange with three skinny blue stripes - covering one corner is a wholebit. Then there's a flat white pebble the size of two bits together, a cantra-piece - obverse: the linked stars. Nearest me is the ship's key; there's a stylus next to that, then a short wire twisted like a corkscrew; a piece of paper with writing on it - don't know what language, but it looks like your hand - then back to the credit card." She paused, then nodded. "That's it."

 There was a silence, lengthening.

 After a time she said, almost hesitantly, "Val Con?"

 "Yes."

 "Can I open my eyes?"

 "Yes."

 She found him looking at her closely, the expression on his face a mix of amusement, wonder, and - anger? Before she could be sure, it was gone; he was lifting a brow and nodding downward.

 She glanced at the jumbled arrangement and grinned, the ache in her head suddenly less acute. "Didn't miss one. Thought I'd be outta practice."

 The second brow rose to join the first. "Dumb, Miri?"

 "But there ain't anything to that!" she protested, genuinely startled. "It's a gag - a memory trick. Anybody can learn it - got nothing to do with brains."

 "I see. A useful gag, eh?" He scooped the stuff up and dumped it haphazardly into his pouch. "How long can you retain it?"

 "Depends. That batch'll probably fade out by the end of the day, unless you want me to remember it longer. Better tell me now if you do, though, 'cause I've gotta - " She moved her hands in one of her shapeless gestures. "It's kinda like putting a sticker on the memory, so I remember not to forget it."

 "I see," he murmured again, apparently finding nothing the least confusing in this explanation. "Can you do the same with sounds? Put a tag on them so you do not forget?"

 She shook her head. "It works better if I can see what I'm supposed to remember - either a picture, or a pattern, or written down." She bit her lip. "That's why I'm having so much trouble with this gibberish? 'Cause I can't tag sounds? Can't figure out how it looks?" She seemed inclined to blame herself severely.

 Val Con shook his head, smiling. "Most people pay more attention to one set of - input - than the others. I, for instance, happen to key to sound. I rarely forget a piece of music I've heard, or a word. It seems a natural inclination: For some reason I decided that sounds were more important than anything else." His smile widened. "And so, when I became a cadet I suffered through hours of remedial work until I finally learned to tag a visual pattern and call it back."

 He shifted, staring sightlessly at the scraggly grass between them. Miri waited, aware that she was tensing up again; she jumped half a foot when he moved his head to look at her.

 Concern flickered over his face, and he leaned forward, grasping her arms lightly. "Cha'trez?" He moved his fingers, lightly massaging. "Sotense, Miri. What is wrong?"

 She shifted, not sure if she wanted to escape his touch. "Zhena Trelu - " she began.

 "Will wait. She was upset when she spoke to me, and I think it might be good for her to have some quiet time, as well." He sat close to her on the grass and took her hand in his.

 For some reason, that increased the tension. "Why're you doing that?" she snapped.

 "It gives me joy to touch you," he said softly. "Shall I not?"

 Yes, she wanted to yell, you should not! You should bloody wellgo if you're going and before things get any worse, or...

 "I'm scared," she told him, finally identifying the emotion.

 "It is not comfortable to be afraid," Val Con allowed gently. "Do you know what it is that frightens you? It may be something we can resolve."

 She took a deep breath, fingers tightening around his. "I'm afraid of being stuck here - by myself."

 "Ah." His eyes were troubled. "Will I abandon you, Miri?"

 "How do I know what you'll do? Month ago I'd never clapped eyes on you. It'd make a hell of a lot more sense for you to get out on your own, though, wouldn't it? Be able to learn faster, move around more, settle in quicker, better. You're a Scout; I ain't nothing - "

 "No...Miri." He lay a light finger across her lips. "I am not a Scout. Not now. Now I am a man who is trying - with the help of his partner and his friend - to insure that a long and joyful life will be possible together. A partner who," he added, mouth twisting slightly, "is afraid that he will run from her."

 There did not seem to be anything to say to that, and the silence grew taut between them.

 "Unless," Val Con murmured, "I am being sent away?"

 She jerked as if he had slapped her. "No!"

 "Good," he said, squeezing her fingers. "Because I am not certain that I would behave - with honor - in such a case." One brow slid up. "I would be lonely, too, do you think?" He sighed as he read the answer in her face. "Ah,I do not get lonely..."

 Miri looked down at their entwined fingers, took a deep breath, and looked up. "Val Con?"

 "Yes."

 She took another breath. "I'm new at all this stuff. Not just the Scout-type things -all of it. Being partners. Being married. Never had a partner. Never wanted one." She tried a smile and caught the glimmer of his, answering. "Takes some getting used to," she concluded. "I'm sorry - "

 But what she was sorry for was drowned in a bark of welcome as Borril hove into view. He was with them in a thrice, flopping to his side andwhuffing, yellow eyes rolling in anticipation of a fine session of ear-pulling.

 Miri and Val Con exchanged glances and began to laugh.

 "Dog," Val Con said, yanking hard on a ridiculous ear, "I venture to say you were well indulged before we came here. But now that you have three pairs of hands to command, you've become insupportable..."

  

  

  

  

 VANDAR

  

 Springbreeze Farm

  

 Val Con entered the room with unnatural scuffling to avoid startling the aging woman, and bowed when she looked up.

 "Zhena Trelu?"

 She smiled, relief washing her face. "Cory," she said, using the short form, as she had been doing since their second day with her. He had raised a brow at the first usage but had not protested, and Cory he had become.

 "Did you find the child?" she asked him. "Is she all calmed down? I'm sorry I upset her - likely I was a bit sharp myself - but that girl has the wind's own temper with her!"

 The man's brows pulled together slightly as he moved farther into the room. "Only noise," he said in his laborious Benish. "Like Borril. Sees something, maybe bad - makes noise. Maybe bad something goes away..." He perched on the arm of Jerry's reading chair, eyes intent.

 Zhena Trelu sniffed. "Bad! Meri knows I'm not going to hurt her."

 Cory moved his shoulders. "Here, things are not home. Miri is - " He sighed sharply, tipping his hands out toward her in a gesture she had come to know well the last five days.

 "She's homesick, you mean. Misses her home." She drank down rest of her tea and set the cup aside. "Of course she is, poor child. I'll try to be more patient with her, Cory. You tell her that for me, will you?"

 "Yes." But still he waited, watching her.

 "What else? Are you hungry? I made you some sandwiches - they're on the kitchen table. You know where the milk is."

 From the floor at her feet Borril gave vent to a heartrending groan. Cory laughed, then looked up again.

 "Zhena Trelu. I ask - for Miri. Is there in your house -these... "

 He swept a slender hand at the book-covered wall - Jerrel's books, mostly; dusty since his death. "For childs?"

 "Children," she corrected, "Might have a few around from when Granic - my son - was a little boy. Why?"

 "For Miri," he said. "To learn the words."

 "Books to help her learn words?" she repeated. "But you're doing so well!"

 "For Miri, Zhena Trelu," Cory told her for the third time.

 She sighed. "You're a patient boy. All right, I'll look around and see if I still have any of Granic's old books."

 He tipped his head. "Soon, Zhena Trelu?"

 "Well, I - " She bridled, staring at him. He met her eyes calmly, his own a clear and bottomless green.

 After a moment, Zhena Trelu sighed and pushed carefully out of her chair. "All right, Cory," she said, with a touch of acid. "Soon."

  

 After supper, Zhena Trelu left the two of them to clean up and went to pursue Granic's old storybook collection through the attic, grumbling audibly as she went up the skinny stairs.

 Miri ran water into the sink and started to wash while Val Con cleared the table. She turned her head to smile at him. "I feel better," she said, which was not quite a lie. Shedid feel better - a little. The headache was gone, which was a big plus; but she was still as jumpy as a Merc without kynak.

 Val Con finished the glass he had been drying and set it aside. "After we are done with this, if you like, I can show you a way to make living here - easier, perhaps."

 She looked at him doubtfully, not sure that she really needed to learn somethingelse right now; and he tipped his head, catching her eyes on his.

 "I promise not to give you a headache," he said solemnly. She gave a wan grin. "Okay," she said. "What the hell."

 Brrrinngg!

 Miri whirled, ready to charge, staring at the black box on the opposite wall. Until that moment it had always been silent.

 It repeated its shrill noise, and Val Con had his hand on it; then he was lifting the top part away and bringing it to his ear.

 "Zhena Trelu's house," he said carefully in Benish.

 A pause filled with tiny crackles, then a woman's voice spoke, high-pitched in amazement. "What? Who is that? Where's Estra?"

 Val Con sighed gently. "Zhena Trelu's house," he repeated clearly. "Cory. Attic."

 There was another pause on the line, and he turned to look at Miri, standing tense by the sink. He wrinkled his nose, which made her laugh, and then the voice on the phone was spouting more questions.

 "Cory? What are you doing there, Cory? Where are you from?" The amazement had been replaced by avaricious curiosity.

 Gossip, Val Con thought darkly and withheld another sigh. "Work. Home. Who isthat?"

 "What!" the voice exclaimed, though it apparently did not expect to be answered, because it rushed right on. "This is Athna Brigsbee. You tell Estra that I'm on the phone and want to talk to her right away."

 "Stay," he said, as if she were Borril, and let the receiver down to dangle by its cord. Leisurely he went down the long hallway, up the stairs, and to the thin attic stairway.

 "Zhena Trelu?"

 There was a thump and a rustle from above. "What?"

 "Athna Brigsbee on the phone to talk to you right away."

 "Wind take the woman!" Zhena Trelu grumped, and Val Con grinned. "Tell her to hold on, Cory. I'll be there soon."

 "Yes." And he was gone, soundless, down the stairs and back to the kitchen.

 "Hold on," he told Athna Brigsbee. "Zhena Trelu is here soon." He let the receiver back down without waiting for an answer, picked up his towel, and began drying the mountain of clean dishes Miri had produced.

 By the time Zhena Trelu reached the dangling receiver, it was making indignant noises, which the two diligent workers at the sink seemed not to hear.

 "Young man? Young man! Pick up this phone, young man! Just what do you think - "

 "Hello, Athna," Zhena Trelu said, unable to resist a grin at Cory, who raised a brow and continued drying dishes.

 "Estra? Well, thank goodness! I was terrified. That rude man...Whois he, Estra? I asked, of course..."

 I just bet you did, Zhena Trelu thought. "Cory and his zhena are helping me out around the place. You know it's been threatening to fall down around my ears these last couple winters. Thought I'd get everything all lined up and then maybe sell it, come spring." She stopped, surprised at herself.

 "Well, that's lovely for you, dear," Athna Brigsbee said. "I know how hard it's been for you to keep everything up since poor Jerrel passed on." Zhena Trelu gritted her teeth: Jerry and Athna had not been the best of friends.

 "Buttell me about them, Estra," the voice in her ear continued. "Where are they from? I asked Cory, but all he said was 'home.'" She gave a shrill little laugh.

 Good for you, Cory, Zhena Trelu thought. "They don't speak Benish very well. They're refugees - survivors of that volcano and earthquake they had over in Porlint last year."

 "But, Estra," Zhena Brigsbee protested, "when I talked about how we should all get together anddo something about those poor people right after the disaster you were - well, I won't mince words. You werecold, Estra. And now to taketwo refugees into your house - and they don't even speak the language!"

 There was a pause that Zhena Trelu spitefully refused to fill, then Athna took up her thread again, voice lowered. "Are yousure they're married, Estra? The stories I've heard! People taking refugees into their homes who turn out to be thieves, or murderers..."

 "Meri and Cory aren't thieves," Zhena Trelu snapped. "And I sincerely doubt they're murderers. Just a young married couple that happened to need help the same time I needed help, so we're helping each other." She took a breath, trying to force the irritation down. "Athna, I really am going to have to go."

 "Of course! But wemust get together - say on Artas? I'll bring a nice scuppin salad and some brownies, and the four of us can have a lovely dinner and a nice talk - it's been such a long time, Estra! Well, I won't keep you any longer - I'll see you on Artas, for dinner. Take care of yourself, dear." The line went dead, leaving Zhena Trelu gasping in outrage.

 Athna Brigsbee was coming to visit in two days? There was no stopping her, of course. That sharp nose smelled gossip, and she would not rest until the ferreted out every bit of information possible about Cory and Meri and then did her best to make that information known throughout Gylles and the neighboring county.

 Zhena Trelu returned the receiver to its hook, turned toward the sink - and gasped as she saw the young couple as a stranger would see them.

 Meri was putting away pans while Cory finished the drying, both dressed in the tight-fitting leather garments that were the only clothes they owned. As Zhena Trelu watched, Meri picked up the heavy iron skillet and bent to put it into the oven. The zhena tried to imagine the expression on Athna Brigsbee's face, were she presented with such a spectacle during her visit, and was almost tempted to allow the situation to continue.

 "Meri," she said, shaking herself and moving toward the stove and the tea kettle. "Cory."

 They turned to look at her, the girl drifting closer to the man's side, eyes great and gray in her thin face.

 "Winter's coming," Zhena Trelu said, trying to talk slowly enough for Meri to understand, "and you're going to need warmer clothes. We'll go to town tomorrow and buy you something nice. Better clothes," she added, as she saw Cory's irrepressible eyebrow slide upward.

 "Zhena Trelu," he murmured. "Buy is - " He tipped his hands out. "We not buy, maybe."

 She frowned at him. "You don't have any money to buy clothes, is that it?" She shook her head, feigning irritation. "All the work you two have been doing around this place? Did you think you were working for nothing, Cory?"

 "Dinner," Meri said unexpectedly. "Supper. Bed."

 "For the little bit the pair of you eat," the older woman informed her with feeling, "I got the best end ofthat bargain. I owe you a few clothes - couple jackets, maybe. That should make us even for what you've done so far, all right?"

 Meri looked at her husband, who moved his shoulders in that foreign gesture of his and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Zhena Trelu."

 "You're welcome," she said, unaccountably touched.

 Cory reached out and took the girl's hand, and the two of them slipped out of the kitchen, leaving only a soft "Good night" drifting behind them.

 "Good night, children," Zhena Trelu said quietly, and turned to run water into the kettle.

  

 "You should be as comfortable as possible," Val Con told Miri softly. "Later, you will be able to do this at any time, but to learn it is better to be at ease." He sat cross-legged in the middle of the double bed and smiled at her. "Perhaps you should unbraid your hair and take your boots off. Take off all of your clothes, if you will feel better so."

 Miri grinned as she unbraided her hair. "I'd hate to tempt you like that."

 "I," he said austerely, "am above such things. It is not for you to think that Scouts might be human."

 She made the bow of student to teacher, hamming it, eyes very round. "Forgive me, Commander, I'll remember."

 "Do so," he directed. Then he grinned. "I shall endeavor to keep my thoughts pure."

 She shook her hair and combed rapid fingers through it, then sat on the wall-bench and yanked off her boots before shedding the rest of her clothes. "Now what?"

 He patted the bed at his side. "Come lie down."

 She lay on her back, eyes tight on his face, right hand fisted between her breasts.

 "You are comfortable?" he asked. "Not cold? It is better if you put your arms at your sides and let your hands relax." He reached to brush the clinging copper threads from her cheeks; his fingers touched her lips lightly. "I promise you, cha'trez, this is a good thing - pretty and friendly - not at all frightening. Even I was able to learn it the first time."

 She gave a gurgle of laughter and composed herself as he had suggested.

 "Good," Val Con murmured, noting how tense her muscles still were. "Now I will tell you what will happen, then I will show you the way, and then I will ask that you repeat the process by yourself while I watch. All right?"

 "Okay." Her eyes were on his, and he folded his hands on his knees, making no effort to break that link between them.

 "The name of this technique," he said softly, "is 'The Rainbow.' It is a way of relaxing mind and body so that one may improve concentration and think - more rightly. People who are tense and confused make mistakes. And tension and confusion leach joy from life, which is a thing to be avoided. We should strive for more joy, not less - and that is what the Rainbow is for." He found his voice taking on the proper rhythm, found himself speaking the same words he had heard from Clonak ter'Meulen, all those years before.

 "What you must do," he told Miri, "is picture the colors of the rainbow, one by one: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, violet; and use the - key - of each color to relax more deeply. By the time you reach the end of the rainbow you will feel very nice indeed: warm and comfortable, perhaps a little as if you were floating. You will then walk down the stairway and through the door. That is what will happen." He lifted a brow. "Shall we continue?"

 Miri was frowning "You're gonna hypnotize me?"

 "No. I help you relax. Each person's Rainbow is unique. I may show you the way because of the superficial similarity of the color structure. But your Rainbow isyours, cha'trez. There is no danger. If you should become frightened or uncomfortable - or simply wish to go no further - you need only open your eyes. It isyour will that commands, not mine."

 "Got it." She closed her eyes, then opened them with a sigh. Her left hand had curled into a fist while he was talking, and she flexed it open before looking back at him with a ragged grin. "Well, let's give it a spin and see what comes up."

 "All right." He smiled. "Close your eyes now, Miri, and breathe deeply. Try not to think of anything specific, but let the thoughts flutter by, unconsidered..." He closed his own eyes briefly, feeling for the proper rhythm and words. Wily old man, Clonak ter'Meulen, he thought; I wonder where you are now.

 "Miri," he began gently. "Please visualize the color red. Hold it before your mind's eye. Tell me when you have it firm."

 "Now," she said instantly.

 "Good. Hold it; let it fill your head, pushing away all those little, half-formed thoughts. Let there be only red. There is only red. Warm, happy red, filling your thoughts entirely.

 "Now," he said after a moment, "let the red flow down through your body, starting at the top of your head, warming and relaxing you - down through your face, your throat, your shoulders - warm, friendly, relaxing red..."

 And so he took her through the Rainbow, slowly, gently, watching the tension ease out of her, her face soften, her breathing slow. He reminded her at yellow and again at purple, as Clonak had once reminded him, that she might open her eyes and return, should she so desire, but she did not choose that path.

 "You are now concentrating on the color violet," he said softly. "The end of the Rainbow. How do you feel, cha'trez?"

 "Nice," she murmured, voice slightly fuzzy. "Warm and kind of - cloudy-feeling. Safe." She smiled a little. "I'm glad we're closer here."

 He tipped a brow at that but replied gently, "I am glad, also. Look about you now, Miri. Do you see the stairway?"

 "Standing on the top stair," she told him, voice entirely unsurprised. "It goes down a way."

 "Will it make you feel - unsafe - to walk down?"

 "No," she said unhesitatingly. "Should I?"

 "Ifyou wish to, Miri."

 "Okay." A slight pause, then she said, "Val Con?"

 "Yes."

 "There's a door."

 "So?" he murmured. "What sort of door?"

 "Old-time door - all shiny, dark-brown wood and a big brass knob. There's a keyhole as big as my fist."

 "Why not go in? Or would you rather return now?"

 "I'd rather go in," she said definitely. "But I don't have a key to fit this beast - "

 "Perhaps in your pouch," he suggested softly.

 "Naw, I don't have a key like - " Her brows twitched over closed eyes. "I'll be damned."

 There was a longish pause before she said again, "Val Con?" Wonder and excitement filled her voice.

 "Yes, cha'trez."

 "It's alibrary," she breathed. "You neversaw so many books - tapes and bound - and a desk and a chair - big and soft - candles - little knickknack things and - uh-oh."

 "What is wrong?" He expended the effort necessary to keep his voice smooth.

 "I'm in trouble, boss - there's a Belansium planetscape in here."

 He grinned. "I do not think you need worry. Does the room please you?"

 "Please - it'swonderful! Is yours like this?"

 "Everyone's room is different," he told her gently, firmly refusing to consider the shambles his own must be in, if it still existed at all. "I am happy that you are happy."

 He paused, then decided on a departure from Clonak's technique. "Miri?"

 "Yo."

 "May I give you a gift?"

 Her brows contracted slightly. "A gift? Why?"

 He winced. "It gives me joy to do so," he said very gently. "Will you allow it?"

 "Yes."

 "Thank you," he said seriously. "Look on the seat of your chair. Do you see the book there? Not a large book - very thin, in fact. Bound, with paper pages..."

 "Here it is!" After a moment she went on, hesitantly. "Val Con? It's - it's beautiful. You sure you want to give it tome?"

 He extended a hand, stopping just short of touching her near-sleeping face. "I wish it," he said gently, "with all my heart." He paused. "Listen, now, and I will tell you about this book. You will see that each of the pages is blank, except for the first four, where I have written something for you."

 "Yes."

 "Good. The first page, that says 'Sleep,' does it not?"

 "Yes," she agreed once more.

 "And the next," he continued, "says 'Study;' the third, 'Relax;' and the fourth, 'Return.' Is that correct?"

 "Exactly correct."

 "Very good. Now, what you may do, whenever you come to your library, is look at this book and choose what you will do. If you choose to sleep, you need only open to that page, concentrate on the word there - and you will sleep. If you wish to allow your mind to review and integrate the day's affairs - or if you wish to work on a particular problem - you will open to the page marked 'Study,' concentrate on the word, and your mind will be ready to learn.

 "If you find yourself growing tense, you might wish to go to your library and regard 'Relax.' And, if you wish to return to the world outside your room, you need only bring your attention to the fourth page, and you will awaken." He waited a moment to let it all sink in.

 "Miri, please open your gift to the page on which I have written 'Return.' Concentrate on it..."

 She took a sudden sharper breath, then her eyes flickered open, and she smiled at him, very gently.

 He smiled back. "Hello, Miri."

 "Hi." She stretched, catlike, her smile widening to a grin as she extended a hand and touched his scarred cheek. "You're beautiful."

 He raised a brow. "I am happy that I please you," he murmured. "How do you feel?"

 "Wonderful. This gimmick might not help me talk to Zhena Trelu, but if I feel this relaxed every time I go down and come back, we're up."

 "But it will help you talk to Zhena Trelu. If you choose to do so, you may go to your library and concentrate on 'Study' and 'Sleep.' Then you will be able to assign your attention to sorting and making sense of all that has come to pass - today, for instance - while your body and your waking mind rest. Tomorrow you will then have access to all of today's data, not just a jumbled mess that you have no time to sort through."

 "If you say so." Her brows twitched together in a frown. "Where'd you learn this gag?"

 He unfolded his legs and stretched out beside her, head pillowed on an arm, eyes level with hers. "It is a Scout thing. A man named Clonak ter'Meulen taught me, when my uncle hired him to make Shan a master pilot."

 "Your uncle hired aScout to teach your cousin to pilot?"

 "Oh, no - Shan had been a pilot for years! He merely required tutoring to attain his master's rank, and Uncle Er Thom would settle for no less. As for hiring a Scout..." He moved his shoulders. "Clonak desired passage; my uncle desired his son to have the best tutor available. So a bargain was struck."

 "And he just taught you this Rainbow thing on the side?"

 "Of his kindness. He had known my father, you see, and he was much taken with Shan and me. I achieved my third class that trip, under his training." He stroked her cheek lightly. "Will you do a thing for me now?"

 "Do my best."

 He smiled. "Will you go through the exercise again, while I watch? And when you achieve your library, would you assign your concentration to 'Sleep'? The past days have been very hard for you - I am sorry that I did not understandhow hard, so that we could have resolved this sooner. And tomorrow we are to go to town and buy clothes, which may prove trying for us all..."

 Miri laughed and laid her lips firmly against his; he felt her fingers in his hair, and a quickening of his own blood. When she leaned back, the laughter was still in her eyes."Sure you want me to go to sleep?"

 "Alas," he murmured, half smiling in regret and admiration.

 "Slave driver." But she rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. In a little while, the rhythm of her breathing told him that she was asleep; and in an even shorter while, he followed her.

  

  

  

  

 DUTIFUL PASSAGE

  

 Liad Orbit

  

 Priscilla took off her shirt and laid it neatly on the bed, then stretched with casual sensuality and bent to remove her boots. The soft belt with its cleverly worked silver buckle was next, followed by the dark blue trousers.

 Unencumbered, she stretched again and crossed the first mate's quarters to the wide, cloth-covered chair. She curled into it like a cat, which reminded her of Dablin, so that she smiled for a moment before closing her eyes and beginning the discipline that erased all expression from her face.

 The discipline progressed: breathing deepened; heartbeat slowed until it was a distant boom coming at long intervals, like an ocean beyond the hills; body temperature dropped four degrees. When she was satisfied that those functions had stabilized and would remain steady until the body itself failed of hunger or trauma, Priscilla withdrew her attention to her place of safety, admitted the prayer that would keep her whole on such a chancy venture, opened the door between her Self and that which was not her Self - and went forth.

 Sounds, dazzling patterns, seductive perfumes: thePassage and all within it suddenly experienced with only the inner senses. There: Shan on the bridge. There: Lina in the common room. There: Gordy in the trader's room; Rusty at the comm; Ken Rik, Calypso, BillyJo, Vilt...Priscilla touched each, acknowledged all - and let them go.

 ThePassage, with its din of familiarity and love, dropped away, and she was alone in the noisy outside. She disallowed the clamor of strangers, brought up the template of the aura she sought, and focused on it, stretching awareness until her Self was barely more than a webbing of moth antennae, listening, quivering, straining far and farther...

 It was at the point that Self was strained to the thinnest, when the thread that anchored her to thePassage, to the body, was at the limit of its elasticity, that she heard/sensed/saw it.

 A glimmer, no more. A hint of familiarity; a bare taste of acerbic sweetness...

 Awareness contracted as Self rushed toward the hint, unsubtle in desire; everything focused on the pattern growing in her senses, intent on contact, so that it was not until the last instant that she recognized the subpattern of one protected within deep meditation.

 Aboard thePassage the body cried out, awareness and Self expanding toward dissolution as she struggled to absorb the psychic impact, scrambling even then for the shredding lifeline, clawing her way back, awareness a shivering knot of pain within the fire-shot network of Self - and plummeting into the body at last, heavy as a stone.

 She cried out again as the pain ate along nerve and sinew, heartbeat stuttering, respiration a gasping mess, body soaked in sweat, and it was hot, hot, too hot -

 Cool.

 "Shan!" That cry was no less desperate, for all he was Healer and strong in his skill. "Shan, no!"

 Cool enveloped her, leaching the heat and stifling the agony. She collapsed into it as if into his arms, and opened herself utterly, allowing him to cool even the memory of the pain, letting it vanish out of knowledge as heart rhythm steadied and breathing smoothed...She sighed and drifted, thinking of nothing.

 "Priscilla."

 It was with no common effort that she opened her eyes and looked into his face, vaguely surprised to find that she was indeed lying in his arms.

 "No more, Priscilla." Face and voice were stern; exhausted witch-sense brought her the echo of his terror. She thought about smiling, and perhaps she even did.

 "I saw Val Con."

 His pattern changed too subtly for her to read. "Where?"

 She moved her head. "It doesn't work that way, love. There aren't any directions when you go - spirit-walking. He's alive...strong...Meditating - playing, perhaps. I should have remembered how the music rings around him when he plays...That's what got me in trouble. Rushing in before I looked close. Wooly-headed as Anthora."

 "I don't recall that Anthora has ever put herself in quite so much danger in her checks on my brother - or on any of the rest of us. Understand me - no more. You will not endanger yourself searching for my renegade of a brother, who is, incidentally, quite capable of taking care of himself." His arms tightened fractionally, and she had no trouble reading the shift in his pattern that time. "I can't afford to lose you, Priscilla; have some sense."

 There was no talking to him, not with the fright he had just had - she saw that clearly, exhausted as she was. She smiled once more and lifted a hand to his stark cheek. "Of course, dear," she murmured. And slept.

  

  

  

  

 STARSHIPCLARION,

 ALLIED TO CAPTAIN ROBERT CHEN-JACOBS

  

 Taking Orbit About the

 World Named Kago

  

 The trip had been hasty and wondrous; the captain of the Terran vessel in which Sheather and his T'carais traveled was a gracious individual with an understanding nearly as bright as that of Val Con yos'Phelium Scout. He was a treasure, was Captain Chen-Jacobs, and Sheather had lovingly subscribed him to memory, knowing already how much might be learned from those hasty persons of the Clans of Men.

 Consider that his T'carais, known to men as Edger, claimed untold wisdoms acquired from his adopted brother, that same Val Con yos'Phelium Scout - and the T'carais had a memory both long and rich. Indeed, only see what Sheather himself had learned, through their last brief meeting with the brother of the T'carais and the lifemate of that brother. Another treasure entirely was Miri Robertson; and Sheather dwelled often upon the honed brightness of her, to his wider appreciation of what was.

 "Four days from Lufkit to this place," Edger said beside him.

 Sheather blinked solemnly. "The Clans of Men and the ways of those Clans are hasty indeed, brother. And yet I find myself - exhilarated - by their speediness, touched by the valiance of their striving."

 "Do you so?" The T'carais considered him with care.

 There was that in the voice of the T'carais which brought to mind vividly one's own position as a mere Seventh Shell; yet Sheather did not efface himself. "I find myself," he said instead, "looking at this action or another of an individual with the eyes of our new sister. It is a difficult endeavor, and one that I perhaps undertake imperfectly, yet I say to you, brother, that a certain - correctness - exists, though the view must be both hasty and imperfect." He foundered somewhat under the unwavering regard of his T'carais and the eldest of his brothers. "No doubt there is much thought yet required."

 "No doubt," Edger responded calmly. "Honor me, brother, with your further thoughts upon this subject, when you have considered more widely."

 "Certainly, brother."

 "Your pardons, Most Wise." Captain Chen-Jacobs bowed deeply, and Sheather, seeing as his new sister might see, understood that the man was distressed.

 His eldest brother, with what resources must be available to the one who was both T'carais and Edger for the Clan, had achieved the same understanding. "My pardon you do not need, for you have done us no harm," he assured the man in a booming voice. "But I perceive that you are uneasy and hope that ill news has not found you."

 "Ill news?" The captain spread his hands, palms up, in a variation of the gesture favored by Val Con yos'Phelium Scout. "Who can tell? But you spoke of a pressing need to raise Shaltren when you boarded my ship, and I said that I would try to make arrangements for a connection from Kago."

 Edger bent luminous eyes upon the man's face. "And have you not done so?"

 "Wisdom, I have. But you spoke of haste, and I'm afraid the arrangements I've made are insufficient to your need."

 Edger waited, eyes glowing.

 "Understand, Wisdoms, that respectable ships do not ordinarily go to Shaltren. I have, in fact, located one. Its name isSkeedaddle, and the captain has said she will add you both to her passenger list."

 "Thus far there is only amiable news, Robert Chen-Jacobs. Acquaint us with your trouble."

 The man sighed heavily and shook his head, though what he denied was more than Sheather could find, even with the assistance of his sister's sight.

 "My trouble is for you, Wisdoms.Skeedaddle and Captain Rolanni are willing to take you to Shaltren. But they do not leave for thirty days."

 There was a silence, short for Clutch, long for a human. "It may be possible," Edger said, "to hire a ship and a pilot for the purpose of taking us to Shaltren. We shall investigate this possibility. For I confess to you, Robert Chen-Jacobs, that I am not entirely easy with human speediness and the rate at which events may sometimes take place. It is perhaps true that thirty days is too many to wait, in this instance." He turned his head. "What think you, young brother?"

 Startled, Sheather blinked. "I?" He was aware of a conviction that thirty days was far, far too long and offered that information to his T'carais, adding diffidently, "It is what I perceive, brother, with the understanding I have of our sister's perception. The T'carais..."

 But the T'carais, in a most unClutch-like manner, had turned back to Captain Chen-Jacobs. "My kinsman and I are grateful for your efforts, but I, too, feel that thirty days are too many to simply wait upon transportation, no matter how respectable. We shall find another way." He extended a three-fingered hand and inclined his head. "You have done well for us, Robert Chen-Jacobs. We are grateful."

 The man hesitated fractionally before putting his hand into Edger's. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help. If there's anything else I can do..."

 "You have done what was asked of you, and it may be yet that we shall utilize what you have wrought. But we must explore this other possibility. In the affairs of men, days are most often of the essence."

  

  

  

  

 LIAD

  

 Envolima City

  

 Tyl Von sig'Alda sat in an office overlooking Envolima Spaceport, frowning at the screen before him. The bowl at his right hand had long since ceased to steam; the spicy scent cloyed, irritated for an instant, then was whisked away by the air-cleaning system.

 Thirteen.

 No other clan owned as many ships; indeed, Korval might be said to hoard the things. Tradeships, yachts, retired Scout ships, miners, intrasystem garbage scows - if it was a ship and came into Korval hands, there it remained until the care of men could no longer keep it spaceworthy. Never in the memory of the longest Rememberer had any of Korval loosed a vessel of their own will, excepting, perhaps, the very ship of the Migration.

 Thirteen was a mote from such a fleet, yet even Korval could not afford to scatter ships like handfuls of seed throughout the galaxy.

 That an exodus of thirteen ships occurred mere days after Korval-in-Trust's inquiry for Val Con yos'Phelium was - disturbing.

 Of the five major tradeships, onlyDutiful Passage remained about Liad; so it seemed half-breed yos'Galan was immune to whatever orders had sent lesser captains scrambling to file Change of Departures and ring their crews back from abruptly shortened leaves.

 Well, and Korval ever moved to the necessities of its own madness, to Liad's gain, mostwise. Though of course that was never its primary object. Korval served the interests of Korval; it merely happened that its interest ranged widely. So widely that one Terran encyclopedia had labeled Korval "Liad's ruling House," likening its Delm to a king. And to individuals of mere Terran understanding that must seem to be the way of it.

 Tyl Von sig'Alda touched the keypad, banishing the tale of ships. The next file was even less satisfactory, and frequent viewing had failed to sweeten the contents. Oh, it started well enough, with verification of Val Con yos'Phelium's most recent mission successfully completed: The Second Quadrant leader of the Terran Party, one Kelmont Jaeger, was dead, according to plan; precisely as ordered.

 Well done, sig'Alda allowed, and sighed as the file scrolled on.

 He was viewing now his own efforts at tracking the missing agent, looking, as he had countless times before, for that flaw in his reasoning; that glaring error in his conclusion that had led the commander to assign him this thrice-hopeless task. Even the verification of the Loop and the report he had given while under the drug had left the commander unmoved. Agent Tyl Von sig'Alda was assigned the project of ascertainingwithout doubt the whereabouts and condition of Val Con yos'Phelium.

 Agents, as sig'Alda knew, were expendable. Yet the commander insisted on being certain that any unaccounted for had indeed been expended and neither captured nor subverted, though surely Loop and Option guarded against either...

 sig'Alda sighed in sharp irritation. He had reached the point where it was a matter of retracing Val Con yos'Phelium's steps, thoughts, and conclusions. His office was cluttered with records of yos'Phelium's past missions - for his search, he had been granted ultimate clearance. He had requisitioned and attained yos'Phelium's Scout files; had listened to them over and over, until the man's quiet voice and precise phrasing seemed likely to haunt the few hours of sleep he allowed himself.

 And still there was no clue.

 Certain matters were obvious: both sanctioned escape routes had remained unused at mission end, and a ship lay empty at Lufkit Prime Station, doing nothing more than collecting berthing fees. Past missions illustrated yos'Phelium's resourcefulness: as had been the case in previous missions, alternatives to prepared and rehearsed situations had existed. This time the alternatives appeared to have failed, yet the data in hand were certainly too few to marshal as incontestable.

 Further, he found that he was perforce made to study Korval itself. As much as the Department taught - and had demonstrated! - that the agent might safely be removed from the Clan to more ardently pursue Liad's own needs, it seemed clear from the records that an unquantified but significant portion of yos'Phelium's success was from the genes and mad genius of Clan Korval - which suddenly included the Department of the Interior among its ranging interests.

 Thirteen ships sent forth from Korval. What did they know? He scrolled through the list again. As he watched, the screen shivered; then the list re-formed with yet another name appended:Dutiful Passage.

  

  

  

  

 VANDAR

  

 Springbreeze Farm and Environs

  

 Val Con awoke chilly and discontented. Not only was Miri's head not on his shoulder, but body-sense told him that she was not even in bed, though he did detect some faint rustlings from across the room, which could just as easily be mice as his wife.

 Irritably, he opened his eyes.

 She was standing before the mirror across the room, fully clothed except for her belt, totally absorbed in arranging her hair. As he watched, she finished mooring the elaborate knot on the right side of her head and took her hands gingerly away. Satisfied that her hair was firmly anchored, she rummaged among the objects on the table below and came up with a slender, polished stick - the knife he had given her in Econsey, little more than a month earlier. The blade they had been wed by.

 Miri flicked the knife open, closed, then thrust it through the center of the knot. She shook her head several times, hard, but hair and blade remained steadfast.

 "Very nice," Val Con remarked. "Shall we be festive when we go to town, then?"

 She grinned at him in the mirror. "Morning," she said, coming over to sit on the side of the bed. "I don't know 'bout festive, but I did notice Zhena Trelu don't wear a belt or a pouch. Which probably means we're not gonna be able to wear ours after we get these new clothes she's so hot for. An' I just wouldn't feel right without some kind of weapon - been a soldier too long, I guess." She shrugged.

 He lifted an eyebrow. "Not too bad, for someone who is stupid."

 "Bastard." But she was grinning, "Thought you told me Liadens were polite."

 "Formality," he said, pausing to stretch, "must never be confused with courtesy." He rolled to his side, closer to her. "How are you this morning, cha'trez?"

 "Really fine," she said seriously, and he read the truth of that in the clearness of her eyes and the looseness of the muscles in her face and body. "Rainbow's good to know," she added, and bent her head in self-conscious formality. "Thank you."

 "You're welcome. I am only sorry that I did not realize sooner - I was not watching well..." You could not have been watching at all, he told himself bitterly, to allow her to come to such a pass.

 But Miri had tipped her head, the line of a frown deepening between her brows. "You got other things to do, doncha? Can't always be watching me. An' I could've told you, couldn't I? Wasn't that I thought you wouldn't help; just didn't think there was anything you could do." She smiled apologetically. "Never been married before. Hard to get the hang of asking for help."

 He put his hand over hers where it lay upon the bed. "We will learn together. I've never been married before, either."

 "Yeah, you said that." She was still frowning. "Why not?"

 "Scouts rarely take lifemates," he murmured. "One should enter into at least one contract-marriage - however, I did not choose to do so."

 "But why not?" she persisted, watching him closely.

 He rounded his eyes at her. "I was waiting foryou, Miri." She laughed and squeezed his fingers. "Okay, you win..." she began, then her eyes fell on the sun-lit window and she leapt up. "Holy Panth, look at the time! I gotta feed those damn birds or Zhena Trelu'll fuse. Boss, start breakfast, okay? I'mstarved..." And then she was at the door, hand on the knob.

 "I am owed!" Val Con cried, surprising himself at least as much as her.

 Miri spun. "Huh?"

 He threw back the covers, slid out of bed, and began pulling on his clothes. "I am owed," he repeated. "I awaken and my wife is not at my side; I confess feelings of astonishing magnitude - and am disbelieved. I am ordered about. All this," he concluded, dragging his shirt over his head and glaring at her, "without so much as a kiss. I am deeply wronged."

 "Oh." She came back across the room and stopped before him, studying his face. He was clowning - she had seen the glint of mischief in the green eyes - yet there seemed an undercurrent of serious intent in his attitude.

 "So, how do I pay up?"

 He gave it consideration. "I believe," he said, after a time, "that a kiss would do much toward balance."

 "Right. Just so happens I've got a kiss on me. Is Terran currency okay?" She came closer, and his hands settled about her waist as she ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders and looked up into his bright eyes.

 He smiled. "Terran currency is perfectly acceptable." He bent his head to collect.

  

 Zhena Trelu followed the unaccustomed odor from the door of her bedroom to the kitchen and stopped, staring.

 The biggest iron skillet was on the burner over a low flame, a generous handful of pungent bulbroot already starting to brown in the center. Cory was at the counter, grating cheese right from the block; several scuppin eggs, two sprigs of parslee, the milk pitcher, and a mixing bowl sat to hand, along with a knife and the remains of the bulbroot. The teapot was already steaming.

 Meri, egg basket in hand, was on her way to the door; she turned, placed the basket on the floor, went to the stove, and poured out a cup of tea, which she took to the table, smiling.

 "Good morning, Zhena Trelu," she said clearly. Then she was gone, the door banging behind her.

 Cory looked up front his grating and grinned. "Good morning, Zhena Trelu."

 "Good morning, yourself," she muttered, more than a little put out by all the activity. They were fixing a meal atthis hour? Normally, they each had a cup of tea to start the day and then went about the chores until dinner. She sipped tea and frowned at the man's narrow back. "Cory?"

 He turned, cheese in hand. "Yes, Zhena Trelu?"

 "Why's Meri got her hair all done up like that? Looks - " It looked outlandish, is what it looked. Barbaric. "Different."

 Cory moved his shoulders, smiling a little. "For town."

 "For town? She doesn't have to fix her hair different for town. The braid will be fine."

 One brow slid up. "It is for town, Zhena Trelu," he repeated. "Miri works hard."

 And that, the old woman thought, taking another sip as he turned back to his cooking, would appear to be that. Well, and what business was it of hers if the two of them chose to go into town looking as if they had just escaped from the circus?

 "It's just that," she told Cory's back, "this hairstyle doesn't make her look very pretty." And when one was as plain as Meri was in the first place, poor child...

 Cory had turned around again, both eyebrows up. "Zhena Trelu?Pretty is?"

 "Eh?" She set her cup down and pointed at the vase of sweelims on the table. "The flowers are pretty, Cory."

 "Ah." He reached to the sink and showed her a pink-and-cream cup Granic's wife had made, a lovely thing, airy and smooth. "Pretty, this?"

 "Yes," she agreed. "The cup's pretty. Very pretty."

 He contemplated it for a moment before returning it with great care to the sink. Thoughtfully, he cracked eggs into the bowl, added milk, parslee, and grated cheese, then whipped it all together with a fork. After pouring the stuff into the skillet and adjusting the heat, he set the bowl in the sink and ran water into it.

 "Borril," he asked over the water's noise, "is pretty?"

 Zhena Trelu gave a crow of surprised laughter. "No. Cory, Borril isnot pretty. Borril is - " But just then the outside door was pushed open and Meri marched in, carrying a basket containing three large eggs, the unlovely Borril at her heels.

 "Pretty," Cory said, grinning at her.

 Meri blinked incomprehension. "Pretty?"

 He took the basket and put it on the counter, conducted her with ceremony to the table, and gestured to the flowers with a flourish. "Flowers are pretty," he said solemnly.

 Meri bowed slightly to the sweelims. "Pretty flowers."

 Hand under her elbow, Cory guided her back to the sink, where he held up the pink-and-cream cup. "The cup isvery pretty."

 She lifted a slender finger and ran it lightly down the glazed surface."Very pretty."

 Setting the cup down, he slid his arm around her waist and turned her to face the dog, which was curled up and yawning on the rug.

 "Borril," he said, affecting to speak into her ear but talking loudly enough for Zhena Trelu to hear, "isnot pretty."

 Meri laughed.

 Cory hugged her, then looked over her head at Zhena Trelu, who thought she knew what was coming.

 "Miri is pretty."

 Meri returned the hug and stepped back, raising a hand to his scarred cheek."Very pretty, you," she said, and then she was at the pantry, tucking eggs away as Cory drifted back to the stove and poured tea.

 Meri brought the cups to the table, but paused at the cupboard and glanced over her shoulder. "Zhena Trelu? You eat? Good eggs."

 Zhena Trelu stopped on the edge of refusal. They might have a point, at that. Shopping was pretty tiring; it might be best to start off with a little something in the stomach.

 "I'll have just a bit," she said, managing a sour smile. "Thank you very much."

 Three plates were delivered to Cory at the stove. Meri pulled bread, jam, and butter from various keepsafes, brought them to the table, and returned flicker-quick - or so it seemed to the woman watching - with silverware and napkins. Pulling the bread to her, she cut off three quick, even slices and handed one to Zhena Trelu.

 Cory and the plates arrived. He gave Zhena Trelu hers, put Meri's down at her place, and slid into his own seat. Accepting a piece of bread, he began to eat.

 In a moment Meri had joined him, eating with every evidence of enjoyment.

 Zhena Trelu picked up her fork and considered her plate. The eggs did not look like proper eggs at all - all scrambled up and smelling of cheese and spices. Gingerly, she took a smidgen and tasted it.

 Odd, but not awful. She had another smidgen, and then a larger one - and suddenly discovered that her plate was empty.

 A deep sigh brought her attention to Meri, who was sitting back in her chair, grinning, teacup cradled in her hands.

 "Thank you," she said to Cory. "Verygood eggs."

 Zhena Trelu added her approval. "Yes, thank you, Cory. You're a good cook." A thought struck her. "Is that what you used to do to make money at home?"

 There was a pause during which Cory leisurely finished his bread and butter and washed it down with a swallow of tea. Zhena Trelu had begun to despair of an answer when he tipped his head.

 "I eat. I cook."

 That was almost as bad as no answer, when she thought about it. But it did raise another point that had better get firmly settled before Athna Brigsbee started bullying and terrifying them with her questions. "Cory, where are you from?"

 He rested his eyes on hers. "Home."

 Zhena Trelu sighed. "Yes, Cory. But whereis home?"

 He gestured, waving a slender hand toward the east and little upward - the direction of Fornem's Gap.

 Zhena Trelu sighed again. "All right, Cory, we'll do it this way. If someone asks you where you're from, you tell them 'Porlint.' We don't get many refugees up this way, but stranger things have happened, especially if you got yourselves turned around somehow and came through the gap."

 Cory finished his tea and glanced at his wife. "Home is Porlint," he told her, and pointed a severe forefinger. "Where are you from?"

 Meri blinked. "Porlint," she said meekly, then grinned."Cory."

 "Bad-tempered brat," he responded, but she only laughed and got up to clear the table.

  

 The truck started up at the first hint from starter switch and key. Zhena Trelu nodded to herself in satisfaction and leaned across to open the passenger's door. Thin as the two of them were, she figured that they would all three be able to fit on the single bench seat.

 The door swung wide, and Cory pulled himself into the cab. The girl followed immediately, standing poised on the ledge, gray eyes wary.

 "If she's gotta move her arms to drive this thing, maybe you better not sit so close," she said seriously to Val Con. "If you don't mind, I can sit on your lap or something - give her room to operate." She grinned. "Thing looks as unsafe as this does, I don't wanna do anything 'bout adding to the other side's odds."

 "You may be right," he murmured, taking note of various levers and foot pedals. "It is never wise to crowd the pilot." He shifted closer to the door, and Miri sat on his lap, settling sweetly in.

 "No!" Zhena Trelu snapped.

 Startled, Miri looked down into Val Con's eyes. "Wrongo, boss.Now what, do you think?"

 "We shall attempt to ascertain." He turned his attention to the frowning old woman. "No?" he repeated in Benish. "Bad?"

 Zhena Trelu stopped herself from making the first remark that occurred to her and reminded herself that they were foreigners, with wind-knew-what notions. For that matter, there had been her own son's zhena - stormy-tempered and wild to a fault, yet biddable enough with Granic and pathetically eager to do her best for him.

 She sighed. "It'sgood that you children love each other. Very pretty. It's good to touch each other. But in town some people might not understand, if they saw Meri sitting there like a - well, never mind. When you're at home, you can touch each other and hug and that'sfine. But when you're out with people - in town - you have to berespectable." She paused, wondering how much of her lecture was making sense to either of them. One of Cory's eyebrows was out of alignment with the other, but his eyes were serious on her face. Meri was watching her, too, the line of a frown just visible between her brows.

 "Refugees already have a bad name," Zhena Trelu continued. "You don't want people in town maybe not hiring you when you go to get a job, because they think you don't know how to behave, now do you? Especially you, Cory: a zamir as trusted and responsible as you are - well, you have to always be sure to bring honor to your zhena, and not let her do things that will make people think poorly of her.

 "So, Meri, you get up now and let Cory slide over here next to me...All right; sit down, Meri, and close the door."

 Once everyone was settled to her satisfaction, she put the truck in gear and turned her full attention to driving.

 Miri sighed and leaned carefully back into the seat - and discovered Val Con's arm already there. She nestled closer to his side, and the arm curved more tightly around her waist.

 "Sneak," she muttered.

 "But such anice sneak. Did you receive the impression that we are rude, yet not fatally so? If there is need, perhaps we could yet hold each other's hand."

 Miri raised her eyebrows. "In case I get scared, you mean."

 "Or I."

 She snorted.

 Val Con looked at her. "What an extraordinary person I am," he murmured. "Never afraid, or lonely, or in need of laughter. Or a touch. I am quite overcome by my superiority."

 She winced at the bitter note underlying the smooth voice, at the trouble shadowing his bright green eyes, and she recalled the urgency of his tears. Carefully she reached down to squeeze his fingers and summoned up a disrespectful grin.

 "Yeah, well, I wouldn't be all that impressed. First of all, you gotta remember how hard it is to get a straight story out of you. Person could die of old age before she figures out the right question. Youmanage people - quiet about it - just don't treat 'no' like an answer. And the gods help whoever's there, you ever let that temper of yours off the leash." She gave him a thoughtful look. "Kinda like to be around to take notes, though - you sure got a way with words. Be useful, I ever wanna go back into the sergeant business."

 He laughed, his arm tightening around her briefly. "I am chastised."

 Then the truck swung uncertainly into a wider way, rattled over metal tracks, and raggedly negotiated a curve, coming upon an amazing structure: an open house in the middle of the road!

 "A wooden tunnel?" Miri demanded.

 "Hush," Val Con said.

 And like Scout and soldier they watched the rest of the way to town, taking careful note of distance, direction, and terrain.

  

  

  

  

 VANDAR

  

 Gylles

  

 Brillit's Emporium stood two stories tall in the very center of town, directly across from the many-windowed tower and just up the street from the little blue building. It faced an oval of sere vegetation set in the middle of the road - the so-called town green.

 Zhena Trelu herded her charges across the street and up the steps to Brillit's front door, muttering under her breath as she saw Mrythis Wibecker come out of the glazing shop and stare at them. In less than ten breaths it would be all over town that Estra Trelu was here with her pet refugees. If there was one gossip in Gylles worse than Athna Brigsbee...

 Corvill and Meri hesitated on the threshold, and Zhena Trelu gave each a firm push in the small of the back, propelling them into the dim, sawdusty interior.

 "Ever look forward to a day," Miri murmured to Val Con, "when you won't get shoved around?"

 Val Con's shoulders jerked, but he managed not to laugh.

 Zhena Trelu took the lead, quick-marching them down aisles lined with gizmos and tantalizing gadgets which her charges would have liked to examine in more detail, to the foot of a wide stairway. She peered carefully in both directions before beginning the ascent, for all the worlds like a Merc expecting to see enemies bursting from the brush on either side.

 Nothing of the sort happened, however, and she waved them ahead of her. Obeying the gesture, they climbed the stairs and waited while she made her more laborious way up and stood for a moment to catch her breath.

 "All right, children; here we are. We'll get Cory settled first." And she marched off to the right, the pair of them trailing behind.

 "She likes you best," Miri told her partner.

 "Untrue," he returned. "She merely wishes to have me out of the way in order to spend more time with you."

 "Estra! It's been a time, hasn't it? How are you?" The speaker was a plump, balding man a little taller than Zhena Trelu. He was wearing a gray jacket to match his gray trousers and a white shirt and a dark-blue neck-string. He was standing at the mouth of an aisle lined with racks of clothes.

 Miri blinked. Clothes? And no valet in sight. How was one supposed to figure out which of all those clothes was the correct fit? Unless that was what that bald guy did. Gods, she thought. What a job.

 Zhena Trelu was talking about them. "Porlum, this is Cory. Him and his zhena are doing some work around the place for me, and it looks like they'll be staying the winter. Thought it was high time for them to be having proper work clothes."

 Porlum considered the man in the dark leather slacks and vest. A little under average height, but nothing to be unduly concerned with. The slenderness of his build might be more of a problem. Still, work clothes? He smiled at the smaller man, who did not return the courtesy, and nodded to Zhena Trelu. "I'm certain we'll come up with something suitable. Good, warm shirts and durable pants, of course. How many? And will you want him to have a set of - ah, dress clothes, also?"

 Zhena Trelu frowned. "Three, four shirts, I think; couple of work pants - and a jacket, too, Porlum. Shoes..." She glanced at the high black boots on Cory's feet and sighed. "Work boots. I think we'll let the dress clothes go this time."

 "As you say, Estra," the man agreed. "If zamir will come this way?"

 "You go with Porlum, Cory," the old woman instructed. "He'll make sure you get the right things. Meri and I will meet you back here when we've gotten some things for her." She clamped her fingers around the girl's wrist and pulled her along.

 Miri threw a glance over her shoulder in time to see Val Con disappearing down a clothes-lined aisle. As she watched, he ducked back to the end and waved, vanishing again immediately.

 Grinning, Miri let herself be propelled farther into the store, to a place lined with clothes different from the clothes displayed in the area where they had left Val Con. A cadaverous woman with unlikely black hair, unlikelier red cheeks, and a thin, dissatisfied mouth looked at Miri, and her mouth turned sharply downward. She made no attempt to intercept Zhena Trelu, who peered about until Miri yanked on her sleeve and pointed.

 "There you are, Salissa," Zhena Trelu said with a distinct lack of warmth. "This is Meri. She's been helping me out on the farm, and it's time she was getting some proper work clothes."

 "I should think so!" Salissa sniffed. She turned to Miri. "Where did you come up with those - things - you're wearing? You look perfectly outlandish."

 "Of course she looks outlandish," Zhena Trelu snapped. "She's a foreigner!I know she needs clothes - that's why we're here! Good, warm clothes, Salissa; the kind she can work in. And don't bother trying to talk to her much. She can't understand more than one word in ten."

 She turned to Miri. "Meri, you go with Salissa, now. She'll find you some nice, warm clothes to work in. I'm going to buy some things for myself, and then I'll come back for you and we'll go find Cory."

 With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Miri watched the old woman walk away, then squared her shoulders and turned around to glare at Salissa.

  

 The small man had a mind of his own. He insisted on being shown the different grades of work shirts, subjecting each to close inspection, and finally deciding on the soft wool-and-julam blend - by far the warmest and most durable, in Porlum's opinion. Not that it was solicited.

 The customer's stringent standards were also applied to trousers and work boots, though he deferred to Porlum in the matters of size and fit, as was proper, and allowed socks and a belt to be suggested.

 In all particulars, however, was Cory's own taste followed - from the plain, rather than plaid, work shirts, to the tough black trousers. The jacket he chose was stuffed with hoyper feathers - a good, warm, well-crafted garment that because of its odd, greenish-gray color, had languished on the racks. The small man grinned when he saw it and pulled it on immediately.

 Porlum studied the effect and nodded. The jacket fit well; the deep pockets and hood were just the thing for winter, and the off-color brought out the amazing green of the customer's eyes. He sighed. It was a pity Estra had not thought dress clothes required.

 Cory was standing quite still, head tipped as if listening, then pointed at the pile on the counter - three shirts, a pair of pants, socks, and the peculiar clothing he had worn into the store. "I come back for this," he said, and was gone.

  

 Val Con paused to consider the scene before him. Miri - dressed in something he was fairly certain Miri should never be dressed in - was having a disagreement with a black-haired woman. Zhena Trelu was standing to one side, apparently trying to resolve the situation by keeping Miri silent long enough for the other woman to prevail.

 He walked forward.

 "Badis," Miri was telling the black-haired woman with a great deal of passion. "Not warm! Say Zhena Treluwarm - "

 "With that hair and those freckles," the other woman cut in, "you'd better think about looking pretty! Isn't it worth being a little chilly, knowing you look pretty, instead of like a - a tomboy?"

 "Now, Salissa," Zhena Trelu said. "She doesn't understand. And Meri, if you'll just let Salissa show you some more clothes - "

 "No more clothes," Miri announced with decision. "Bad clothes.My clothes," she told Salissa clearly, "are pretty!"

 "Those things you wore in here?" the saleswoman demanded. "Well, I suppose they are, if your idea of pretty is looking loose and -hoydenish and - "

 "You will not," a quiet voice said, cutting across her rising tirade, "say those words to this zhena."

 Salissa stared. A man was abruptly at the side of the red-haired woman, his green eyes resting blandly upon the saleswoman's face.

 Those eyes regarded her for what felt like long minutes, before he spoke again. "You understand my words?"

 She licked her lips. "Yes."

 "Good," the man said, no particular inflection in his soft voice. He turned to the red-haired woman. "Cha'trez?"

 Miri raised her hands in exasperation and looked down at herself. "Zhena Trelu say warm," she said, sticking to Benish. "Warm this not. Not pretty." She smiled a little. "Borril."

 His lips twitched as he considered the garment. The bright yellow shirt was long-sleeved, to be sure, but made out of some flimsy material that would barely be adequate on the warmest day they had yet encountered on this world. The skirt was not quite as thin, but ruffled and furbelowed - impossible to work in.

 He shook his head and turned to the old woman. "Zhena Trelu? Miri is - right? This is not warm. It is not pretty. There are clothes like Miri's clothes here?"

 "I should saynot." Salissa sniffed with rather more assurance than she felt.

 The green eyes flicked to her and ran - slowly and with deliberate insult - down her length and back to her face. He shrugged and turned back to Zhena Trelu. "There are other stores."

 "What?" She gaped at him. "For wind's sake...Yes, there's another store. But this is thebest store, Cory."

 For a moment, she thought he would insist; then he moved his shouldesti's pleasure filled the link between them. Then he asked, *Have you spoken to your brother lately?*

 *He's here in Amdarh.*

 Silence. Then Chaosti said, *Take care of yourself, Lucivar.*

 *I'll try to stay off the killing field.*

 He broke the link and walked out of the sitting room just as Daemon came down the stairs and Surreal opened the front door to admit Zhara and another witch.

 "I heard about the accident," Zhara said. "I brought my Healer to offer what help we can."

 "No," Daemon said too softly.

 *Daemon, Gabrielle is pregnant,* Lucivar said on a spear thread.

 Those glazed eyes stared at him for too long before Daemon focused his attention on the two witches.

 The Healer tried to smile. "Why don't I just have a look at Lady Angelline and…"

 Daemon's snarl filled the small entrance hall.

 "Wedo have a qualified Healer in residence," Surreal said. "I'll go up and ask Jaenelle if she needs another Healer.You just stand there and… breathe… until I get back." She eased around Daemon and bolted up the stairs.

 Don't do anything to provoke him,Lucivar thought, watching ice coat the windows on either side of the door. The entrance hall was so cold he could see his breath, and Zhara and her Healer were shivering.

 Daemon just stood there, his hands in his trouser pockets, staring at Zhara and the Healer.

 Surreal raced down the stairs. "Jaenelle says she has a few sore muscles. Nothing worse than that. Not even a bruise. She's fine, Daemon. She really is. I'm going to help her into a hot bath to soak a bit while you cool off." She looked around the entrance hall. "Or warm up." She started back up the stairs, then turned."Oh.Jaenelle also said you promised to read to her. She told me to remind you."

 Saying nothing, Daemon walked into the sitting room.

 Surreal dashed up the stairs, leaving Lucivar with Zhara and the Healer.

 Zhara's eyes glittered with anger. "If Prince Sadi thinks the respect the Dhemlan Queens have for his father means he can act any way he…"

 "Shut up and get out," Lucivar snarled, keeping his voice low enough not to carry to the sitting room. "He doesn't trust you, and right now, he'll kill anyone he doesn't trust."Even me.

 "I am Amdarh's Queen, and…"

 "You don't know who you're dealing with.You. Don't. Know. But I'm very much afraid you're going to find out. So get out while you can… and hope you're still among the living when this is done."

 Zhara's light-brown skin turned gray. "What are you talking about?"

 Lucivar swore. "He's a Warlord Prince. Someone tried to hurt his Queen. What do youthink is going to happen?"

 "It was an accident."

 "You believe that if you want to. You seem willing to believe a lot of things lately."

 Before Zhara could reply, they all heard the quiet clink of glass against glass. She glanced toward the sitting room…and the two women left with more speed than dignity.

 Lucivar closed the front door, then leaned against it for a moment. He didn't want to walk into that sitting room, but someone had to dance with the Sadist, and it looked like it was going to be him.

 Taking a deep breath, and hoping he wasn't about to make Marian a widow, he walked into the sitting room and closed the door.

 "Brandy?" Daemon asked as he filled a snifter halfway.

 "Sure." Lucivar walked toward his brother, watching for any sign that things would turn lethal. Daemonsounded calm, but that didn't mean a damn thing.

 Daemon poured brandy into another snifter and handed it to Lucivar.

 "I was willing to let it go," Daemon said softly. "I told myself it was just words. Some petty bitch sees a male she wants and goes after him in one way or another. How many times had we watched that game played out in Terreillean courts over the centuries?"

 "Too many," Lucivar said, wishing he could test the brandy for poison… and knowing the insult would probably get him killed. "Hell's fire, when that little Rihlander was planning to trap me a few years ago, I exiled the bitch."

 "Just exile? Did you have a weak moment, Prick?" Daemon's smile was still on the chilling side, but not quite on the killing edge anymore.

 Lucivar shrugged. "At the time, killing her would have caused more problems."

 Daemon nodded and took a large swallow of brandy. "If this game had stayed focused on me, I would have let it go. Jaenelle didn't believe the rumors, and I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks." He looked away. "And I thought, if it got physical, I would be the target."

 "You were in that carriage, too."

 "But I'm not the one who was supposed to get hurt. It happened fast, Lucivar. We'd been using that same cab all afternoon. Anyone following us would have had time to put a spell on it…or at least prepare the spell for a fast strike. The way the cab rolled… It was too fast, too violent. Had to be Craft-enhanced. Which means someone hoped Jaenelle would be hurt."

 "In order to have you." He could see it too clearly. A shield would have protected her from broken glass or wood, but being thrown around in a rolling cab could have resulted in a damaged neck or spine. Jaenelle could have been crippled, perhaps forever, just when she was starting to reclaim her life.

 "In order to have me," Daemon agreed.

 "So what are we going to do?"

 "Whoever caused the accident killed the driver but didn't finish the kill. I have him. After he makes the transition to demon-dead, he may be able to tell me something."

 "You have plenty of experience in finishing the kill and none when it comes to dealing with someone newly demon-dead."

 "So?"

 "Why not take the cab driver to the one person whodoes know how to deal with the demon-dead?" Lucivar took a swallow of brandy. "If you don't tell Father about what happened today, he's going to kick your ass. You know that."

 The room went cold. "Do you think he can?"

 Hell's fire. No. "Jaenelle is his Queen, too, Bastard. If she's in danger, he needs to be told."

 The temperature in the room eased closer to normal.

 "I don't want to leave Jaenelle," Daemon finally said.

 "Then I'll take the driver to the Keep."

 "All right."

 "And after we find out whatever the driver knows?"

 Daemon watched the brandy as he gently swirled the snifter. "Jaenelle wants to help me find whoever is behind the rumors. I'm not happy about that, but I understand the need. If I try to keep her away from everything that might hurt her, I'll smother her…and I'll lose her. She won't stay if she's thought of as less than what she was."

 "She is less than what she was." Lucivar shrugged, ignoring the skitter of nerves down his spine at the way Daemon looked at him. "But she'll never discover what she can do if we keep standing in the way."

 "Exactly." Daemon sighed. "There's a party in three days. One of those mind-numbing affairs. So Jaenelle and I will play out a little game at the party. Maybe we'll even find out something. Either way, I think I can convince her that she played out her part and should go back to the Hall."

 "A mind-numbing party," Lucivar muttered. "Sounds like fun."

 Daemon's eyes and smile finally warmed. "I'm delighted you think so, since you'll be there, too."

 Lucivar swore. "Why do I have to be there?"

 "Because if someone there goes after Jaenelle and somehow manages to get past me, I want to know they'll have to go through you in order to hurt her."

 "Done." He set the snifter on the table. "You'd better include Surreal in this party. If you piss her off, she'll threaten to pin your balls to the wall."

 Daemon grinned. "She does have a way of expressing her opinions, doesn't she?"

 "That she does. So what happens after the party?"

 The grin changed into a viciously gentle smile. Daemon set the snifter down and turned his right hand palm up so Lucivar could see the snake tooth slide out of its channel beneath the ring-finger nail.

 "After that," Daemon said, "I'm going hunting."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Twelve

 «^»

 1

 Daemon shrugged into his black jacket and adjusted the cuffs of his white silk shirt. He didn't want to go to this party, didn't want Jaenelle anywhere near the aristo Blood who would be crowding the rooms. But her plan to try to draw out whoever was behind the rumors sounded safe enough, especially with Lucivar and Surreal in attendance.

 That didn't mean he liked it. And he wasn't sure he could do it.

 To distract himself, he silently rehearsed the phrase in the Old Tongue that he'd painstakingly pieced together over the past few weeks. He'd learned a few phrases of the Blood's ancient language over the centuries from scholars who still had some knowledge of those fluid words, but nothing he'd known had come close to what he wanted to say. Something private. Something erotic. Something he could whisper to Jaenelle to tell her what she meant to him.

 Unfortunately, there were only two people in all of Kaeleer who were fluent in the Old Tongue. He couldn't ask Jaenelle to help him translate the phrase since he wanted to surprise her, and Saetan… Well, no matter how sophisticated the relationship, no matter how adult the people involved, there were some things a son just couldn't ask his father.

 So he'd struggled with the books he'd found in Saetan's private study deep beneath the Hall, books that were filled with the grammar and vocabulary of that old language. What they didn't tell him was how to pronounce those words.

 Maybe he could talk Jaenelle into giving him a few lessons while they were on their honeymoon. After all, he was going to offer to teach her a few things, too.

 A quiet click. The bathroom door opened.

 He turned to face her as she entered the bedroom. He'd seen desire mingled with the heat of lust in other women's eyes, and had hated them for it because they saw only the body, wanted only the bedroom skills he'd had no choice in learning. But seeing those feelings in her…

 A different kind of heat flowed through him, and all those bedroom skills finally had a purpose.

 "You look beautiful," he said as he crossed the room and held out his hand.

 "So do you." She blushed.

 Watching the color wash over her cheeks made him hungry.

 Drawing her into his arms, he nuzzled her temple. "What would you like to do on our honeymoon?" The look she gave him made him grin. "Besides that."

 Her blush deepened.

 He eased back enough to trace a finger over the gold chain that held Twilight's Dawn. "I was thinking we could see what skills you might have now with a different Jewel."

 A touch of wariness filled her eyes. "Craft?"

 "I was thinking more along the lines of cooking."

 Her eyes widened. "Cooking? But I can't cook."

 His fingers followed the chain back up to her neck. "You couldn't before. But you couldn't call in your shoes before, either."

 "I don't know, Daemon."

 The words were doubtful, but her expression was eager.

 His hands caressed her back. His lips brushed her cheek. "We could start with something simple. A roast."

 "A roast," she repeated, as solemn as any student learning her first difficult spell.

 "We start with a choice cut of meat." His hands caressed her hips, her ribs, gave her breasts a teasing brush before circling back up to her shoulders. "Rub it gently with herbs to season it and bring out the flavor." Since her head had tipped back, exposing her throat, he took the invitation and left a trail of delicate kisses from her throat to her ear. "Then we give it heat, but carefully, slowly, so the juices rise and tremble on the surface to be savored."

 "Are you sure we're talking about cooking?"

 He licked her ear, enjoying the little tremors going through her.

 "My legs are weak," she said, sounding breathless.

 He froze, fighting against the panic that the strain of the past few days had been too much for her. But before he could think of a careful way to ask, she added, "When your voice gets that purr in it and you kiss me like that, my legs get weak."

 His body relaxed in one way, tightened in another. He brushed his lips over hers. "We could skip the party, stay home, and"… the tip of his tongue touched her bottom lip… "discuss the merits of basting."

 She stared at him. "I'm supposed to be annoyed with you. How am I going to be annoyed with you?"

 "By remembering the second part of the evening's entertainment."

 "What's that?"

 "The kiss-and-make-up part." He smiled as phantom tongues delicately licked her nipples.

 She wobbled, then held on to him to stay upright. "Mother Night."

 "Ready?" he purred.

 "For what?"

 She sounded nervous. He never wanted her to fear him, but nervous… Oh, he knewexactly how to play with a light case of nerves.

 Since he could think of a dozen answers to her question…and only one of them would get them out of the bedroom…he stepped back enough to guide her toward the door.

 "For the party of course."

 "The party. I remember."

 He grinned. Strange to feel savagely volatile and lighthearted at the same time. "Let's collect Surreal and Lucivar and go play party games."

 2

 Surreal scanned another room full of milling people. It felt like every aristo in Amdarh was stuffed into this house. "Parties like this were more fun to attend when I was a whore."

 Standing beside her, Lucivar also scanned the room. "Why?"

 "Watching all the prissy bitches trying not to act scandalized that I was there was almost as entertaining as watching the men I'd slept with sweat over what I might say to the prissy bitches. Now that I'm considered part of an aristo family, these little evenings aren't as interesting."

 "You're not 'considered' part of an aristo family," Lucivar growled. "Youare part of an aristo family."

 "Whatever."

 "We've been here an hour. You don't have to stay."

 "I'm not here for the food or the entertainment. Thank the Darkness."

 She didn't catch most of the low, snarling response except for the words "moon's blood."

 "It's the fourth day," she said with insulting precision. "I can wear my Jewels again."

 "The males here don't know that," he snapped. "They'll just pick up the scent. You might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, 'I'm vulnerable. Hurt me.' "

 She gave him a razor smile. "Exactly. Any male who looks at me and sees 'prey' is a man I want to have a private chat with."

 He gave her a long, assessing stare. She knew that look. This was Lucivar assessing a warrior's potential to step onto a killing field and be able to walk away from it once the fight was done.

 "You have your knives with you?" he asked.

 "I used to be an assassin as well as a whore, remember? Yes, I have my knives."

 "Are they honed?"

 "Yes, they're honed. Would you like me to test one on you to prove it?"

 He just stared.

 Surreal sighed. Since he was Eyrien, a Warlord Prince, and a relative, getting pissy with Lucivar about weapons was pointless. She decided to change the subject. "What's wrong with Daemon and Jaenelle? They were snuggly in the carriage on the way to this party, and now…" She frowned. "Now Daemon has this look on his face…"

 "His court mask." The sudden tension in Lucivar's body and the wariness in his voice made her uneasy. "His what?"

 "That's the way he always looked in the Terreillean courts when he was a pleasure slave. Cold. Bored. His face was a mask that revealed nothing of what he was really thinking. It was a look that said, 'You can touch my body, but you'll never touch me.'"

 That distracted her. "He actually let the bitches touch him…and they lived?"

 "I didn't say they lived," Lucivar replied grimly.

 Surreal shivered and went on to the second part. "Then there's Jaenelle. One moment everything is fine, and the next it's like she almost believes the rumors."

 "Hell's fire," Lucivar said. "This is the game. Daemon told me they were going to try flush out whoever was behind the rumors. This is how they're doing it."

 She thought it over, and her stomach churned at the possibility. The last time she'd been involved in one of Daemon's "games," the Sadist had scared the shit out of everyone in that Hayllian camp.

 "It's a game," Lucivar repeated. "He knows his role…Mother Night, he's played it enough times over the centuries."

 "And Jaenelle is pretending to waver between refusing to believe the rumors and wondering if there's some truth to them?"

 "That's my guess." He sighed. "Come on. We'd better find them."

 "I prefer watching the Sadist's games from a distance." But when Lucivar threaded his way through the crowd to reach the ballroom, she swore under her breath and followed him.

 Lektra pulled her cousin Tavey into a small alcove where she could keep an eye on the ballroom and still talk with relative privacy. Watching Daemon fawn over Jaenelle was beyond intolerable, and if he continued playing the ardent lover so publicly, all her efforts to free him would be ruined. So she had to do something now. It was unfortunate that she didn't have time to find a male who could make the lie believable, but she had to hope that the shock of the claim would make Daemon react without thinking.

 "This is what I want you to do," she said. Tavey's eyes widened as she told him.

 "But he's a Warlord Prince," Tavey said, his voice rising until she shushed him.

 "Exactly. By Protocol, if he's told to walk away, he has to walk away."

 "But doesn't she have to tell him to go?"

 "She'll never tell him. So you have to."

 "But I don't even know her!"

 "Shush!" Lektra looked around to assure herself no one was paying attention to them. "That doesn't matter. He won't know that." She paused and made her lips quiver. "Tavey, if you don't do this for me, my love will never be free, and if he ends up having to marry her, I'll be so miserable I…I don't think I'll be able to stand living anymore."

 "Don't say that, Lektra. Don't." Tavey squeezed her hands. "I'll do it. I promise."

 She sniffled and gave him a brave smile."I won't forget this. And once Daemon and I are married, I'm sure he'll use his family's influence to get you a position in whatever court you want."

 "Wouldn't mind having a month or so with Sadi's 'cousin.' "

 "You want the whore? You can have her. I've already made plans for getting her out of the way for a while to insure she's not a distraction. There's no reason why she can't provide you with some company while she's staying in the country."

 "Is something wrong?" Daemon asked as he escorted Jaenelle around the edge of the ballroom.

 "I'm trying to look petulant," she replied. "Don't I look petulant?"

 "You look like you have gas."

 "Daemon." She choked back a laugh.

 His lips twitched. This party was turning out to be more fun than he'd anticipated. Oh, not the party itself, but playing out this game with Jaenelle was definitely entertaining. It had been easy enough to slip behind that cold, bored expression that had served him so well in the Terreillean courts. Problem was, the mask kept slipping. They kept slipping, forgetting their roles of suspicious woman and discontented man. Dancing with her for the first time in months was too delicious a feeling to spoil with a game.

 But he'd agreed to play this out, so that's what he would do.

 "Are we still scheduled to have a public quarrel?" he asked, slipping an arm around her Waist once they found an open space where they could watch the dancers.

 "Yes, we are, because I'm upset with you." Jaenelle frowned as she looked at him. "Why am I upset with you?"

 "So that we can spend hours tonight doing the kiss-and-make-up part of this pretend quarrel," he purred, using Craft to change the sexual heat that, even leashed, poured out of him into psychic seduction tendrils that gently coiled around her while phantom hands stroked the inside of her thighs.

 "Mother Night," she gasped.

 Suddenly she was leaning hard against him, letting him support her.

 "Feeling a bit weak in the legs?" he asked too innocently.

 Her laughing snarl turned into a warm smile when she noticed the man swiftly approaching them.

 Handsome, graceful and lean, with a mane of brown hair artfully disheveled, the man had fair skin, which meant he wasn't native to Dhemlan, and green eyes that were focused on Jaenelle. An Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince. A rival.

 Daemon hated him on sight.

 "My darling," the man said, pressing his lips to the back of the hand Jaenelle held out to him.

 "Prince Rainier," Jaenelle replied, still smiling.

 "I'm wounded," Rainier said.

 Not yet, but you will be,Daemon thought.

 "My favorite Lady finally makes an appearance at a party and hasn't asked me to dance," Rainier continued. "But that's all right. I'm content just to flirt with you."

 I'll see you in Hell first.

 Rainier gave him an amused glance before focusing on Jaenelle again. "Would you mind telling your lover that I'm allowed to flirt with you?"

 "Of course you're allowed to flirt with me," Jaenelle said, her voice filled with laughter. "After all, you never mean it." She paused. "On the other hand, if you were flirting with Daemon…"

 "Pointless," Rainier said, grinning, "since it'sso obvious that he's taken. But…" Releasing Jaenelle's hand, he smiled at Daemon. "May I have this dance?"

 Hot fury. Cold rage. Suddenly it was easy to slip into the game. He'd assumed the person behind the rumors was female…an assumption he shouldn't have made.

 "If my Lady has no objections," Daemon crooned. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lucivar and Surreal entering the ballroom. As soon as he moved away, they'd stay close to Jaenelle.

 "Do you mind?" Rainier asked, glancing at Jaenelle.

 She looked baffled. "No, I don't mind."

 "Shall we?" Smiling, Rainier offered an arm.

 Daemon didn't take the arm…too much temptation to rip it off…but he turned and matched his stride to the Warlord Prince beside him until they reached the dance floor.

 The music started. A waltz. He wondered if Rainier had arranged that.

 "Who leads?" he asked.

 "I asked, so I lead."

 The man could dance. Daemon heard startled gasps, noticed other couples stumble to a halt and move out of the way. But those were distant things. His focus…and his temper…were fixed on Rainier.

 "Before you decide in favor of killing me, I should mention that I'm Second Circle," Rainier said.

 That statement almost threw him off balance. It was possible. Jaenelle's court had been so informal, he'd never met anyone beyond her First Circle. "You mean youwere Second Circle. The Dark Court no longer exists."

 "Hmm.Yes. I'm no longer Second Circle just like you're no longer the Consort."

 They whirled around the dance floor, perfectly matched, studying each other.

 "I'll think you'll find, Prince Sadi, that those who serve Jaenelle don't give a damn that there's no longer formally a court. The Dark Court still exists because she still exists. We still serve…and you're still the Consort."

 "What's your game, Rainier?"

 "Figured I'd better help you two by providing a distraction. You're doing a lousy imitation of a quarreling couple. You're having too much fun. I'm thinking you're trying to draw out whoever started those rumors. So this should catch someone's interest."

 The man had a point. They certainly had the attention of everyone in the room. "How did you end up in the Second Circle?"

 Rainier grinned. "I was the coven's dance instructor. The fifth or sixth one the High Lord hired. I wasn't much older than the girls and had no credentials except a knowledge of, and love for, dancing, but he told me if I could last the hour with them I had the position."

 "And you lasted the hour."

 Rainier nodded. "The Heart of the Realm was in that room. If the personalities and power of the coven didn't scare the shit out of a man, there was no better place to be. There's still no better place to be."

 He had a feeling Rainier was more than a dance instructor, but the man wasn't a rival, and a skilled ally could prove useful right now. "Do you know court dances?"

 "I adore court dances."

 "My lead." Daemon sent a psychic command to the head musician. When the music changed, he and Rainier broke the steps of one dance and flowed into the other as smoothly as if they'd been partners for years. Hand to hand. Turning. Circling. Gliding. Watching each other. Restrained sensuality swelling to the point of bursting. He saw the hint of fear in Rainier's green eyes as the web of desire he was spinning through the dance became a snare for the unwary.

 "Mother Night," Rainier whispered hoarsely. "You must be a mean bastard when you want to hurt someone."

 Daemon smiled a cruel, knowing smile, and crooned, "But you'd let me hurt you, wouldn't you?"

 The sudden tremble in Rainier's hand was answer enough.

 As the dance ended, Daemon leaned in, trapping their hands between their bodies, bringing lips close to lips. "That's why they called me the Sadist."

 Something was scraping his temper, some feeling in the room that reminded him too much of the Terreillean courts, something that had him teetering a heartbeat away from the killing edge.

 But thatsomething wasn't the man staring into his glazed eyes. This male belonged to his Queen and shouldn't be harmed.

 With effort, he pulled back the seduction tendrils, eased back physically. "Thank you for the dance."

 "My pleasure." Rainier cleared his throat. "It's been an education."

 They walked back to where Jaenelle and Surreal stood. No one in the ballroom spoke, no one moved. Even the musicians were silent for a long moment before the music began for the next dance, and the room was once more filled with movement and murmurs.

 Jaenelle watched him approach, her face flushed, her eyes wide.

 Was she repulsed by seeing him dance with another man? What was she thinking? He wanted to reach out, mind to mind, but he didn't dare. Not when his temper was being held back by a frayed thread.

 As he stopped in front of her, Rainier still beside him, he saw her throat muscles working to swallow.

 Looking dazed, Jaenelle said, "It's awfully warm in here. Is it warm in here?"

 Surreal snorted as she studied him and Rainier. "Sugar, we passed warm and leaped straight to blazing."

 "Oh. Good. It's not just me."

 Surreal gave him a wary look and linked her arm through Jaenelle's. "I imagine everyone is feeling a bit warm right now. Let's go out on the terrace and get some air."

 "Air is good," Jaenelle said, wobbling a little. "Air is… good."

 He said nothing as the two women made their way to the glass doors that led out to the terrace.

 Rainier cleared his throat. "It's been… um…" He shook his head and walked away.

 Daemon stayed where he was, watching Lucivar approach, seeing wariness in his brother's gold eyes. Rainier had been given the lightest taste of what it was like to dance with the Sadist, but Lucivarknew. And Lucivar was afraid.

 But being afraid never stopped him from issuing a challenge with all the Eyrien arrogance in him.

 "Quite a dance," Lucivar said.

 "It had its moments."

 "Rainier is a good Warlord Prince."

 "He's a dance instructor?"

 "Among other things."

 Which confirmed his sense of the man. "Who trained him?"

 "I helped him hone what he'd already learned."

 Which meant Rainier wasn't just a natural predator, he was also a well-trained killer.

 "Daemon… Jaenelle and Rainier are just friends."

 "I know. It isn't him. But there's something in this room…" He shook his head. "I'm going to find someplace to be alone for a few minutes. I need a few minutes."

 Lucivar stepped aside, letting him pass. With a bit of hunting, he found a small, secondary parlor near the ballroom. By the look of it, this was where visitors who weren't "important company" were entertained. Which meant right now it was quiet and empty, and that was what he needed to bring himself back from the point of going cold.

 Lektra grabbed Tavey's arm. "Do it now. He's by himself."

 "You want me to talk to him alone?"

 "Well, you can't do it whenshe's nearby, and she's been clinging to him all night. This may be your only chance." And after watching him dance with that other Warlord Prince, she'd go mad if she couldn't have Daemon soon.

 Tavey looked scared, but he never could refuse her for very long. So he left the ballroom to deliver his little speech.

 By the end of the evening, her beautiful love would be free to be with the one woman in the whole Realm who truly deserved to have him.

 * * *

 Hearing the parlor door open, Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets to hide his wedding ring. He'd spent the past few minutes just staring at it, taking comfort in its presence. He'd almost regained his balance, but he wasn't quite far enough away from the killing edge yet. He needed to find Jaenelle and tell her he couldn't go through with their public quarrel. He couldn't afford to have anything prick his temper right now.

 As he turned toward the door, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace. His gold eyes were still glazed…the prelude to cold rage.

 "You don't want to be here," he snarled softly as the Yellow-Jeweled Warlord slipped into the room and closed the door. "You really don't want to be here."

 "I…" The Warlord swallowed hard. "I'm asking you to do the right thing."

 "And what is the right thing?" He glided toward the door, forcing the Warlord to sidle farther into the room to avoid getting close to him.

 "We…We're in love. We want to be together."

 "Who is 'we'?"

 "Jaenelle. Me. We're in love. But she hasn't wanted to say anything because…"

 "Because?" Daemon asked too softly.

 "She's afraid of you." The Warlord blurted out the words. "She doesn't want to be with someone like you anymore."

 "Someone like me." The words sliced his heart, inserted a tiny sliver of doubt. Then he rubbed his left thumb against his wedding ring.

 If Jaenelle had fallen in love with someone else, she might not have told him until she felt capable of dealing with him. But shenever would have married him, because she understood the nature of Warlord Princes better than anyone else could.

 "Youmay be in love," Daemon said, "but…"

 "We're lovers."

 His brain shut off, snuffing out control, shattering the illusion of civilized behavior. As he descended to the level of the Black, the cold, glorious Black, every thought, every feeling funneled through the lethal rage of a Warlord Prince.

 Ice glazed the mirror over the fireplace, formed a crust over the carpet. In the moments when he and the Warlord stared at each other, he created a bubble shield and an aural shield, both ready to snap into place in a heartbeat. Then he rose from the abyss, his Black power delicately surrounding that weaker mind, preventing the Warlord from reaching anyone through a psychic thread.

 "So," Daemon crooned as he drew his left hand out of his pocket and rubbed a finger over his chin, "just when did you sleep with my wife?" Horror filled the Warlord's eyes as he stared at the plain gold band. The aural and bubble shield snapped up around the Warlord at the same moment Daemon's Black power smashed through all of the man's inner barriers.

 The Warlord's mouth opened in a scream of terror and pain, but no sound filled the room. He tried to run…and crashed against the shield that contained him.

 Daemon gave his prey a few moments to stare at death before he ripped into the Warlord's mind…and found all the answers he needed.

 One flash of the Black. The Warlord's torso burst open, his guts spilling out. Ribs snapped as they were ruthlessly spread open.The heart burst out of the body to hang, impaled, on a shattered rib.

 Another flash of the Black. Witchfire filled the Warlord's skull…and itburned. As the Warlord hit the floor, the skull broke open. Hot ash spilled out on the ice-covered carpet. Steam rose as the ice melted, soaking the carpet enough to keep it from catching fire.

 One last flash of the Black drained the Warlord's Jewels and burned out all of the man's psychic power, finishing the kill.

 Daemon studied his work with a critical eye…and smiled a cold, cruel smile.

 Lucivar flung the parlor door open and rushed into the room, pulling up fast when he saw the body on the floor. His gorge rose, but he braced himself for whatever would come. He knew what that glazed, sleepy look in Daemon's eyes meant, what that smile meant. The Sadist had gone cold, and there wasno one strong enough to control him.

 Daemon glided up to him…and waited.

 "Annoyed about something?" Lucivar asked.

 "Not anymore." Stepping around him, Daemon walked to the door and stopped. "Shall we go? I have an appointment to quarrel with my Lady."

 No. Sweet Darkness, no.Lucivar moved to the door. "You don't have to quarrel with Jaenelle."

 "What my Queen wants, my Queen will have."

 Knowing better than to argue, Lucivar walked out of the parlor. Daemon followed him. The door closed behind them.

 "Don't worry, Prick," Daemon said. "It won't be much of a quarrel."

 Daemon walked away. Lucivar hesitated, then turned back to the parlor. Better to get rid of the corpse before someone else found it.

 But when he reached for the doorknob, a feeling of revulsion swept through him, making his skin crawl. Stepping back, he studied the door. Stepping forward, the feeling swept over him again.

 Craft. Daemon had done something in the moment when he walked out the door that guaranteed no one would willingly open that door until the spell wore off. Which meant Daemon wanted the body to be found…but not until he was ready to have it found.

 "Well, bitch… or whoever you are," he whispered. "You wanted to play with the Sadist? Looks like you'll get your chance."

 Turning away from the parlor, Lucivar hurried back to the ballroom. He couldn't stop what would happen, but he'd do whatever he could to protect Jaenelle and Surreal.

 Daemon glided back to the ballroom. He had to find Jaenelle and get them both out of this house. He was a danger to everyone around him right now. The kill had cleared his mind enough to give him back a fragment of control, but not enough for him to be sure he wouldn't leave these rooms strewn with corpses.

 Unfortunately, Jaenelle was waiting near the door, waiting for her cue to begin the quarrel.

 "Where have you been?" she asked, handing her glass of sparkling wine to Surreal.

 Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. It stabbed at him that her power was so much less that she hadn't been able to tell that he'd descended to the Black, that he was struggling not to go cold again.

 He walked past her, not quite knowing what to do. He didn't want to quarrel with her.Couldn't quarrel with her. If he said anything that hurt her… Mother Night, he'd destroyed entire courts in Terreille when his temper had been riding this edge. If he hurt her, his control would snap completely, and the killing wouldn't stop until he'd exhausted his body and his power.

 "Where have you been?" Jaenelle raised her voice enough to have conversations throughout the ballroom stutter to a halt.

 He pivoted to face her, enough space between them to explain the raised voices. As he looked into her eyes, relief swept through him so fiercely he felt light-headed. Sheknew. Whatever her reasons for going through with this "quarrel," she knew he was too close to the killing edge and would take care not to push him back into a lethal rage.

 He saw Lucivar walk into the ballroom, saw Surreal hand over Jaenelle's glass of sparkling wine. Hoping those two would have the good sense to stay out of this, he focused on Jaenelle, who, along with everyone else in the room, was waiting for his answer.

 "I wasn't with another woman, if that's what you're asking," he snarled.

 He felt a flash of frustration from her as she tried to find some way to respond to his words that wouldn't hurt either of them.

 Balling her hands into fists, she shouted something at him. The fact that Lucivar choked on the wine confirmed the words were Eyrien, but he didn't know what she'd said. Which gave him a clue how to provide the tone of a quarrel without wounding.

 Unfortunately, there was only one phrase he could think of that no one else would understand. So he bared his teeth and said the words he'd intended to say out of love, in the heat of passion. Words in the Old Tongue.

 Her eyes widened in shock. She clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the mewling noises. Then she whirled and rushed out of the ballroom.

 Startled by her response, he hesitated.Play out the game, old son. Struggling to look irritated and slightly disgusted, he shook his head and left the ballroom to find Jaenelle.

 She'd made it as far as the conservatory, where large ferns shielded her, giving her some privacy. He approached quietly, pained to see her shoulders hunched and her hands over her face. She gasped for air between sobs.

 "Jaenelle," he said, brushing a hand over her shoulder…and bracing himself for her rejection of his touch. Mother Night, she sounded close to hysterical.

 She lowered her hands and looked at him.

 Shewas close to hysterical… because she was laughing so hard she could barely stay on her feet.

 "I…I…I eat cow brains?" she gasped.

 Shocked, his mouth fell open. "What? You do?"

 "N-n-no.You do."

 He gripped her upper arms to keep her upright. "What? No, I don't."

 "Th-that's what you said. 'I eat cow brains.' " She collapsed against him, howling with laughter.

 That was so far removed from what he'd intended to say it was embarrassing…and he could imagine how much worse it would have been if he'd whispered those words in the middle of hot lovemaking. "That wasn't… It wasn't what I thought I said." Feeling his face heat, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her face against his chest to muffle her laughter.

 "Oh, g-good." She gulped air and made an effort to regain some control. "What did you mean to say?"

 Oh, no. He wasn't about to embarrass himselfthat much. "Never mind." He paused. "So what did you say to me?"

 "Oh. Well."

 "Come on, fair is fair." He tugged on her hair. "What did you say?"

 "I said you had the feet of a pig and smelled like a goat." She burst into laughter again.

 Daemon sighed. "Well, we certainly descended fast enough to barnyard mudslinging, didn't we?"

 "We did. Oh, we did."

 Her laughter broke his temper better than anything else could have. "Let's get out of here."

 She gulped and wiped the tears from her face. "I'm not sure I can."

 He picked her up. "Just keep your face turned away. I'll get us to the carriage."

 "Are you going to look all snarly and fierce?" she asked, fighting against another burst of laughter.

 He rolled his eyes. "I'll do my best." And if he didn't get them away from here in a hurry, they were both going to be rolling on the floor, laughing like fools.

 After contacting the carriage driver they'd hired for the evening, he strode out of the conservatory…and almost ran into Surreal. The look in her eyes told him she was primed for a fight. She couldn't take him, but he respected her as an adversary…and she'd fight him until he killed her if she thought Jaenelle needed the protection.

 "I'm taking her home," Daemon said. "She's hysterical."

 "I am," Jaenelle bubbled. "I really am." She turned her head to look at Surreal.

 "Yeeesss, I can see that," Surreal said, narrowing her gold-green eyes.

 Because he didn't want Surreal to worry about Jaenelle, he shifted his bundle of witch, drawing her attention to his hands. Then he dropped the sight shield around his wedding ring for a moment.

 Brushing past Surreal, he said, "I'll send the carriage back for you and Lucivar."

 "You do that," Surreal muttered.

 No one else tried to stop him, no one else even dared speak to him as he walked out of the house and settled his Lady in the carriage. Jaenelle might find his fierce and snarly look amusing, but the rest of the Blood at the party finally began to realize he was a male they should fear. And very soon, they would understand why.

 Surreal stood just inside the conservatory, wanting a few moments alone to ponder.

 Had she really seen what she thought she'd seen? Sadi… wearing awedding ring? He and Jaenelle.Married?

 "Surreal?" Lucivar stepped into the conservatory.

 "He took her home. She was hysterical."

 Grim worry filled Lucivar's eyes. "Hysterical?"

 "She was laughing so hard, I don't know what else to call it."

 The grimness faded but the worry remained.

 Wanting to ease the worry, she said, "So what did Jaenelle say that made you snort wine out your nose?"

 He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not sure I should repeat it."

 She tipped her head to one side. "You tell me what she said, and I'll tell you what I just found out."

 So he told her, and when she managed to stop laughing, he growled, "What did you find out?"

 She took his left hand and tapped a finger against the gold band. "Daemon's wearing one of these." She wasn't sure how she expected Lucivar to respond, but shehadn't expected his concern to increase. "What's wrong?"

 He stared over her shoulder. "Do you know the only thing more dangerous than a Warlord Prince? A married Warlord Prince who has someone playing games with his life that could threaten his marriage."

 Suddenly nothing was amusing. Provoked, Daemon was dangerous enough. Pushed to defend something, or someone, who truly mattered to him…

 She shuddered. "What do we do?"

 "I don't know. I really don't know."

 "Let's split up. Maybe we can learn something that will help end this."

 Lucivar shook his head. "Daemon may already have all the information he needs."

 Shit. She had a good idea whatthat meant. "I'm going to the ladies' lounge and freshen up. I'll meet you at the front door. I think I'd rather wait for the carriage outside."

 He headed back to the ballroom to talk to Rainier, and she headed for the lounge. It had struck her as odd that a private home would have a "lounge" until she discovered the owners often "loaned" out the downstairs rooms for a "monetary gift." She didn't know why they couldn't just say they rented out their ballroom, but the lounge made sense, and right now, she was glad to have the privacy.

 1

 After taking care of personal needs, she sat down on a padded bench and closed her eyes.

 "Are you feeling all right?"

 Damn. She must be more tired than she thought. She hadn't even heard the woman enter.

 She opened her eyes and studied the woman who stood nearby, looking concerned. The face looked vaguely familiar, but she was certain she'd never met the other witch. She was also certain there was something about the woman that wasn't quite… right. Something that put her on edge. Something that made her want to call in a knife.

 She smiled and wrinkled her nose. "Just cramps," she lied. "Sometimes they're wicked mean."

 "I know the feeling. Let me get you something to drink."

 "No, that's all right." She shifted on the bench, prepared to get up and leave.

 "It's no trouble. Really."

 Suppressed excitement in the voice. A feverish glint in the eyes.

 The witch opened the lounge door and whispered something to someone outside. Then she closed the door and leaned against it.

 Bitch.Surreal felt fairly certain she'd just met the source of Daemon's problems, but considering Daemon's mood and Lucivar's worryabout Daemon's mood, she'd prefer being absolutely certain before she said anything to either of them. And there was still the question of why anyone would be foolish enough to play with a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

 It didn't take long before someone knocked on the door. The witch opened it, and another Dhemlan witch Surreal didn't recognize slipped into the room, carrying a glass.

 Same suppressed excitement. Same feverish glint in the eyes.

 The first witch took the glass from her companion, then handed it to Surreal. "Drink this. You'll feel better in no time."

 Yeah. Cramps aren't a problem when you're dead,Surreal thought. As soon as the other woman let go of the glass, she used Craft to probe the liquid and the glass itself. No poisons. But therewas something in the sparkling wine. She didn't recognize the drug, but she could sense its presence. Probably meant to knock her out for a while. But why knockher out?

 Obvious. They wanted her out of the way for some reason. Of course, if she was unconscious, she wouldn't be hard to kill.

 Refuse the drink and put these two bitches on alert…maybe make them nervous enough to bolt…or drink it and hope she wasn't doing something stupid? Because if theydid end up killing her, Lucivar would help her make the transition to demon-dead just so he could spend a decade or two yelling at her, and the High Lord… Uncle Saetan would besooo pissed.

 She studied the two women and saw a kernel of suspicion in the eyes of the witch who had first approached her. So she took a sip, figuring she could get enough of a sense of what the drug was without it disabling her.

 She figured wrong. That one sip made the room lift and drop with stomach-churning speed. Her fingers went numb. The glass dropped to the floor. Her vision faded.

 She made one attempt to contact Lucivar on a psychic thread, but even that was already beyond her ability.

 "Ah, shit," she muttered before she tumbled off the bench.

 Lektra suppressed the urge to give her rival a hard kick in the ribs. Or in the face. After all, she'd promised Tavey he could have the whore for a while, so it wasn't fair to damage the bitch beforehand. And itwas possible that the SaDiablo family would be upset if anything… permanent… happened to Surreal. But they could hardly complain about a whore spreading her legs for one more man. Besides, it wasn't like Tavey would bepaying for the sex.

 "Let's get her out of here," Lektra said.

 Roxie opened the lounge door, peeked out, then signaled. A moment later, a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord slipped into the room.

 Lektra didn't like the man. Rough manners, rough temper. Roxie had found him somewhere, and the payment that had been promised had been enough to make him put aside any qualms about being an "escort" for an unwilling witch.

 "Take her to the country house as arranged, and keep her there until I say otherwise," Lektra said.

 "Gets boring in the country," he growled.

 "I'm sure you'll find something to do," she replied, glancing pointedly at Surreal.

 He smiled…and she sincerely hoped she'd never see him again. Of course, once she and Daemon were married, she'd never have to worry about men likehim.

 She watched him pull Surreal up off the floor. A moment later, he left the lounge, wrapped in a sight shield to avoid anyone inquiring about his presence at an aristo party…or about the woman slung over his shoulder.

 "We'd better leave," Lektra said. "Have you seen Tavey?"

 "Not since earlier this evening, when he left the ballroom," Roxie replied.

 Tavey should have come back to report Daemon's reaction to their conversation. She'd seen her beautiful love carry that pale bitch out of the party. She hadn't liked that. He should have asked his brother to takeher home. No matter. He wouldn't have to cater to Jaenelle Angelline much longer.

 "If we don't meet up with him on our way out, Tavey will have to make his own way home," Lektra said.

 With Roxie discreetly staying in the background, Lektra made her way to the front door, slipping into the ballroom and making a point of being seen talking to Lady Zhara, who had arrived late…and also giving herself and Roxie a reason to avoid walking past Lucivar Yaslana on the chance that he might recognize Roxie by her psychic scent, despite the illusion spell.

 As soon as he strode away from the front door, they hurried out and went home.

 Swearing under his breath, Lucivar headed for the ladies' lounge. Hell's fire! How long did it take a woman to piss anyway?

 He flung the door open and walked in, not caring if he walked in on a woman pulling down her pants or pulling them up. But the lounge area was empty, and the toilet wasn't occupied.

 Damn her. Where did she…

 Turning to leave, he spotted the glass on the floor near a padded bench. Crouching, he studied it. Most of the liquid had seeped into the carpet, but the few drops left in the glass were enough.

 *Surreal!* His temper flared.*Surreal*

 No answer. Not even an irritable flicker that would have helped him pinpoint a direction.

 *Rainier.*

 *Yaslana?*

 *Have you seen Surreal?*

 *Not since I danced with her earlier. Is there a problem?*

 *I'm not sure yet. See if you can find her. I'm going out to widen the search.*

 Rainier hesitated. *Are you going to contact Prince Sadi?*

 Now Lucivar hesitated. *No. Not yet.*

 He left the party and spent hours soaring over Amdarh, searching, hunting, calling.

 No answer. No way to find her.

 As night gave way to the first hint of dawn, he flew back to the family town house. Daemon knew Surreal better than the rest of them. It was time to call him into the hunt.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Thirteen

 «^»

 1

 A roar of fury and frustration that sounded like Lucivar in a mood rattled Surreal's mind, jolting her awake. Her head pounded, and her stomach felt queasy. And that pissed her off.

 Moving slowly, she rolled to her side and opened her eyes. The soft predawn light revealed enough to confirm she was in an unfamiliar room. A pillow under her head and a sheet beneath her hand told her she was in a bed. And her psychic senses told her she wasn't alone.

 Pushing herself upright, she swung her legs over the side of the bed… and swore silently as the bed seemed to lift and dip under her. Apparently, her body hadn't worked through all the effects of the drug, which was still playing nasty games with her sense of balance.

 A chair creaked. A large body moved to a lamp on the table near the window. The sudden flare of light as he used Craft to engage the candlelights made her squint.

 "They said you wouldn't wake up until sometime this afternoon," he said, giving her a mean smile. "Glad that's not the case. It was getting boring, just watching you sleep."

 Since the skirt of her gown was shoved up to the tops of her thighs, she figured his self-restraint had more to do with not wanting to soil his cock with moon's blood than using an unconscious woman for sex.

 She knew his type, had seen enough men like him when she was a child living in the meanest streets of a city in Terreille, whoring to earn enough to buy a day's food and, maybe, some shelter for the night.

 "Just so you don't go getting any ideas, Greenie, there's a Sapphire shield around this room and a Sapphire lock on the door. So you don't go anywhere unless I say you can."

 Greenie? She'd never advertised she wore the Gray when she'd worked in the Red Moon houses in Terreille, and while she hadn't made it a secret since coming to Kaeleer, there weren't many of the Blood beyond those who had been in Jaenelle's First Circle and the ones who lived in Ebon Rih who knew she wore a Jewel darker than her Birthright Green.

 Which meant there might be a few other things the bitch who arranged this didn't know about her.

 "What… What do you know about me?" she asked. The shakiness in her voice was due to the drug her body was still shaking off, but it made her sound afraid and, right now, that suited her just fine.

 "I know you're a Green-Jeweled witch who's caused some trouble for a fine aristo Lady, who paid me a generous sum to make sure you don't cause her any more trouble. And I've heard you were an expensive whore who only worked out of the best Red Moon houses until you came to Kaeleer and managed to talk yourself into an influential family." He stared at her mouth and leered. "Or maybe you did something besides talk to convince them you'd be handy to have around."

 Bastard.Her legs wobbled when she stood up, but she steadied quickly as the last of the drug, meant to subdue a Green-Jeweled witch, was burned off by a body that was a vessel for the Gray.

 She walked up to him, keeping her gait unsteady. "What do you want?"

 His big hands clamped on her shoulders, pulling her against him. "You be good to me, and I'll be good to you."

 "I can be good." Her right hand curled in preparation for calling in her stiletto. "Sugar? There's one thing your Lady forgot to mention."

 "What's that?" he asked as one hand groped her breast.

 The stiletto was in her hand and through his ribs before he realized she'd moved. His eyes widened.

 Surreal bared her teeth in a smile. "I earned more as an assassin than I ever made as a whore." She rammed the stiletto into him up to the hilt, piercing his heart.

 He hit the floor with a hardthud .

 Surreal yanked the blade out of him, cleaned it on his shirt, then vanished it. Her "housekeeping" completed, she studied him.

 "I think it takes a few hours to make the transition to demon-dead, but it would be best to make sure you don't wander off before we have a little chat," she told him. Not that he could hear her. Yet.

 Calling in her Gray Jewels, she broke his Sapphire shield and lock, replaced them with Gray, and left the bedroom to see if she could find the tool she needed.

 2

 *Daemon.*

 Daemon stirred, then snuggled closer to Jaenelle.

 *Come on, Bastard. Wake up.*

 Lucivar. Hell's fire. Just because the man was usually up before the sun didn't mean everyone wanted to be.

 But he got out of bed, pulled on a robe, and slipped into the hallway. "What is it?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep. Then he noticed that Lucivar looked furious and exhausted. That woke up all his fighting instincts. "What is it?"

 Lucivar raked his fingers through his hair. "Surreal is missing."

 The three of them sat at one end of the dining table, the remains of a small, hastily made breakfast in front of them.

 "If she was drugged, we'll find her as soon as she wakes," Jaenelle said after Lucivar related his search…and his failure to find Surreal.

 "If they didn't kill her," Lucivar snarled.

 "Then we'd better start looking."

 "No," Daemon said. He poured them all more coffee. "I want you to go back to the Hall."

 A feral anger that excited and chilled him came into Jaenelle's eyes.

 "She's my family, too," Jaenelle said in a voice that warned him he was close to crossing a line he might never be able to cross back over.

 He laid a hand over hers, needing her to understand. "I know she is, but they've already tried to hurt you, and if they're confident they're strong enough to take on a Gray-Jeweled witch, they aren't going to hesitate to go after you."

 "They?" Jaenelle asked too softly.

 "I know who's behind this. I'll take care of it."

 "Alone."

 "Yes. Alone. This began with an obsession with me, so it's mine to deal with. But I need to know you're safe. Ineed that, Jaenelle. Please."

 She stared at him a long time. Then she drew her hand away from his and pushed her chair back. "Very well, Prince. I'll go back to the Hall, and you do what you have to do. But once that's done, you and I will talk." She walked away from the table.

 "Jaenelle." He waited until she turned to face him. "This has nothing to do with the Jewels you wear."

 "If I still wore Ebony, would you ask me to go back to the Hall?"

 "Yes. Because this is mine to do."

 "We'll talk, Prince," she said after giving him a long, thoughtful look. Then she left the dining room.

 Lucivar winced. "She's never cheerful in the morning. You know that."

 "I know." He also knew that this "talk" would determine whether or not he still wore a wedding ring.

 Lucivar cleared his throat. "So. When were you going to tell me that you and Jaenelle were already married?"

 He suddenly felt awkward, and that surprised him. So he kept his eyes on his cup. "We just wanted to get married."

 "I understand that. The celebration coming is more for everyone else than the two of you." Lucivar paused. "But if you'd asked, I would have been there."

 "For Jaenelle," Daemon said.

 "For Jaenelle," Lucivar agreed. "And for you."

 Daemon looked up and met Lucivar s eyes…and saw things he hadn't been sure he'd ever see again. Love. Understanding. Acceptance.

 And for you.Those three words healed the last of the rift between them.

 "Thank you," Daemon said, his voice husky.

 Lucivar reached across the table. Daemon locked hands with his brother. They didn't say anything. They didn't need to.

 Finally, reluctantly, Daemon eased back. "I'd like you to take Jaenelle to the Hall. I'll ask Father to come to the Hall to free you up in case there's more than one battlefield. I don't think it will come to that, but…"

 Lucivar nodded. "I'll contact Marian and ask her to come to the Hall to keep Jaenelle company." He waited a beat. "What about Surreal?"

 "I'll find Surreal."

 Lucivar pushed away from the table. "In that case, let's get this done."

 3

 Daemon waited until Lucivar and Jaenelle were on their way to the Hall before trying to contact Surreal. The staff had cleaned off the dining room table and brought him a fresh cup and another pot of coffee.

 Pouring a cup, he sent a call on a Gray psychic thread, aimed toward a mind he knew well. *Surreal?*

 *What?*

 The surly tone relieved him enough to make him smile. *Are you all right?*

 *I'm… fine.*

 *Where are you?*

 *Country house. Don't think it's that far away from Amdarh.*

 *Are you sure you're all right? You sound breathless.*

 *Damn… ax… is dull.*

 Daemon raised an eyebrow. *Do I want to know what you're doing with an ax?*

 *Have you had breakfast?*

 *I've eaten.*

 *Then you don't want to know.*

 He sipped his coffee while he considered how to respond to that.

 *In a few hours, I might have some information for you,* Surreal said.

 *I know who's behind the rumors.*

 *Well… shit.* A pause. *Guess I'll finish this anyway.*

 *Do you need help?*

 *Do you?*

 *No.*

 *Then I'll take care of my business, and you take care of yours. I'll be back in Amdarh late tonight.*

 Taking a last sip of coffee, Daemon left the dining room. Since Surreal didn't need his help, he'd take care of the next errand.

 4

 After he and Saetan had settled in comfortable chairs in one of the Keep's smaller sitting rooms, Daemon got to the point.

 "I have business to take care of in Amdarh. Until it's done, I would appreciate it if you would stay at the Hall…at least for part of the time."

 "To protect Jaenelle?" Saetan asked softly.

 Daemon nodded.

 "What about Lucivar?"

 "He'll be there. So will Kaelas and Ladvarian. But…"

 "But?"

 Daemon looked into his father's golden eyes. "But they aren't you."

 Saetan inclined his head. "Understood."

 No questions about his business, no comment about why an Arcerian cat and an Eyrien Warlord Prince wouldn't be sufficient protection. There was no need. He was, after all, his father's mirror.

 "Anything else?"

 Daemon hesitated. Who else could he ask? "I…There was something I wanted to say to Jaenelle… in the Old Tongue. But it didn't come out as I intended."

 Saetan raised an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

 Daemon hesitated, then said the words.

 " 'I eat cow brains'?" Saetan burst out laughing.

 Since there was nothing else he could do, he sat back to wait out his father's amusement. So he waited. And waited. And waited.

 Finally, he sighed. It could have been worse. There could have been witnesses. No matter what else was said about him, he didnot want to be known as the man who had reduced the High Lord of Hell to giggles.

 "I'm sorry," Saetan gasped. Calling in a handkerchief, he wiped his eyes. "I can imagine the response to that."

 "I'm sure you can," Daemon said dryly.

 With effort, Saetan regained his composure. "So, what were you trying to say?"

 Daemon took a deep breath, let it out slowly…and told him.

 Great. Wonderful. He'd not only made the High Lord giggle, he'd made the man blush.

 "I see." Saetan cleared his throat. "I'm… not sure thatcan be said in the Old Tongue. Let me think about it and see if I can come up with something that would let Jaenelle know she…"

 "Is everything," Daemon finished quietly. "She is everything."

 Saetan smiled. "Yes. She is everything."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Fourteen

 «^»

 1

 Shivering, Lektra called in a shawl and wrapped it around herself. So cold. So terribly cold. But no one else seemed to notice except Roxie, who had retreated to her room.

 Tavey was dead. Viciously murdered. Lady Zhara's Master of the Guard had come earlier that morning to tell her the body had been found…and to ask questions. Even through her shock and dismay, she'd realized the Master didn't care who had killed Tavey. After all, there was no law against murder among the Blood. No, he'd come to the town house as a courtesy…and to find out if Tavey's death foreshadowed a danger to his Queen.

 She couldn't tell him what he wanted to know, and she wasn't about to tell him anything else. What could she say? She didn't actuallyknow Tavey had talked to Daemon. And why would her beautiful love kill a man who was offering him a way out of an unwanted marriage? Besides, Daemon had been trained to be a lover, not a warrior.

 So it had to have been someone else, someone who didn't want Daemon free of his ties to Jaenelle Angelline.

 A warrior. Like Lucivar Yaslana. Maybe Daemon had already left the parlor by the time Tavey got there. Maybe Tavey had found Lucivar in the narlor and had blurted out his little speech thinking that telling Daemon's brother was easier than telling Daemon himself. But Lucivar was an Eyrien warrior. Brutal. Savage. Roxie had told her over and over how mean Lucivar had been to her, threatening to kill her once he got tired of bedding her, forcing her to flee her home and family in Ebon Rih so thathe could marry some hearth witch nobody.

 Yes, Lucivar Yaslana wouldn't have thought twice about killing Tavey. After all, killing was what he did. Why not force Daemon into continuing to play nursemaid so thathe wouldn't have to take care of Jaenelle?

 She walked over to the window, intending to look out, but something shuddered through her, making her back away.

 There was something outside, waiting for her. Something dangerous. Something deadly. Something cold.

 Shivering violently, Lektra hurried to the other side of the room, away from the windows, away from whatever was out there.

 As long as she stayed inside, she was safe. Whatever it was couldn't get in, couldn't harm her. As long as she stayed inside.

 Wrapped in Black shields that prevented the rest of the Blood from detecting his presence, Daemon watched the town house across the street. Lady Lektra's town house. Easy enough to find the root of all the rumors once he'd known where to look…and if it hadn't been for the Warlord at the party last night, he never would have looked in her direction. He'd probably seen her at a party or some other public gathering, maybe had even danced with her, a transient partner in one of those country dances. But he didn't remember her. The face he'd pulled from the Warlord's mind meant nothing to him.

 Lektra's friend, however, did have a connection to him. Or, at least, to his brother. How unfortunate for her.

 Smiling, Daemon walked away. His prey wouldn't go anywhere. The spells he'd wrapped around the town house would make sure of that. Whenever Lektra or Roxie got near a window or door leading outside, they would feel certain something deadly waited for them beyond those doors and windows…

 Which was true.… and they were safe as long as they remained inside.

 Which was not true.

 But he would let them have the illusion of safety for a few more hours. Because some games were best played in the dark.

 2

 Saetan knocked on the workroom door, then opened it enough to poke his head into the room. "I'm looking for a witchling. Seen any about?"

 Turning away from the worktable, Jaenelle gave him a dazzling smile. "Papa! What brings you to the Hall?"

 "Nothing in particular," he replied, walking toward the worktable. "I just wanted to see… how… you were… doing." He stared at the rosebush rising up from a bowl on the table. "Mother Night, witch-child. It's beautiful."

 Jaenelle looked at the rosebush and grinned. "I'm pleased with it."

 Saetan circled the table to get a better look at the illusion she'd created. But he tried to touch one of the roses just to be sure itwas an illusion. She'd always been able to create illusion spells that could fool the eye, and it seemed she hadn't lost that ability. But something felt different about this spell.

 "Can you show me how you did this?"

 She looked at the various jars and small bowls on the table and nodded. "I have enough ingredients to make several more."

 So she showed him how to build a rosebush out of powders made from pastel chalks, dried rose petals, thorns, and a few other things. He mentally noted what she did and how much of each ingredient she used, but most of his attention was on Twilight's Dawn.

 Whenever he'd seen it before, the Jewel she now wore looked like a Purple Dusk accented by other colors. Now, as she worked through the illusion spell, he watched it change. When she began working on the leaves, the center of the Jewel became dominantly Green, then shifted to Rose with a strong touch of Red while she created the flowers.

 He didn't know why it was changing like that, didn't know how itcould change like that.

 It played havoc with his ability to measure her strength against his own because hers kept sliding. One moment he would have sworn the woman beside him was a Rose-Jeweled witch. The next moment, her power resonated with his Birthright Red. It was as if she were dancing on webs of power, and the threads she plucked shone the brightest.

 Webs of power. Lorn had created webs of power to help prevent Witch, the living myth, from plunging back into the Darkness after Jaenelle unleashed her Ebony power to save Kaeleer. And Lorn had given Ladvarian the Jewel that was called Twilight's Dawn.

 Fingers snapping in front of his face startled a snarl out of him.

 "Hell's fire, witch-child."

 "Well, you haven't heard anything I've said for the past minute or so," Jaenelle said. "I didn't want you to come back from wherever your mind had wandered and find me gone."

 "Gone?" His heart leaped as memories of webs of power shattering in the abyss filled his mind. "Where are you going?"

 We can't lose her now. We can't. She is everything. She is still everything.

 Jaenelle studied him for a long moment, her sapphire eyes seeing too much. But she gave him a daughter's tolerant smile. "First I'm going to wash up. Then I'm going to join the others for the midday meal. Which I already told you."

 "My apologies, witch-child.You're right. My mind was elsewhere."

 "I noticed. Are you going to join us? Khary and Morghann are here, as well as Lucivar and Marian."

 "No, I'd like to stay here and play around with your powders if you don't mind."

 Jaenelle kissed his cheek. "Please yourself."

 "What about you, witch-child?" He looked into her eyes. Still beautiful, still ancient. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he had disappointed her in some way. "Are you pleased?" She knew him well enough to know he wasn't asking about the illusion spell.

 "I lost nothing I regret losing," Witch said softly. "I am what I want to be."

 He watched her walk out of the room. There was a message under her words, something she wanted him to understand but didn't want to tell him outright.

 Turning back to the worktable, he set her rosebushes to one side. Maybe figuring out one puzzle would help him figure out the other.

 "Am I interrupting? I could come back later."

 An hour of frustration hadn't made him cheerful, but he forced himself to smile at Marian, who hesitated in the workroom's doorway. "Yes, you're interrupting, and I'm grateful."

 Marian walked over to the worktable. "Oh, dear. Is it that bad?" She looked at the dark, twisted, misshapen lump that rose out of the bowl and winced. "I guess it is that bad." She hesitated. "Jaenelle did that?"

 "No, Jaenelle created those." Saetan pointed at the rosebushes.

 Marian's mouth fell open. She hurried around the table to get a better look. "Oh, these are lovely. If you rubbed some rose oil on the rim of the bowl for scent, you wouldn't know for sure these aren't real until you tried to touch them." She studied the rosebushes. "I wonder how long the spells last."

 "Why?"

 "Well, if the spells lasted a while, people could decorate a room with one of these illusions and have a potted rosebush in a room that wouldn't support a real plant…or even have roses in a climate that wouldn't be suitable for real ones."

 He smiled with real warmth and fatherly affection. Jaenelle, the living myth, could create such an illusion, but Marian, the practical hearth witch, could think of a way to use it.

 Marian walked around the table to stand beside him. "So what is that?"

 They looked at the misshapen lump in the bowl.

 Saetan sighed. "My attempt to reproduce the illusion." Then he studied Marian, an idea springing up. "Is there something you need to do right now?"

 "No," she said cautiously.

 "Would you be willing to help with an experiment? We'll need Morghann, too."

 "All right. I'll call her."

 He set aside his failed spell, called in another bowl, then made sure the two witches would have everything they needed. By the time Morghann hurried into the workroom, he was ready.

 "But we don't know how Jaenelle created that illusion spell," Morghann said after he'd explained what he wanted them to do.

 "I know how she did it," Saetan said. "I'll talk you through the steps, but I want the two of you to do the actual spell."

 They didn't understand, but Morghann and Marian followed his instructions, Morghann using her Green Jewel and Marian alternating between her Birthright Rose and her Purple Dusk Jewels.

 When the last ingredient was added and the last part of the spell invoked, the two women laughed in delight as the rosebush rose out of the bowl. The illusion wasn't as big as the ones Jaenelle created, and it didn't fool the eye quite as well, but the spell had worked. He wasn't sure if that pleased him or chilled him. "So just what was it you were trying to find out, Uncle Saetan?" Morghann asked.

 "The two of you can reproduce the illusion spell Jaenelle created," he said quietly. "I can't."

 Marian frowned. "But… you're stronger than either of us. Why can't you do it?"

 "Because I wear the Black, and the Red is my Birthright Jewel." He studied their illusion. "Power can't be diluted. It's not just that I have a deeper well of power than someone who wears a Jewel lighter than mine, my power is also more potent."

 Morghann nodded. "Something you could do with one drop of Red power I could do with three or four drops of Green…and Marian could do using more of her Purple Dusk strength. But that's how it is. Three people doing the same spell will create the same thing, but how much power they have to use and the potency of the spell will depend on their Jewel strength."

 "But not in this case." Saetan tipped his head to indicate the rosebush. "I couldn't reproduce the spell using an equivalent amount of power that should have matched the Rose, Purple Dusk, and Green that Jaenelle used. You two could reproduce it because your power has the right potency."

 Marian frowned. "Then… how did Jaenelle create the illusion spell in the first place?"

 "I don't know."But I'm going to find out. "Tell Lucivar I'll be back as soon as I can." He headed for the door, his mind already focusing on how to ask the questions that would provide some answers.

 "Where are you going?" Marian asked.

 Saetan paused in the doorway and looked back at the two witches. "I'm going to visit an old friend."

 3

 Saetan descended the stone stairs. He'd gone down this staircase many times during the years when Jaenelle had been the Queen of Ebon Askavi. Since returning to the Keep to live, he made this descent at least twice a month because he understood loneliness, and an hour's company now and then was all he could offer this ancient being.

 The double doors at the bottom of the stairs swung open. Torches set in the walls flared to life as he walked to the other end of the huge chamber where the dragon's head came through an opening in the wall.

 Unable to stop himself, he looked at the simple throne and the shattered scepter that lay on the seat exactly where Draca had set it after telling the First Circle that the Queen of Ebon Askavi was gone and the Dark Court no longer existed. Did seeing those reminders of what was lost ever bother Draca or her mate, the legendary Prince of the Dragons? Or did they think of it as a memorial for a Queen who had been the most powerful witch in the history of the Blood?

 He looked away…and saw the dragon's large golden eyes were now open and watching him.

 "Lorn," he said.

 *Ssaetan.*

 "I need answers."

 *You have assked no quesstionss,* Lorn replied, sounding amused.

 Saetan didn't feel amused. "What is Twilight's Dawn?"

 *It iss the Jewel for Kaeleer'ss Heart.*

 Frustration welled up inside him. "But what is it? How can one Jewel act like it's many Jewels? How did you create it?"

 *I didn't. You did.* Saetan stared at Lorn.

 *Father. Brother. Lover. You created Twilight'ss Dawn.* Webs of power stretching across a chasm somewhere in the abyss. Him, racing up to intercept Witch as she plummeted toward those webs, Lorn's warning that if she smashed through all the webs they would lose her ringing in his head. Catching her, smashing through the White, the Yellow, the Tiger Eye webs while he fought to slow her descent. Lucivar, taking his place, rolling Witch in the Rose web as they smashed through it. Rolling her in the other webs, beginning to slow the descent while wrapping her in a cocoon of power. Daemon, taking over at the Green web, fighting to stop the fall, fighting to hold on to the person who held his heart. Finally coming to rest on the Black web.

 A Jewel formed by layers of power? A Jewel that had, somehow, retained those distinct layers? Extraordinary, to be sure… but still less than her Birthright.

 "We didn't know," Saetan said quietly, deep sorrow weighing on his heart. "If we'd realized, maybe there was something we could have done differently."

 *Your tassk wass to hold the dream to the flessh.You did what needed to be done,* Lorn said.

 "But we changed her."

 *You changed nothing, Ssaetan. Sshe iss who sshe hass alwayss been.* He shook his head.

 "If that were true, Jaenelle would still wear the Black. She lost that."

 *Sshe losst nothing.*

 "How can you say that? It is a loss!" Saetan raked his fingers through his hair. "If I broke my Black Jewel, broke my power back to the Red, I would adjust. I would have to relearn some things, but I would adjust, like a person who loses a limb adjusts to the loss. But I would always remember what I had."

 *That iss you. That iss not Jaenelle.*

 "Who had even more to lose!"

 *Who grievess the losss, High Lord?* Lorn snapped. *You or Jaenelle?*

 Stung, Saetan took a step back, straining to hold his temper. "Are you saying I'm selfish because I want her to be everything she was? That Daemon and Lucivar and the coven and the boyos areselfish because we regret what she lost in order to save us and Kaeleer?"

 The chamber grew cold. *The kindred undersstand. But they ssee ssome thingss more clearly than humanss do.*

 They stared at each other, anger and frustration swelling on both sides.

 Then Lorn sighed. *Look up, Ssaetan.*

 Reluctantly, he obeyed.

 The torches lit the lower part of the chamber, but where the light began to fade, he saw the colors of twilight…rose and bright blue deepening to sapphire and red and dark lavender, which gave way to night black.

 *Twilight'ss Dawn,* Lorn said softly. He closed his eyes, a clear sign of dismissal.

 More frustrated and uncertain than when he entered the chamber, Saetan walked back to the double doors. As he reached them, Lorn said, *Look with your heart, Ssaetan.You already know the ansswerss.*

 But he didn't. Hedidn't. And it was clear Lorn wouldn't tell him anything more.

 The kindred understood? Maybe it was because they had seen something he hadn't.

 It was dangerous, but there was one other place he could look for answers, one other… person… he could ask.

 Not giving himself time to consider what might happen if things went wrong, he left the Keep, caught the Black Wind, and headed for the island ruled by the Weavers of Dreams.

 4

 "Well," Surreal said cheerfully, "look who's back among the living. Not that you actuallyare among the living anymore, but why quibble?" Looking down at the Warlord on the floor, she bared her teeth in an insincere smile. "At any rate, your brain is working again…at least as much as it ever did."

 "Bitch," the Warlord snarled. "Right on the first guess."

 Struggling to sit up, the Warlord got a good look at his naked torso. "You filthybitch! You cut off my cock!"

 "And your balls. Not to mention your arms and legs. So relax, sugar. You're not going anywhere just yet."

 Using Craft, Surreal lifted a chair and settled it near the Warlord. "And just so there's no further misunderstandings, the Green are my Birthright." She tapped the Jewel hanging from a gold chain around her neck. "I wear the Gray."

 His Sapphire Jewel glowed as he tried to strike her with a bolt of power. She slapped the power back at him with interest…and heard his rib cage snap in several places.

 He lay still, taking shallow breaths. Being demon-dead, he didn't actually need to breathe, but she imagined it took a little while for the brain to stop trying to do what it had once needed to do.

 Sitting in the chair, she leaned forward, resting her arms on her thighs. "Here are your choices.You can tell me everything you know about why I ended up here, and in return, I'll finish the kill, freeing you from what's left of a dead body." He started swearing.

 "Or," she continued, raising her voice to compete with his, "I can haul your sorry carcass up to the Keep, dump you on the High Lord's desk, and tell him you not only abducted his niece, you also worked for the bitch who tried to physically harm his daughter and ruin his son's reputation. You can imagine how well Uncle Saetan is going to respond to that."

 He probably would have paled if he was still capable of doing that.

 "Un…Uncle Saetan?"

 You really weren't paying attention to much beyond your fee, were you?"Prince of the Darkness. High Lord of Hell. Patriarch of the SaDiablo family. Since he has over fifty thousand years of experience in ruling the Dark Realm, your being demon-dead isn't going to get in his way when it comes to hurting you. So who are you going to talk to, sugar? Me or Uncle Saetan?"

 I wanted information about the bitch who hired him, not his life story,Surreal thought an hour later. Still, given his choices, she appreciated why the Warlord had wanted to be thorough.

 She'd finished the kill as she'd promised, burning out what was left of his power and freeing his spirit to return to the Darkness. And thinking about the pack of Hell Hounds that had obeyed her mother and were now left without a mistress to look after them…assuming those animals actually needed someone to look after them…she wrapped cold spells around the torso and the other pieces, caught the Winds, and rode to the Keep.

 Draca, the Keep's Seneschal, accepted her offering without comment, and offered, in return, a guest room where she could clean up and have a meal. She accepted both, glad of the opportunity to wash thoroughly and change into fresh clothes, and pleased when Draca sent along a selection of books with the meal. Choosing one, she decided to settle in for a few hours. Maybe Uncle Saetan would be back by then and she'd have a chance to talk to him before she headed back to Amdarh.

 5

 There was no official landing place on the island, since visitors were seldom welcome…and anyone unwelcome usually didn't survive. But he did sense a residual power he could home in on. Hoping he would land in a safe place, Saetan dropped from the Black Wind, wrapped himself in Black shields, and closed his inner barriers as tightly as possible.

 A moment later, he appeared in the center of a small clearing. The

 trees and bushes around the clearing were veiled with webs, some old and tattered, others looking freshly spun.

 As powerful as he was, he felt the whispery tugs from those tangled webs, luring him to open his mind, just a little, and slip into a dream from which he might never return.

 He closed his eyes and fought against the lure…and wondered how the kindred Ladvarian had gathered here to help heal Jaenelle had managed to keep their minds intact. Or had the golden spiders refrained from spinning those tangled webs during those weeks?

 *I am the High Lord.* He sent the thought rolling over the land. *I need to talk to the Weaver of Dreams. It concerns Jaenelle.*

 He waited, slowly becoming aware that all the whispery tugs had faded until only one remained. Strong. Powerful. But not threatening. Just a thread to follow.

 He followed a path out of the clearing. More of a game trail, actually. The kindred must have used the clearing as their landing place, must have created this trail as they traveled from one part of the island to another.

 He moved carefully since he wasn't sure what would happen if he stumbled and brushed against one of the tangled webs close to the trail. He couldn't judge how far he'd walked, but his bad leg ached by the time he reached the caves and the thread of power drew him inside.

 Witchlight glowed in niches in the cave walls. Was it for his benefit or did the spiders need the light as well? As he passed from one chamber to the next, the floor rocked beneath him, and the air became golden and veiled. No longer sure if he was still in the real world or caught in a dream, he stopped moving.

 *Here,* a soft voice called. *Here.*

 Light filled another chamber. Since he was watching where he set his feet, the dark stain that covered most of the chamber floor was the first thing he saw when he reached the entrance.

 And the Blood shall sing to the Blood. And through the blood.Jaenelle's power, and her pain, rose up from the blood that had seeped into the stones, choking him. He sank to his knees. His hand touched the stain.

 Feelings flooded him, but, thankfully, no images. Still, he recognized the feel of Ladvarian, the Sceltie's feet planted on the blood-washed stone as the dog braced for the battle of helping to heal a body devastated by a backlash of power.

 He didn't know how long he knelt there while feelings of love, courage, and stubborn determination washed through him. No human could have done what the kindred had done. No human could have believed as they had believed. Had he ever thanked Ladvarian, Kaelas, and the other kindred for their gift of courage and love? He couldn't remember.

 Pulling his hand away from the stain, he regained enough self-control to wipe the tears from his face and look around the chamber.

 The tangled web that covered one part of the chamber left him breathless. The large golden spider clinging to the wall near one end of the web scared him to the bone.

 *This is Kaeleer's Heart,* the Arachnian Queen said.

 Gathering his courage, he stood and moved closer to the web.

 Living myth. Dreams made flesh. Witch.

 Hundreds of threads made up this web. The wishes and longings of all those dreamers. Lifetimes of longings. Generations of wishes. All woven together to create one extraordinary woman capable of touching all the races in Kaeleer, human and kindred, giving them a way and a reason to connect with each other.

 *You ask about Jaenelle,* the spider said.

 He kept his voice quiet, barely above a whisper. "Why is she different? I mean no disrespect, but if you truly were able to re-create the web that formed that dream and made it flesh, why did she come back to us different?"

 *She is not different,* the spider replied. *She is still Kaeleer's

 Heart.*

 "But not the same. If she were truly the same, she would be able to wear a Black Jewel."

 *Kaeleer does not need the Queen. Her task is done. But Kaeleer still needs the Heart.*

 Saetan closed his eyes, not even sure why he couldn't let this go.

 Jaenelle was alive, and she seemed happy. Why couldn't he let this one difference go?

 "Answer this one question, and I'll never ask again. Is this the same web? Can you tell me, with no doubt, that this is the same web that originally shaped that dream?"

 The spider didn't answer.

 Saetan opened his eyes and stared at the Arachnian Queen. "Is it the same web?"

 *It is not quite the same web,* the spider admitted reluctantly. Walking on air, she moved above the web until she reached a place where three thick strands formed a triangle. *Because of that.*

 He stared at that triangle, his heart pounding. He was one of those strands, one of those dreamers. Father. Brother. And the Lover, who was the father's mirror. Within that triangle, one delicate thread ran from the apex to the center of the base. One fragile strand with a tiny bead of blood attached to it.

 If he broke that thread, would Jaenelle be everything she had been?

 He took a step forward, lifted his right hand… and felt a thrum of power far, far, far below him.

 The light in the chamber changed, refocused on that triangle and the single strand. The tiny bead glittered in a way a drop of blood never would.

 And suddenly he knew what he was looking at…a tiny chip of an Ebony Jewel.

 The Weaver of Dreams said, *There was another dreamer.*

 6

 Saetan sat on the window seat in his study at the Keep, staring at the evening sky, a glass of yarbarah dangling from his fingers. As much as he adored her, he was glad Surreal had left the Keep before he returned. Right now, he needed some time to himself before he returned to the Hall.

 There was another dreamer.

 What is Twilight's Dawn? It iss the Jewel for Kaeleer'ss Heart. There was another dreamer. Sshe iss who sshe hass alwayss been. I lost nothing I regret losing. I am what I want to be.Lorn was right. He should have looked with his heart to find the answers. If he had, he would have realized there was one person who had no regrets, who felt no grief about the power that had been lost. Was, in fact, enjoying her "diminished" strength.There was another dreamer.

 One tear spilled over, not from sorrow this time but from joy. He raised the glass of yarbarah in a salute. "To you, witch-child."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Fifteen

 «^»

 1

 No one saw him, heard him, felt him as he entered Lektra's town house and climbed the stairs. He paused on the landing. He'd spent the day learning about his prey, so it was simple enough to sense which woman huddled in which bedroom.

 Turning away from Lektra's room, Daemon walked down the corridor. As he passed through the door of Roxie s bedroom, he placed aural and psychic shields around the room that would keep this conversation private.

 She was curled up in a chair, reading a book…something he doubted she usually did for entertainment. She wasn't aware of him as he watched her, as he breathed in her scent.

 An illusion spell could hide what a person looked like, but it didn't change her psychic scent. When he'd seen her in Banard's shop the day he bought the bracelet for Jaenelle, he'd felt pity for the witch who needed an illusion spell to hide a disfigurement.                       

 Tonight, pity…and mercy…were words that had no meaning for him.

 "So," he said pleasantly as he dropped the Black shields that had kept him hidden from her, "since you couldn't have my brother, you decided to play games with me."

 Roxie sprang out of the chair, dropping the book. "I…I don't know what you're talking about."

 "Roxie, darling, of course you do. Lucivar exiled you from Ebon Rih when you tried to force him into your bed. I know all about you. Or enough about you. I made it my business to find out. But I really don't care what games you played with Lucivar. I want to know why you decided to play games with me."

 Roxie pouted. "Lektra wants you. I just helped her." "By spreading lies about me, by watching me when I was in Amdarh so you could build those lies on a foundation of truth?" Smiling, he crooned, "Did you also help Lektra with the carriage accident that could have injured Jaenelle?"

 "No!" Panic laced her voice, filling him with pleasure. "I didn't know about that! Not until she got back to the town house."

 "Ah." Daemon sent wisps of a seduction spell into the room…just enough to dull the sharpest edges of her fear. "Everything has a price, darling. It's time to pay the debt for your part in these games."

 "I suppose you're going to tell Zhara to exile me from Amdarh."

 Smiling, he glided across the room until he stood in front of her. "Exile? Oh, no. That was Lucivar's choice." He held out his right hand.

 As the seduction spells coiled around her, her eyes gleamed with speculation. She slipped her hand into his, then sighed with pleasure when he raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

 Roxie licked her lips. "So you're not going to exile me?"

 "No, I'm not. Because there is one small detail you didn't take into account." He licked the back of her hand as his fingers shifted to her wrist.

 "What's that?" she asked, sounding breathless.

 "I'm not my brother."

 His nails stabbed her. His snake tooth pricked her wrist, and he pumped half of his venom into her before he released her and stepped back.

 She stared at the wounds on her wrist, then looked at him, stunned.

 "As I said, darling, everything has a price."

 He watched her die…and it was a hard death.

 Hearing the click of a lock, Lektra spun around and stared at Daemon Sadi. who was leaning against her bedroom door. She pressed a hand

 against her chest, as if that would control the sudden pounding of her heart. "How did you get in? My butler didn't announce you."

 "I didn't want to be announced," he replied.

 "You came for me." She breathed out the words, hardly daring to believe. Her beautiful love was here. He had realized whoreally loved him and had broken his ties with Jaenelle in order to be withher.

 He walked toward her. "Yes, I came for you."

 There was something cold about his smile, something mocking in his deep voice, but she didn't care about that because his gold eyes were already glazed with passion.

 She flung herself at him, intending to throw her arms around him, but he stepped aside at the last moment. She staggered, off balance, and almost fell.

 "Don't touch me," he snarled softly.

 "But…" Confused, she pushed her hair away from her face. "Then why are you here?"

 "I came to give you what you want from me. I came to give you what you deserve from me."

 A low-backed stuffed chair drifted across the floor, then turned until it faced her freestanding mirror.

 "Sit down," Daemon said.

 She could almost feel his voice on her skin, as if it were some intoxicating lotion he was pouring over her. She couldn't defy it, couldn't disobey that voice. It scared her a little that she couldn't rouse herself enough to make her own demands. Not demands. Requests. She would never make demands. Not with him.

 As she moved to obey, he said, "Not in the seat. On the back of the chair."

 Being low enough and wide enough, she often perched on the back of that chair, but now she felt self-conscious as she climbed into position and saw her reflection in the mirror.

 Daemon stepped up behind her. "What do you see?"

 She gave him a coy smile. "I see my lover."

 "And I see a woman so obessed with a man she tried to harm a Queen."

 Her pleasure at having him in her bedroom vanished. "Is that why you're here? Because of stupid Jaenelle?"

 For a moment, his face became a cold mask carved out of fine wood. Then he smiled. "You're right, darling. Jaenelle has no place in this room. This is between you and me."

 His hands caressed her arms beneath her nightgown. He wasn't actually touching her…he couldn't take his eyes off the woman in the mirror any more than she could stop watching him…but she felt his hands caressing her arms. Then another pair of hands caressed her breasts…and another pair lightly stroked the insides of her thighs.

 "How…" she gasped. But she couldn't form the question because a pair of lips brushed over hers. Two mouths closed over her nipples, licking and suckling. And another mouth…

 Moaning, she arched her back and rested her head on his shoulder. This was so delicious, she never wanted it to stop, never wanted it to end.

 Gently, relentlessly, those hands caressed her, those mouths licked and suckled… until the pleasure became an unbearable craving for hisreal hands, hisreal mouth.

 "Touch me," she gasped, ripping open the nightgown to reveal her breasts. "I need you to touch me."

 "Not yet," he whispered. "Not yet."

 It didn't stop, didn't end. The pleasure went on and on until she began weeping from the need for release.

 "Daemon…please!"

 His right hand curled around her neck, and the warmth of that hand was ten times better than the feel of those phantom hands and mouths.

 Feeling intensified until the pleasure became excruciating. As she finally crested, she felt a sharp prick in her neck, which somehow only added to her climax. The fierce release gradually eased to warm waves of pleasure, and finally faded to a delicious glow.

 Still watching her, Daemon stepped away from the chair.

 Gasping, Lektra stared at the flushed, wild-eyed woman in the mirror. A woman thoroughly satisfied by her lover.Brutally satisfied. And now…

 Feeling strangely heavy and numb, she twisted on her perch to face

 him. "Now you…" It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing…and what she wasn't seeing. "You…You're not aroused."

 "Why would I be?" he replied, sounding bored and cold. So terribly cold.

 "It didn't excite you to make love to…"

 "I serviced you like I serviced the bitches in Terreille who tried to play games with me. Love had nothing to do with it."

 She slid down into the seat. Her legs didn't feel right. Neither did her arms. And she couldn't quite draw a full breath.

 "You don't mean that," she panted. "You love me, and I love you."

 "I don't know you…and you don't know me."

 "But…" She pushed herself out of the chair and tried to walk over to him, but her legs wouldn't hold her. She collapsed on the floor. "There's something wrong with me."

 "Everything has a price." Holding out his right hand, he flexed his ring finger. "The price for playing with the Sadist is pain."

 She watched the snake tooth slide out beneath the long, black-tinted nail. "You…youpoisoned me?"

 He looked at her and smiled a cold, cruel smile. "Yes."

 Remembering the prick she felt, she tried to reach up and touch her neck. "You poisoned me… while… I… was…"

 "Coming. Yes."

 "Why?"

 "Because of your obsession with me, you tried to hurt Jaenelle. So you will be the lesson for any other bitch who thinks she can have me if she eliminates the competition. Just between you and me, darling, if I have to kill every witch in Amdarh to assure no one tries to hurt Jaenelle again, I'll do it and have no regrets.You're all expendable, and she is… everything."

 Lektra stared at him, fighting for each small gasp of air. Pain danced through her limbs, setting her nerves on fire. She would have screamed if she could have drawn enough breath.

 "Daemon… help me."

 "I will," he promised. "Before you draw your last breath, I'll finish the kill. At least you won't have to face the High Lord and endure this kind of pain a second time."

 As her lungs failed and her vision faded, she tried to see her beautiful love one last time. And even though he stood in front of her, the only thing she saw as the cold Black rage ripped through her was those glazed, sleepy eyes and that cold, cruel smile.

 After he finished the kill, Daemon studied the room. The Blood had a saying: The walls remember. Wood and stone could hold strong emotions, and a skilled Black Widow could draw out those feelings and replay a ghostly image of what happened in a room.

 At another time in his life, he would have walked away from this room, would have, most likely, added a few seduction spells that would have been triggered by drawing the memories out of wood and stone. Whoever had come to watch the events leading up to Lektra's death would have felt those phantom hands, those phantom mouths. They would have stood there, helpless to escape, knowing how the previous seduction ended.

 It wouldn't have killed them, but the message would have been clear: anyone who tried to play games with his life or someone he loved would die.

 But there was Jaenelle to consider, and he didn't want this game paraded before the rest of the Blood. He felt soiled enough being near Lektra and Roxie. So he would leave enough of a warning for the witches in Amdarh. As for the rest… He could deal with that easily enough.

 2

 Surreal stood across the street and watched the town house burn. She'd spent the evening wandering the nearby streets, passing by the town house often enough to keep an eye on things. Because Sadi had said Lektra was his business, not hers, she'd kept her participation to a passive

 watch.

 So she'd been nearby when witchfire suddenly filled two of the upstairs rooms. She didn't run to the town house to pound on the door and

 alert the servants. There was no need. The Sadist had his own kind of jus-tice, and the fire remained in those two rooms until the last servant had fled. Then the witchfire took the town house, roaring up to twice the structure's height, a beacon for the rest of the Blood in Amdarh.

 They'd come running, but witchfire was fed by power, and there was nothing they could do to extinguish a fire fed by the Black. The water wagons were brought out, and the roofs of the neighboring town houses were doused, but the fire remained confined. He would have made sure of that before he walked away.

 "Here," Lucivar said, joining her. He handed her a steaming mug of coffee. "It's damn cold to be standing around."

 "Is it this cold a couple of blocks away?" she asked, taking a sip of coffee.

 "No."

 He'd arrived in Amdarh just as the rest of the town house went up, so they'd found each other easily enough. He, too, would have recognized the fire as a signal…and a warning.

 After taking a sip from his own mug, he called in a bundled napkin, used Craft to balance it on air, then flipped open a corner.

 Surreal grabbed one of the rolls filled with meat and cheese. She took a big bite, washed it down with coffee, then asked, "Where did you get these?"

 "Dining house down the street a little ways. They were still open when the fire started, so they stayed open to keep serving food and drink."

 "At least someone will profit from the evening." Finishing the first roll, she checked the napkin bundle, pleased to see two more stuffed rolls. Lucivar was going to share fairly…and just in case that wasn't what he had in mind, she took another roll and bit into it.

 "And let's hope this is the only thing in Amdarh that burns tonight," Lucivar growled, using the mug to point to the carriage and riders slowly moving up the street.

 The carriage stopped. Zhara stepped out and was immediately surrounded by her guards.

 "He doesn't have any reason to go after her, does he?" Surreal asked.

 "Not that I know of," Lucivar replied.

 Someone pointed them out. Zhara and her circle of guards pushed their way through the crowd. On Zhara's command, the guards stepped aside so the Queen of Amdarh could face Surreal and Lucivar without looking over a wall of male bodies.

 "Is Daemon Sadi responsible for this?" Zhara demanded.

 Lucivar took a long swallow of coffee before answering. "Yeah, he is."

 "Did he also kill Lord Tavey?"

 "Sadi killed a Warlord?" Surreal asked.

 "At the party the other night," Lucivar replied. "He was fairly neat about it…in a messy sort of way."

 "I'm so glad I didn't know that."

 "Stop it, both of you," Zhara snapped. "You find this all amusing? It's likely Lady Lektra and her friend were caught in that fire."

 "They wouldn't have been alive when the fire started." Surreal shrugged. "What do you want us to say, sugar? The little bitch played a game with the Sadist…and she lost."

 Zhara went very still. "What did you call him?"

 Lucivar vanished his mug. "In Terreille, they called him the Sadist… with good reason. If you want to push at him for going after a witch who spread those rumors about him and tried to hurt Jaenelle, you go right ahead. You'll live just long enough to regret it."

 The fire went out. One moment it was still blazing, the next it was

 gone.

 "Oh, shit," Surreal said softly.

 There was plenty of light from the houses on this side of the street to see him coming. That gliding walk, that feline grace. The waves of cold that had the rest of the Blood scrambling to get out of his way.

 "Zhara," Lucivar said very quietly, "don't be a fool."

 Daemon got close enough that Surreal could see his eyes were still glazed, and his lips were curved in that brutal, chilling smile. He was still in a cold rage, still riding the killing edge. If anyone pushed him now…

 Lucivar shifted, drawing Daemon's attention.

 "Still pissed off?" Lucivar asked.

 "Not anymore," Daemon replied. "At least, for now." Those glazed

 eyes fixed on Zhara. "But if anyone from Dhemlan ever tries to hurt my Queen again, I'll kill you all."

 As Daemon turned and walked away, Zhara slowly sank to the ground.

 Not hurt, Surreal decided, just… shocked. Seeing Daemon as the Sadist for the first time had that effect on most people.

 Lucivar wrapped a hand around her arm and pulled her away. "He'll head back to the family town house now to have the quiet he needs to step back from the killing edge. We should be there."

 She didn't want to be anywhere near Daemon right now, but Lucivar was right. Even if there was nothing they could do for Sadi, they could stand as a buffer between him and the rest of the Blood until the cold rage passed.

 "Do you think he could do that?" Surreal asked. "Do you think something could provoke him enough that he'd really kill everyone in Dhemlan?"

 Lucivar muttered, "He's his father's mirror." Then he added, "Let's hope we never have a reason to find out."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Sixteen

 «^»

 Daemon waited until the following evening before he returned to the Hall. After a long night's sleep, the cold rage had thawed, but he hadn't been able to sheath his temper quite enough to face the "talk" with Jaenelle. So he'd stayed in his room most of the day, letting Surreal and Lucivar deal with the visitors who timidly knocked on the town house door.

 He'd known the moment Zhara had stepped into the town house. Even Lucivar's efforts to shield him from the other visitors' shrill emotions hadn't been enough to keep him from sensing Zhara's spikes of fear. His warning had been found: two bodies, completely untouched by the witchfire that had consumed everything else in Lektra's house. As powerful as he was, his venom didn't offer a kind death, and the fact that he'd made sure there was no way to mistake how they'd died had chilled the aristo Blood in the city. So now the Queen of Amdarh knew what so many witches inTerreille had learned, although usually too late: The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince who was called the Sadist had no mercy for anyone he considered an enemy. They wouldn't forget the warning because he wouldn't let them forget. The Black Jewels would be in evidence whenever he walked through the streets of Amdarh, and the Blood would understand that their continued survival depended on Jaenelle's compassion, not his. As long as she held the leash, the Sadist would yield to his Queen. If anyone tried to break that leash…

 But therewas someone who might break that leash…and she was waiting for him on the other side of the sitting room door.

 When he walked into the room, he saw her standing at the window. It was too dark to see the garden, so he wondered what held her attention.

 "Is it done?"Jaenelle asked. "It's done."

 "The debt is paid to your satisfaction?"

 "It's paid." He couldn't sense her mood, and that frightened him. "Jaenelle…"

 She held up her left hand, commanding silence. He felt sick relief when he saw she still wore her wedding ring. "I am what I am," he said.

 Nodding, she turned to face him. "A Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince who grew up in a brutal training ground. That shaped what you are when you become a weapon. But that's only one side of you. The other side is a warm, caring man with a sharp sense of humor and more tolerance for the foolishness of others than you'll ever admit to having. I can accept the Sadist as well as Daemon Sadi. The question is, can you accept me?"

 "I do." He took a step toward her. "I always have." Jaenelle shook her head. "I'm no longer stronger than you. I no longer wear a Jewel that eclipses your power."

 "I know that." He raked his fingers through his hair. "You lost…" "Nothing. Until you can acceptthat, you'll keep stumbling overthis." She tapped a finger against Twilight's Dawn. Then she held out her hand. "There's something you need to see."

 He slipped his hand into hers. One moment they were standing in their sitting room. The next moment, he was standing in a mist-filled place in the abyss. He'd been in the Misty Place twice before…and he wondered why Jaenelle had brought him here now.

 The mist retreated, forming a circular boundary. Almost circular. Straight ahead of him there was clear ground. *Jaenelle?* No answer. Since there was something she wanted him to see, he moved forward cautiously until he came to the edge and could look down into a vast chasm.

 But it was the huge, spiraling web filling the chasm that took his breath away. Anchored to the Misty Place, it curved until it touched the other side of the chasm, then curved again, gently spiraling, going so deep into the abyss he couldn't see the end of it.

 As he studied it, trying to understand, he felt a shiver of power far, far, far below him at the same moment he heard the quiet click of hoof on stone. Turning, he saw her step out of the mist. Here, her true nature wasn't hidden beneath human flesh. Here, she looked like what she was…a living myth, dreams made flesh. The same face and a mostly human body, but a tiny spiral horn rose from her forehead, her fingers had retractable claws, and she stood on delicate hooves instead of human feet. Witch.

 She watched him with those ancient sapphire eyes. And waited. Turning back to study the web, he suddenly understood what he was looking at…a web made out of power. Somehow, the Ebony-Jeweled power she used to wield was being transformed into this web instead of filling a vessel of human flesh. Since it was tied to the Misty Place, surely there was a way for her to regain that power if she…

 He remembered Jaenelle as a child…a girl who felt the distance between herself and other people because of the Black power that was her Birthright, a girl whose family had never accepted her because she was different. He thought about the Queen who could have destroyed them all if that had been in her nature, a Queen so strong her power was a deep chasm that separated her from the rest of the Blood…even someone as strong as a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

 *You didn't want it,* he said, staggered by the strength of that conviction.

 *No,* Witch said, *I didn't want it. Why would I want power so great I could destroy the Realms but couldn't do what almost every Blood child can dobecause I was so powerful?* She looked away, and added softly, *I never wanted a formal court, never wanted to rule, never wanted more power than I already had with the Black. But I made the Offering to the Darkness and formed my court to prevent the Dark

 Council from destroying the kindred and taking their lands. I needed that power to defend Kaeleer and be a weapon to stop a war, but I never wanted it for myself*

 He moved closer to her, wanting to hold her, wanting to offer comfort, but he wasn't sure she would accept it yet.

 *How did you do it?* he asked. *How did you separate the power that was part of the dreams that made you without destroying who you are?*

 She let out a pained little laugh. *I dreamed I wasn't so different from the rest of the Blood…a dream I've had all of my life. That desire was strong enough that the Weaver of Dreams added it to the web… and this is the result.*

 Daemon studied Witch, who looked sad and vulnerable. People had turned away from her before because she was so powerful. Now she wondered if the friends she loved might always feel uncomfortable with the fact that shewasn't so powerful. He didn't think the coven and the boyos would turn away from her, and once they realized she still was who and what she had always been, and was truly happy, they wouldn't care what Jewel she wore.

 Wrapping his arms around her, he fit his body to hers. *This is really what you want for yourself, isn't it? An extraordinary ordinary life.*

 *Yes, it is.*

 *Then that's what I want for you.* He kissed her softly. *For both of us.* Closing his eyes, he kissed her again.

 When he shifted to nuzzle her neck, she said, "Are you sure, Daemon?"

 He opened his eyes and raised his head. They were back in the sitting room.

 "I want to be with you for as many years as life grants us," he said. "I want to be the warm, caring man you see in me and let the Sadist sleep."

 Jaenelle brushed his hair back. "He'll never really sleep. The Sadist is a part of who you are, and he'll always be there, just under the surface… and that's the way it should be."

 He never loved her more than he did at that moment when her acceptance quieted the volatile nature of a Warlord Prince.

 Scooping her up, he held her close to his chest. "What do you say to locking the doors, going to bed, and making love for the rest of the 

 night?"

 "Is that going to be the extraordinary or ordinary part of our life?

 she asked, laughter and love dancing in her sapphire eyes. He grinned. "Both."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Seventeen

 «^

 Too edgy to stay still, Daemon prowled the room that opened onto the flagstone terrace at the back of the Hall. It wasn't unusual for a man to have pre-wedding jitters, even if hewas already married to the woman he loved. Besides, how many men had their marriage vows witnessed by fire-breathing dragons and man-eating cats?

 Although, he probably shouldn't have snarled at Jaenelle when she suggested that he take off his wedding ring so that she could give it back to him. Guests be damned, he wasn't giving up his ring.

 "Would you like some brandy?" Saetan asked, his bland tone accenting his amusement.

 "No," Daemon snarled.

 "A sedative?"

 "No."

 "A whack upside the head?"

 Daemon glared at his father. "You're finding this too amusing."

 "Oh, I think I'm entitled," Saetan replied dryly.

 Suddenly feeling as if the ground was about to get yanked out from under him, Daemon stopped moving.

 "Anything you want to tell me?" Saetan asked.

 "No," he said, feeling wary.

 "In that case, since the guests are all assembled and Jaenelle will be own at any moment, let's go out and get you married. Again."

 Daemon winced. "It's not that we didn't…I mean, Imeant to tell you before…Ah, Hell's fire."

 Saetan laughed. "It's just as well youare married already. If your nerves don't settle, you're going to be useless tonight."

 "Thank you. I so appreciate your confidence in me."

 Saetan's amusement faded. "I do have confidence in you, Prince. More than you realize." He walked over to the glass doors.

 "Wait." He crossed the room to stand next to his father. "There are a couple of things I wanted to tell you." He hesitated, not sure how to begin. "Lady Zhara came to see me last week, on behalf of all the Queens in Dhemlan. They asked me to rule as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan." He snorted softly. "I suspect they're asking out of fear rather than any real desire to have me rule…"

 "But?"

 Daemon looked out the door. The Queens who ruled the other Territories were out there, laughing and talking. The strongest Warlord Princes in the Realm were out there. All of them were connected to each other by the woman who was Kaeleer's Heart. Just as he was connected to all of them because of her. "But that was your place," he said.

 "That is correct. Itwas my place." Saetan paused. "Is it going to be yours? Are you going to accept?"

 "I told Zhara I would consider it, but I wouldn't make any decision until after Jaenelle and I returned from our honeymoon."

 "Are you going to accept?"

 He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Yes, I'm going to accept. It… feels right."

 Saetan rested a hand on Daemon's shoulder. "I think it is the right choice. For you…and for Dhemlan. Just don't expect Jaenelle to be cheerful whenever she has to dress up for a formal occasion."

 "She's already explained that."

 After giving Daemon a sympathetic pat, Saetan stepped back. "What's the second thing?"

 This was harder. If Jaenelle had wanted everyone to know why she no longer wore Ebony Jewels, she would have told her friends and family.

 Maybe it was fear on her part that if they knew it was possible for her to beexactly like she'd been, they'd want it so much, she'd give in to their desire instead of holding on to her own. But Saetan needed to know. At least, enough to let go of any regrets.

 "It's about Twilight's Dawn," Daemon said carefully.

 "A Jewel for Kaeleer's Heart," Saetan replied just as carefully.

 "She is what she wants to be."

 "And has lost nothing she regrets losing?"

 Daemon nodded. A cautious dance of words, so that neither of them would break faith with their Queen. "She's dreamed of having an extraordinary, ordinary life. Wearing Ebony Jewels, she could only have half of that. With Twilight's Dawn, she'll have all of it."

 "Do you know that for certain, Prince?"

 "Yes, High Lord. I know that for certain."

 They smiled at each other.

 "There is one more thing," Saetan said, calling in a folded piece of parchment and handing it to Daemon. "It isn't what you had originally intended, but I think it will do."

 Daemon unfolded the parchment and studied the words in the Old Tongue.

 A light brush against his inner barriers. He opened the first barrier, and his father's deep voice rolled through his mind as Saetan spoke those fluid words.

 Suddenly he was a child again, listening to that voice teaching him phrases in the Old Tongue in exactly the same way. He thought he'd learned the language from the scholars, but they'd only awakened the memories of what he'd learned from the man standing before him.

 He said the words over and over, until he wasn't sure if he was hearing his father's voice or his own.

 Another light brush against his mind, and Saetan withdrew.

 Folding the parchment, Daemon tucked it in his jacket pocket. "What does it mean?"

 " 'You are my breath, my life, my heart.' " Saetan smiled. "Does that say enough?"

 Tears stung his eyes. "That says everything."

 Saetan kissed him. "Your Lady is waiting for you."

 They opened the glass doors and walked across the terrace, side by side. Then Saetan stepped back and he was alone, walking the rest of the way across the grass to where his finest dreams waited for him to begin the next season of their lives.
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 Anne Bishopis a winner of the William L. Crawford Memorial Fantasy Award forThe Black Jewels Trilogy. She lives in upstate New York.Visit her Web site at www.annebishop.com.