Janny Wurts THAT WAY LIES CAMELOT HarperCollinsPublishers 
HarperCollinsPublishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London
W6 8JB 

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers ~994 

I 3 5 79 864 x 

This collection copyright c Janny Wurts ~994
Page 8 constitutes a continuation of the copyright 

The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library 

ISBN o oo 224602. 3 
ISBN o oo 2-z45ci i 9 (trade pbk) 

Set in kinotron Sabon by
Hewer Text Composition Services, Edinburgh 

Printed in Great Britain by HarperCollinsManufacturing Glasgow 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publishers. 

Acknowledgments 
Given that short fiction is not my natural venue; that about everystory I ever started on my own grew rapidly into a novel or more, l'dlike to acknowledge the following editors, who asked. Because ofthem, this collection exists.
Terri Windling, Richard Pini, Bill Fawcett, Rosalind Greenberg,Richard GillJam, Susan Schwartz; and Rachel Holmen and Marion ZimmerBradley. 

Contents ~. WAYFINDER
 2.
 THE ANTAGONIST 

3.
 TALE OF THE SNOWBEAST 

4.
 THE CRASH 

5.
 THE FIREFALL 

6.
 SILVERDOWN'S GOLD ?. DOUBLE BLIND 


8.
 THE SNARE 

9.
 DREAMSINGER'S TALE ~o. TRIPLE-CROSS ~. DREAMBRIDGE ~2. SONG'S END ~3- THE RENDERS ~4. NO QUARTER ~5- THAT WAY LIES CAMELOT II 36 63 85 88 I08 ~4c 219 ~38 x55 282 


The Antagonist first appeared in The Fleet 2, Counter Attack,Ace Books, c Janny Wurts I988Tale of the Snowbeast first appeared in The Blood of TenChiefs ~, Tot Books, c Janny Wurts ~986Silverdown's Gold first appeared in Horse Fantastic, DAW Books,c Janny Wurts ~99~Double Blind first appeared in The Fleet 3, Break Through,Ace Books, c Janny Wurts 1989Dreamsinger's Tale first appeared in Wolfsong, The Blood of TenChiefs 2, Tor Books, cJanny Wurts I988Triple-Cross first appeared in The Fleet 5, Total War, Ace Books,cJanny Wurts 199oDreambridge first appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley's FantasyMagazine, issue ~9, c Janny Wurts ~993Song's End first appeared in Winds of Change, The Blood of TenChiefs 3, Tor Books, c Janny Wurts ~989The Renders first appeared in Elsewhere, Ace Books, c JannyWurts ~981 No Quarter first appeared in The Fleet 6, Crisis, Ace Books,cJanny Wurts 1991That Way Lies Camelot first appeared in Grails, Quests, Visitationsand Other Occurrences, Unnameable Press, c Janny Wurts ~992 Dedication 
To my readers ­the magicians who make all books possible 

Wayfinder 
Ciondo had blown out the lanterns for the night when Sabin rememberedher mistake. Lately arrived to help out on the sloop for the summer,she had forgotten to bring in her jacket. It lay where it had beenleft, draped over the upturned keel of the dory; wet by now in thefog, and growing redolent of the mildew that would speckle itspatched, sumfaded shoulders if someone did not crawl out of warmblankets and fetch it up from the beach.
The wind had risen. Gusts slammed and whined across the eaves,and moaned through the windbreak of pines that lined the cliffs.Winter had revisited since sundown; the drafts through the chinksheld the scent of northern snow. The floorboards, too, were coldunder Sabin's bare feet. She looked out through the crack in theshutter, dressing quickly as she did so. The sky had given her amoon~ but a thin, ragged cloud cover sent shadows chasing in ink andsilver across the sea. The path to the harborside was steep, evendangerous, all rocks and twined roots that could trip the unwary evenin brightest sunlight.
Stupid, she had been, and ever a fool for letting her mind strayin daydreams. She longed to curse in irritation as her uncle did whenhis hands slipped on a net, but she dreaded to raise a disturbance.The household was sleeping. Even her aunt who wept in her pillow eachnight for the son just lost to the sea; Sabin's cousin, who was fouryears older than her undersized fourteen, and whose boots she couldnever grow to fill.
~A girl can work hard and master a boy's chores,' Uncle Ciondohad summed up gruffly. 'But you will never be strong enough to takethe place of a man.'
Yet the nets were heavy and the sloop was old, its scarred,patched planking in constant need of repairs. A girl's hands were 
II better than going without, or so her mother insisted. Grudgingly,Uncle Ciondo agreed that Aunt Kala would do better if an empty chairno longer faced her through mealtimes. Sabin was given blankets and alumpy cot in the loft, and cast off sailor's clothing that smelled ofcod and oakum, poor gifts, but precious for the fact they could illbe spared.Her lapse over the jacket could not go unremedied.
She fumbled and found her damp boots in the dark. Too lazy tobother with trousers, she pulled on the man-sized fisher's smock thathung halfway to her knees. The loose cuffs had to be rolled to freeher hands. She knotted the waist with rope to hold it from billowingin the wind, although in the depths of the night, no one was abroadto care if she ran outside half-clothed.
 The board floor squeaked to her step, and the outer latch clangeddown as she shut the weathered plank door. 'Sabin,' she admonished asshe hooked a heel on the door stoop and caught herself short of astumble, 'Don't you go tripping and banging, or someone will mistakeyou for trouble and shoot you in the back for a trt)ll.'
Except that no one in her village kept so much as a bow. Thefisherfolk had only rigging knives and cutlery for the kitchen, andthose were risky things to be throwing at trolls in the dark. Givenany metal at all, and a troll will someday do murder with it; or soher mother used to threaten to scare out her habit of mislayingthings. Sabin sighed at her failure since her jacket was not hangingas it should to dry on the hook by the hearth.
Cloud cover smothered the moon. Past the garden gate, the trailto the sea plunged deep into shadow. She stubbed her toes on cornersof slate, and cursed like a fishwife since her uncle was not there toscold. The path switched back once, twice, in tortuous descent.Westward it was faced by sheer rock cliffs, moss-grown, and stuffedwith old bird nests in the niches. The moon re-emerged. The pinesthat clawed foothold on the lower slope moaned in the lash of thewinds, their trunks in stark silhouette against silver4ace shcets ofspent breakers as they slid in fan curves back to sea. Sabin tossedtangled hair from her eyes. The night was wild around her. She couldfeel the great waves thud and boom over the barrier reefs eventhrough the leather of her bootsoles.
A night to bring boat wrecks, she knew, the sea in her bloodenough now that her ear had attuned to its moods. She hurried 
I2 as the slate path leveled out and gave way at last to sand, ground ofthe same black stone, and unpleasant with chill in the dark. The lastfringe of trees passed behind and she started across the crescentbeach. The moon went and came again. Out on the reefs, the high-flying spindrift carved up by the rocks tossed like the manes ofwhite horses; great herds there seemed to be, galloping with archednecks, the surf-roll becoming the thunder of churning hooves. Sabinforgot the folly of the daydreams that had forced her out of bed. Asif someone's voice had addressed her, she stopped very still andstared. For a second the horses seemed real. There, the red flare ofnostrils in the moon-whitened planes of wedged faces,and now, a ringing neigh on the wind that tore past her ears.Impossible, she insisted, and yet­
A cloud scudded over the moon. Her wonder vanished and she chided herself. There was nothing. Only the tide-swept sand of the beach andherself, a scarecrow figure of a girl with mussed hair and no sense,gawping at a span of wild waters. The village idiot knew horses didnot run in the sea. Sabin shivered and felt cold. The dory laybeached above the tideline a brisk walk distant up the beach. Sheturned that way, determined to fetch back her jacket without anotherlapse into silliness.
But before she had gone half the distance, something else caughther eye in the surf. Not a horse, but a dark clot of rags that atfirst she mistook for flotsam. Then the crest of a wave rolled it over, and she saw a man. He was floundering to keep his face abovewater, and was only a hairsbreadth from drowning.
Fear and memory drove her. She spun and plunged into the sea.Cousin Juard had been lost to the waves, ripped from the decks of heruncle's boat during the fury of a storm. As the racking, retchingcougl~s of the man who struggled reached her, she wondered if Juardhad died as miserably, his body bent into spasms as the cold saltwater stung his lungs.
Then the swirl of a comber cascaded over her boot-tops and foamedup around her chest, and her gasping shudder killed thought. Thecastaway borne along by the tide tumbled under and the weight of himslammed her in the knees.
 She dropped, clutching at a shoulder whose shirt was all tatters,and skin underneath that was ice. As the rough sands scoured underher shins, she hooked his elbow, and braced against the drag of theebb. 
Her head broke water. Through a plastering of hair, Sabin huffed whatshe hoped was encouragement. 'This way. The beach.'
His struggles were clumsy. She labored to raise him, distractedby a chink of metal: iron, she saw in the flash of bared moonlight.He was lettered in rusted chains, the skin of both wrists torn rawfrom their chafing.
'Mother of mercy,' she blasphemed. He had found his knees, an oldman, white-haired and wasted of body. His head dangled with fatigue.She said, 'Nobody could swim pulled down by all this chain!'
'Didn't,' he husked; he had no breath to speak. He thrashed in anattempt to rise, and fell again as the water hit and dashed infountains around his chin.
 She gripped him under his flaccid arms and dragged mightily.Despite her best effort, his head dipped under the flood. Heswallowed a mouthful, gagging on salt, while she grunted in tearfulfrustration. The wave sucked back. He dragged his face free of itsdeadly, clinging currents with the dregs of his failing strength. Hisfeet seemed fastened to the shoaling sands as if they were moored inplace.
Belatedly suspicious, Sabin kept tugging. 'Your ankles. Are theyin irons also?'
 He made a sound between a laugh, a sob, and a cough. 'Always.'
His floundering efforts managed to coordinate for a moment withhers. Together they stumbled a few yards shoreward, harried on byflooding water. Again the wave ebbed and he sank and bumped againstthe sand. Panting, Sabin locked her fingers in his shirt. She heldhim braced against the hungry drag of the sea, desperate, while herheart raced drumrolls with the surf. Something was not quite right,she thought, her stressed mind sluggish to reason. The incoming tidecarried no flotsam, not a stick or a plank that a shipwrecked manmight have used to tioat his way ashore. 'You never swam,' sheaccused again, as he regained the surface and spluttered.
Weak as he was, her sharpness stung him. He raised his chin, andeyes that were piercingly clear met hers, lit by the uncertainmoonlight. 'I didn't.' His voice held a roughness like harpstringsslackened out of tune. 'I begged help from the seaborne spirits thatcan be called to take the shape of horses. They answered and drew 
I4 uffed 
acted light.~ raw 
:nees,ngledall 
~ed in ed in 
htily.
l. He .~d in . face ~iling!they 
they 
)ugh. 
ment .rried ~ and 'rs in [ the'surf. mind i not :d to as he 
~hin,~rtam rings;that:lrew 
me to land, but they could not see me safe. To lead one even oncefrom the water dooms it to mortal life ashore.'
 The interval between waves seemed drawn out, an unnaturalinterruption of rhythm like a breath too long held suspended. Evendisallowing for chains his weight was too much for a girl, but it wasa spasm of recognition like fear that locked Sabin's limbs and tongue
-until those cut-crystal eyes looked down. As if released frombewitchment, she blurted, 'Who are you?'
She thought the wind took her words. Or that they were lost inthe grinding thunder of the sea as she scrabbled the last yards todry sand. But when, safe at last, he collapsed in bruised exhaustion,he answered. q am a Wayfinder, and the son of a Wayfinder.' Hiscracked tone broke to a whisper. 'And I was a slave for more timethan I care to remember.'
 He spoke nonsense, she determined, and said so. He was a madmanand no doubt a convict who had fled in the shallows to hide his tracks from dogs. A denial she did not understand closed her eyes andher heart against the logic that argued for him: that the road ranhigh above the cliffs, and those few paths that turned shoreward weremuch too steep for a captive to negotiate in chains. Had he come thatway, he should have fallen, and broken his legs or his neck. Throughteeth that chattered, Sabin wai, ted. Yet the refugee stayed silent.She poked him in the ribs with her toe and found he had succumbed at last to the beating the sea had given him; either he slept or haddropped unconscious. The wind bit at wet flesh, made cruel by drivenspray. The tide rose still, and the sand where he lay would very soonbe submerged. Forced by necessity, Sabin arose. The jacke~ she hadleft on the dory would have to serve the old man as a blanket untilUncle Ciondo could be fetched from his bed. 
Sabin awakened to sunlight. Afraid of her uncle's gruff scolding, sheshot straight, too fast. The blood left her head. Dizziness held herstill and blinking, and she realized: Uncle Ciondo was shouting. Hisvoice drifted up through the trapdoor to the ladder, though heprobably stood in the kitchen by the stove, shaking a fist as heranted.
 ~A condemned man, what else could he be! Or why should anyonehave chained him? Those fetters were not closed with k)cks. They wereriveted. We cannot shelter such a man, Kala.' 
I5 
 The castaway, Sabin remembered. She pushed herself out of bed andtripped in her haste over the wet smock she had discarder withouthanging last night. From the clothes chest she grabbed he only spare,and followed with the woolen britches every ilsher's wore to sea. Sheleft her boots. Even if they were not drenched ant salt-stiff, theywould make too much noise and draw notice.
 Masked by the murmur of her aunt's voice, declaiming, Sabi~ setbare feet on the ladder. At the bottom, the door to Juard". room laycracked open, beyond the stairwell which funnelled the bellow of heruncle's protest. 'Kala~, that's daft and you know it He could bedangerous, a murderer. I say we send him inland the fish wagon andleave his fate to the King's bailiff.'
Sabin's uncle was not hard-hearted, but only a sailor, and th~sea rewards no man for sentiment. Ciondo would care very littl~ ifthe rescued man could hear the rough anger in his voice. Bu as a girlnot born to a ilsher's trade, Sabin flinched. She tiptoet down thehall and slipped through the opened door, a ghost witt mousy, tangledhair and a sail-cloth smock flocked at the cuff'. with the rustyblood of gutted cod.
The man the sea had cast up was asleep. Chains lay on hin still,looped at wrists and ankles with spare line that tied hin spread­eagled to the bedposts. Ciondo had taken no chances, bu had securedthe refugee with the same half hitches he might use t~ hold adory.against a squall. Still, the undyed wool of the blanket: hunghalf kicked off as if the prisoner had thrashed in nightmares Hisrags were gone. Daylight through the opened shutters exposer ahistory of abuse, from the salt-galled sores left by shackles tomapwork of dry, welted scars. He was not old after all, Sabin saw butstarved like a mongrel dog. His skin was sun-cured to tea~ andcreases, and his hair bleached lusterless white. He looked a~weatherworn as the fishing tackle on the sloop's decks, beaten b~years of hard use.
Aunt Kala's voice filtered through the doorway, raised to unusuasharpness. 'Ciondo, I'll be sending no man on to the bailiff beforehe finds his wits and tells his name! Nor will any needy strange:leave our roof hungry, the more shame to you for witless fears! A: ifanybody so starved could cause harm while bound up in meta chains!Now be off! Go down to the beach with the rest, and leave me in peaceto stir the soup.'A grumbling followed, and a scrape of boots on the brick. Fe~a 
16 could stand up to Kala when she was angry, and since Juard's death,none dared. She was apt to weep when distressed, and if anyone sawher, she would throw cooking pots at them with an aim that couldflatten a pigeon.
Cautious in the quiet after the door slammed, Sabin crept to thewindow. The sun threw slanting bars of yellow through gently tossingpines. Yet if the vicious, tearing winds had quieted, the seamirrored no such calm. Beyond the spit off the point, the breakersstill reared on the reefs, booming down in tall geysers of spray. Thesurge rushed on untamed, through the harbor gates where the roundbottomed boats rolled at anchor, an ominous sign. Sabin bit her lip.She squinted against the scintillant brightness of reflections andsaw wreckage scattered amid the foam: the sundered masts and plankingof ships gutted wholesale by the reefs.
No one had shaken her awake at dawn because today the twine wouldnot be cast out for fish. When the wrecks littered the beach, menplied their nets to glean a storm's harvest from the waves. Custombarred girls and women from such labor, lest the nets bring up deadbodies, and the sight of drowned flesh sour the luck of their sons,born and unborn, and curse them to the horror that had befallencousin Juard, to be taken alive by the sea.
The man on the bed had escaped that fate, just barely. He hadcome in on a ship that was now ripped to fragments, Sabin knew for asurety. He had not swum; not in chains. And horses did not run in thesea. Unwilling to risk misfortune by looking too closely at thewaves, or what tossed and surfaced in the whitening tumble of foam,Sabin spun away from the window. She shivered in the sun that fell onher back, and shivered again as she saw that the man on the bed hadawakened. He studied her, his eyes like fine flawed crystal broken toa razor's edge.
'You do not trust me,' he said in his rusty whisper. He flexedone wrist, and immediately grimaced in pain.'My uncle thinks you're amurderer.'
 He ground out a bitter, silent laugh. 'Oh, but I am, though myhand has never taken life.'
 She frowned, a plain-spoken girl who dreamed, but had alwayshated riddles. 'What is a Wayfinder?'
Riddles came back in answer, as he regarded the beams of theceiling. 'One who hears the sea. One who can read the earth. One whocan travel and never be lost.' 
 'I don't understand.' She stepped back, and sat on the clotheschest that had once held the shirt she was wearing, when it had beenJuard's, and she had spent days spinning thread for her father'sloom. Now her hands had grown horny and tough, and fine wool wouldcatch on the callus. But the incessant lapses of attention had notleft her; she forgot to mind sheet lines as readily as she hadfaltered at spindle and wheel. She curled her knees up and claspedher hands to bury that recognition. 'Anyone can be lost.'
He stirred in the faintest impatience, jerked back by the cut ofhis chains. 'Inland to the east, there is a road, a very dusty roadwith stone markers that winds through a forest. Beyond lie farmlands,and three villages, and lastly a trader's town. Beyond brick wallsare wide sands, called by the desert people who live thereDei'eh'vikia.' His head tipped sideways toward Sabin. His eyes nowwere darkened as gray sapphires, and he considered her as though sheshould be awed.
 She was not. 'You could have spoken to someone who passed thatway,' she accused. 'Perhaps you lived there yourself.' But she knewas she spoke that he did not. His vessel had broken on the reef, andnever sought harbor in these isles. Few ships did, for the rocks gavehostile greeting to mariners from afar.
He looked at her in sadness or maybe pain, as if he had offeredriches to the village half-wit who had use for no coin at all. Hekept staring until she twisted her fingers together, embarrassed asif caught at a lie. For all his foreign accent, he had pronounced theplace name as crisply as the nomads who made the desert their home.Townsmen and traders slurred over the vowels and called it Daaviki,in contempt for the troublesome native speech.
He perceived that she knew this. He saw also that stubbornnesskept her silent.
He looked at her still, his gaze heavy-lidded, almost glazed as adrunk's. The angle of his neck must have pulled at his shoulders andwrists, but he shed any sign of discomfort as he said, 'Sabin,outside this room, there is a passage covered with braided rugs. Itleads to a stairway that winds around itself twice. Downstairs, tothe right of the kitchen lies a door that leads to a springhouse.Purple flowers grow by the path, and seven steps to the left lead tothe sea cliff where there is a little slate ledge. You like to sitthere on sunny mornings, in what you call your chair seat. But thepeople who inhabited these coasts before yours used the site 
18 as a shrine.' His grainy voice was almost gentle as he finished.'They left carvings. You have seen them, when you scratched at themoss.'
 Sabin jumped up with her mouth opened like a fish. He had beencarried into this house, unconscious. Ciondo had brought him throughthe front door. Someone might have mentioned her name in his hearing,but there was no way he could have seen the springhouse, or haveknown of her fondness for that ledge. Her aunt and uncle did notknow, nor her own mother and father.
'I am a Wayfinder,' he said simply, as if that sealed a truththat she realized, shivering, could not be other than magic. Her needto escape that room, and that compelling, mesmeritic gaze came out ina rush of speech. 'I have to go, now.'
The Wayfinder let his head fall back on the pillow. At a wordfrom him, she would have fled; she waited, tautly poised on onet:oot. But he made no sound. He closed his eyes, and curiosity welledover her fear and held her rooted. 'Still there?' he murmured after a while. 'Maybe.' Sabin put her foot down, but quietly.
He did not open his eyes. 'You have a piece of the gift yourself,you know, Sabin.'She quivered again, as much from anger. 'What gift!'
His hands were not relaxed now, but bunched into whiteknuckledfists. One of his sores had begun to bleed from the pressure; he wastrying her uncle's knots, and finding them dishearteningly firm. 'Youcame to the beach at my call.'
She stamped her foot, as much to drive off uneasiness. 'Youcalled nothing! I forgot my jacket. That was all.'
~No.' His hands gave up their fretting. 'You have given yourjacket as the reason. But it was my call that caused you to forget itin the first place. When I asked the spirits for their help, youheard also. That was the true cause of the forgetfulness that drewyou outside in the night.'
'l've been scolded for carelessness all my life,' she protested,'and my jacket was forgotten at twilight!''And so at that hour I called.' He was smiling.
She wanted to curse him, for that. He seemed so smug. Like Juardhad been when he teased her; and that remembrance called up tears.Sabin whirled violently toward the doorway and collided headlong withher aunt. 
 'Sabin! Merciful god, you've spilled the soup.' Kala raised thewooden tray to keep it beyond reach of calamity, and her pluml~ facedimpled into a frown. 'What are you doing here anyway? A sick man hasno need for prying girls.''Talk to him,' Sabin snapped back. 'He's the one who pries.' 'Awake,is he?' Kala stiflened primly. She glanced toward the bed and stoppedcold, her chins sagging beneath her opened mouth. and the trayforgotten in her hands. For a moment she seemed tc breathe smoke asshe inhaled rising steam from the soup bowl.
Then she exploded. 'My fool of a husband! Rope ties! The crueltyand the shame of it.' She stepped sideways, banged her tray down onthe clothes chest, and in a fit of total distraction, failed tobemoan the slopped soup. 'Sabin, run out and fetch our mallet andchisel.' She added to the stranger on the bed, 'We'll have you freein just minutes.'
For an instant, the Wayfinder's cut crystal eyes seemed to mirro~all of the earth. 'Your goodman thinks l'm a murderer.'
'My goodman is a fool who thinks in circles like a sand crab.'Kala noticed that Sabin still lingered in the doorway. 'Girl, mustyou always be idling about waiting for speech from the wind? Getalong! Hammer and chisel, and quickly.' 
Kala had matters well in hand before the last fetter was struck. 'You're taking up no space that's needed,' she insisted wid:determined steadiness. 'Juard's bed is yours, he's dead and at restin the sea, and if you care to lend a hand at the chores, we coulduse the help, truly. Sabin belongs home with her family.'
She ended with a strike of the mallet. As the last rivet sheared away, and rusted metal fell open and clanged in a heap on the floor,the Wayfinder raised his freed wrists. He rubbed at ton, skin, thenlooked up at Kala, who stood over him gripping the tools with bothfists braced on broad hips. In profile, Sabin sav~ the stranger giveher aunt that same, heavy-lidded gaze that had earlier caused her theshivers. 'He's not lost, your Juard,' the broken voice announced softly. Kalawent white. She dropped the tools with a clatter and clapped herpalms behind her back to distract bad luck, and avert the misfortuneof hearing false words. 'Do not spin me lies! Respect our loss. Illcomes of wishing drowned men back 
2O from death, for they hear. They rise in sorrow and walk the sea bedwithout rest for all of eternity.'
The Wayfinder cocked up his eyebrows in sad self-mockery. 'Inever lie. And no such lost spirits walk the sea, nor ever have.' AtKala's shocked stiffness, he thumped his marred fist on the mattressin frustration. 'Your boy is not dead, only washed up on a beach, as! was.'
 Aunt Kala turned her back, which was as near to an insult asanyone ever got from her. The Wayfinder glared fiercely, his ice-grayeyes lit to burning. Then his jaw hardened until the muscles jumpedand his speech scraped out of his throat. 'Your son fetched up on theBarraken Rock, to the west. At this moment, he is gutting a fish witha knife he chipped from a mussel shell.'
'My son is dead!' Kala snapped back. 'Now say no more, or whenCiondo comes back, you will go trussed in the wagon to the bailiff's.I'll hear your word.'
The Wayfinder sighed as though sucked down in a chasm ofweariness. 'Woman, you'll get no word from me, but neither will youhear any, either, if that is your desire.'
'It is.' Kala stamped out through the doorway without lookingback. 'Sabin,' she yelled from the threshold at the head of thestairwell. 'You'll see that yon man eats his soup, and bring down thetray when he's finished.'
But Kala's bidding was impossible to carry out, Sabin found. Onthe bed, the Wayfinder had closed his eyes and fallen deeply asleep.
The house stayed quiet for the rest of the morning, with Kalabeating quilts with a ferocity that outlasted the dust. At noon UncleCiondo returned from the beach, swathed in dripping oilskins, hisboots caked to the ankles with damp sand. The bull bellow of hisvoice carried up through the second storey window where Sabin keptvigil over the invalid. 'Kala! Where is that man?'
The thwack of the broom against fabric faltered. 'Where elsewould he be, but in bed? The shame on you, Ciondo, for leaving himtrussed like the felon he certainly isn't.' Smack! went the broom onthe quilts.
When only the cottage door hammered closed in reply, Sabingripped her knees with sweaty hands. She all but cowered as heruncle's angry tread ascended the stairs; bits of grit and shellscattered from his boots and fell pattering against the baseboards 
2I as he hurried the length of the hall. The next instant his hulkingshoulders filled the bedroom doorway and his sailor's squint fixed onthe empty shackles that lay where they had fallen on the floor.
'Fool woman,' he growled in reference to his wife. He raisedhands scraped raw from his labors with net and sea, and swiped salt-drenched hair from his temples. Then he noticed Sabin. 'Out, imp.'
Her chin jerked up to indicate the man on the bed. 'I found him.'
'So you did.' Ciondo's grimness did not ease as he strode closer,but he did not send her away. Sabin watched as he, too, met theuncanny gaze of the stranger who had wakened again at the noise. Thesword-edged clarity of that stare arrested her uncle also, for hestopped, his hands clenched at his sides. 'Do you know that allmorning we have been dragging in bits of burst ships? Not just one,but a fleet of them.' The Wayfinder said a touch tartly, 'Karbaschi warships.'
'So you know them.' Ciondo sighed. 'At least you admit it.' Hisannoyance stayed at odds with his gesture as he noticed his boots,and the sand left tracked in wet clumps. Hopeful as a miscreantmongrel, he bent and scuffed the mess beneath the bed where Kalamight not notice. He dusted his fingers, ham-pink and swollen fromsalt water, on the already gritty patches of his oilskins. 'You werea criminal? Their prisoner perhaps?'
The Wayfinder's lip curled in a spasm of distaste. 'Worse thanthat.'
 Ciondo straightened. 'You'd better tell me. Everything. Ourpeople fear such fleets, for where they go, they bring ruin.'
The man propped up by the pillows seemed brown and wasted asstormwrack cast up and dried on the beach. In a whisper napped likespoiled velvet, he said, 'I was their Wayfinder. Kept bound in chainsto the fiagship's mast, to guide them on their raids. When 1 refusedto see the way for their murdering, or led them in circles at sea,they made sure that I suffered. But by the grace of your kindness, nomore.'
 Uncle Ciondo's square face looked vacant with astonishment.'You!' He took a breath. 'You? One of the in'am shealdi, the ones whoare never lost? I don't believe it.' 'Then don't.' The Wayfinder closed his eyes. His lashes were 
22 dark at the roots, and bleached white at the tips from too much sun.'Your wife named me liar also.'
 'Storm and tide! She'll fling any manner of insult at a man, ifshe thinks it will help make him listen.' Ciondo shifted stance indisgust. 'And I did not say you spoke falsehood, but only that Ican't believe you.'
At this, the Wayfinder's eyes flicked open. Though he tensed nomuscle, Sabin felt warning charge his presence that swept the roomlike cold wind. 'Is it proof you want? You shall have it. Leave meblindfolded on any of your fishing sloops, and give me the tiller,and I will set you an accurate course for the spit called theBarraken Rock.'
 'A wager?' Ciondo covered his uneasiness with a cough.Thoughtfully, he added, 'The trial would have to be at night, or thesun on your face might guide you.'
'Be it night, or in storm, I care very little,' the Wayfinderchallenged. 'But if I win, I'd have your promise: not a word of mygift shall go beyond this village. Your King, if he found me, wouldsend me back as a bribe to plead for an exemption from tribute.Greedy traders anywhere would sell the secret of my survival. TheKarbaschi make unforgiving masters. If they learned I still lived, awarrior fleet would sail to collect me, and killing and looting wouldfollow. If your people have no riches to adorn Karbaschi honor, yourhouses would burn, and your daughters know the miseries of slavery.'
Ciondo went pale, even to the end of his nose that seasons ofwinds had buffed red. He stepped back from the edge of the mattressand sat, without care for his soggy oilskins, on the cushion by thewindowseat. 'If you are in'am shealdi, then you steered those shipsafoul of the currents. Was it you who set your Karbaschi overlords onour reef to drown and then took your chance in the sea?'
The Wayfinder denied nothing, but regarded his wrists as if theweals dug by fetters could plead his testimony for him. A tight-drawninterval followed, broken at last by the rattle of pots i~ thekitchen; Kala had relented enough to oversee the noon meal. Herindustry spoiled the quiet, and forced the Wayfinder to raise hisburred voice to be heard.
 'Men travel the land, but they do' not hear it. They sail thewaters, yet they do not know the sea. The Karbaschi warships 
23 carve paths of destruction, and the peoples they conquer grieve forslain husbands and sons. But where the Karbaschi stay to settle, theybring cruelties more lasting than death to the flesh. The lands theyrule will wither in time, because they are a race who take and givenothing back. Their habit of pillage has deafened them, until theyplow up forests for fields and raise towns without asking leave. Therituals mouthed by their priests are empty of truth, and without carefor the still, small needs of the earth.' Here, the invalid liftedhis wasted, leathery shoulders in a shrug. 'In'am sl;ealdi areactually guardians. We nurture the spirits which the Karbaschi runover roughshod, because they love only the desires of humanity. It issuch spirits that show me the way. If I call, they answer, though theKarbaschi ruled my body as a man might course a hunting dog. Theguidance given to me in trust was forced to ill use, and inevitablybrought the earth sorrow. The day came when I could not endure itspain, or my own, any longer.'
The Wayfinder sounded wistful as he finished. 'I expected to diein the sea. Since 1 did not, I should like very much to stay. To livesimply, and make use of my talent very little. I wish for nothingbeyond your leave to guide your village sloops back to anchorage eachnight for the rest of my life.'
Secure in the belief she was forgotten where she sat on theclothes chest, only Sabin caught the half glance he flicked in herdirection. As if his cracked voice informed her, she knew: because ofher he begged sanctuary - because of the gift he claimed she shared;and not least, for the sake of Juard who was dead, who bad to bedead, else magic and spirits were real and borses ran wild in thesea.
 If in truth such beauty existed, she would never shed thedistraction of dreams but helplessly become consumed by them untilthe small inattentions that cursed her grew monstrous and took overher life.
 Spooked by strangeness that threatened to draw her like somehapless moth to a flame, Sabin sprang to her feet and fled. Outthrough the hall she pounded, and on down the stair beyond. Kalacalled out as she passed through the kitchen, to say the noon mealwas waiting. But the girl did not stop until she had left the house,and raced at reckless speed down the cliff path to the place shecalled her chair seat. There she spent the afternoon, while the Wayfinder slept. She did not return for supper, though Kala called from the back door to saythat their guest had arisen for the meal. By that Sabin understoodthat her uncle had accepted the Wayfinder at his word; an outsiderwho spoke false might stay because he was ill and had need, but hewould not be invited to table. One supposed that Kala and thestranger had settled their hostilities by not speaking.
At nightfall, when most folk gathered at the tavern, thebeachhead glittered with torches. Word had passed round of a wager,and every boy with the sea in his blood turned out to ask Ciondo'sleave to man the sloop, never mind that the craft was handy andneeded little crew. The commotion as boasts were made and shouted down, and lots were finally drawn to keep the choice fair, enabledSabin to sneak past and hide under the nets in the dory. Certain shehad not been seen, she peered out cautiously and saw the tight knotof men stepping back. They left the Wayfinder standing alone withblack cloth muffling his head. He turned unerringly toward the tenderthat was Ciondo's. If his steps were unsteady due to weakness, theline he walked was straight. He crossed and found the thwart withoutfumbling, and spoke so no others could hear. 'Your good aunt does notknow where we sail. I never mentioned to your uncle that I know yourcousin Juard to be alive. Before we arrive at the Barraken Rock, Igive you the burden of telling him.'
'Aunt Kala would curse you for putting your lies in my mouth,'Sabin accused from under damp nets, the reek of which suddenly madeher dizzy. She was trembling again, and that made her angry, for hesensed her fear, she was certain. She could feel those pale eyesburning even through their veiling of cloth as he said, 'But you arenot Kala. You are the child of a weaver, and your fears are not ruledby thesea.~ ~They are when I sit in a boat!' she snapped back, more like her auntthan herself.
 He laughed in his broken, rasping way, and because there was nomalice in him, she wanted to hit him or scream. Instead she shrankinto a tight huddle. Light and voices intruded, and the boat lifted,jostling, to be launched. As the keel smacked the water, and blownspray trickled through her cocoon of nets, she tasted warm salt withthe cold. Tears; she was crying. The man seemed so certain that poor,lost Juard still breathed. 
 Sabin felt the rampaging buck of the surf toss the dory a swell.The alternative terrified her, that her cousin had ri~ drowned, andthat this stranger who lured the people laughir their boats to followhis blindfolded quest was a sorcerer who c swim in iron chains. Theymight rescue Juard, or else join leaving more bereaved families toweep and to curse at the s 
Sabin rubbed the stinging cheek her uncle had smacked whe found her,and smacked again when she told what the Wayfi had said of her lostcousin. While the wind shifted fitf slapping sails and stays incontrary gusts, and moonlight silv the wavelets, she braced againstthe windward rail, away fron men by the binnacle. Their talk grewever more sullen as Juard's was uneasily discussed, and shoreline andlights shrank aster
'Nothing lives on the Barraken Rock but fishing birds that dseawater!' cried Tebald over the wear of patched canvas. Yo and afriend of Juard's, his jutted chin and narrowed eyes ' wasted.
Blind behind swathes of black rag, the Wayfinder stood se beforeaggression, his thin hands draped on the tiller as if the ~aunderneath were alive.
 Darru argued further. 'Without a fresh spring, a castaway wperish.'
'It has rained twice in the past week,' the stranger rebu'Oilskins can be rigged to trap water, and the seabirds are plenenough to snare.' Ciondo's spare smock flapped off his shoul like anill-fitting sail, the cuffs tied back to keep from troublin. sores.The linen bindings covering his wrists emphasized promi bones; a manso gaunt should not have been able to stand up less command themuscle to mind the helm. But Sabin coul~ from where she stood that the sloop held flawless course. wake carved an arrow's track astern.
Ciondo glowered and said nothing, but his hand strayed ~ to therigging knife at his belt.'We should put about and sail back,' Tebald said.
Darru was more adamant. 'We should let you swim b stranger, foryour lies.'
The Wayfinder answered in the absent way of a man w thoughts areinterrupted. 'If I prove wrong, you may kill me 
26 
 At this came a good dead of footshifting, and one or two gesturesto ward ill luck. No one voiced the obvious, that they could kill himonly if realfortune went elsewhere and they lived to make good such athreat.
 The night wore on and the stars turned. The wind settled to asteady northeast, brisk and coldly clear. Moonset threw darkness onthe water, and the land invisible astern. Once, Darru repeated thesuggestion that the wager be abandoned, that the sloop seek return bythe stars. He spoke to Ciondo by the mainmast pinrail, but wasanswered in gruff-voiced challenge by the Wayfinder aft at the helm.'Would you take such a chance, just to keep Juard's doom a clearcertainty?'
Darru spun in vicious anger, jerked back by Ciondo's braced hand.'Don't provoke him! He is in'am shealdi, or how else does he steerwithout sight? Find faith in the straight course he sails, or elsegive the decency of holding your tongue until you have true cause todoubt.'
 'Grief for your son has turned your head,' Darru muttered,shrugging himself free. But he could not argue that lacking clearstars or a compass, no ordinary man could keep a heading hour afterhour without mistake.
 Night waned. Sabin slept through the dawn curled against a bightof rope. She dreamed of waves and white horses, and the rollingthunder of troubled seas until Tebald's shout awakened her. 'The Barraken Rock! Dead off our bow, do you see!'
She opened her eyes to a dazzle of sunlight, and the soured smellof seaweed beached and dried. 'Juard,' she whispered.
No one noticed. Ciondo stood as a man frozen in place by theforemast stay; the more volatile Darru gave back laughter and criedto his fellow crewman, 'Where were you an hour ago when the spit roseout of the sea?'
 'Sleeping,' Tebald confessed. His awed glance encompassed thescarecrow figure who guided the tiller with a feather touch, andwhose eyesight was yet swathed in cloth. The mouth that showedunderneath seemed turned up in detached amusement. Tebald leaned downand ruffled Sabin's hair as he passed, his discomfort masked by ashrug.
Peevish and oddly unrefreshed, she tried a kick that missed athis ankle. 'Don't do that. I'm not a little girl anymore.' Tebaldignored her as if she were a bothersome younger sister. 
27 To Ciondo he said, 'The wager's won, I'd say. Your in'am shealdishould take off his blindfold. It's probably making him sweat.'
'I said so,' Ciondo admitted. With one hand fastened to theheadstay, he kept his eyes trained on the rock that jutted like aspindle from the sea. 'Tell him again if you want.'
But with the arcane powers of the helmsman now proven, no oneseemed anxious to speak. Sun glared like molten brass off the wetshine of the deck, and the sheet lines creaked under their burden ofsail. The pitiless isolation of the sea seemed to amplify the wind,and the mingled cries of seabirds that squabbled and flew above therock. The deeper shout that was human seemed to rend the day's peacelike a mortal blow to the heart.
 On that gale-carved, desolate spit, splashing in seawater to theknees, a raggedy figure ran, dancing and gyrating to a paean ofreborn hope.
'It's Juard!' Darru gasped. He glanced nervously back at theWayfinder, ashamed for his unkind threats. Tebald at his side heldhis breath in wordless shock, and Ciondo just buried his face in hishands and let the tears spill through his fingers.
It was Sabin who moved to free sheet lines when the Wayfinderthrew up the helm. While Tebald and Darru roused belatedly to set theanchor, the girl unlashed an empty bait barrel. She stood it on endby the sternpost, climbed up, and as the Wayfinder bent his head toreceive her touch, she picked out the knots of his blindfold. Thecloth fell away. Hair bleached like bone tumbled free in the breeze,and she confronted a face set level with hers that had been battered into pallor by exhaustion. The eyes no longer burned, but seemed wideand drugged as a dreamer's. She could almost plumb their depths, andsense the echoes of the spirits whose guidance had led the sloopwithout charts.
 'You could hear them yourself, were you taught,' the Wayfindermurmured in his grainy bass. Yet before those eyes could brighten andtempt her irrevocably to sacrifice the reality she understood, sheretreated to a braced stance behind the barrel.
 'The moment Juard can sail with his father, I'll be sent backhome. Whether or not there are horses in the sea, I shan't be gettinglost behind a loom.' Her bare feet made no sound as she whirled and bounded off to help Ciondo, who was struggling in feverish eagernessto launch the tender by himself. 
28 The sloop was met on her return by men with streaming torches.Juard's reappearance from the lost brought cries of joy anddisbelief. Kala was fetched from her bed for a tearful reunion with the son miraculously restored to her. For Juard was alive; starvedthin, his hair matted in tangles so thick they could only be shorn,and his skin marred everywhere with festering scratches that neededimmediate care. The greedy sea had been forced to give back itsplunder, and the news swept like fire through the village.
A crowd gathered. Children in nightshirts gamboled on thefringes, while their parents jabbered in amazement. The Wayfinderwhose feat had engineered the commotion stood aloof, his weightbraced against the stempost of a dry dory as if he needed help tostand up. From farther back in the shadows, outside the ring oftorchlight, Sabin watched him. She listened, as he did, to the noiseand the happiness, and she alone saw him shiver and stiffen andsuddenly stride into the press with his light eyes hardened topurpose.
He set a hand marked as Juard's on Ciondo's arm, and said, 'No, Iforbid this,' to the fisherman who had been boasting the loudest.'You will not be repeating this tale to any traders, nor be offeringmy service to outsiders. This is my bargain for Juard's life.'
Silence fell with the suddenness of a thunderclap. Surf and thesnap of flame remained, and a ring of stupefied faces unfamiliarlyedged with hostility. 'Which of us made any such bargain?' shoutedsomeone from the sidelines.
 The Wayfinder's peaked brows rose. 'Ciondo is my witness, andhere is my warning. For yourselves, you may ask of me as you will.The guiding and ward of your fleet I shall do as I can; but let nonebeyond this village ever know that I am in'am shealdi. Say nothing,or sorrow will come of it.'
 Finished speaking, or perhaps too weary to stay standing, theWayfinder strode out of the pack. He left all the village mutteringand wondering as he moved in slow steps toward the path. On the chillsands outside the torchlight, Sabin watched him vanish in thedarkness under the pines. She did not follow; nor did she feel movedto join the villagers. The waking dream had touched her. Curiosity nolonger drove her to discuss the stranger Kala sheltered.
'Was he a felon, to want such secrecy?' one goodwife mutteredfrom the sidelines. 
 Ciondo replied in indignation, 'Does it matter?' Then good senseprevailed over argument, and Kala scolded the gawkers roundly forkeeping poor Juard from his bed. 
A month passed, and seven days. Juard recovered his health andreturned to fishing on the sloop. The Wayfinder who had brought hisrecovery took a longer time to mend. Kala pressed food and comfortson him constantly, until he complained of her coddling. Unlikeanybody else, she listened, and left him alone. His white hair beganto grow out its natural color, a golden, honey-brown, until Sabinsitting in her chair seat on the cliffside could no longer pick himout from the villagers who manned the sloops. She saw him seldom, andspoke with him not at all. Winding the skeins of wool and stringingthe looms in her father's craft shop in furious concentration, sheavoided walking the beach. Since the night she forgot her jacket, shecould not bear to watch the combers. She heard them, felt them, evenindoors with her ears filled with the clack of shuttle and loom - the thunder of what might be hooves, and the tumble of white, upfiungspray that pounded the beaches in procession. She swept cut threadsfrom the floor, and helped her mother bake, and each night begged hersleep to show her silence.
It did not. She misplaced socks and tools, and once, let the fireburn out. The waking world came to seem as a dream, and herself,strangely separate, adrift. She was scolded more often forstargazing, and seemed more than ever to care less.
The Wayfinder laughed in the tavern at night, accepted, but witha reverence that marked him apart. Two boats he saved from ruin whenstorms caused shoaling off the reefs. Another smack was recoveredwith a damaged compass after squall winds blew it astray. No oneknowingly broke the Wayfinder's faith, but his presence loomed toolarge to shelter. Sabin understood this, her hands fallen idle overwool she was meant to be spinning. She twisted the red-dyed fibersaimlessly, knowing: there were traders who had heard of Juard's loss,and who saw him back among the men. They asked questions. Driven bybalked curiosity, theypressured and cajoled, and won themselves no satisfaction. Thesilence itself caused talk. Summer passed. The winds shifted and blew in cold from the 
3o northeast, and the fleet changed quarter to follow the shoals offish. The looms in the weaver's shop worked overtime to meet thedemand for new blankets. Sabin crawled into bed each evening tootired to blow out the lamp; and so it chanced that she was awakenedin the depths of night by the blood-dim glow of a spent wick. Thistime no forgotten jacket needed recovery from shore. The restlessnessthat stirred her refused to be denied.
 She arose, dressed in haste, and let herself out of the backdoor. Lights still burned in the tavern, and a few drunken voicesinside argued over ways to cure sharkskin. Sabin slipped past, downthe lane toward her uncle's cottage. Once there she did not knock;every window was dark. Instead she went on down the cliff path. Hershins brushed the stalks of purple flowers, dried now, and rattlingwith seedheads in the change of season. Wind snatched her clothingand snapped at the ends of her hair. A wild night, yet again, thekind that was wont to bring wrecks. She completed the last, familiarsteps to the chair seat, dreading what she might find.
The horizon was clearly delineated under a waning half moon.Clouds scudded past like dirty streamers, muddling the swells pewterand gray, and against them, like penstrokes in charcoal, an advancingforest of black masts. Where peaceful craft would have plied sails,this fleet cleaved against the wind, lashing up coils of foam beneaththe driving stroke of banked oars.
War galleys, Sabin identified, though the Karbaschi to her werejust talk. The Wayfinder's secret was loose in the world, and hisoverlords had returned now to claim him. Poised to run and rouse the town, Sabin found she could not move. Her flesh became riveted by acry that had no sound, but ripped between the fabric of the airitself to echo and ring through her inner mind.
The vibration negated her scream of terrified surprise, andfilled her unasked with its essence: that of rage and sorrow andmystery, and a wounding edge of betrayal.
Dizzied almost to sickness, she clawed at the rocks for ahandhold to ward off a tumbling fall. The summons faded but did notleave silence. The grind of the sea overwhelmed her ears with amauling crescendo of sound. Cowering down in the cleft of the chairseat, Sabin saw the sea roll back. It sucked in white arrows ofcurrent off the tide fiats until slate, shingle and reef were laidbare. Fish flapped in confused crescents across settled streamers ofweed, and the scuttled, half-rotted hull of a schooner turned turtlewith 
3I a smack in the mud. Fishing boats settled on their anchor chains. andtownside, the bell in the harbormaster's house began steadill tollingalarm.
 Faintly, from the cottage behind, Sabin heard her uncle's bellov~of inquiry as the clangor aroused him from bed. Juard, also, woul~ betossing off blankets, and stumbling out with the rest.
Sabin did not move. She, who had been born in a village otseafarers, and should have been, would have been, one of them. couldonly stare with her joints locked immobile. She alone di~ not flee inblind concern toward the beach path to stave off the threat to theirboats.
 Had she gone, it would not have mattered; the chair seat offerecan untrammeled view as the horses thundered in from the sea.
 They came on in a vast, white herd, manes tossing, an› forehoovescarving up arcs of flying spray. The water swirlec under theirbellies and legs, and rushed in black torrents behinc uncountableupflung tails. Wave after wave, they surgedplowing up weeds and fish and muddy gouts of seabottom, ant millingthe shells of galleys and sloops into shreds and splinters a~, theypassed. Spars of fishing smacks entangled with snappedoars and the dragon-horned timbers of Karbaschi shipwrights; th~cries of warriors and oarsmen entangled in the flood mingled wit?shouts from the villagers who saw their fleet and that of theraider., become smashed to kindling at a stroke. The horses swept onin boil of foam that boomed like a god-wielded hammer against th~ shore.Spindrift sluiced across the cliffs. Ancient pines shivered an›cracked at the blow, and boulders broke off and tumbled.
Drenched to her heels by cold water, Sabin cowered down. weepingfor the beauty of a thousand salt-white steeds thai reared up andstruck at the windy sky. And with that releas~ came understanding, atlast, of what all along had been wrong: her heart held no sorrow forthe terrible, irreversible destructior that rendered her wholevillage destitute.
Lights flickered through the pines at her back, as angry men li~torches. Shouts and curses carried on the wind, and the tolling bel~fell silent, leaving the seethe of the seas a scouring roar acrossth~ reef. Sabin pressed her knuckles to her face. The Wayfinder wa.,going to be blamed. This ruin was his doing, every man knew, ant whenthey found him, they would tear him to pieces.Pressed into her cranny by a weight of remorse she could no~ 
.32 shed, Sabin saw the wild horses swirl like a vortex and turn. Backthey plunged into the sea that had spawned them, leaving churned sandand burst wood and snarled bits of rope. Amid the roil of foam, alone swell arose and broke; one mare spun away and parted from hercompanions.
Sabin saw her stop with lifted head, as if she listened tosomething far away. She tossed her mane, shedding spray, then raisedup one forehoof and stepped, not into water, but most irrevocably,out onto wrack-strewn sand.
 Sabin cried out at that moment, as if some force of naturewrenched her, spirit from flesh. Reflex overturned thought, and shewas up and running inland at a pace that left her breathless. Voicescalled out to her as she reached the lane, people she knew, but shehad no answer. The torchlight in the market did not slow her, nor thepress of enraged men who gathered to seek their revenge. Scraps ofconversation touched her ears and glanced away without impression -the in'am shealdi and his vicious, unfair bargain - Juard's life, inexchange for the livelihood of all the village. Boats had been brokenand sunk. Folk would starve. The Wayfinder would be made to pay, madeto burn; they would pack him off in chains to rot in the dungeons ofthe King's bailiff. A hangman was too good for him, someone yelled,his words torn through with the sounds of a woman's crying.
Sabin stumbled and kept going, past the cedar shingles of thewool shop where her mother stood on the door stoop. 'Girl, where areyou off to, there's salvage work to be done, and soup to be fixed forthe men.'
 But the rebuke of her parent was meaningless, now, and had ú beenfor quite some time. Deep darkness wrapped the hollow where thecrossroads met the town and the lane led inland through forest. Sabinwent that way, her lungs burning, and her eyes streaming tears. Theterrible truth pursued her: she did not weep for loss. The villagewas nothing to her, its hold inexorably diminished since the momentshe left a jacket on the beach.
By the stone marker on the hill above the market, the Wayfinderwaited, as she knew he would. He sat astride a mare whose coat caughtthe moonlight like sea-foam, and whose eyes held the darkness andmystery of water countless fathoms deep. She tossed her head atSabin's arrival, as if chiding the girl for being 
33 tardy, and her mane lifted like a veil of spindrift; subsided likefalling spray.
The Wayfinder regarded Sabin gravely, the burning in his eyesnear to scalding. 'You heard my call,' he said. 'The mare came, andyou answered also.'$abin found speech at last. 'You knew I would.'
He shook his head, his unbleached honey-colored hair veiling hisweatherbeaten face. 'I wasn't sure. I hoped you might. Gifts such asyours are needed sorely.'
The white mare stamped, impatient. She blew a salty, gusty snort.New tears welled in tracks down Sabin's cheeks, and she reached outtrembling fingers and touched the shimmering white shoulder. It wasicy as seawater; magical and terrifying and beautiful enough to bringmadness. The words she struggled to shape came out choked. 'If thehorse cannot return, then neither will I.'
'You are both my responsibility,' the Wayfinder admitted. 'Andwill be, to the end of my days.' He extended his hand, no longer sothin, but disfigured still with old scars. 'You must know theKarbaschi would have burned more than boats, and slaughtered andraped did they land.'
Sabin felt as if she had swallowed a stone. 'You spared the wholevillage, and they hate you.'
He sighed, and the mare shifted under him, anxious to be away.'Oh my dear, it could not be helped. What is a boat? Or a man? Newtrees will grow and be fashioned into planks, and women will birthbabies that age and grow senile and die. But just as this mare can'treturn to the waves, so an earth spirit that is maimed can neverheal. The Karbaschi shed more than mortal blood. I could not allow myself to be captured, however bitter the price.'
'You could have died,' Sabin said, her gaze transfixed by thehorse.
 And he saw it was not his exile, but the fate of the mare thatshe mourned. The two of them, man and girl, were alike to the verycore.
 A shout knifed the quiet, and torches shimmered through thetrees. The mare stamped again, and was restrained by a touch as theWayfinder said in measured calm, 'I can still die. But you must know,the mare should be cared for. She is not of mortal flesh. If I givemyself up, hear warning. Your talents will blossom with time. A horsesuch as this will draw notice and the Karbaschi will send another fleet. Their craving for conquest is insatiable as the oceanis vast, and in'am shealdi to guide them, most rare.'
She made no move, and her rejection seemed to shatter hisdetachment. He lifted his head as the noise of the mob came closer. The edgy, unaccountable wariness that every offered kindness had notsoftened, gentled very suddenly into pity. 'In'am shealdi,' hemurmured in the grainy, musical voice that had commanded the horsefrom the sea. 'This mare left the water at my call, you are right,but her sacrifice was never made for me.'
 Sabin looked up, stricken. 'For my life?' she gasped, 'or mygift?'
'Both.' His eyes were not cold. Inside the serenity lent by powerlay a human being who could bleed. 'If you treasure the beauty of thehorses, heed this. We are the only ones who know their kind. Otherssee no more than surf and foam. It is our protection, Sabin, thatkeeps this spirit-mare alive, our call that lends her substance.'
The torches reached the crossroad, and light flared and arrowedbetween the trees.
 'There he is!' someone shouted, and the note of the mob quickenedlike the baying of hounds that sight game.
To her dream-filled ears, the pursuers uttered no words, but madeonly a cacophony of vicious noise. The roll of the sea held moremeaning, and from this time forward, always would.
Sabin grasped the Wayfinder's hand. Clinging as if to a lifeline,she let him pull her up astride the mare. As the villagers burst intothe clearing, they lost their quarry in a half-glimpsed flash ofwhite. The clearing resounded to what could have been hoofbeats, orthe enduring thunder of a comber pounding the pebbles of the shore. 
35 The Antagonist 
Jensen stepped briskly from the orange-lit access corridor, and athrill touched him as the confined echo of his footfalls fell away,lost amid the din of Point Station's docking hangar. Through thebustle of mechanics stripped to their thinsul suits, anct the cross-bracing of gantry arms and loading winches, he found the object ofhis passion instantly. A smile of predatory satisfaction lit hisface. She was exactly as they had described her, in tones that variedfrom frustration, to thwarted fury, to outright, obsessive longing:ugly, patch-painted, and sculled, a typically hard-run small-timemerchanter. Yet the awkwardly configured spacecraft under Jensen'seager scrutiny was nothing of the sort. His trained mind could admirethe artistry with which her weaponry and shielding had been installedwithout marring her image of innocuous decrepitude. Jensen squaredhis shoulders, missing ~he stiff scrape of his ensign's collar. Likethe deadly, efficient bit of machinery he viewecl, he would usecamouflage to disarm his prey. For the Marity was the love and thepride of MacKenzie James, a skip-runner wanted on eighty-six Allianceplanets for illegal trafficking in weapons, treason, theft, and saleof classified Fleet documents. Piracy was not a trade for thecautious; the Fleet's autonomous diligence ensured that most skip-runner captains paid for their wealth with imprisonment or earlydeath. But 'MacKenzie, James,' as the criminal files formally listeda man whose true name was only a matter of conjecture, was noordinary skip-runner.
Mostly he was too good. The captains, officials, and highlyplaced admirals he had evaded, avoided, and unabashedly fooled in thecourse of his career made him dangerous, a topic of wild speculationin the barracks and the bars but one most scrupulously 
36 
avoided in the company of superiors. To Michael Christopher Jensen,Jr, anyone who could engineer the skip-runner's long overdue arrestwould gain promotion, accolades, and a reputation of undeniablyproven merit. For a young man who had yet to earn 'his paint' inbattle against the Khalia, MacKenzie James was a piece to bemanipulated.
Jensen adjusted the unfamiliar ties of the Freer over-robe he hadacquired with some difficulty for the occasion. He looked the part,he knew, with his rangy frame and dark hair and eyes; meticulous tothe point of fussiness, he had made certain no detail was out ofcharacter. Like many a fringe worlder, Freerlanders likedindependence a bit too well to submit to Fleet sanctions; skip-runnercaptains knew them as a dependable market for illicit weaponry. Theywere ornery enough, or maybe just proudly stubborn enough, that onlythe reckless interfered with them in public. Still, as the youngofficer strode into the chaos of the loading lanes, his palmssweated. His plan might be soundly designed, but he was not quitebrash enough to be unafraid. Marity's master had ruined many apromising career before an unscheduled repair stop had delayed him;and though inconvenienced, MacKenzie James would never be caughtunprepared.
Especially here; Point Station was a crossroads for the remoteboundary of Carsey Sector, a center for commerce and intrigue onlysporadically patrolled. Betweentimes, those goods and outboundcolonists who were of questionable legal status arrived and departedwith all the speed that over-used, outdated equipment could command.The ratchet of the winches was loud enough to drown thought, and thereek of heated machinery a metallic taint in the musty, recirculatedair. Jensen made his way cautiously. Ducking a trailing power cable,and wary of stepping into the path of the squat, radio-controlled light-loaders, he noticed the stares prompted by his black-fringedFreer robe. He adjusted his hood, careful to carry himself with theright degree of arrogance. His mimicry seemed effective. A dockworker stumbled clear of his way, and behind the periphery of thehood, someone else muttered, 'Pardon, Freerlander.'
Jensen buried his hands in red-banded cuffs and kept his stepslight, as if he had grown up walking icy, wind-carved sands; nothingless than perfection would deceive MacKenzie James. As Rlarity'sspidery bulk loomed closer, the time for second thoughts narrowed. Now, Jensen no longer regretted that necessity had forcedhim to include Ensign Shields in his plan. That she drifted justbeyond Point's gray field perimeters in the dispatch courier FleetCommand had assigned to the pair of them now offered greatreassurance. Though technically his senior, and compelled tocollusion by a veiled threat of blackmail, she would not let himdown. The moment her courier had altered course for Point Station,the Ensign was committed.Jensen managed not to trip on any cables as he crossed the apron 
beneath the fringe of his hood, he promised that overcoming Shields'sreluctance would be the last time he traded upon his father'sinfluence for his own gain. The man who arranged MacKenzie James'sarrest could write any ticket he wished and with this in mind, Jensenstudied the slots that recessed the studs of Marity's entry lock. Theyoung Fleet officer repressed a whistle of admiration at the evidentstrength of her seals. No Freer ever uttered anything that resembledmusic outside of ritual. Such attention to detail was not misplaced,for a moment later he found himself noted by the ferret-quick gaze ofthe individual who served Marity as skip-runner's mate.
The man was typical of the type signed on by MacKenzie James.Your~g, ~thle~ic, and gctaranreed ~o have no t/es, he turned fromwheeling a cargo capsule that had overlapping layers of customsstamps to mark a conspicuously legal course across Alliance space.The Freer robe drew his attention. An instant later, Jensen found hispath blocked, and his hooded features under scrutiny by a pair ofworldly eyes.'You're here to see Mac James,' said the mate.
He placed slight emphasis on James, the Mac more a prefix thanfirst name. Jensen considered this idiosyncrasy while returning a nodof appropriate Freer restraint.
The man smiled, suddenly older than his years. His thinsul suithung loosely over his frame, no doubt concealing weapons. 'Godfrey,wherever we alight, and no matter how unexpectedly, you people seemto find us.' But his easy manner was belied by the tension in hisstance.
 Yet skip-runners could be expected to treat strangers withcaution. Careful to pronounce the name precisely as Marity's matehad, Jensen said, 'Then Mac James is available?' 
sity had drifted courier offered ripdied not let r Point 
apron rowed ~ming m his ~nged t and studs aistlc ever Such r he 
71es. 
o nl 
,ms 
ce. 
ir
 'Mac's topside.' His appraisal abruptly complete, the mate jerkedhis head for the young officer to follow, then gestured toward theopen jaws of the lock.
Jensen took a slow breath, readjusted his Freer hood, and duckedunder Marity's forward strut. He set foot on the loading ramp, andquashed a panicky urge to retreat. The burning ambition which heldhim sleepless each night drove him forward as the mate disappearedinto shadow.
 Jensen passed the lock. Marity's interior seemed dim after thearc lamps that illuminated Station's docks. His spacer's soles clunglightly to metal grating, the sort that adjusted on tracks to varystorage according to the demands of different cargoes. But as Jensenblinked to adjust his vision, he heard the clang of an innerlock; acool draft infused the outer hold and by that he guessed that on thefar side of that barrier Marity's resemblance to a merchant carriermust end. Only a craft that carried state of the art shielding andnavigational equipment would trouble to control its atmosphere whilein port.The mate paused at the head of the corridor and called. 'Mac?'
A grunt answered from the ship's upper level, distorted intoechoes by the empty hold.
'Company's here asking for you.' The mate waved for Jensen topass him and continue alone down the access corridor. 'Ladder to thebridge is there to the left.'
5s~.~t)ed ro be [eft on his own, ~ensen crossed the threshold ofthe innerlock with his best imitation of Freer poise. Me set co\dhands to the [adder beyond. .aintly over the mate's recedingfootsteps, he heard the muted grind of light-loaders laboring outsideof Marity's hull. Then the innerlock hissed shut. Irrevocably sealedoff from Station, and isolated amid the hum of the air-circulatingsystem, Jensen recognized the sizzle of a laser pencil cuttingthrough cowling.
~Come to talk, or to tap-dance?' Marfry's master called grufflyfrom above.
 Jensen climbed. Sweating under his Freer cowl, he emerged in thewindowless chamber of the bridge. Dead screens fronted the worncouches of two crew stations. The controls beneath were sophisticatedand new, and somehow threatening without the array of labels andcaution signs indigenous to Fleet military vessels. Jensen represseda slight prickle of uneasiness. The man who flew Marity knew her like a wife; his mates without exceptionwere pilots who could punch in and out of FTL or execute difficultdockings in their sleep.
'You're no Freer,' the captain's gravelly voice observed frombehind.
 Jensen whirled, fringes sighing across the top rungs of theladder. Bent over the far console was the skip-runner half of Fleetcommand would trade their commissions to jail. Through the dazzle ofthe laser-pen, Jensen made out a dirty coverall with the clips halfunfastened, knuckles disfigured with scars, and a profile equallyblunt, currently set in a frown of concentration. Shadowed from thelaser's glare by a flip-shield, eyes light as sheet metal never leftthe exposed guts of Marity's instrument panel, even as Jensen shifteda hand beneath his robe and gripped the stock of the gun hiddenbeneath.
 'Care to tell why you're here?' The laser-pen moved, delicately,and the shift in light threw MacKenzie James's scarred fingers intohigh relief. With a small start, Jensen recognized old coil burns,from working on a ship's drive while the condensers were activated.The story was true, then, that Mac James had changed a slagged modulebarehanded to make his getaway the time he had sabotaged the securityoff Port.
 Mesmerized by the movement of fingers that should by rights havebeen crippled, Jensen opened, 'You run guns,' and stopped. The man'sdirectness had rattled him and he had neglected his guise of Freerrestraint; but then, Mac James had already observed he was no Freer.Why, then, let him in at all? Taken aback, Jensen was unable tothink, except to notice how remarkably deft the scarred hands werewith the electronics.
 'You're not here to negotiate business.' MacKenzie James joggleda contact, applied his pen, then thumbed the switch off. The lasersnapped out, and Marity's master swung around, a hulking bear of aman with a spare brace of contact clips dangling from the head strapof his eye shield. He snapped up the plate, revealing a face ofboyish frankness entirely at odds with his reputation.Jensen opened his mouth to speak, and was cut off.
'You're Fleet, boy, don't bore me with lies.' Mac James whiskedclips and shield from his forehead and threw them with a rattle intothe disjointed segment of cowling. 'That makes you trouble, unwantedbeing the least damning complaint l have against you.' 
40 He leaned heavily on the back of the nearest crew chair, his mannerdistinctly exasperated. 'Don't bother with the gun, I know it'sthere.'
 'Then you'll surrender your person without a fuss,' said Jensen,his confidence buoyed by the realization that the man he covered wassweating. 'Marity has skip-run her last cargo.'
MacKenzie James raked scarred fingers through a snarl ofuncombed hair. 'Boy, you've put me in a very bad position, and I'mnot known as a nice man.'
 'That doesn't concern me.' Jensen eased the pellet gun from hisrobe, pleased that his hand was so steady. 'Your papers, Captain.Tell me where they are.'
MacKenzie James slung himself into the gimballed couch. Lightfrom the overhead fixture flashed on the worn tag he wore on thechain at his neck. The lettering stamped in its surface was ingrainedwith dirt, legible even in dim light: 'MacKenzie, James, FirstLieutenant.' That rumor also was true, Jensen reflected; or maybepart of it, that a two-credit whore from the Cassidas had gottenherself knocked up, then smuggled herself and her byblow into thequarters of her officer lover. An emergency call to action camethrough, and when the captain in command had discovered a civilian onboard, he had dumped her through the airlock into deep-space as anexample. Her lover had subsequently died in action. The kid, who mayor may not have been related, had been signed over to some Alliancecharity orphanage. Though given a legal name, he never called himselfby anything but the inscription on the dogtag, surname first; andharboring no love for the military, he grew up into the most wantedman in Fleet record.
 MacKenzie James raised tired eyes. 'Boy, if you continue withthis, all the wrong people are going to suffer.'
Jensen gestured with the barrel of the pellet gun. 'Who? Not allyour clients are like the Freeborn, who think to beat the Khaliasingle-handed. The guns you skip-run are as likely to be used bycriminals as in defense.'
 'Godfrey,' said MacKenzie James with exactly the same inflectionhis mate had used earlier. 'Nobody informed me I was such anidealist.'
 Marity shuddered slightly, as if jostled by on-loading cargo.MacKenzie James sighed with apparent resignation and said, 'My flightpapers are in the starboard vault. Here's the key.' 
4I His coil-scarred fingers moved, very fast, and switched on the laser-pen.
Jensen ducked the beam in time to save his eyes. He even managedto keep his pellet gun trained on the patch of sweaty chest exposedby MacKenzie's gaping coverall; but the younl~ officer didn't fire,which proved a mistake.
Hands that by rights should have been ruined flicked a switch,and Marity came to life with a scream of drive engines. She tore hergantry ties, stabbed upward with her gravity accelerators wide openand smashed through the closed hangar doors. Jensen was thrown to thedeck. He heard the wail of sheared metal as landing struts wrenchedoff. Marity jerked, half-spun, and yanked free, burning outward intodeepspace and trailing a tumbling wake of debris. Horrified, Jensenimagined Point Station thrown into wobbling chaos: alarm sirenssmothered by the inrush of vacuum, and the light-loaders' magnetictreads plodding mechanically over the dying thrash of the workersMarity had sacrificed to rip free.
MacKenzie James sat immobile in his threadbare deck chair. 'This craft is fitted with several sets of back-up engines,' he admonished.'Point Station personnel and Carsey sector authorities know betterthan to meddle with us.'
 'Bastard,' Jensen said thickly. He moved gently against thepressure of acceleration, his pellet gun trained steadily on hisantagonist. 'Your mate was equally expendable?'
'Evans?' MacKenzie James did not change expression as the glareof the laser pencil snapped out. 'No Freer ever approached us withoutelaborate clandestine overtures and a meeting in private. Evansshould have remembered.'
 But Jensen's equilibrium had recovered. The vibration just priorto takeoff, surely that had been the lock cycling closed? Evans inall probability was on board. The control panels on the bridge seemedutterly dead; but with back-up systems, even now the mate might bepiloting from a remote station elsewhere on Marity. If Evans was atthe helm, Ensign Shields was going to have to fly her shapely ass offto keep up. Fortunately her ability was equal to her boasts.
Right now the primary directive was to take control before Maritygained enough charge to sequence her FTL drive. Icily composed in thehalf4ight cast by the bridge control panels, Jensen shifted thetarget of his gun and squeezed the trigger.The light-pen in MacKenzie's hand shattered. Fragments of 
42 casing raked his wrist and drew blood while the expended pelletscreamed past his groin and imbedded in the stuffing of the adjacentcrew chair.
 Mac James moved, but this time Jensen was ready. Before thecaptain reached cover behind the bridge cowling, the Fleet officerhad him cornered. Breathing hard, and sweating beneath his Freerrobes, he trained his weapon squarely on the skip-runner's heart.'Roll over. Cross your wrists behind your back. One wrong move, andyou're dead.'
MacKenzie James grunted, eased his weight off his right forearm,and carefully extended it behind his waist. 'You're Marksman Elite?'
'Unfortunately for you,' said Jensen, concentrating more on theleft hand of his captive than acknowledging the accolade he hadstriven for, and won with such pride at an exceptionally early age.Gun at the ready, the young officer loosened his robe and retrieved apair of loop nooses, the thin, cutting type Fleet marines used torestrain everything from murderers to brawlers. He hooked the firstover James's upraised wrists and jerked tight.
'Now raise your ankles, Captain.' James did so, and the secondnoose shortly trussed his legs.
Smiling raggedly from triumph and excitement, Jensen locked theends and began to search the captain's person. The man was tautlymuscled, which was unusual enough to inspire caution. Most skip-runners were slender to the point of fragility, the result of longhours lurking in null gravity, their ship's systems shut down to awhisper to avoid notice. MacKenzie James also carried no side arms,only a small knife in a sheath sewn into his boot. Jensen confiscatedthis, then shoved his prisoner awkwardly onto his back.
MacKenzie returned a cool, appraising stare that, even behind apellet gun, Jensen found disturbing. 'You will tell me where Evans ispiloting, clearly and quickly.'
The captive smiled with brazen effrontery. 'By now I expect whatremains of my mate is being bundled up in a body bag.'
'Back at Station?' Jensen resisted an urge to step close; evenbound, the captain was bulky enough to roll and knock him down. q'mnot a fool, James. If Evans died on Station with the rest of the dockpersonnel, who guides this ship?'MacKenzie's grin turned thoughtful. 'Well now, I could say with 
43 reasonable certainty that Marity flies on a hardwired connectionbetween her accelerator banks and her coil regulator. Assuming Idon't lie, any fool knows she'll blow when the condensers overheat.'
Jensen considered this, unpleasantly confronted by the mulishcourage that had confounded so many officers of the law before him.The captain might be lying; but his reputation said otherwise, whichplaced Jensen squarely on the prongs of dilemma.
MacKenzie James stopped smiling. 'Don't think too long, boy.Since you so proudly blasted my laser-pen, I'll have to rummagearound for my cutter tool to break the bridged circuit.'
'Shut up.' Jensen needed a second to clear his mind. Somewhere onMarity would be a kill switch to cut the drives in the event ofemergency; the other fail-safes and override systems would benonexistent, for skip-runner captains as a rule pushed theirmachinery over margin. The complication that this ship held to nospecs, that she was a jumble of ingenuity and modifications hungtogether by the cleverest criminal in the Alliance meant Jensen wasin too deep. If MacKenzie James were freed to right his bit ofsabotage, chances were he would create additional havoc in thewiring, perhaps even contrive to regain advantage.
'I'll take my chances,' Jensen decided. But his confidence wasforced. If Evans had made it on board, he was now in serious trouble.
With the nooses secured without slack to a deck fitting,MacKenzie James could not roll onto his stomach. Nothing importantlay within range of his feet. Certain as he could be that his captivewas secure, Jensen sealed the bridge behind him and descended intoMarity's service level. Away from Point Station's fields, the descentshaft had no gravity. Already the chill of deepspace seemed to havepenetrated its shadowy depths. Jensen drifted in a faint fog ofcondensation left by his breath, the ladder rungs icy beneath hissweating hands. His feet tingled with the knowledge that at anysecond a plasma weapon might sear upward and fry him like a fly on aweb. The Freer robe swirled and caught at his ankles and knees.Jensen longed to shed the fabric, but dared not. Sewn into the sashwas the transmitter that enabled Ensign Shields to track him, andMarity, through the deeps of space.
Jensen reached the base of the shaft without incident. Gun at the ready, he barely waited for his soles to grab on the decking 
44 before he started forward. His danger now redoubled, for the accesscorridor extended in both directions; MacKenzie's mate might easilyslip into the bridge behind him and set his captain free. The factthat the mate had no key to release the nooses, and that the materialof which they were made was extremely difficult to cut offered onlyslight reassurance. Under Mac James's spoken guidance, Evans mighttake control of Marity from the bridge.
Jensen glanced nervously over his shoulder, then rounded thecrook in the corridor near the access door which had first admitted him. Beyond lay the hold, dark except for the blink of the indicatorthat showed the life-support system which served that portion of theship was currently switched off. Jensen agonized for a moment inindecision. If the outer lock was sealed, then Evans was surely onboard. No sense in crippling his judgment with worry if the man haddied back on Station; crisply Jensen punched the stud he found nearthe hold's double safetied access latch.
 Arc lights flashed on, lancing uncomfortably into pupils grownadjusted to the dark. Jensen squinted through glare off the port'sbubble window. Beyond the crosshatch of struts and decking, the lockwas securely closed. Nearby, garishly colored in the severeillumination, lay the cargo capsule Jensen remembered from the apronback on Station. Fear raised gooseflesh at the nape of his neck.Whether or not MacKenzie James had triggered a remote control in theopened pilot's panel, that capsule had not wheeled on board byitself. Skip-runner's mate Evans had assuredly made lift-off, whichmade light of any sort a liability. Jensen set his hand on the studto kill the arcs, and stopped, caught short by something bulky thatdrifted above the grating which floored the hold.
The thing twisted gently in null grav. Jensen made out the limpform of a man, and realized he'd been lucky. The automatic cutofffunctions of lift had trapped Evans within the hold. Jensen glancedswiftly at the gauges in the panel by the lock controls. Marity'shold maintained atmosphere, but no recirculation for oxygen. As asafeguard against stowaways and other breaches of security, cargoareas as a rule did not allow manual access to the habitable portionsof the ship. Dependent upon rescue from within, Marity's mate wasprobably hypothermic, for the cold of deepspace would swiftlypermeate the uninsulated hold.
Jensen considered, then cold-bloodedly stabbed the light studoff. By now a steady whine pervaded the corridor; Marity's 
45 engines climbed steadily toward overload. Evans probably knew thelocation of the emergency cutoffs, but it would likely take too longto force the information out of him. Jensen quashed his last pang ofconscience.
 The gloom seemed deeper on Marity's lower deck, and the cold morecutting. Though the breath came ragged in his throat, the youngofficer clung righteously to his purpose. The mate was a skip­runner's accomplice, a criminal no invested Fleet officer couldcondone.
 Jensen ducked through a companionway. His eyes reflexively tracedthe layout of cables on the far side. Guided by their convergence, hepressed forward and ascended a small ramp, half-stumbling over theshallowly raised treads. The transmitter sewn into his sash dug intohis waist, reminding that he bad to succeed, or leave Ensign Shieldsto answer to Fleet admiralty for diverting a courier from dispatchduty.
The whine of stressed engines rose relentlessly, throwing offunpleasant harmonics. Jensen covered his ears with his hands andhurried blindly forward. The cables threaded through a conduit abovea small hatch, and, by the shielded panels, Jensen figured the driveunits lay immediately beyond. If he were forced to tear the coils outbarehanded to prevent an explosion, he wondered whether the burnswould prevent him from manipulating his gun.
But that concern became secondary when Jensen discovered theshielded doorway was secured with a retina lock, inoperable except toMac James, and maybe his mate. With no alternative left but to fetchEvans, he returned down the access corridor toward the hold.
But when he banged the switch once again, the arcs glared off avista of empty grating. The cargo capsule lay open in the harshlight, and Evans was nowhere to be seen. With a crawling chill thathad nothing to do with sweat, Jensen spun and raced for the bridgeladder. He'd made an idiot's misjudgment. MariO: was a skip-runner'scraft; he should never have assumed her specs would conform to thoseof a common merchanter.
 The rungs themselves hampered, spaced as they were to a designthat differed from Fleet regulation. Clumsily shortening his reach,Jensen made more noise than he intended. Above, the gruff voice ofMacKenzie ~ames called warning. 
46 'Company, mate. Initiate without cross-check and take cover. I trustyour coordinates from memory.'
Evans returned a protest, just as Jensen reached the upper level.The shift from weightlessness to induced gravity blunted his speed,yet still he managed to fling himself into cover behind anelectronics housing. Aware of him, Evans still did not turn, butlingered to fine-tune something in the control panel. Noosedhelplessly to the crew chair, MacKenzie James cursed viciously.
Driven by threat of failure, Jensen raised his gun and fired. Hispellet hammered Evans in the back of the head. Instantly dead, themate pitched forward into the control banks. His body quivered once,and slipped to the deck, leaving vivid smears on the cowling.
Jensen shivered with relief. In the icy clarity of adrenalinerush, he noticed that MacKenzie James said nothing at all; but hissteely eyes bored with steady and unsettling intensity into the Fleetofficer who had gunned down his mate. He seemed almost to belistening for something.
Jensen discovered why a moment later. Marit3,'s engines died to awhisper. There followed a peculiar hesitation in time, that blurringtransition which signalled the drop into FTL.
Jensen knew a chill of apprehension. He had not killed swiftlyenough. Now she hurtled through deepspace toward a destination onlyMacKenzie James and his dead first mate would know. Still, though theship was untraceable to the courier, Jensen did not lose control. Theprize, the skip-runner captain whose capture would gain himadvancement, was still at his mercy.
Jensen dug in the pouch sewn into the Freer robe for anotherround of ammo. His fingers snagged in the fabric; he swore andwrestled them free, while from the deck, MacKenzie James broke hissilence.
 'Most Freer carry their weapons on a belt across their chests.The pouch is for pills to kill parasites, and the clip on the seamhangs their water skins.'
Jensen clamped his jaw tight, methodically busy with reloading.If Mac James chose to make conversation, he would have a purposeother than boredom.
 'Godfrey, who's left to shoot but me?' The skip-runner neverglanced at the corpse, oozing blood an arm's length from him. Jensensnapped a fresh round into the magazine of the gun and 
47 tried to figure why Mac James might wish to distract him withchatter. Quite dangerously, the stakes had altered. He might hold theupper hand, but the captain was not entirely at his mercy. WithMarity's major controls stripped of function and her FTL hurtling hertoward an unknown destination, Jensen shoved back the first, creepingstir of doubt. He could defeat the retina lock over the drive access hatch by dragging his captive down below and manhandling him up tothe sensors. But disabling Marity's FTL condensers would do no goodif he had no inkling of her ú ~o~_rio_~o Je. use~,,~ ~d~e~,vae›~g~pvaw~o~lfera~q16sr or screens were opaque, empty of data as therest of the controls. As he surveyed the opened cowling and tightlyracked maze of exposed boards, it occurred to him that Mac Jamesmight have prepared his own diabolical sort of defense: Marity wasprobably inoperable by any hand but her captain's. Jensen clenchedhis hands, rage at his predicament momentarily making him dizzy. Hewould come out of this on top, with the promotion he was long sincedue. Freshly determined, he searched out the stop-marker coordinatesthat glimmered on the navigational board.
The fix was still within Carsey Sector, and surprisinglyfamiliar. That James would wish Marity to emerge only hours away fromthe wreckage he had left on Point Station bespoke unsettlingconfidence. Jensen hid his hands in his robe, too careful to give wayto elation as he identified the fix as Castleton's World, a lifelessplanet until recently, when Fleet Command had cut ground there for alarge-scale outpost. Two squadrons patrolled there, with adreadnought in synchronous orbit to maintain security for theduration of the construction.
 Jensen turned slowly from the controls, startled to find thatMacKenzie James seemed to be sleeping. Ripped with an irrationaldesire to destroy the man's nerveless peace, the Fleet officer said,'Castleton's isn't the refuge you hoped for, not anymore.'
MacKenzie James replied without opening his eyes. 'You're notmuch in the confidence of your superiors, are you, boy? Or maybe thenews is too recent, or the planned assault on Bethesda makes Fleetbrass too busy to keep current.'
The assault on Bethesda was supposed to be top secret. Horrifiedthat a common skip-runner should be party to Fleet secrets, Jensenstiffened. He leveled the barrel of his pellet gun just as the grayeyes of his captive flicked open. They reflected a 
48 cold and bloodless amusement that made him ache to pull the trigger.
'Khalia,' said MacKenzie James with uninflected plainness. 'Thenew base on Castleton's was overrun, utterly, and stripped of allsurvivors.'
 Disbelief made Jensen tremble. Even the hand which held his weapon was not exempt. The captain had to be lying, his words a ployto provoke a careless reaction. Only Jensen made it a point never tobe careless.
 Mac James shrugged. 'If you aren't going to kill me out of pique,you might want to clear the remains of my mate from the bridge.Because unless you wish to become a slave of the Khalia, I'll need toreconnect some circuitry without tripping over dead meat.'
The sheer effrontery of the suggestion undid Jensen's poise. 'Youthink I'm a fool?'
 Mac James stirred against the confines of his bonds. 'Yes, buthow much of one I'm waiting to find out.'
Jensen's jaw jerked tight. He pointed his gun to the deck,viciously flipped on the safety, then turned his back on hisprisoner. All sensor displays were lifeless; when Marity broke out ofFTL, no method remained to determine whether the ships which wouldgreet her were Fleet, or enemy; and hell only knew if the defensiveshields had power. Jensen felt a detestable sense of helplessness.Mac James had him boxed; not being a hardware man, he lacked theknowledge to hack the electronics back into working order.
Mac James drawled lazily at his captor's back. 'The sensors andanalog screens are operational, boy, but you'll need to engage thepower switch.'
Jensen hesitated out of principle. The control panel mightpossibly be booby-trapped: Yet logic dictated that Mac James wouldhardly plot murder while still under restraint, not unless he plannedto die slowly of dehydration. Alert for surprises, Jensen huntedamong the controls and flipped the appropriate switch. The analogpanel hummed to life, and snow hazed the monitor, while the sensorsgathered data. Presently, the haze subsided to black, which wasnormal; no image would resolve until Marity re-entered normal space.
Jensen tried the power switches for weaponry, without success.The guidance computer also proved to be dead, and only the 
49 watching presence of MacKenzie James prevented Jensen from hammeringthe panels in frustration. The chronometer by Marity's autopilotalone showed any indicators, the most maddening of which informedthat re-entry into sub-light at Castleton's was barely thirty minutesoff.
 Jensen paced. Careful to stay within the perimeters of Marity'sartificial gravity, he avoided the congealing runnels of Evans'sblood, and also that portion of deck included in MacKenzie's field ofview. He dared not give the skip-runner captain his liberty. Yet torisk re-entry near a base under Khalian control without fire power ormaneuverability begged the most terrible fate. Not least, a concernthe young officer would never have admitted out loud, was the fact hehad never seen action against the enemy. Jensen had never doubted hiscourage. But the possibility of closing with the enemy in a small,converted merchanter like Marity frayed his confidence to tatters.
The chronometer on the autopilot clicked over; seven minutes tore-entry. Mac James once again appeared asleep. His behavior seemedinhuman, until Jensen recalled that Marity had docked at PointStation forty-eight hours before under emergency priorities. By thegrimy, unkempt appearance of the captain's person, he probably hadnot slept while he effected repairs on his ship. Jensen himself hadnot rested for nearly as long, but excitement and stress had put himon a jag that precluded relaxation. 
At a minute and a half to re-entry, MacKenzie James opened his eyes.The corpse of his mate lay undisturbed on the deck. Jensen stood atthe analog screen, his gun clenched in anxious fingers. Beneath theFreer robe, his left hand gripped the keys to the nooses whichsecured MacKenzie James with white-knuckled indecision.
 One minute to re-entry; Mac James quietly recommended pressingthe toggle to unshutter the shield generators. Though to do so feltlike capitulation, Jensen did not cling to foolish pride. A suspicioncrossed the young officer's mind, that more of Marity's systems mightbe operational than the control monitors indicated. But no timeremained to run cross-checks. The buzzer signalled phase-out ofMarity's autopilot, and the eerie instant of suspension whichheralded transition from FTL to normal space followed after. Jensenwatched the analog screens with taut anticipation. 
 Castleton's appeared as a dun ball, mottled gray at theterminator; the larger of two moons showed as a sliver to dayside,but Jensen spared the scenery barely a glance. The sensors finishedprocessing data, and the screen became peppered with silvery specks;scouts by their formation. Larger shapes nestled among them,unquestionably cruisers, with a third one tucked away behind the massof Castleton's.
 'Godfrey,' Mac James observed, his neck craned awkwardly toallow a view of the screens. 'They didn't waste time expanding theirstrike force, now did they?''They might not be Khalia!' Jensen snapped.
A buzzer clipped his outburst short. Lights flashed warning onthe analog panels, and one of the flecks gained a faint halo of red.
'Well, Fleet or enemy, boy, one of them is about to fire onus.' Mac James shrugged irritably at his bonds. 'If you like slavery,or maybe even vivisection, just keep sitting there doing nothing.'
Jensen raged, uncertain; Marity's sirens wailed with suddenviolence, her shields crackling under the impact of a hit.
'Warning rocket,' Mac said tersely. 'Probably they're provokingto see whether we want a fight. Power up the transmitter, boy.'Jensen hesitated.
 'Do it now!' barked MacKenzie James, adamant as a Fleet rearadmiral.
 Another red halo bloomed on the analog screen. Jensen slapped thetransmitter switch. The gabble of alien speech that issued from thespeaker caused the last bit of color to drain from his face.
'Now listen carefully, boy,' said the hell-begotten captain fromthe floor. 'Do exactly as I tell you, or we'll both get our gutsripped out.'
'You planned this!' Jensen accused, horror sharpening theimmediacy of their peril.'Yes, now shut the hell up and listen!' MacKenzie said.
The patter of Khalian changed inflection, and a singsong voice inpoorly pronounced wording began a demand for the surrender of Marityand all human personnel on board.
Still clutching pellet gun and keys, Jensen rubbed his hands overhis blanched face.
 'You will surrender my ship to the Khalia,' MacKenzie Jamesinstructed tersely. 'But add that you will submit only to a great 
5I 
captain, one who has proven his merit. That one, you will say, is the
Khalia cruiser currently in orbit over the night side of
Castleton's.' 
Jensen lowered his hands, incredulity spread across his features.
Before he could draw breath to speak, Mac James cut in, 'Just do it!'

Instead Jensen spun and stabbed each of the firing studs infrenzied succession. Nothing happened. Marity's weapons remainedutterly unresponsive. Furious that his career should be finishedwithout a single rocket fired in protest, and whipped by recognitionthat no option at all remained to him, Jensen crumbled at last intopanic. 'Why disable the weaponry, man? Why, if you planned thiscruise into an effing Khalian fleet?'
'I probably wanted to commit suicide.' MacKenzie's vicioussarcasm jarred like a slap. 'Maybe, though, I'll get slavery orvivisection instead.'
 A shudder shook Jensen's frame as the voice on the transmitter changed from a demand for surrender to threats. Rather than beblasted to vapor, Jensen pressed the toggle to send. He surrenderedMarity and all on board to the Khalia in a voice he barely recognizedas his own. Only as an afterthought did he include MacKenzie James'sstipulation: that prize rights and conquest be awarded to one ofproven merit, the great captain who cruised the dark side ofCastleton's.
 The effect upon the Khalia was profound. By their belligerent andbloodthirsty reputation, Jensen expected the enemy would convergeupon their prize without delay. Instead, the scout ships clusteredtightly to their respective cruisers; as if locked in deadlypartnership, the closer pair of warships wheeled and advanced uponthe one which even now accelerated from the shadowed side of Castleton's.
 'They'll challenge,' MacKenzie broke in, answering Jensen'spuzzled frown. 'Khalian war leaders can't bear to defer without afight. That lends you a very narrow margin to get this bucketoperational. Which means my release, boy, because this is the onlybreak you're going to get.'
Jensen rounded upon the captain. 'You never intended tosurrender!'
 Mac James returned a withering stare. Mollified by a knowledge ofthe enemy not even Fleet intelligence could equal, Jensen 
52 thumbed the safety toggle off his pellet gun. Then he took therelease key in his other hand, stooped, and unclipped the nooses fromMacKenzie James's feet. The man shifted forward to better expose hishands; the noose was soaked with blood. Nerves, or tension, or sheerfrustration had caused the skip-runner captain to wrench at his bondsuntil his wrists tore open. Jensen keyed the catches, a sick clenchin his gut causing his guard to slip. In that instant, MacKenzie'selbow hammered upward into his face. A spin and a kick relievedJensen of his weapon. The young officer crumpled to his knees.Feeling as if every knuckle in his hand were broken, he fumbled topull the knife he had confiscated earlier.
Mac James reached it first, and tossed it rattling into a corner.l)isregarding Jensen completely, he retrieved the fallen gun,discharged the single round into the stuffed seat of a crew couch,then hurled the weapon without ceremony down the companionway ladder.With no break in movement he bent over the opened cowling of thecontrol panel and furiously began to work.
Lights flashed to life under the captain's ministrations, castingbaleful light over his frowning features. To Jensen, who moanedthrough clenched teeth at his back, he said, 'Clear Evans out ofhere, boy. If I trip over him at the wrong moment, some Khaliabutcher'11 hack off your balls.'
Jensen obeyed to buy time, lull the captain into the belief hewas cowed. Evans's corpse was already cool to the touch, his bulklimp and awkward to lift. Hampered by his injured hand, Jensen wasforced to drag him. Blood from the dead man's shattered jaw smearedthe white deck. Dizzied with pain from his hand, Jensen choked back awave of nausea. He reeled into the nearest crew chair, just as Marityroared to life. MacKenzie James crowed over the controls like an elated child. Scarred fingers kicked in the accelerators.
On the analog screen, the first pair of cruisers closed to dobattle, scout ships circling to one side like swarms of angry bees.Now and again the bolt of a plasma discharge flicked through theflashes of heavy rockets.
'They're pounding themselves to a pulp,' Jensen observed inamazement.
 'Better hope they do.' MacKenzie twisted a lead, then punched upMarity's screens. 'The one who's not joining the cockfight will be onour butt quick, before the survivor calls challenge on him.' 
53 
 'How do you know?' Jensen hated himself for the admiration whichcolored his tone. 'Where did you learn so much about the enemy?'
MacKenzie never glanced up from the controls. 'Evans could havetold you. Right now, I'm too busy.' He flung himself into theadjoining pilot's chair, took the helm, and almost immediately Marityveered.
 Still nauseous, Jensen sought stability in watching the analogmonitor. As the attitude thrusters opened wide, the pared disk ofCastleton's fell away, replaced briefly by space sprinkled with fixedstars, and the moving points of enemy warcraft. These were eclipsedin turn by the disk of Castleton's sun; MacKenzie flicked thestabilizers and banged the heel of his hand down, shoving the gravitydrive into full acceleration.
 Jensen made a sound in protest as several g's of force ground hisbody against the crew chair. 'Out of the frying pan,' he managed,before discomfort forced him silent.
 MacKenzie James said nothing. His profile seemed motionless aslaser-cut quartz in the lights off the monitors as Marity picked upspeed. Fuelled by the gravitational field of Castleton's sun, shegained velocity at a rate that was frightening. Jensen battled forequilibrium. He was not the pilot that Shields was, but he couldrecognize when safe limits were transgressed. As if his worn oldcraft did not hurtle full tilt for annihilation in the fires of a star, Mac James sat back and flexed his scarred fingers in a mannerthat suggested habit. Then, as Marity's course held stable, he shovedforward against the force of acceleration and busied himself againwith the circuitry.
'Haven't you done enough ?' Jensen demanded, mostly to distracthimself from fear. With the Khalia behind, and the inferno ofCastleton's star raging forward, what composure he had left wasfaked.
 Mac James pulled a wire from the cowling and unceremoniouslystripped it with his teeth. He twisted the bared end into a hookwhich he clamped to some unseen contact below. Another panel onMarity's control boards flickered to light; satisfaction made hercaptain expansive. 'You're better endowed with luck than brains, boy.You're not going to burn. Just maybe you'll be spared the hell ofbeing bait for Khalia as well.'He added no explanation. But as the third Khalian warship 
54 swung to intercept, the captain responded with hair-raisinginnovation. He spun Marity into what seemed a suicidal trajectorytoward Castleton's sun. Like some terrible vulture, the Khaliancruiser swung into position, shadowing their descent into theinferno. If Mac James even once tried his drive brake, Marity'soccupants would be weasel meat.
Jensen masked fright with bravado. 'You're sending yourself tohell, by way of the inferno.'
MacKenzie James said' nothing. The staccato buzz of an alarmsounded, and the control board transformed to a field of warninglights. Caught in horrified absorption by the star swelling on theanalog screen, Jensen almost forgot the Khalian warship until itfired.
 The rocket lanced across the screens, violet against the glareof Castleton's star. 'My god,' Jensen said angrily. 'Do they believe in miracles, orwhat? They may as well vaporize us, for all that we can stop.'
'They think we're what we seem,' MacKenzie James said softly. 'Amerchanter caught without escort.' He paused, as if that explainedeverything. A second Khalian rocket seared across the screens. In thefitful, flickering light of its passage, the captain seemed to recallthat the man in the crumpled Freer robe who sweated in his crew chairwas not his knowledgeable mate.
'The Khalia believe that we have chosen suicide rather than be captured. They fire to salute our courage, for by their honor code,our action is admirable.'
 Which fit with the accuracy of truth, Jensen reasoned. With acrushing sense of frustration, he cursed the fact that he could notreturn the information to his superiors. Surely such knowledge wouldhave earned him a commendation and promotion - but the closingproximity of Castleton's sun foreclosed any chance of survival.
MacKenzie James seemed peculiarly indifferent to the end his ownsubterfuge had created. Hunched like a bear over his controls, hegrinned. 'Watch now.' But the corpse of the mate which oozed by thecompanionway showed as much enthusiasm as Jensen. 'In a moment, theKhalian ship will brake and pull off, just enough so she'll bounceoff the gravity well at a tangent.''So what,' Jensen shot back. The captain was crazy; they'd melt 
55 just as handily by hydrogen fusion, but the man acted as if he wasignorant of the fundamental rules of physics.
'Now,' murmured Mac James. The Khalian cruiser shifted. Hisscarred hands moved at the controls, and Marity responded with a roarlike a Chinese dragon. Jensen was tossed backward as her entire aftquarter opened up into a fireball.
Jensen saved himself from a bruising fall with the hand Mac Jameshad injured. Pain exploded like white heat. His head spun and hisvision momentarily went black.
'We're not a merchanter,' admonished MacKenzie James from thedark. By the time the officer's eyesight cleared, Marity had burnedinto a new trajectory, a searing arc that would carry her into aparabolic orbit just within survivable limits. This, with an antiquemess of a drive unit that ran on explosive propellants no sanecaptain would have such a relic on a space-going vessel.
'But the quick acceleration is damned handy in a pinch,' theskiprunner captain said brightly. 'It's saved my butt more thanonce.'
 Mac James stretched in his chair, flexing his fingers in ahellish glare of warning lights and attitude meters. Jensen held hisopinion. Marity might be safe at present, but only by the grace ofsurprise. Khalian raiders would be waiting once they roundedCastleton's sun, and even Mac James's famous cunning was not equal tocombat against a cruiser.
The skip-runner captain met Jensen's skepticism with a stinginghonesty. 'Boy, your officer's handbook doesn't list every known factin the universe. The systems they have are infrared, which happens tobe our salvation, because the emissions from that star out there willblind them.'
 And it dawned on Jensen then, that both of them were going tosurvive. The Khalia believed they had burned. Once eclipsed byCastleton's star, Marity could hammer her way into escape trajectorywith her anachronistic fusion rockets, then power down. With hergravity drives turned off, no infrared scope could distinguish herfrom an asteroid. Hopelessness and lethargy vanished in a breath. Thepellet gun which Mac James had carelessly tossed down thecompanionway became of paramount importance.
Jensen measured the distance to the opened hatch with his eyes.The expanse was wider than he liked, particularly since the Freerrobe would encumber him. Still, with Castleton's world and the threatof the Khalia keeping MacKenzie James preoccupied, there 
56 might never be a better opportunity. Jensen gathered his courage andjumped.
He completed no more than a step when a weight crashed into hisshoulders from behind. He fell heavily to the deck. At once themuscled bulk of MacKenzie James bore him down. Jensen countered with a wrestler's move that should have freed him in short order. Instead the captain anticipated him, caught his wrist, and twisted. Jensencursed, forced to fall limp or scream with the pain of dislocatedjoints.
Just shy of injury, Mac James let up. 'You're trouble,' he saidbluntly. And as though he handled a vicious animal, he rolled andjerked Jensen upright. The strength in his hands was astonishing.Very quickly, the Fleet officer found himself noosed and helpless inthe coils of his own restraints.
 'Also, you talk too much,' MacKenzie added. He ripped away thesash of the Freer robe, pausing as his fingers encountered the bulkof the transmitter. A wicked flash of amusement touched his features as he went on and twisted the material into a gag, which he tiedexpertly in place. Jensen struggled but gained nothing except cuts onthe ribbon-thin metal of the noose. Shoved into the nearest crew chair, he glared back as the captain studied him in passionlesssilence. The directness of the man's gaze unnerved Jensen as nothinghad before.
 'What chance did you give Evans?' Mac James's voice held aroughness that might have been grief, except his expression showed nofeeling at all. The captain flexed his ruined fingers, one afteranother. Tortured with the certainty his fate was being weighed,Jensen recognized more than habit in the movement; such exercise hadonce restored mobility to hands crippled with coil burns. The drivingpersistence of the captain's character abruptly became frightening tocontemplate.
Jensen closed his eyes, opened them to find the captain watchinghim still. The ambition that had driven the attempt at his capturewithered away to diffidence. The gag tasted of sweat and desert spiceand stale saliva, and the sick fear in Jensen's gut coiled tighter bythe minute.
 Aware his captive's composure was crumbling, MacKenzie Jamesjerked him to his feet and spun him around. 'Evans never did like tokill,' he said in contempt. 'For that, you'll leave Marity alive.' 
57 
 But reprieve was not what MacKenzie James had in mind as heheFted his captive through the companionway. Towed through nullgravity like baggage, Jensen had to writhe ignominiously to keep hisface from banging the bulkheads. The hiss of the lock to the cargohold spilled icy air over his skin. Left to drift, the young officercould not see his captor, but an echoing flurry of footfalls and theclang of something metallic did little but amplify his apprehension.Then hard hands caught his legs. His view of the hold spunhorizontally, and through dizziness he glimpsed customs seals and theopened hatch of the cargo capsule. Then MacKenzie James brutallystarted cramming his body inside. Jensen exploded in panic.
He struggled, and got a bang on the head for his effort. MacJames shoved his shoulders down. Scarred fingers reached for thelatch.
 Jensen twisted frantically and managed to tear the gag loose.'Wait!' he said breathlessly. Desperate now, his ambition reduced toa fool's dream, he begged. 'I could take Evans's place for you!'Except for the piloting, he was qualified; and he wouldn't defect,not really. Once he gained MacKenzie's confidence he could alertFleet authorities.
 But his proposal met with silence. Shoved protesting into thecargo capsule, and panicked by the prospect of confinement, Jensenabandoned his pride. 'Damn you, I'm the son of an AllianceCouncilman! That should be worth enough to hold me for ransom.'
No spark of greed warmed the eyes of MacKenzie James. Single­mindedly efficient, he banged the hatch closed over his captive'shead. Jensen kicked out in disbelief and managed to skin both hisknees. The slipped gag constricted his wind. Over his ragged, franticbreaths came the unmistakable click of latches, the inexorabledeadening of sound as the seals of the container clamped closed. Hebanged again, uselessly. He might suffocate, or die of hypothermia inMarity's unheated cargo hold; surely Mac James would see reason,contact his father and arrange an exchange of money.
Jensen felt the capsule bump and rise; through its shell he heardthe unmistakable hiss of a lock. He screamed in uninhibited terror,then; but nothing prevented the sickening, tumbling fall intoweightlesshess and cold which followed. He curled up, shivering 
58 in the bitter end of hope. MacKenzie James had jettisoned him,living, into deepspace.
The cargo capsule's seals preserved atmosphere. For awhile itshoneycomb panels would conserve body heat, but with no air supply itwas an even draw whether Jensen would die of asphyxiation, or tumbleback to fry in the fury of Castleton's star. At best, he might besalvaged alive by a Khalian scout ship. Worst and most galling wasthe fact that MacKenzie James went free.
 Jensen shouted in frustration. Unable to forget those coil-scarred fingers flexing and curling, tirelessly beating the odds, helonged for one chance to shoot his antagonist, even as he had Evans:from behind, with no chance for recriminations, just death - fast andmessy and final. But anger only caused the nooses to rip painfullyinto his wrists. In time, all passion, all hatred, unravelled intodespair. Jensen's tears soaked the hood of the Freer robe and curledthe dark hair at his temples. After Mac James, he reviled hisdisciplinarian father, for stifling his career with the stipulationthat under no circumstances was undue favor to be granted him.Competence became a sham. Such was the influence of fame andpolitics, no board of officers dared to grant promotion withoutperformance of outstanding merit. One by one, Jensen had seen hispeers advance ahead of him. Balked pride and rebellion had landed himhere, trussed and sealed like flotsam in a cargo capsule. Too late,and in bitterness, he questioned why the promise of money had failedto motivate MacKenzie James.
 The air in the capsule quickly became stale. Jensen's thoughtsspiralled downward into a tide of black dizziness. His limbs cramped,then grew numb; the transmitter in the Freer sash dug relentlesslyinto his neck, but he was powerless to ease even this smallestdiscomfort. Presently, none of that mattered. Resigned, Jensendirected his last awareness to cursing MacKenzie James; asconsciousness began to dim, sometimes the name of his father slippedin ... 
Something banged the cargo capsule. Jostled against the side panels,Jensen heard the whine of grappling hooks. Fear roused him fromlethargy as they clamped and secured his prison. Suffocation seemed akindness next to threat of Khalian cruelty; but the young officerlacked strength to do more than shut his eyes as whatever 
59 being had salvaged him popped the capsule's release catches. Cleanair rushed in around the seals, and light fell blindingly acrossJensen's face.
 'I'm surprised he left you alive,' said an acerbic voice herecognized.
Jensen started, drew a shuddering breath, and ducked sharply tohide cheeks still wet from crying. 'My god, how did you know where tofind me?'
 Perfectly groomed, and correct to the last insignia on heruniform, Ensign Shields regarded him with that whetted edge ofantagonism she had affected since the morning he had compelled hercollaboration in his scheme to capture MacKenzie James. 'Marity'sinstruments weren't shielded,' she said at last. 'You're living luckyfor that.'
 Jensen tried to scrub his damp cheeks against his shoulder, andawkwardly found he couldn't, not with his hands still bound. Hisembarrassment changed poisonously to resentment. He faulted himselfbitterly for lacking the presence of mind to note the implications ofMarity's opened instrument panels. Evans had programmed the autopilotfor the FTL jump with the keyboard circuitry wide open tosurveillance; if the scout ship assigned to Shields was not one ofthe fancy, new brain models, she still carried a full complement ofelectronics. 'You read our destination coordinates from our tempestsignal,' Jensen murmured, shamed by memory of Mac James's amusementas he allowed the transmitter to remain twisted into the Freer sash. The captain had known then that his victim would be rescued. He musthave considered Jensen a fool, harmless or incompetent enough to beno risk if he were set free.
 'Maybe not so lucky after all.' Shields shoved the cargo capsuleover, interrupting Jensen's thoughts and spilling him ignominiouslyonto the courier ship's lock platform. 'You'll wish you'd died indeep-space when our dispatches come in late. Serve you right if theold man himself calls you onto the carpet.'
Stung by more than humility, Jensen twisted until he gained aview of his shipmate's eyes. 'Play things right, and we'll get acommendation.'
 Shields stepped back. Rare anger pinched her face; Jensen hadnever thought her pretty, but she had slenderness, and a certaingrace of movement that had half the guys back at base off their feed. 'You're obsessed, Jensen. Commendation for what? You've been anoverambitious jackass and now, finally, the brass in Fleet commandwill know it too.'
 Jensen made a vicious effort to sit up; but the nooses cut intohis wrists, and he gave up with a curse at the pain. 'You'll go downwith me,' he threatened. 'As my senior officer, piloting a Fleetdispatch courier off course calls for court-martial, not a dressingdown.'
 He heard Shields's sharp intake of breath, and could not look ather. Once he might have veiled his threats in gentler language; butnow, the cruelly injured dignity inspired by MacKenzie James impelledhim to roughness. 'Don't be a stupid bitch.' But he couldn't quitebring himself to finish; by the whirely locked knuckles of Shields'shands he saw he did not have to mention her brother, who was ill andunder treatment in an Alliance medical facility, a benefit of herenrollment in the Fleet. Should she be discharged now, he would losehis benefits. But pity came second to necessity. Ambition and hisdriving desire to command a vessel that carried weapons instead ofdispatches cut with a need like agony. Coldly Jensen outlined hisalternative. 
The dome at Port was packed to capacity on the day the citations wereread. Banners overhung the stage where the Fleet high command wereseated. At attention alongside Ensign Shields, Jensen surreptitiouslychecked his uniform for creases. Finding none, he stood very still,savoring the moment as the speaker at the podium recited his list ofachievements.
 '... commendation for bravery; for innovative escape tactics,when asked at gunpoint to surrender to three Khalian warships, whichimagination_ and daring in the face of danger has resulted in thefurtherance of Fleet knowledge of enemy behavior; for performanceabove and beyond the call of duty, these two young officers will bepromoted in rank, and be decorated with the Galactic Cross ...'
Shields went very white when the Admiral laid the ribbon with themedal over her shoulders. She shook his hand stiffly, and looked awayfrom the cameras when the press popped flashes to record the event.
Jensen also stood stiffly, but for very different reasons. Warmedby his father's proud smile, he reflected that the story they had 
6i presented to Fleet command had held as many half-truths as lies; thetactics which had brought word of the takeover at Castleton's hadbeen real enough, though only Shields and he knew they had originatedwith the wiliest skip-runner in Alliance space. The weight of theGalactic Cross which hung from his neck carried no implications ofguilt; at last granted the command of a scout ship with armament,Jensen swore he would redeem his honor. One day MacKenzie James wasgoing to regret the humiliation he had inflicted upon a young officerof the Fleet. Jensen intended to rise fast and far. In time he would retaliate, find means to bring down the antagonist who had bestedhim. The honors he took credit for now were only a part of that plan. 
Tale of the Snowbeast 
That year, the season of white cold was worse than any elf in theholt could remember. The storage nooks were empty of the last nutsand dried fruit; and still the wind blew screaming through barebranches while snow winnowed deep into drifts in the brush and thehollows between trees. Huddled beneath the weight of a furdinedtunic, Huntress Skyfire paused and leaned on her bow.
'Hurry up! It's well after daylight, past time we were back tothe holt.' A soft whine answered her.
 Chilled, famished, and tired of foraging on game trails thatshowed no tracks, Skyfire turned and looked back. Her companion wolf,Woodbiter, hunched with his tail to the wind, gnawing at the icewhich crusted the fur between his pads.
'Oh, owl pellets, again?' But Skyfire's tone reflected chagrinrather than annoyance. She laid aside her bow, stripped off hergloves, and knelt to help the wolf. 'You're an unbelievable nuisance,you know that?'Woodbiter sneezed, snow flying from his muzzle.
'This is the second night we come back empty-handed.' Skyfireblew on reddened hands, then worked her fingers back into chilledgloves. Woodbiter whined again as she rose, but did not bound ahead.Neither did he hunt up a stick to play games; instead he trotted downthe trail, his bushy tail hung low behind. Hunger was wearing evenhis high spirits down. Skyfire retrieved her bow in frustration. Thetribe needed game, desperately; the Wolfriders were all too thin, andthough the cubs were spared the largest portions, lately the youngesthad grown sickly. Tonight, Skyfire decided, she would range fartherafield, for plainly the forest surrounding the holt was hunted out. 
63 
 A gust raked the branches, tossing snow like powder overSkyfire's head. She tugged her leather cap over her ears, then froze,for something had moved in the brush. Woodbiter stopped with his taillifted and his nose held low to the ground; by his stance Skyfireknew he scented game, probably a predator which had left its warm dento forage for mice in a stand of saplings. Skyfire slipped an arrowby slow inches from her quiver. She nocked it to her bowstring andwaited, still as only an elf could be.
The shadow moved, a forest cat half-glimpsed through blown snow.Skyfire released a shot so sure that even another elf might envy herskill; and by Woodbiter's eager whine knew that he scented blood. Herarrow had flown true.
 But unlike the usual kill, her companion wolf did not rushjoyfully to share the fruits of their hunting. Woodbiter obedientlyheld back, for in times of intense hardship, game must be returned tothe holt for all of the tribe to share. Skyfire elbowed her waythrough the saplings, grumbling a little as snow showered off thebranches and spilled down her neck. She picked up the carcass andfelt the bones press sharply through the thick fur of its coat. Half-starved itself, the cat was a pathetic bundle of sinew; it wouldscarcely fill the belly of the youngest of the cubs. Skyfire sighedand worked her arrow free. She permitted Woodbiter to lick the bloodfrom the shaft. Then, as wind chased the snow into patterns under herboots, she pushed her catch into her game bag and resumed her trek tothe holt.
 She arrived exhausted from pushing through the heavy drifts.Breathless, chilled, and wanting nothing more than to curl up in herhollow and sleep, she unslung her game bag. Shadows speared acrossthe packed snow beneath the trees that sheltered the holt; but thetribe did not sleep, as Skyfire expected. Elves and wolves clusteredaround the blond-haired form of Two-Spear, who was chief. Closest tohim were his tight cadre of friends, including Graywolf, Willowgreen,and sour-tempered Stonethrower.
Skyfire frowned. Why should Two-Spear call council at this hour,if not to take advantage of her absence? The chief might be hersibling, but to a sister who liked her hunts direct and her killsclean, Two-Spear's motives sometimes seemed dark and murky, as a poolthat had stood too long in shadow. And his policies were dangerous.Elves had died for his hot-headed raids upon the humans in the past,and the chance he might even now be hatching 
64 another such reckless solution for the hunger which currently besetthe tribe made Skyfire forget her weariness. Woodbiter sensed themood of his companion. He pressed against her hip, whining softly asshe pitched her game bag into the snow.
A younger elf on the fringes turned at the sound. Called Saplingfor her slim build, her face lit up in welcome. 'You're late,' shesaid, cheerful despite the fact that hunger had transformed herslender grace to gauntness.
It was unfair, thought Skyfire, that lean times should fallhardest upon the young. She pushed the game bag with her toe, tryingto lighten her own mood. 'I'm late because of this.' Then, asSapling's thin face showed more hope than a single, underfed forestcat warranted, she forced herself to add, 'Which was hardly worth therisk.'
 Sapling paused, her hand on the strap of the game bag, and awordless interval passed. Dangerous though it was for an elf to farealone during daylight, when men were abroad and chances of captureincreased, the game in the bag was too sorely needed to be spurned.'The other hunters made no kills at all,' Sapling pointed out.
The admiration in her tone embarrassed; brusquely, Skyfire said,'Is that why Two-Spear called council?'
Sapling hefted the game bag. 'He plans to send a hunting partydeeper into the forest than elves have ever gone, to look for stag.'
Which was wise, Skyfire reflected; except that all too frequentlyTwo-Spear's intentions resulted in discord and chaos. Frowning, shepulled off her cap, freeing the red-gold hair which had earned hername. 'I think I had better go along,' she said softly. And leavingthe game with Woodbiter and Sapling, she stepped boldly toward theclustered members of the tribe.
 Her approach was obscured by the taller forms of the few highones whose blood had not mixed with the wolves, yet Two-Spear sawher. He stopped speaking, and other heads turned to follow hisglance. 'Skyfire!' said her brother. 'We were just wondering whereyou were.'
Skyfire endured the bite of sarcasm in his tone. She looked toWillowgreen, and received a faint shake of the head in reply; no.Two-Spear was not in one of his rages. But at his side, the half-wildeyes of Graywolf warned her to speak with care. 'I wish to go withthe hunting party, brother.' 
65 
 'You went with the hunting party last night,' Two-Spear saidacidly. He tossed back fair hair and shrugged. 'Yet again, youreturned alone. In strange territory, that habit could endanger us.'
Skyfire bridled, but returned no malice; the carcass in her gamebag was too scrawny as a boast to prove her success on the trail.Instead she sought a reply that might ease the rivalry that seemedalmost daily to widen the breach between herself and this brother whowas chief; above anything she did not want to provoke a challenge.The white cold made difficulties enough without elf contendingagainst elf within the tribe. Still her thoughts did not move fastenough.
Sapling came hotly to her defense, calling from the edge of thecouncil. 'The Huntress brought us game! She was the only Wolfrider toreturn with any meat.'
Skyfire gritted her teeth, embarrassed afresh as hungry, eagerpairs of eyes all focused past her. Jostled as tribe-mates pushed byto crowd around Sapling and the pathetic bundle in the game bag, shehid her discomfort by pressing her hair back into her cap. Aware onlyof Two-Spear's sharp laugh, she missed seeing Graywolf part thedrawstrings. The bloody, bone-skinny cat was held aloft, a trophy ofher prowess for all the tribe to see.
Yet hunger robbed the mockery of insult; and even the tribe elderwho had taught her dared not mock her affinity for the hunt. When thevote was cast, Skyfire found her name included in the party of seventhat would seek new territory to forage. That satisfied her, thoughthe choice of Two-Spear's henchman, Stonethrower, as leader of theforay pleased her not at all.
The kill was skinned, then divided among the youngest cubs.Emulating Skyfire, Sapling tried to refuse her portion, until thefocus of her admiration sternly instructed her to eat. At last, bone-weary, the finest huntress in the tribe since Prey-Pacer retired toher hollow and curled deep in her furs. The only things she noticedbefore she fell asleep were the dizzy lassitude of extreme hunger,and the snarls of the wolf-pack as they fought over the forest cat'sentrails. The sound gave rise to discordant dreams, in which shefaced her brother over the honed points of the twin spears he carriedalways at his side ... 
66 'Get up, sister.'
Skyfire opened her eyes as the fair head of her brother tiltedthrough the entrance to her hollow beneath the upper fork of thecentral tree. His eyes were blue, and too bright, like sky reflectedin ice. 'You promised to hunt down the grandfather of all stags,remember? Stonethrower is waiting for you.'
Stung by the fact that this was the first time since she had beena cub that her brother had succeeded in catching her asleep, Skyfirepeeled aside her sleeping furs. She reached for laces and stag fleeceto bind her legs against the cold. 'Tell Stonethrower to sharpen thatold flint knife he carries. I'll be ready before he's finished.' Buther retort fell uselessly upon emptiness; Two-Spear had alreadydeparted.
The worse ignominy struck when she emerged, arrows and quiverhooked awkwardly over one arm while she struggled to lace her jerkin.Her other hand strove and failed to contain the brindled fur of her storm cape. She hooked a toe in the trailing hem and nearly fell outof the great tree before she realized that sunset still stained a skyframed by buttresses of black branches; the cleared ground beneathwas empty of all but the presence of her brother. In all likelihood,Stonethrower was still in the arms of his lifemate.
 Hunger made it difficult for Skyfire to control her annoyance.With forced deliberation, she sat on the nearest tree limb and beganto retie the bindings that haste had caused her to lace too tightly.She pulled the chilly weight of the cloak over her shoulders and hungher quiver and bow. Then, hearing Stonethrower shout from below, sherose and grimly climbed down. By the time her feet sank into thesnowdrifts beneath, her temper had entirely dissolved. Woodbiter hadbounded up to nose at her hand, and her thoughts turned toward game,and thrill of the coming hunt.
The hunters gathered quickly after that. But unlike moreprosperous times, as the afterglow faded and twilight deepened overthe forest, they did not laugh or chatter. Their wolves did not whinewith eagerness, but stood steady as riders mounted. Then, Graywolfwith his unnaturally silent tread breaking the trail, seven elvesdeparted with hopes of finding meat for a starving tribe.
Night deepened, and the cold bit fiercely through gloves andfurs. Fingers ached and toes grew slowly numb. Yet the elves made nocomplaint. Generations of survival in the wilds had 
67 made them hardy and resilient as the wolf-pack that shared theirexistence. Beasts and riders traveled silently through the dark whilethe wind hissed and slashed snow against their legs. The weather waschanging. Though stars gleamed like pinpricks through velvet, the airhad a bite that warned of storm.
 Skyfire did not travel at the fore, as was her wont; on foot, tospare Woodbiter the stress of carrying her when his ribs pressedthrough his coat, she hung back toward the rear of the line. Thesewoods were barren of game, and she preferred to contain her eagernessuntil the holt lay well behind.
Yet even starvation could not entirely curb Woodbiter's highspirits. He cavorted like a cub through the snow drifts, snapping attwigs to show off his strong jaws. Skyfire smiled at his antics, butdid not join his play. She dreamed instead of green leaves, and thefat, juicy haunch of a freshly killed stag.
Clouds rolled in before dawn, flat and leaden with the threat ofsnow. In the hush that preceded the storm, Skyfire sensed movementbehind her on the trail. She paused, a shadow among the snow-drapedboles of the trees. The other elves passed on out of sight ahead.Skyfire held her ground, and again the faintest scrape of leather onbark reached her ears; someone followed. Not a human; the trackermoved too skillfully to be anything but an elf. Tense, and troubled,and wondering whether Two-Spear's madness had progressed to the pointof setting spies after his own hunting parties, Skyfire bided hertime.
 After a short wait, an elf emerged between tl~e trees, thicklymuffled in furs, and moving with the stealth of a stalker. HuntressSkyfire did not wait to identify, but sprang at once on theunsuspecting follower. Her victim squealed sharply in surprise. Thenmomentum bore both of them down into a snowdrift. The tussle which followed was savage and sharp, brought to an end when Skyfire pinnedthe other elf's neck firmly beneath the shaft of her bow. Her cap wasknocked askew; enough snow had fallen down her collar to put fire inher temper as she shook the hair free of her eyes to view her catch.
A merry face with tousled dark curls grinned up from a pillow ofsnow.
 'Sapling!' Skyfire raised her bow, angry now for a differentreason. Two-Spear's recklessness had provoked the humans to boldness;often now they set snares for unwary Wolfriders. And 
68 Sapling was still almost a cub, having yet to shedher child-name forthe one she would earn as an adult. 'What are you doing following thehunters?'
 Sapling sat up, the hollows carved by famine accentuated in thegrowing light. 'I wented to be with you.'
Skyfire turned her back, arms folded, and her cap still crookedupon her head. 'You're lucky the humans didn't catch you instead.'She spun then, and glared at her young admirer. 'You know they caughtThornbranch. They burned him. You're not too young to remember.'
Sapling scuffed at snow with her toes. She seemed moreembarrassed than cowed by the reprimand. Tall, now, as her mentor,Skyfire was forced to realize that little remained of the cub who hadonce tugged at her tunic. Sapling had nearly grown up. If she hadtracked this far without drawing notice, she would not disturb thegame, and she would be safer with the hunters than on a return trekto the holt.
 'All right.' Skyfire set her cap straight with a hard look at herjunior. 'If you dare to track your elders, then you can act likeone.' Sapling's face lighted up. '! can stay?'
'That's for Stonethrower to decide.' Skyfire hooked her bow overher shoulder. 'Now, come on.'
Dawn brightened steadily as the two elves followed the trail ofthe others. Clouds lowered over the blown tops of the trees, and theair smelled of storm. Wisely, the Wolfriders had chosen to sleep outthe day in a hollow by a frozen waterfall. By the time Skyfire andher companion found them, an enterprising elder had broken the ice tohunt for fish. The others had rolled in their furs, pressed close tothe wolves for warmth, except for Stonethrower.
'You dallied, but not to hunt game this time,' he commented asSkyfire appeared with Sapling in tow.
Yet his sarcasm was wasted on Huntress Skyfire. Woodbiter had notanswered her call, and a swift review of the pack revealed the factthat he was not present. Owl pellets, she thought; with Sapling nowunder her care, the last thing she needed was that wolf getting intoanother scrape. Feeling the cold, the hunger, and all the wearinessof the night's march, she met Stonethrower's dark glance.'Woodbiter's not with the pack.' 
The older elf shrugged. 'He ran off ahead of the others. Like you sooften will.'
 Skyfire bit back a retort. Instead, she closed her eyes and sent,seeking that pattern of awareness that was uniquely Woodbiter's. Shefound nothing. Alarmed, she put urgency into her call; and the wolf-consciousness that answered showed a thicket of briar and hazel, shotthrough with fear and the terrible, burning pain of a pinched leg.
'Woodbiter's in trouble!' Skyfire freed her bow. She tensed likea wild thing, ready to run and aid her wolf.
But Stonethrower stepped squarely in her path. 'There's a stormcoming. You gave Two-Spear your word that you wouldn't be going offalone.'
 At this, Skyfire felt a soft nudge from Sapling. Warmed suddenlyby the presence of a friend, she smiled. 'But ~won't be alone.Sapling will come with me.'Stonethrower narrowed his eyes, and sent, ':' ':'She doesn't belonghere. * *
 ú 'I know,':":' Skyfire returned. ':":'What are you going to doabout it?':":'
 $tonethrower considered the young elf at the Huntress's side; healso thought upon other instructions that Two-Spear had givenconcerning the sister who always found ways to evade the will of herchief. 'I'll go with you,' he said at last.
In other circumstances, Skyfire would surely have argued againsttaking her brother's henchman along. But Woodbiter was in pain; forthat she would brook no delay. She sprang into the forest, Sapling ashadow at her heels, even as Stonethrower moved to gather hisweapons. He had to run to catch up. Though day was fully come, thewood seemed dim, gray with the threat of a gathering storm.
Gusts rattled the branches like bones overhead, and the firstflakes whirled and stung the faces of the elves who hastened toWoodbiter's aid. Soon the snow fell more thickly, the surroundingtrees veiled in white; even $tonethrower appreciated the forestinstincts for which Huntress Skyfire was renowned. She led hercompanions without error through a tortuous maze of ravines. Once herkeen ears caught the chuckle of current beneath an ice-coveredstream; and only swift reflex saved Sapling from a dunking. Although$tonethrower questioned the wisdom of 
7o continuing with the weather against them, a glance at Skyfire's faceforestailed any comment. The green of her eyes shone with a clear,fierce anger that elves who hunted with her had seen only oncebefore, and that the time Woodbiter's mate had been killed by a humanhunter.
 For by now they had come far enough that the wolf's sendingbecame clear enough to interpret. Skyfire gripped her bow until herknuckles whitened and said, 'He is caught in a trap, the sort thathumans set to break the legs of foxes.' She paused, and as anafterthought added, 'We have not far to go.'
Skyfire drew ahead, then, despite the efforts of Sapling andStonethrower to keep up. They followed breathlessly, twisting pasttrees gray and scabbed with ice, through hollows where the windhowled like a mad thing, and over snowdrifts spread like snares forunwary feet. Sooner than either elf thought possible, they came uponthe Huntress, bent upon one knee in a depressionbetween a steep bank and the roots of a twisted tree.'Look,' she saidwithout turning.
Stonethrower and Sapling crowded closer, and saw the track of ahuge beast, oval-shaped, with evidence of a pointy claw at one end.The snow fell less thickly in the shelter of the draw; the track,though not fresh, was plainly discernible as something not made bychance.
 'What is it?' asked Sapling, more than a little scared. The trackwas wider than four handspans, and half as long as her spear.
Skyfire frowned, and Stonethrower knuckled his beard, a habit hehad when something distressed him. No Wolfrider had ever seenanything like such tracks, and quick sending among them establishedunderstanding they were troubled. A beast that size was bound to bedangerous.Stonethrower quietly suggested they turn back.
Frightened herself, but driven by loyalty to Woodbiter, Skyfireregarded him with the contempt she usually reserved for humans. 'Whyshould we? Are you afraid to go on?'
Swirling snow and the wail of wind through the draw filled atense interval. Then, without speaking, Skyfire whirled and continuedon. Sapling accompanied her. Left an untenable implication,Stonethrower followed after; but under his breath he muttered thatSkyfire's belief that Two-Spear's reckless ways would eventually leadthe tribe to ruin was an unbalanced accusation at best. In the 
7I opinion of the older elf, the sister was as stubborn as the brother,which was precisely why the two were continually at odds.
The draw deepened, narrowing into a defile where snow fellthinly, and then only when driven by odd eddies of wind. The printsof the strange beast showed plainly upon the faces of the drifts.Skyfire followed, nervous, but insistent the place of Woodbiter'scaptivity lay very near at hand. The elves labored through deeper anddeeper drifts, sometimes sinking to their waists. The terrible trackskept pace with them, even when the cleft of the gully widened andthey found the wolf, crouched in the open and chewing at his bloodyright hind pad.
No one rushed forward with joy. The tracks here were many, andthickest, and plainly associated with the snare. Perhaps they weremade by monstrous, splayfooted humans, or bears with terriblecubming. But Skyfire refused to be cowed. She scouted the area with athoroughness even Stonethrower respected. Then, borrowing Sapling'sspear, she advanced into the clearing and bent at the side of theinjured wolf.
**Steady,** she sent. Woodbiter whined, but he stopped strugglingas his companion knelt at his side. Gently she scraped away the snow,felt through wet and matted hair to assess the injuries to herfriend. The trap which held him was primitive. Green, springy sticksof sharpened wood had clamped his leg just above the first joint,strong enough to tear the skin and confine, but not to break bones.Angry enough to kill, Skyfire steadied Woodbiter's leg in one stronghand. Then, using Sapling's spear as a lever, she forced the sticksapart.
Woodbiter jerked free with a yelp. Trembling from his ordeal, heleaned against Skyfire, nosing her hair and ears in appreciation. Yethis friend did not respond with scolding for his carelessness, as shemight have done another time. Instead, leaning on Sapling's spear,she stared at the perfect, reddened paw prints pressed into new snowby Woodbiter's limping steps. She ran her tongue over her teeth. Withher wolf safe, now was the prudent time to start back to the streamwhere the other hunters had camped. But something too deep to denyrejected the safety of retreat.
Stonethrower arrived at her shoulder. Though impatient to be off,he did not intrude upon Skyfire's mood; instead he knelt beside herand with the flint knife he had once stolen from a camp of humans,began methodically to hack the water-hardened thongs which bound a collection of green branches into a deadly snare forthe forest-born.
 Skyfire spoke as the last bent bough whipped straight, thensnapped between Stonethrower's thick fists. Her tone was cold as thewind that hammered snow through the branches beyond the shelter ofthe draw where they stood. 'I'm going after them.'
Stonethrower cast away a snarl of severed thongs. 'That's folly.You saw the tracks. Whatever creature set this snare is large, andclever, too much for an elf.'
Skyfire curled her lip. 'Larger, yes, but not so fierce, I think.Only cowardly beings like humans ever set traps for animals.' 'ButTwo-Spear said -' began Stonethrower, only to be cut off. 'Two-Spearisn't here. His wolf did not lie bloody in a trap for half a night.'Skyfire jabbed the spear into the ground hard enough that icescattered from the butt. 'Are you stopping me?'
Stonethrower met her angry eyes, his hand tightened on the haftof his flint knife. 'I should.' But he made no move to do so as Skyfire spun away and continued down the gully. Woodbiter whined andfollowed, and Sapling did likewise, too young to know any better.
Stonethrower went along as well, out of duty to his chief, but heregretted that decision almost immediately. The wind bit like thehatred of the humans, and the tracks, half-obscured by blown snow,were soon joined by a second set, and then a third; the new printswere twice the size of the first ones.
 Skyfire stopped to test the tension of her bowstring, and Saplingwordlessly took back her spear. Stonethrower tried to resume hisargument, then waited, as he realized that the Huntress herself wasdeaf to any spoken word. Deep in communion with her wolf, she waitedwhile Woodbiter applied his keen nose to the frightening tracks inthe snow.
 The effort was a vain one; freezing wind had long since scouredany scent from the trail. On nearby twigs the wolf detected fainttraces of resin, but the smell was unfamiliar to his experience, andto the elves as well. Unable to imagine this beast as anything buthuge and dangerous, even the boldest of the four companions hesitatedwhile the snow whirled and stung their exposed faces.
'We should go back,' Stonethrower repeated. 'The others should bewarned that this part of the forest is unsafe for elves.' Skyfirestood poised, her hand less than steady on her bow. Then, suddenly resolved, she said, 'No. Danger to us is danger to the holt.And the snow makes good cover. I say we follow these tracks and findout what sort of beast sets traps that snare wolves.'
Her tone would brook no compromise. And unlike her brother, whowas chief, Skyfire was not susceptible to counter-argument, orcajoling, or flattery. Once she made up her mind, she stuck to herpurpose like flint. Stonethrower had a scar to remind him, for whenshe had been a cub, he had once scooped her off some sharp rocks in astreambed when the current had swept her young legs out from beneathher. He remembered how she had sulked because he had refused to let her attempt another crossing at the same site. If anything, herdetermination had grown with her years, and Woodbiter's limp made herangry and dangerous to cross. Quite likely Huntress Skyfire herselfwas fiercer than the great beast she tracked, the older elf concludedas the others set off once more. But his attempt at humor failed assnow chased itself in eddies down his collar, and his fingers numbedon the flint haft of his knife.
 The gully narrowed and widened, then opened into a frozen expanseof marsh. Wind rattled through ranks of frost-killed reeds, thetracks now showing through a swath of crushed stalks. Here and therea softened patch of bog had frozen the imprints intact. Woodbitersniffed and snarled, and favored his hurt leg. Only Skyfire andSapling seemed unaffected by the bleakness of the landscape, theformer warmed by her desire for redress, and the latter, by thethrill of being away from the holt on her very first adventure.Stonethrower endured in dour silence, and almost rammed into thethong-laced tip of Skyfire's bow as she stoppedwithout warning and pointed.'Do you see that?'
Stonethrower looked where she indicated and felt his heart miss a beat. The snow had slowed, almost stopped, and rising above the ridgehe saw blown smudges of smoke; where there are fires, the old adageran, there are always humans. Worse, the fearsome tracks led off inthe same direction.
 Sapling jabbed her spear-butt ringingly into the ground. Skyfiretested the points on her darts, each one with singular care. Thisonce Stonethrower did not argue when the sister of the chiefsuggested they scout out the size of the camp on the ridge. Thoughthe site lay outside the Wolfriders' usual hunting ground, no humans 
74 holt. ~ and 
~ther,nent,:k to him,arlle ungked the lrs, 
ss. 
~,atfff 
ft 
had inhabited this portion in past memory. The fact that giant,splayfooted ones did now might threaten the entire holt.
Grimly, three elves and one companion wolf started forward. Thebare ice of the marsh offered little concealment, which obliged themto go carefully. Only the wolf spoke, soft, high whines of uneasinessat the scent of the humans on the wind. The elves moved in silence,absorbed in their own thoughts. Skyfire squinted often at the fire-smoke and wondered what game the humans might have caught in theirtraps besides the unfortunate Woodbiter. Sapling tagged at her heels,excited to be included, but wary and nervous. Over and over she triedto imagine what sort of creature had walked over the snow to leadthem here. The tracks were fearsomely large, yet they crossed thedeepest drifts seemingly without miring; that humans might usestrange beasts to tend their traplines seemed dangerous and cruel toan elf brought up to love the thrill of the live hunt.
Stonethrower did not think of men or fearsome beasts. Instead he considered Two-Spear, whose dark, fierce temper did not run totemperance. He believed all humans existed to be battled, and likelythis camp would merit no exception. A message must be sent back tothe holt, and at the soonest opportunity, the older elf decided. Yethe mentioned nothing of this as he set foot in Skyfire's boot tracksand began his ascent of the ridge.
The elves climbed, buffeted by gusts that were barbed with icedriven off the flatlands below. Even the least experienced, Sapling,blended invisibly with rocks, hummocks, and tree boles. Soon 
the three lay flat on their bellies at the white puffs of theirbreaths mingling with Of SIlOW. 
crest of the rise, the the last, thinning veils
 The air smelled of smoke. Woodbiter growled low, almostsoundlessly, while the others gazed upon tents of laced hides, andfires beyond counting. Noisy packs of humans trod the snow to mire inbetween, more humans than the elves of Two-Spear's holt could haveimagined existed in the whole of the world of two moons. The mencarried weapons, spears, and flint axes and shields of hide-coveredwood. Their cloaks were shiny with grease, and their cheeks darkhollows of starvation. No game roasted over the fires, but smallchildren huddled close to them for warmth, too starved and dispiritedto cry.Huntress Skyfire pushed herself back from the crest and rolled 

on her back. Her green eyes stared sightlessly at sky. 'They, too,lack game. No doubt that's why they're on the move.' Stonethroweroffered no comment.
 But Sapling said, 'I saw no beasts among them, not one in theentire camp.'
Skyfire rolled onto one elbow and eyed her keenly. 'That'strue.' She smiled, more with relief than humor. 'I don't think beastsmade such tracks. Come look.'
 The two of them wormed back toward the crest, noses all butburied in the snow. Silently, Skyfire pointed, and Sapling saw large,wooden frames with sinew laces interwoven between. The middles had lacings; and a moment later, when a band of human scouts entered thecamp from the east, they wore the same devices strapped to theirfeet. Sapling stifled a giggle. Obviously, the heavier humans neededsuch clumsy things to keep from miring in the snowdrifts,inconvenient though they would be for walking or running with anyspeed or stealth.
'No wonder they catch no game,' she whispered to Skyfire, thenturned, only to discover the Huntress had retreated back down theslope and was engaged in a subdued, but heated argument withStonethrower.
 'Two-Spear must not be told!' she whispered emphatically. 'Iagree the humans offer threat, but we cannot fight so many and hopeto survive. Better the entire holt moves to another part of theforest than have everyone killed in a war.'
'Now look who's talking of running!' Stonethrower glared at theredheaded sister who was so like, and yet so different from thebrother who held his loyalty.
Uneasy to be holding a confrontation so near an encampment ofhumans, Skyfire tilted her head to one side in a way that neverfailed to endear. 'At least wait until nightfall before starting backto inform the other hunters,' she pleaded. 'Woodbiter's lame, and allof us could use a few hours of rest.'
 Stonethrower grunted through clenched teeth, but offered nofurther argument as the three descended the slope. The snowfallthickened again as the Wolfriders crossed the marsh, icy flakesrattling among the dead stalks of the reeds and whispering acrossbare ice. Finding a sheltered place to spread sleeping furs tooklonger than any of them anticipated. Weary, and weakened still morefrom hunger, Skyfire and Sapling fell immediately asleep. 
Neither was aware that Stonethrower sat brooding and awake. By thetime he rose and slipped soundlessly into the storm, not evenWoodbiter noticed, dreaming as he was of game, with his nose tuckedunder his brush, and his injured paw curled carefully beneath. 
Sundown came with snow still falling, and the light failed swiftly,turning the forest the gray on gray of winter twilight. Skyfiredreamed the dry crack of snapping bones as humans decimated the holtof the Wolfriders. She jerked awake. Snow fiurried from her furs, andshe took a moment to orient. Sapling still slept, but the snap of thebones was real enough; not handspans past her still form stretchedWoodbiter, the rich scent of blood on his muzzle.
'Where did you get that?' demanded Skyfire, eyeing the meatbetween his paws with an envy impossible to hide.
Woodbiter blinked, a flash of triumph in his light eyes. He senta confused flurry of images, and through them Skyfire gathered thathe had learned the secret of the humans' traps; this kill, or atleast this portion, had been stolen from one of them.
'You rogue!' Skyfire's merry laugh caused Sapling to stir fromher furs. 'If that's a haunch of stag, the least you can do isshare.'
 Woodbiter rose with the grace of a sated predator, a grace thatbordered upon disdain for the rag of meat he had spared for hiscompanions. Still smiling, Skyfire shook Sapling's shoulder and said,'Look, we have something to eat before we must go into the cold anddodge humans.'
Sapling sat up and stretched. 'Where's Stonethrower?' she said,and came swiftly alert as Skyfire's green eyes narrowed to slits. Thehollow where they camped was empty, but for the two of them and theone wolf. Stonethrower was gone.
'He'll be running to fetch Two-Spear, like an owl after mice.'Skyfire slung on her bow and quiver, anger infused in her verymotions. 'That means you and I have to think very fast, and find away to send these humans packing out of this section of forest!''What about Woodbiter's catch?' demanded Sapling.
The reply came brisk as Skyfire shook snow from her cap andjammed it over her hair. 'We'll eat on the move. Come on!'
The elves slipped out into the bracing twilight chill, the wolf ashadow at their heels. They stole from tree trunk to thicket to 
77 thornbrake, wary of leaving tracks for humans to find. Once they hadto duck into cover as a party of hunters passed by, returning to campafter checking their traps. The humans walked unaware they werewatched from cover, or that the devices they wore strapped to theirfeet to make going in snow less clumsy were a marvel to beings morenimble than they.
Skyfire chewed thoughtfully on a strip of stag meat for a longwhile after the hunters had gone. Wary of her mood, and striving notto fidget for the first time in her young life, Sapling waited whilethe woodland slowly darkened. The clouds thinned and parted, leavingthe night all velvet and silver with moonlight.
At last Skyfire stirred. 'We have no choice. We'll have toinvestigate the humans' camp by ourselves.'
At once Sapling feared the Huntress would forbid her to goforward into danger; but Skyfire only tested the tautness of herbowstring and looked levelly at her young companion. 'Can you move asquietly as a wolf?'
Sapling nodded. At Woodbiter's eager whine, she and Skyfire creptfrom the thicket and tracked the humans' strange footsteps. Movingswiftly, and in silence, the elves overtook the trappers before long;careful to remain out of sight, they followed closely as they dared.
Apparently the hunting had been poor, for the humans grumbledconstantly as they shuffled over the drifts on their strangefootgear. Skyfire and Sapling caught snatches of cursing betweendescriptions' of traps raided by fierce wolves. In time, the firstgroup of hunters was joined by a second party, which reported anothersnare tripped and tampered with by some woodland demon with threefingers. Wolf-signs had been seen at that site also, and when thefirst band of humans heard this, they made signs to Gotara, andlooked often over their shoulders. Without comfort, the elves notedthat curses shifted to threats. They ducked unobtrusively behind afallen log while their enemies drew ahead, a huddle of knottysilhouettes against the moonlit ice of the swamp.'What do you think they'll do?' whispered Sapling.
Skyfire silenced her with a gesture, listening intently as theloud-voiced leader of the humans shouted querulously to the others.'And I say this camp is ill-favored! We must continue south atdaybreak, and seek the lands that our prophet has promised.'Skyfire and Sapling shared a glance of alarm. The threat presented by the humans now went from dangerous to sure disaster; forif they moved their camp as planned, no saving grace could prevent anencounter with Two-Spear and his war-minded comrades. Even sendingwas inadequate to describe the grief which would inevitably result ifhuman and Wolfrider met openly in conflict.'We have to find a way to stop them,' Sapling whispered. Skyfire saidnothing, but grimly started for the swamp. Thwart the humans'migration they must, but no strategy could be plotted until elves hadthoroughly scouted the enemy encampment.
The task took longer than expected, for the tents of the humansnumbered beyond counting. 'Thick as toads in a bog,' griped Sapling.Tired, chilled, and scraped raw from crawling through briars andbrush, she shook snow from her collar, packed there in a miserablewad since her dive into a drift to avoid a sentry. Her normally sunnynature had soured to despair. What could a skilled Huntress and abarely grown cub do against a band of humans big enough to overwhelmthe forest? Skyfire could not offer a single idea; even Woodbiterwalked with his tail down. In the valley below, between alleys ofdirtied, trampled snow, the fires of the humans glittered like amultitude of fireflies during the green season.
Skyfire leaned on her bow, her frown plain in the moonlight. 'I'mgoing down there,' she said finally. 'You must wait here until I getback.'
 Sapling offered no argument. What had begun as a merry prank, anadventure to make her young heart thrill with excitement, had nowturned to nightmare. There seemed no end to danger and hardshipimposed by the terrible cold, that untold. numbers of humans shouldtravel in search of new hunting grounds. Sapling huddled into herfurs, uneasy and afraid, as the Huntress she admired above all elsechecked her weapons one last time, then vanished swiftly down theslope. 
Accustomed to the clean scents of the forest, Skyfire found the humancamp rank with the smells of burnt elnbers, rancid fat, and sweatmixed with poorly cured furs. She wrinkled her nose in distaste asshe passed the first of the tents, but forced herself to continue.Moonlight transformed the terrain to a tapestry in 
79 ducked through racks of sticks bound with thongs that supported thelong, flint-tipped spears of the humans. The design of the weaponsproved that this tribe did more than hunt; they were warriorsprepared for battle as well. Briefly, Skyfire entertained the idea ofstealing the spears; even cutting the lashings and stealing away allthe points. But the racks were too numerous to tackle b.y herself,and too likely, the humans stored other weapons inside their tents.Lightly as a Wolfrider could move, she could not raid on that scalewithout one enemy waking in alarm.Dispirited, Skyfire ducked into the shadow of a tent. Never inher life had the tribe confronted such a threat; and her excursioninto the camp yielded no inspiration. With little alternative leftbut to go back and attempt against hope to reason with Two-Spear, theHuntress faced the forest once more. Bitterly disappointed, shestarted off and failed to notice that her storm cloak had snaggedupon a pile of kindling. A stick pulled loose, and the whole stackcollapsed with a clatter.In the tent, an infant human began to cry.Skyfire froze. Barely daring to breathe, she hunkered down inthe shadows. How Two-Spear would laugh if carelessness got herroasted by humans! Wishing the human cub would choke on its tongue,she waited, and heard a stirring of furs behind hide walls barely ascant finger's width from her elbow; at least one parent had wakenedto the cries of the child. If the Huntress so much as twitched an eyelash, she could expect a pack of furious enemies on her trail. Sheforced herself to stillness while a man's irritable voice threaded through the young one's wailing. His curse was followed by aplacating murmur from his wife.
Skyfire fingered her bow as something clumsy jostled the tent.Then she heard footsteps, and light bloomed inside. Describedgrotesquely in shadows upon hide walls, she saw the human mother bendto cradle her wailing cub. The woman crooned and rocked it, to noavail, while Skyfire weighed the risk of bolting for the forest undercover of the noise. Angry shouts from the neighboring tents spoiled that idea. Galledby the need to stay motionless while the entire human camp came awake, Skyfire shivered with impatience. If she was caught, she hopedSapling had the sense to stay hidden on the ridge. 
The infant continued to wail. Even the mother grew irked by itsscreams, and her voice rose in reprimand. 'Foolish child, be still!Or your noise will waken snowbeasts from the forest, and they willcome and make a meal of your bones with long, sharp teeth.'
The cub gasped, and sniffled, and quieted. In a frightened lispit said, 'Mama, no!'
'Don't count on that, boy.' The light in the tent flickered, diedinto darkness, as the woman slipped back into her furs. 'If I waketomorrow and find nothing left of you but blood on your blankets,I'll know you didn't heed my warning.'
Her threat mollified the cub to silence, and the woman'sbreathing evened out as she returned to sleep. 
Outside, in the shadow, Huntress Skyfire lingered, still as a ravvitin grass. She waited, listening to the sniffles of a terrified humancub; her mind churned with thoughts of the fear inspired by thetracks of the humans' strange snow-feet, and the terror she sensed inthe mother's voice.
 Skyfire began to formulate an idea. By the time the little humanhad snuffled himself back to sleep, that idea became a plan to savethe holt.
 Cautious this time to stay clear of the kindling, the Huntressdarted for the forest.
 She arrived breathless on the ridge, and found Sapling andWoodbiter curled warmly in a hollow, asleep. 'So much for undyingadmiration,' she murmured, and laughed as Sapling awakened, sneezingas she inhaled a nose full of Woodbiter's tail fur.
 'Up,' said Skyfire briskly. 'We have work enough for ten, and notmuch of the night left to finish it.'Sapling sat up with a grin. 'You have a plan!'
The Huntress tilted her head, more rueful than serious. 'I have aruse,' she confided. 'Now waken your imagination, for before thehumans awaken, we have to invent a nightmare.'So began the hardest task Sapling had known in all her young 
8i life. All night long they carved wood and trimmed the skins of theirstorm furs and sewed them into the shape of a great beast, which theypadded with cut branches. Woodbiter raided another trap, gaining aset of stag horns which they set in the jaws for teeth. Skyfirefashioned eight monster-sized imitations of a beast's clawed padsand, in the hour before dawn, announced that her 'snowbeast' wasready for action.
'Strap these paws to your feet,' she instructed Sapling. Then,saving two of the clawed appendages for her hands, she calledWoodbiter to her side and tied the last four on him, while Saplingexperimented by making fearsome trails of beast-prints in thesurrounding drifts.
'That looks horrifying,' Skyfire observed when she finished, andallowed one very disgruntled wolf to clamber upright. 'But now I needyou to help with the final touches.'
The Huntress mounted the back of the wolf and placed the jaws ofthe snowbeast over her head. Muffled instructions emerged between theteeth, explaining that Sapling should place herself at Woodbiter'stail and lace the furs around them both, to flesh out the 'body' ofthe beast. After an interval of laughter, and much tangling ofelbows, the task was complete. A fearsome apparition snorted andpawed at the snow in the hollow.
'Now we make mischief on humans,' the voice of Skyfire proposedfrom the gullet; and the snowbeast shambled off, with a wolfish whinefrom its second head, to do just that.
Once the two elves and the wolf coordinated with each other, theyfound they could run fairly fast; but the clumsy contraptions ontheir feet made silence impossible. Wherever the snowbeast passed, itmade a fearful rattle, and the snapping of sticks and branches, addedwith the creak of its framework, carried clearly in the frosty air.
'If there was any game in this forest, it's on the run now,'muttered Sapling. A giggle followed, half muffled by furs.
* *Quiet, now,* * sent Skyfire. * ':'We've arrived at the firstof the humans' traps.* * Now began the dangerous portion of theirnight's work; for dawn was nigh, and the results of the snowbeast'sfrolic must not be discovered too soon. 
Quiet reigned in the forest until shortly past daybreak, when the humans stirred blearily in their tents. The earliest risers crept outto light fires, and soon thereafter an outcry arose. Two supply tentson the camp perimeter were found ripped to shreds, and the culprit,whose tracks were pressed deeply in the snow, seemed to be amonstrous beast. No one had ever seen the like of such paw prints,but old tales told of a snowbeast which haunted the winter forests during seasons of extreme famine.
Fathers took no chances, but ordered their wives and children andgrandfathers not to stray from the protection of the central fires.And the hunters sent to check the traps carried war spears, as wellas knives and torches. They moved in bands of ten, for safety; buteverywhere they encountered evidence of violence. The snowbeast hadravaged the traps, torn them to slivers, then trampled and clawed thesurrounding snow to bare earth. Trees bore deep gashes, and near onetrap the skull of a stag lay gnawed by powerful teeth, amid snowstained scarlet with gore. The band of hunters who found thattrembled in their boots as they resumed their rounds of the trapline.The rattle of wind in the branches made them start, hands clenchedand sweating upon the hafts of their weapons.
For all that, none were prepared for the apparition which lurkedin the brush. Crouched like some nightmare forest cat, it fed in theshadows of a thicket, crunching the carcass of the stag with jawsthat might have snapped a human in half at one bite.
'Gotara!' breathed the man in the lead. His snowshoe snagged on atwig, which cracked loudly, making him jump.
The snowbeast raised its head, spied the intruders, and raised anear-splitting scream of rage. The humans saw then that the creaturehad two heads, the larger one eyeless and crammed with bloody fangs,and emitting a frightful, ululating wail. Below this, between clawedforelimbs, a second, wolflike head snarled and slavered and snapped.Six legs thrust powerfully beneath masses of brindled fur, gatheredto bound to the attack.
 The human in the lead screamed and cast his war spear. It struckthe beast's flank and rebounded; and the beast leapt, plowing ashower of eddying snow.
The hunting party screamed and ran in stark terror. Tree brancheswhipped their faces. They dared not look back; the ravening snarls ofthe snowbeast sounded almost upon their heels. The breath burned intheir chests, yet they did not slow 
83 until they reached the border of their camp. The snarls of thesnowbeast sounded ominously through the wood as the men excitedlyjabbered their tale. Howls echoed across the marshes, hastening thewomen who ran to wrap children in blankets and bundle up belongingsand tents. Fear gripped the hearts of the humans like cold fingers asthey banded together and departed, northward, where the lands wereknown, and safe.
By sunrise, no intruders remained to watch an elf back butt firstfrom the bowels of the dreaded snowbeast. Tired, trembly, but able tocontain herself no longer, she collapsed in a snowdrift, laughing.
Peering through the fangs of the snowbeast mask, Huntress Skyfireregarded her young companion with reproof. 'Is that how you're goingto greet Two-Spear, when he arrives here with his war party?'
Sapling sat up, snow dusting her eyebrows and her merry, upturnednose. 'At least I look like an elf. If you keep standing there inthat silly-looking mask, Graywolf will likely spear you for dinner.'
At which point the jaws of the snowbeast clicked shut, and atangle of wolf, and elf, and a mess of jury-rigged storm furs swoopedand jumped Sapling in the snowdrift. 
$4 The Crash 
We saw it up in the sky. Then it was gone. At least Jamsey agreeswith me. He saw it, too. Ask him, he's eight, and he lives on mystreet. I'm only six, but soon I'll be seven and eight comes afterthat.
 Anyway, it was night, and we were sitting on the railing lookingup at the stars. The railing goes around the porch, and Mom says itkeeps people from falling off, and I told her that somebody wouldhave to be stupid to fall off. The porch, I mean.
I wasn't supposed to be outside. Janice was babysitting, She'sfifteen, and she always watches TV and forgets to call me in. I wassitting with Jamsey when Tommy began to cry. He's my brother. He'sonly two.
! said, 'Shut up.' I know that's not nice, but ! was mad, so Isaid it anyway. Tommy always cries, and then Janice remembers that wearen't in bed yet.
That was when we saw it. The thing, I mean. I saw it first, andthen Jamsey saw it, too. Then it was gone, and it looked sort of likea shooting star, but it was green.'Annie, did you see that?' Jamsey whispered.
I nodded, and we saw it again. tt was bright green and blue, andit was getting closer. There were lights on it. Jamsey was so excitedhe was wiggling, and he never wiggles. Not even at the circus.
The thing got really near, and we could see that it was burning.Tommy was howling, and Janice was shouting at him to be quiet.
The thing kept falling, and it got greener and greener, and Isaid maybe it was a fairy that ran out of fairy dust and couldn'tfly, but Jamsey says there's no such thing as fairies, and he knowscause he's eight. 
85 
 The green thing was so close we could hear it crackle like fire,and it was bright as a sky rocket on fourth of July. Then, smash, ithit the ground near the back fence, and it sizzled like when Mommyputs hot pans in the sink.
Tommy had stopped crying, and Janice stuck her head out the door,and she was madder 'n Dad when a dog stole his glove once.
'What are you doing out there?' she said. I stuck out my tongueand pretended she wasn't there.
She yelled at me some more, so I said, 'Wait, there's a greenthing that fell in the yard, and it's near the fence, and Jamsey andI want to see what it is.' 'Annie! Get in here this minute. Tell Jamsey to go home.' 'I'm notgoing, stupid, until I can look at the green thing.' Jamsey and Ijumped off the porch and ran so Janice couldn't catch me and make mego to bed. She always makes me go to bed.
Where the green thing had smashed up, there was a pile of shinystuff and something was moving near it. It was hard to see in thedark. It looked like the weasel I saw in the zoo, kind of, but it hadbig, big eyes. Bigger than my silver dollar and its skin was smoothlike the cloth the sofa is made of.
 And it was hurting. I knew it was hurting and I asked Jamsey andhe said he knew it too, and we both felt it was hurting, but wedidn't know why. We wanted to help it very much, but it felt to usthat we couldn't, but we wanted to anyway.
Then Janice came up. She was mad because I had disobeyed her bynot going to bed. When she saw the weasel-thing that was hurting, shegot real scared. She told me and Jamsey to take a stick and hit it.
We didn't want to, because it wasn't bad, and besides, it felt tous that we had better not. Janice said that she would make me go tobed without a drink of water if I didn't hit the thing with a stick,and I told her I didn't care.
 Then Janice came closer, and she said she would step on itherself. I told her that the thing didn't like her. She was making itmad. It felt that to me, and I told her but she said I was fibbing.
The thing felt to me to tell her to stop, and I did, but shewouldn't. She went to step on it, and suddenly she was gone. Honest. 
86 
 Jamsey and I were scared. We started to run, but the weasel-thingfelt to us to stop. It wasn't mean. It wasn't feeling to us verystrong anymore, and we thought maybe it would die.
It felt to us that it was dying because it couldn't breathe air,and I didn't understand, but it felt to me that that was all right.
Soon it was dead. We buried it somewhere like it wanted us to. I can't tell where, because I promised I wouldn't. It's a secret, and Idon't want to disappear like Janice. 
The Fire[all 
The gauges on the instrument console lit Ataine's hand likestagelights as she reached for the switch which locked the Quest IIIprobe on autopilot.
'I'm not going to be manipulated,' she said through clenchedteeth, though the spacecraft was a single-hander, now irrevocablysevered from outside contact. The transmitter was a tangled ruin.Ataine had sabotaged the unit herself when an angry superior hadbeam-arced a recall command: the Quest's launch from Station wasunauthorized.
 'That's right, you sonuvabitch.' Ataine shoved a fist full ofuprooted circuitry at the astonished face on the screen, therebysparing herself the fury of the man's response. Since the visualmonitor still functioned, his balding, purpled image mimed anger byher left elbow, but she gave it scant notice, the toggle a smallpoint of cold at her fingertip.
'And I'm a damned good astrogator, thanks to your turkey of asecond lieutenant.' She tripped the switch from 'autopilot' to'manual.'
 As though on cue, red lights crowded the screens, and a buzzershrilled. Ataine wished she could silence it. She certainly didn'tneed fail-safe sensors to recognize threat to the Quest's frailshell. The planet engulfed the portside screens like a hideousbruise, and its gravity field dragged against the probe's thrustinsatiably as a nightmare lover. The smallest mistake would hurl theQuest to a meteor's incandescent death. Ataine grinned. Theelectronics didn't trust her.
 'You shouldn't either,' she said to the small, white dash whichwas the aft screen's rendition of her pursuit; a late model Sabre,Ataine guessed, with a very determined man at the controls. He 
88 had used weapons, tried repeatedly to cripple her. The Quest's shellcarried scorchmarks from a leak in the deflection shields. But Ataine made a difficult target, and the drive engines still functioned todesigner specifications.
With damp fingers, she pressed the basket-weave frame of theheadset over her ears. Electrodes prickled her scalp, and signalsmerged with neurological impulses, uniting her mind with herspacecraft. Though direct-link control systems were still highlyexperimental, Ataine absorbed the influx of electronically inducedsensations with no side effects. Other astrogators became paralyzedwith vertigo, nausea, and headaches without drugs to balance theartificial impulses generated by the ship's system. Yet Ataine usedno drugs.
'Anomaly,' the Station physician had said with a shrug, when helearned how many hours Ataine had logged under manual control in theQuest without a single request at the dispensary. Tired of aninfirmary filled with puking test pilots, he'd dismissed the subjectout of laziness.
 Ataine never corrected him, never explained that she had used thevertigo, nausea, and headache like a drug to shadow a different kindof pain; and when her body's natural resistance had finally,reluctantly, acclimated to the Quest's sensory hardware, she went onusing the ship's electronics to bury her own humanity. Her passionwas obsessively simple: when she flew, she was spared the emotionwhich prisoned her thoughts like a shroud.
Now, impulses from the Quest's sensors ruled her thoughts,blanketing awareness of her woman's body and the tormented memoriesit contained. Her existence became that of the ship, hurtling throughspace at speeds impossible for flesh alone to achieve. But this timethe joy of release was marred. Attuned to the ship itself, she feltthe drag of the orange gas-giant like a fish hook in her guts,tearing. Pictured by electronic circuits, the planet's monstrous masseclipsed her left hand vision, perilously close. Never intended forsuch stresses, the Quest's light, high-impact shell came equipped forreconnaissance of asteroids. Government mining operations had nointerest in gas-giants. The craft resonated under abuse enough tomake her designers weep to a man.
Ataine's mouth twitched in amusement. She'd made off with an exceptionally sophisticated chunk of technology. The brass at Stationwould roast in hell sooner than pardon her. But she had 
89 no intention of returning, which meant shedding the man in the Sabreas soon as possible. And for that, the bloated orange planet wouldbecome her ally.
Ataine tightened her grip on the control yoke, bent the Quest'scourse closer to the planet. Alarm bells screamed. But linked as shewas to the anguished increase in resonance in the Quest's shell, sheneeded no warning.
'Come on, baby.' Her voice shook, though she'd spent hours ofcomputer time over the equations. Delicately, she inched the leverforward, increased thrust. The hull shivered in protest. Her tinycockpit glittered with lights like an arcade. Ataine licked sweatfrom her lips as her spacecraft plunged toward the gas-giant'ssurface. Though impulsive by nature, she had rehearsed her escapethrough seven weeks of misery. She hadn't miscalculated. She couldn'thave. Too much lay at stake.
Ataine steepened the pitch of the Quest's trajectory once more.The hull shuddered, trembled under her like an overextended racehorse. She nudged the lever again, fractionally, and checked the aftsensor. Everything, wholly everything depended upon the man whochased being reckless enough to follow. He would know she had reachedthe absolute limit of the Quest's capabilities. Certain of hisvictory, he might follow and descend inside her arc, awaiting themoment when hull failure would leave her at the mercy of gravity. Shelooked back.
 A fleck of light hovered off her tail vane, solitary as a star.The Sabre still pursued.
'Foolish,' said Ataine, and laughed aloud. She had him. Though hedidn't know it yet, rescue was not part of her plan. She took abearing on his position. The computer matched vectors, and theresults made her laugh again, triumphantly. Trusting the highertolerances of the Sabre's hull, he too had steepened his dive, andused the pull of the giant planet to increase speed. His thrustersflamed as he corrected course.
 'Clockwork,' said Ataine, and her hand quivered feverishly on thecontrols. Why did you have to behave so damned predictably?
Anxiously, she waited. At length, the Sabre dropped below, flashyas a child's model against the muddled surface of the planet. Themoment had arrived. Ataine whipped the Quest into a banking curve,increased thrust, and kicked in the repulsion field designed to 
9c protect the spacecraft from collision with rogue asteroids. Like asmall, fiat rock pitched spinning across the calm water, the Questwould skip free of the gas-giant's field. But the heavier Sabre,belted by the force of her field, would sink like a stone.
Ataine ripped off the headset, punched the craft into autopilot,and ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. She had murdered aman. She'd planned to. A voice inside her head calmly affirmed heraction as right; the man must die, for justice, that others mightsurvive. She sat, and shook, and after a long minute, realized thatsomeone was speaking, outside, and it was the man she had sent to hisdeath. Separate from the main transmitter, the emergencydistress monitors could never be shut off.'I won't listen,' shewhispered.
But the voice called her name, and the inflection waswrenchingly, horribly familiar.
'No!' Ataine banged her palms against the console. A new glowfrom the screen tinged her knuckles blue, and with an ugly shock, shesaw the emergency code signal had also invaded the video portion ofthe transmitter. She wished, desperately, she'd smashed it with therest. Dorren's face confronted her.
 'Ataine, you were wrong about me.' He spoke calmly, as though hesat safe in Station's lounge. But the look on his pale, tensefeatures cut her like steel.
 Anger claimed Ataine, vengeful and hot as desert wind. Naturally,the Commander would have sent Dorren after her. Who better? All of Station believed she had a weakness for him.
 As though he'd read her mind, Dorren gestured impatiently. 'Icame myself. The Commander had nothing to do with this.'
Grimly, Ataine wrenched off the access panel. So he'dvolunteered. Not even Second Lieutenant Dorren Carlton would get herto return to Station. 'Ataine, will you listen?'
But the desperate, imploring note in his voice rang dissonant inher ears. She found the wire she sought, and pinched it viciouslyfrom its contact. The screen went blank. And bitter tears flooded her eyes. Hunched in the Quest's cockpit, with her elbows crammedmiserably against the arms of the pilot's seat, Ataine found that shecouldn't let him die. Anyone but Dorren ... anyone ... her luck wasrotten. Hours of emotional anesthesia in the Quest's fancyastrogational systems had enabled 
91 her to live without him. But no escape existed which could negateresponsibility for his death.
'Coward,' she sobbed, and jammed herself back into the headset.Tears dripped off her chin as she banked the Quest around, this timewithout equations, calculations; this time with nothing but her witsand the knowledge that if she saved him, others less deserving woulddie.
 'I hate you,' she said, as she once had to his face, but thewords changed nothing.
The controls shuddered under her fingers, as though protestingbetrayal. And the gas-giant swelled in the starboard screens mockingthe futility of every month spent in preparation, wasted effort, now,because of Dorren. Wracked by serf4oathing she fought to steady theQuest against the planet's cruel pull, tried not to think, and lost,as she always did, to memory... 
'Don't frown so hard,' said a quiet male voice at her elbow. 'Didn'tyou play Jacks and Aces as a child?'
Startled, Ataine glanced up from the instrument simulator'sconsole to discover a young man of medium height leaning on thearmrest beside her. A grin softened the lines of decisively setfeatures, and the wheeze of the overhead ventilator ruffled perfectlytrimmed brown hair. The eyes were direct, and very blue.
'Were you deprived?' His grin faded into puzzled inquiry. 'Ithought every kid played Jacks and Aces. I'm Dorren, assigned tocoach you, and if you hated cards, you're going to make a difficultjob for me.'
'I played,' said Ataine. As he crouched beside her seat, sheburied a moment of vulnerability by starting stonily at the screen.He's nobody special, she told herself firmly. But the instinctiveplatitude was useless. Theirs was a rapport so perfectly balancedthat nothing she had experienced since was the same.
Using whimsical analogies drawn from card games, SecondLieutenant Carlton taught her to handle the sensitive instrumentationof Station's ore probes faster than any trainee had done in the past.Long after the others had shut down their systems for lunch, she andDorren had lingered in the trainer, mixing instruction, anecdotes,and tasteless jokes with unparalleled enthusiasm. Time stopped.Neither of them noticed. Finally, the 
92 disgruntled technician in charge asked them, please, to leave. He hada date.
 Ataine slapped the power switch off, smiled at Dorren. 'Are youbusy? We could have a date, too.'
Instantly, his expression lost its vitality. She swallowed. Itnever occurred to her he might already be mated.'Not today.' He sounded stricken. 'Another time.'
Ataine shrugged. She guessed he was avoiding her. Yet as he left,she experienced a distinct uneasiness, as though something unnaturalhad occurred. Her disappointment must have leaked into herexpression, because the technician paused in his haste to see thedoors locked.
 'Dorren's not mated,' he said, his face sympathetic. 'He simplyprefers to be alone.'
Ataine blinked, icily sobered. 'Then keep him away from me,' shesaid, because too often in the past she had been attracted to theindependent sort of man who 'simply needed no one.' Another was aheartache she'd avoid.
 But Station was as small as a closet; inevitably Dorren'ssuperior heard about their supreme compatibility as a team. They wereassigned together. 
The morning of her first survey mission, Ataine stood under theribbed belly of the Prospector she and Dorren were to fly. Landingbeacons beyond the airlock ports spilled hellish reflections throughthe launch tube, increasing her uneasiness. Dorren was late. Atainewaited, buffeted by drafts as the escort teams who would accompanythem sealed hatches and fired up systems prior to ignition.
Dorren appeared, finally, in the service passage, still fasteninghis gloves. His face bore a deep scowl, and as he approached, Atainesaw his chest heave in short, hard jerks. His evident tempersmothered her greeting unspoken.
Dorren seemed oblivious. He glanced at the helmet which dangledstupidly from her fingers. 'Put that on. I don't want to look atyou.'
Stung past restraint, Ataine looked squarely into his face. 'Ididn't ask for this. Why take your frustrations out on me?' The hurtshe tried uselessly to hide made him check abruptly. He 
93 in return took her breath away. The scowl so~tertecl.
'I'm sorry.' He sighed, knuckles locked and white over the sealring of his own helmet. 'We're stuck for tofiay. I'l~ speak to theCommander when we get back.'
Prompteft by intuition, hta'~ne sa'~, "~ ou a\rea~. cY~. liete~use~ to change the roster, didn't he?' 
though he fully acknowledged her presence only that moment. 'He'llchange his mind. Now, get in.'
Disgusted by his unpleasantness, Ataine obeyed. Without protest,she found her way into the co-pilot's seat, and scooped her auburnhair into the helmet. She left the face-plate down. Secure within itsshelter, she assumed control over her half of the cockpit, andpromptly forgot the man who readied systems for launch at her side.The demands of flying brooked no distraction. Ataine settled intoroutine, absorbed by the gauges on the console before her.
The mike in her helmet crackled. 'All set?' Dorren's voice was neutral. Ataine signaled affirmatively and released the magnetic fieldwhich anchored the craft to Station's flight deck. Dorren snappeda switch, and the air lock irised open.'Lift,' he said softly.As one, their hands closed over the controls. The Prospectorshuddered. Thrusters flamed, and the launch tube shot past,replaced by darkness pinpricked with stars.'Bank left.'
Ataine responded, startled by an unexpected thrill. She'd flownmost of her life, but even the sportiest dual-handers had neverresponded as cleanly as the common, work-battered Prospector did thatday. As the Sabre escort launched from Station to trail like beadsbehind, she found she barely had to adjust for trim; they flewwithout need to compensate. Dorren's touch on the controlscomplemented her own with a perfection akin to ecstasy.
Her helmet mike clicked. 'Enchantress,' said Dorren. He laughed,exuberantly. 'My stomach just sank into my boots. Too much peachesand cream. Who taught you to fly?'
'Chromosomes. And a father who named his children after spacecraft.' Ataine grinned, enthralled by his fussy, precise sense 
94 of timing. Transformed by laughter, her bad temper vanished as thoughhis rudeness had never existed. And the Prospector flamed throughspace like a star class yacht.
This can't last, Ataine thought. An indicator flared yellow,warning the approach to the asteroid field they were assigned tosurvey. Dorren would certainly brake to quarter speed, fresh as shewas from orientation training. Skilled astrogator she might be, butat ore prospecting she was a novice. The first obstacle loomed on thescreens, dead ahead. Instinctively, Ataine reached for the portsidethrottle, to cut back for the turn, just as Dorren began a bank tothe left. He toyed with the trim, unnecessarily, and said, 'You knewwhich direction I would go.'
'Yes.' Ataine paused to wonder how she'd known, and gave up. Themove seemed natural at the time.
 'Don't reduce speed.' Dorren leaned over the controls, suddenlyimpulsive. 'I don't know why, either, but there's something betweenus I can't leave unexplored. Do you mind if we simply let rip... ?'
Ataine returned a pleased smile. 'The Commander will scorch ourshorts off, when we get back to Station.'
'I/c we get back to Station.' Dorren fingered the lieutenant'sstripes on his cuff. 'Those rocks out there won't be half soforgiving if I'm wrong.'
Ataine laughed. 'We'll get back to Station, and maybe wish wehadn't.' She kicked in the thrusters, her movement precisely co­ordinated with his.
 The Prospector leapt ahead, cut a tortuous, blistering coursethrough the tumble of debris. Very quickly they discovered theyshared something preciously rare. As a team, they weresubconsciously, if not telepathically, attuned.
Glued to her controls, Ataine knew a companionship untainted byany human doubt. She and Dorren Carlton thought alike, acted alike,and the mixture was addictively heady. An asteroid skated onto thescreens. She banked right, certain Dorren would balance for the slopin the vanes. Between us there are no limits, she realized, none atall.
 The communicator buzzed. Dorren sighed, throttled back, andpunched the 'receive' toggle. The speaker shrilled to life. 'Are youtwo nuts? Hot-shot any 
95 more, and you'll make hamburg of your escort. You've outdistanced us,to understate, and if you get sighted by anti-nationals, serve youboth right.'
Dorren shrugged. 'Flame the anti-nationals. We haven't seen anyin months, and they'd have to catch us, first.'The Sabre captain sighed into his mike. 'Right. Wait up, willyou?' ,
They passed the remainder of the assignment with more decorum.But upon their return to Station, even their disgruntled escortboasted over the territory they had covered.
'Two claims, and a twelve beacon mark-off,' said the $abre'scaptain in admiration as Dorren stepped through the Prospector'schipped hatch. 'You and that greenie did a helluva day's work.'
Ataine followed the second lieutenant out, tired but content. Sheslipped off her helmet, and smiled, freed hair tumbling in slowmotion over her shoulders in the flight deck's low gravity. Yet asshe met Dorren's eyes, she watched his pleasure die, pincheddeliberately from a face still flushed from happiness.
She felt as though he'd struck her. Warily interpreting hismood,she said, 'You're going to insist on re-assignment.'Dorren frowned.'Especially after this.''Why?' Her outburst escaped before she thought to quell it.
But Dorren strode off without reply, leaving her desolate withuncertainty.'What's with him?' said the puzzled captain at her shoulder.
Ataine shook her head angrily. 'Blast if I know.' She leftabruptly for her quarters and hoped for a better partner next shift. 
But three weeks brought no change in the roster. Inured to Dorren'suncertain temperament, Ataine avoided conversation. By barring herheart against feeling, she learned to anticipate his mercurial shiftsof mood, and respond only during those moments when the rigors oftheir profession drove him to reciprocate the gift they possessedbetween them.
 When things went well, his supply of banter seemed endless.'Don't bring home any strays,' he said as she hauled out the tools totake a core sample. Dorren usually handled the task. But latelyAtaine had grown restless waiting for him in the cockpit.'You're kidding. No anti-national hardware has turned up for 
96 utdis­ma~s~ 
seen 
up~ 
~co­
:ort 
months.' Ataine clipped the tool satchel to her shoulder harness andlooked up, startled to find him watching with the same concern she'dshown each time he 'walked' an asteroid. 'I'11 be fine. Safe as sugarcake.'
'But clumsy.' Dorren grinned as she stumbled into the air lock,unaccustomed to the awkward bulk of the tools. 'Be careful. And watch that outside hatch. It's defective.'
 'Grandmother.' Ataine dogged the inside seals and kicked thedepressurization switch. The lock slid open, and she rolled clear,weightless as a swimmer, the asteroid a convoluted coral head in thebeam of the Prospector's floodlamps. Air-hose and tether unreeledbehind as she drifted downward. The magnetic soles of her bootstouched first, and clung.'Iron here,' she reported. 'Are we out of claim buoys?'
Dorren's reply crackled over her suit mike, strangely distant.'Set your charge. I'll check.'
She collected her sample without incident. Odd, she thought; theanti-national fanatics seemed to have given up sabotage. So far, therisk pay she collected each week had proved a waste of governmentfunds. Not that she was sorry. Presently, Dorren's voice answered herrequest for a buoy.
'Cupboard's bare,' he said lightly. 'I've sent a Sabre back toStation for more. Why not wait inside until it arrives?'
'Fine. I'm on my way up.' Ataine kicked off for the Prospector'shatch. She caught the boarding rail without difficulty. But as sheswung herself through, the tool satchel bumped the seal ring of theair lock. Vibration under her fingers warned her; by freak mischancethe mechanism had engaged and started to shut.
Instinctively, Ataine pushed clear. Halfway through, she noticedher air-hose and tether had hooked on the boarding rail outside. Thelines jerked taut before she could react. Caught in zero g without ahandhold, recoil spun her back between the seals. The lock trundledinexorably closed. Gear teeth ingested air-hose and tether, trappingher with the disengage switch beyond reach. In panic, Ataine saw shewas going to be crushed.
That moment, the lights went out. Ataine yelled, overcome byterror. Unwilling to watch, she stared past the black shoulder of theasteroid, as though fixed and changeless stars beyond could negatethe certainty of death. But the hatch had stopped.Quivering and sweating inside her suit, Ataine realized Dorren must have acted. He'd hit the breakers, killing all power on the shipto prevent the hatch from closing. But with her tether jammed in thegears, and her air supply cut off, she was not out of danger. Shetried to stay calm.
'Dorren, suit up.' A yank on the lines confirmed the gravity ofher predicament. 'I need... oh, damn...' Because with the ship'ssystems down, he couldn't hear her. At any moment, believing herclear, he might restore power. Don't close the switch, she thoughtdesperately. Dorren, don't.
She dragged herself around, clawed at the tether. Stuck.Dizziness hauled at her balance. She groped in the tool satchel forsomething sharp to cut the lines. Her lungs burned. She couldn't holdher breath much longer. Her frantic fingers closed over the steelcasing of a core bit.
Condensation blurred her face-plate as she began to hack at thetether line. A vast, sucking roar filled her ears. I'm not going tomake it, she thought, and chopped harder. Light swam across hervision, which seemed ludicrous, wrong. Suffocation went withdarkness. The bit drifted out of her grasp. She reached for it,drunkenly, and someone's fingers closed over her wrist.
Dorren's helmet bumped against hers. 'Hang on.' A knife flashedin the search beam clipped to his belt, and she floated free. 'Don'tquit now, d'you hear? I'm going to push you through the supply lock.'
Cramps in her chest prevented answer. She felt his arms enfoldher, as her vision swam out of focus. Her next clear sensation wasthe click of her helmet seal breaking, and new air rushing intowracked lungs. Dorren knelt on the loading stage with her cradledagainst his shoulder.
'You knew,' Ataine said thickly, between gasps, and almost passedout again as his lips covered hers in a kiss which bared his soul.She abandoned restraint, trusting the intuitive rapport which hadmiraculously saved her life. Peace overwhelmed her, as though she'dlived in the cold since birth, and only that instant learned warmth.'Dorren, I love you,' she said when he set her free.
He disengaged his embrace. Silently, and with an expression ofnaked regret, he left abruptly for the bridge. The retreat wentagainst his nature. She'd been too close not to see. Yet whatevercompulsion drove him to destroy what was good between them 
98 stung her into raw fury. She shouted, 'Why can't you just let theinevitable happen ?'
The companionway slammed and loosed a flurry of echoes in thechamber's barren confines. Ataine scraped damp hair off her foreheadand rolled to her feet. She felt wretched. But physical discomfortbecame trivial beside the crushing ache of loss brought on byDorren's withdrawal. Disconsolate, she followed him to the cockpit.
He sat hunched over the controls, helmet off, and chin rested onclosed fists. The glow from the screens outlined features set rigidlyas a mask.
 'Does my presence sicken you? Or threaten your damned malepride?' Ataine was unable to hide the bitterness in her voice.
He responded without moving. 'You're a wonderful person, Ataine.Sensible, intelligent, and gifted beyond belief, not to mentionattractive.' The dismissal sounded rehearsed. 'But I don't want a woman in my life.' He shrugged irritably. 'Even you. I'm sorry. Oneday perhaps you'll understand.'
Before she could reply, he punched the transmitter into 'send'and spoke crisply into the mike. 'Prospector IV to Sabre escort, hasCaptain Jern left Station with the claim buoys?'
The speaker crackled overhead. 'He's on his way. Did you justhave a power outage?'
'Trouble with the lock,' Dorren glanced back to Ataine. 'Get yourhelmet on. I'll have to clear those messed gears and then set thatbuoy. Jern can help me. You can easily be spared, and no doubt you'dbe more comfortable after a rest back at Station.'
 Ataine pitched herself into her chair, fighting tears. 'I'mstaying. I don't trust that glitched lock, and Jern can't help youlike I can if it malfunctions again.'
Which was all true, but Dorren's lack of argument made theremainder of the shift pass like arctic winter, unbearably lonely andbleak. By the time the Prospector docked at Station, Ataine's nerveswere drawn to snapping point.
Her quarters seemed a prison. And the company of others onlyemphasized her matchless compatibility with Dorren. Isolated by herloss, she sought refuge in the cockpit of the Prospector, and withevery shred of compassion she possessed, tried to understand whatmight motivate Dorren to reject her.He found her there still, an hour before the next day's shift. 
99 She didn't ask how he'd known where to look, didn't need to see toknow whose hands rested gently on her shoulders. She stared stonilyat the shadowed banks of controls, unwilling to meet his eyes.
'It's hopeless.' Unwanted moisture prickled her eyelids. 'Thewhole flaming situation is utterly, wretchedly hopeless.'
Dorren reached over and caught the tear which escaped down hercheek. 'I know,' he said simply. And he did. But nothing changedbetween them. 'I asked for another team mate. This time the Commander granted my request.'
The statement ruined Ataine's composure. Blistered to outrage byhis coolness, she slammed her fists into the console. 'Are youheartless?' Her voice rose to a shout. 'Do you think that changesanything?' She spun to face him, and flinched from a mirrorreflection of her own distress.
 Angry words died unspoken. Ataine rose and left the cockpit,ravaged by emotions too deep for expression. Oblivious to the staresof the teams who reported for shift, she fled down the servicepassage, into the lift, and burst headlong through Station's mostunapproachable door without even a knock.
She ignored the secretary who tried to block her path to thedesk. 'I want to sign for test flight duty in the Quest.'
Caught with his mouth full of coffee, the Commander swallowedhastily. He excused the secretary with a gesture and frowned. 'Didn'tyou know? The prototype gave her crewmen a debilitating case of thedizzies. Though the medics have an antidote in mind, they saidyesterday they'd need a week.'
'That doesn't matter.' Ataine stood, and blinked. After the gloomof the flight deck, the office lighting ached her eyes. 'I want tofly alone.'
The Commander didn't ask why. Instead he regarded her with amixture of sympathy and distaste. 'Very well. If you last, the designboys will be delighted.'
Revolted by his patronizing tone of voice, Ataine smiled withoutright malice. 'Then they can buy me roses.' 
Flight became her release.When she reported for shift after the third straight month, 
IO0 
Station's chief engineer met her with startled admiration. 'You got
guts, I'll grant you that.'
Ataine fussed with the seal of her suit. 'Why?'

The engineer gestured toward the spidery framework of the Quest'slaunch cradle. 'No weaponry. Last shift, we lost an entire drillingteam to a mine.'
 'What? Another?' Ataine paused, stunned, and thoughtfully snappedher collar stud. 'But no one's seen any anti-national hardware formonths!' The engineer shrugged. 'Want out?'
'No.' Ataine quickened her step. She swung herself over theQuest's sleek vanes, into the cockpit, while the engineer launchedinto a companionable description of the Challenger series, whichextended the Quest's capabilities to a crew of two, and a gunstation.
 Ataine nodded vaguely. Anxious to get away, she dogged the hatchclosed. Once under the headset, love, death, and emotional tumultwould all cease to trouble her...
 Shortly, conjoined with electronic circuitry, she piloted theQuest through the asteroid field she had surveyed last shift. Thearea had been clean then, and anti-nationals would hardly trouble anunmanned claim.
 Sensors granted her vision in all directions. Entranced by therandom dance of rocks whose motions would outlast the ages, Atainekilled the engines and switched off her running lights. Hours, shedrifted, aimless as flotsam amid the dusty tumble of debris. SecondLieutenant Dorren Carlton ceased to matter. Attuned to radio frequencies through the Quest's systems, the soft, repetitive beep ofa nearby claim buoy remained the only human intrusion upon hersolitude, until the moment her sensors picked up a metallic flash ofreflection.
 Anti-nationals, Ataine guessed. She was unafraid. Without lights,she was too small to be noticed. Ruled by the nerveless logic of theQuest's electronics, Ataine settled back in her darkened cockpit andstepped up magnification.
The red and white checked sphere of the claim buoy jumped out ofthe darkness, spotlighted by a Prospector's search lamps. Odd, Atainethought. Why would a team resurvey an area already covered? Shefrowned, and looked closer. Registration numbers marked the craft asone of Station's own, but the crewman who 
IOI 'walked' the claim carried no core charges. Clipped to his harness,like a hideous, tentacled parasite, was a string of contact mines.
Small wonder no one had seen any anti-national activity. Ataine'shands tightened against the control panel. Somebody had sold out. Thetraps were being set by Station personnel. 
'Dorren.' Sickened by her discovery, Ataine cornered the secondlieutenant alone in the access lift. 'Dorren, they're killing peopleout there.' And she told him what she'd seen, because he was the onlyone on Station whose integrity she trusted.
He whirled so abruptly she bruised her spine against thehandrail. The concern in his eyes caught her totally unprepared. 'Ididn't hear that,' he said curtly.
The shock of her surprise set distance between them, shatteredthe instinctive rapport. He laughed, deliberately widening thebreach, and the lamp overhead lit a face she barely recognized.
Ataine gestured in disbelief. 'You're in league with them.' Herheart turned sick at the thought, yet it fit. No doubt he'd pushedher away out of fear of discovery.
'I'm not,' said Dorren. The lift slowed. He stabbed a button,kept it moving. 'But I'm smart enough to keep quiet. Stir up trouble,and the survey teams will be next. We'll all be dead, not just thedrillers.'
 Her expression must have betrayed rebellious thoughts, becausethe lines around his mouth deepened. 'Don't be a fool. Let it be. OrI'll tell the Commander about you myself.'
'Son of a bitch!' said Ataine, scarred by his betrayal. 'I hateyou.' But she knew, even then, how shallowly she lied. The vehemenceof his reaction told its own story: deny her though he would, hecould not endure having her life endangered.
Shaken, Ataine caught the rail as the lift bumped to a stop. Shewatched Dorren step out, numbed by upwelling fear. Already it was toolate to heed his warning. Because the one thing she had kept quietwas the fact she had recorded the activities of the Prospector'streasonous crew on the Quest's emergency log tapes. With deadenedfingers, she punched the butto~ for the next level. The log was asecurity system, accessible only to higher authorities; if thecorruption at Station extended even to the Commander, she was introuble. 
I02 
 Ataine shut her eyes, clammily sweating inside her suit. She hadno option. She'd have to steal the spacecraft... 
The gas-giant's equatorial band swelled, a livid smear across theforward sensors. Tensely, Ataine nursed the controls. Stressesmultiplied in the Quest's tiny hull, translated across the electroniclinkage as pressure against her body. The sensation increasedcontinually, until even her bones seemed to ache. Ahead, a streamerof flame marked where the Sabre's thrusters battered uselesslyagainst gravity. Ataine adjusted course to intercept. Sweat drippedwith the tears on her cheeks as the Quest's nose tipped into a deeperarc. The screens pulsed with an unbroken row of danger lights.
Suddenly something snapped. Half her vision dissolved into anelectrical crackle. Ataine gasped, choked by fear, until she realizedshe'd sustained no injury. Only the Quest's starboard sensors hadfailed. Concerned she might lose the remainder and tumble blindly,she re-oriented the craft's docking gyros to track the Sabre'sposition. A siren wailed, confirming how little margin for errorremained.
 Ataine teased more speed from the thrusters. An alarmingvibration rattled the deck under her feet. She tried to ignore it.Intent upon her goal, she located the Sabre, now grown to a speckagainst the planet's bloated mass. A bank of screens flickered underher elbow. The headset recorded the event with a crisp snap. Ataineflinched, swore, and faced the facts; the systems might soon pack upentirely. With closed eyes, she focused total concentration intofaltering circuitry and drove the Quest into the final plunge whichwould match her course with the Sabre.
 Immediately she wished she hadn't. Resonance collapsed the aftvane like foil. Ataine cried out, punched through the link byphysical pain. The Quest bucked under her, threatening to spin.Ataine wrestled with the controls. Through the electrostatic snowwhich laced the image from her functional sensor, she noticedsomething odd about the Sabre's structure ... but the image quicklybecame unreliably fuzzy. Ataine dismissed the distraction. Dorren'ssurvival, as well as her own, depended upon critical timing.Ataine adjusted the headset, every reflex pitched for the instant 
Io3 when her fall would carry her abreast of the Sabre. She touched thedrive system, relieved to find it still responded normally. As theSabre's bulk grew larger, she ducked the Quest into a roll andpresented her aft thrusters toward her former adversary. Then hervision darkened, eclipsed by the Sabre's greater mass. Now!
Ataine slammed the drive systems wide open and a rush like surfbattered her ears. Her stomach turned, pulled horribly by the forceof defied gravity as the Quest swept into a wide hyperbolic curve.The deck quaked. Something metallic rattled loose and clatteredacross the cockpit. Ataine squeezed her eyes closed and maintainedfull power.
Let that be enough, she thought fervently. And somehow, againstall logic, she knew; the kick from her thrusters had loaned the Sabreangular momentum enough to tear free of the planer's killer hold.Dorren steered a course similar to her own, but in the oppositedirection.
 'Let that be enough,' Ataine repeated aloud. Her voice shook. TheQuest's direct-link systems had been punished to the edge of failure.If Dorren gave chase, she'd be finished.
Suddenly a buzzer shrilled. Ataine opened her eyes to a starburst of alarm lights. Then sharp pains in her chest bent her double.Aware that malfunction of the Quest must be the cause, she blinkedback tears of agony and studied the indicators. The Quest's main fuelline had ruptured.
Ataine yanked the headset off. The pain faded instantly. Stressedand tired, she leaned on the console, swore, and killed all power inthe drive systems. The move was necessary to prevent explosion, butafterwards she felt as though she'd cut her own throat. She washelpless. Her instruments showed she still had enough momentum toescape the gas-giant's gravity field. Yet without thrust, she had nocontrol over drift. Helpless.
Despair enveloped her. She cursed her early, impetuousdestruction of the transmitter. The distress beam-arc still functioned, if she reconnected the hotwire, yet emergency codes wereunselectively monitored. Ataine buried her face in her hands. Rescuewould come, but from Station, and subsequent examination of theQuest's logs would expose her intentions to the anti-national factionshe had left base to destroy.
I can drift, Ataine thought; drift until the Quest's oxygencanisters could no longer recycle air. She reviewed the gauges. 
~o4 Her speed was considerable. If she could last forty-eight hoursbefore hooking up the distress 'arc', her signal might be received byan outbound transport. Law would compel pick-up, and if the crew wasloyal to government, she might yet escape with the Quest's logintact.
 Shaking, Ataine straightened in her seat. The odds were likelight years, inconceivably long. But no other alternative remained.Resigned to her fate, she dredged her memory for the timetable, andhoped bad luck would roost elsewhere.
Her wish proved futile. She'd barely converted the chronometerreading back to Station time before an uncanny sensation of companyinvaded her cockpit. The presence was familiar.
'Dorren? Never had his mental touch been clearer. Ataine bangedher fist against the console and shouted angrily, as though he couldhear. 'Don't pick me up. Please, Dorren, grant me that much.'But his contact only intensified. 'I'm coming for you.'
'No!' Ataine felt her throat constrict. 'You owe me, remember?'If she hadn't spared him, the Quest would not be crippled.
I'm coming. Unarguably final, the response seemed graven instone.
 Outraged by his ruthlessness, Ataine laced stiff fingers throughher hair and tried desperately not to weep. Tell them I'm dead! Butshe knew he was beyond listening to her pleas. He would come for her,and short of suicide, she had nothing left to prevent him... 
The bump as the Sabre's docking collar made contact jostled Atainewhere she sat hunched over dead banks of controls. She reached listlessly for her helmet. Anger had ebbed, leaving resentment nosentiment could thaw, and numbed by the immediacy of defeat, shesought nothing but the chance to hurt the man who had stolen herinner trust, and betrayed her.
She sat, helmet clutched in cold fingers, as seals meshed withthe Quest's hatch and locked her craft in tow. A signal from Dorren'sconsole opened the lock. Pressure equalized, rippling the hairagainst her neck.
'Damn you,' she said succinctly, aware her suit mike would nowtransmit to Dorren's cockpit. A wave of consciousness probed herbarriers in response. Passionless as ice, she rejected him. 
~o5 

 A soft, shuddering sigh arose from her helmet, followed byDorren's voice, thinly and inadequately amplified. 'My dear lady,this time we're in the same boat. Will you let me explain?'
Driven to viciousness, Ataine said, 'Don't try. Just take me backand collect your commendation from the Commander.'
'Ataine.' His breath caught. 'Ataine.' And the quaver in his tonespilled chills down her back. Something was wrong.
Ataine rose and pushed off for the hatch, unable to stop herreaction. Hatred withered as, incapable of denying the link, shestopped fighting. Dorren was ill, and in trouble, and afraid for herlife.
 Too bewildered to analyze, she caught the seal ring and passedthrough into an air lock no Sabre ever built could possess.
Ataine paused, arrested by shock. 'They sent you after me in theChallenger!''No.' Dorren's voice sounded queerly strangled. 'I stole it.'
He was wrestling nausea, Ataine realized, because he'd forgotten,or had no time, to take drugs against the effects of the direct-linksystem. He hadn't lied. Puzzled, she left her helmet weightlesslyadrift and headed for the cockpit.
The companionway door opened into gloom punctured by the glow ofinstruments. Dorren shivered in the pilot's seat, drenched insweat. Ataine fought off an overpowering urge to go to his side.'Why?' she said quietly. The word carried multiple meanings. Dorrenshuddered, faintly amused even through his discomfort. 'Because ifI'd let you close to me, I'd have lost my cover. Government sent meto Station to acquire proof of an anti-national defection bigbet up.They suspect the man responsible for security screening of officers.But you bolted before I had finished, and the Challenger was the onlycraft left unguarded at Station.' He pressed wet hands against hisforehead. His final lines emerged muffled. 'There's an armed squadronof Sabres on my tail. Had I not stood between you, they'd havescorched the. Quest out of space. Now, fly us out of here. I'm goingto be sick.'
 Ataine left the companionway. Bruised by the details left unsaid,she swung herself into the co-pilot's seat. Dotten had wreckedanother trust to save her, left anti-nationals free to murder back atStation. She reached stiffly for the headset, wounded by theintegrity he had sacrificed because he could not tolerate her death.His self-disgust left her hollow. 
~o6 
At her side, Dorren stumbled to his feet. His hand touched her
shoulder, but the contact was dead. 'I'11 jettison the Quest.' He
moved to leave. 
But Ataine caught his wrist and looked up into drawn features.
'Salvage the log canister, first.' And she told him why.
'You filmed them?' Dorren stared incredulously. 'Blazes, woman,
I should have g essed. And slowly, his expression changed to

U ' chagrin. 'Could you forgive me? I think my superiors are going towant you in the co-pilot's seat. This time, I think I won't a ' rgue. 
~o7 Silverdown's Gold 
Trionn the scullion could never pause anywhere for more than a minutewithout attracting a heap of cats. It did not matter whether hisclothes reeked of the midden on those days when he raked out thegarbage, or if he was simply sitting, huddled against the wind,awaiting his turn at the privy. The cats always found him. Theysettled, arranged comfortably in his lap, or stretched across hisfeet in sprawls like dropped knitting. All too often they betrayedhim by leading those very people to him that he fervently wished toavoid.
 That was how he came to be lying prone in high grass on anafternoon when he should have been helping to butcher a pig.
The blood and the smell of the slaughter pen made him sick; thecook knew as much, and cursed him for a puling ninny. There had beentoo many pigs killed for the table since the new Lord had inheritedthe rule of Silverdown; as if a feast must grace the tables eachnight until every pasture was emptied. The squalling as helplessanimals were dragged out for the knife made Trionn sweat and turnpale. The heave of his stomach always followed, until lately, no meatsat well in his gut. Discomfort held him prone, though he knewtoday's victim was by now far beyond feeling; the tripes would beboiled and the last ham set up in the smokehouse. Pots left over fromthe rendering waited in the scullery for washing, stuck with grease,and crusty with charred rings of gravy. He would earn another beatingfor his shirking.
Trionn did not care. With one cat curled between his shoulderblades, two more nestled against his flank, and the whitefemale who was heavy with kittens flopped over the backs of hisknees, he sucked at a grass stem and stroked the ears of the tom whognawed at his thumb. He was safe enough here, where the cook 
I08 would never venture, in the neglected field that was the demesne ofthe blue dun stud. The stallion that was a killer, that hated everything alive. Madcreature that he was, the horse disdained to step on cats. Trionnbasked, protected, under a warmth of beasts and autumn sunlight. Noone would look for anyone here, far less the most
tongue-tied of Silverdown's kitchen staff.'There he is!' someoneshouted.
 Trionn started in alarm. The cat on his back was dislodged ontothe turf where, with arched spine and crooked tail, it glared at himin feline displeasure. Had apprehension not held Trionn rooted, hemight have laughed at its injured dignity. But the voice that hadraised the outcry was the new Lord's own, and for any man of highbornstature to go beating the fields for a scullion bespoke worse than acook's irritation.
 Trionn levered himself up on one elbow and peered over the grasstips. He dared not spring to his feet, whatever the Lord'sdispleasure; did he rise, the cats might leave, and the vicious dunwould take note that a man had invaded his turf. His ears would flatten, and his nostrils flare warning, just before he thunderedinto a charge.
Fear of the stud saved Trionn an embarrassment, since the Lordintended a different errand altogether. He was leaning on the fencein his velvets. Combed blond hair tousled in the wind as he conferred with a balding companion, less finely dressed, a leathery appearanceto him that bespoke hard living. Both men watched the horse, whichspied them and bowed up his neck. He blew a snort in challenge, hisnostrils a flash of scarlet linings against the seal black of hismuzzle. Then he flagged his tangled tail, struck once at the air, andgalloped.
Trionn flattened himself against ground that shook to the impactof hooves. His peril promptly compounded as the stud's rampage upsetthe cats, who bounded away through the grass. Caught in the open, herisked getting trampled to a pulp. The sick fear inside him no longerfor the pig, he crawled on his belly toward the fence. He escapedunder the bottom rail, just barely, but his troubles did not endoutside the pasture. Silverdown had never been kept like a manor,until now, when even the weeds that flowered in the hedgerows wereunwelcome. The new Lord had ranted and waved his whip and found faultuntil servants set 
IO9 to with sickle and scythe. Trionn cowered down in the razed-backscrub that edged the meadow, and prayed the two men were given nocause to glance aside. Did they so much as turn his way, they couldnot help but catch him skulking.
Escape was impossible. Trionn dared not risk the noise ofmovement, even to cover his ears. Despite the spirited charge of thestud, neither could he help but overhear every word that passedbetween Lord and crony.
'Will you look at his stride!' the bald man exclaimed in boyishexcitement. 'He can cover ground, for a marvel.'
The stud reached the fence, dropped his hind-quarters underneathhimself with a grace that could stop the breath, and whirled inpirouette. Trotting now in taut-muscled extension, he resumed hispatrol against invaders. His neck was high set, and curved like abow, capped with a mane whipped to elflocks that no groom dared tounravel. The last one to try had suffered a broken wrist. Trionn hadbeen assigned the clearing of the supper boards at the time the latekord, who had been young and a cripple, had gently made disposition.
'Cordiar was never bred to be gentled, but to ride to the fieldsof war.' The Lord raised shaky hands and worried at the shawl thatcovered frail shoulders. His flesh was pale with ill health, the skinnearly transparent against the blankets piled in layers over his lap;his smile seemed the grimace of a death's head. 'My father might havemastered him, had the fighting not sent him to the grave. Leave thehorse to his field. Nail the gate closed and let him live as hisnature allows. He is wild and filled with hate, but beautiful. Hewill run free, as I cannot, and give me simple pleasure by watchinghim.'
 And so the dun stallion had matured, handled by no man, left togallop and kick up his heels as he pleased for the two years beforeSilverdown's master had succumbed to his wasting disease. Unmarriedat the hour of his death, leaving not one bastard as issue, hisinheritance had fallen to a cousin who was also young, but thick-setand muscled, and vigorous.
'You were right to have me come,' the bald man was saying to thenew master. 'Everyone brags on the virtues of their horses, but thisone - he's more than magnificent.'
'A treasure,' the Lord allowed with an offhand cuff at his cloak.Grass chaff ripped up by the stud had clung and sullied 
II0 his velvet, and he fussed until the last damp stems had whirled awayon the wind. Eyes narrowed against lowering sunlight, he watched thestallion reach the corner and whirl. 'A good thing, too. Silverdown'streasury is empty.'
Surrounded by a wealth of bearing fields, the bald man raisedeyebrows in disbelief.
'Oh, yes,' the Lord affirmed with a bitten-off snap of contempt.'Spent out to pay the King's levies, until war took the old man'slife. The cripple who survived him had too soft a heart. Left thetenants their harvests, and ran the household on profits from theorchards. Apples and pears!' The Lord gave a laugh not meant to bepleasant. 'What a fool's game! The manor house might not leak,through a miracle, but the tenants are sullen and spoiled. They'llhave to be taught better manners, if I'm to win Tanemar's daughter.This stallion is all of Silverdown's gold, can we break him. If hisbloodline is any judge, his get should look as fine. As a gift hewill be unmatched. Duke Tanemar will take notice of my suit, and thehand of his daughter will be mine.'
The bald man stroked his chin, while Trionn cowered. 'Largeplans,' he mused, the direction of his gaze never shifting. In thepasture, unaware his wildness was at risk, or that he was beingdiscussed as an item for barter, the stallion kicked up his heels.Hooves sliced across wind with a force that whistled the air. 'He's fast enough for a fact, and made well as any man must envy. I'llstart on his breaking tomorrow, right enough, but tonight, we'llsettle on a fee.'
 The Lord banged the fence with such force that the plankingrebounded with a rattle. The stallion flung up in a rear at thenoise, his shadow scything across his admirers. Hooves struck out ina dancer's grace that masked blows as murderous as assassin'scudgels. 'No fee,' came back the clipped answer. 'As I told you, thetreasury's empty. Break the great brute so he can be caught andstabled. Then send in three of your broodmares. There's fee enough.While my war captain rides the beast fit so he can be shown off undersaddle, the foals will be yours to increase the dun's reputation.'
The horsebreaker slapped thighs clad in worn and dusty leather.'I break other people's stock,' he declaimed. 'I don't keep any formyself.' As the Lord beside him left the fence, the horsebreakerremained riveted by the stud, who pranced and stamped in tight 
III circles. The longing on even that man's jaded face was fresh andbright and transparent as at last he turned to catch up. 'Still,we'll see. Would you consider a split? Payment in silver, and onefoal?'
 The Lord snatched his cuff from the clutch of a briar the mowers had missed. His mouth turned down. 'Certainly not. Duke Tanemar'senough man to please, for setting such store by a daughter who'snobody's beauty. It's the foals or nothing, for you. Press too hard,and I'll send for a gypsy.'
'What, and see your treasure stolen the moment it's tamed enoughto halter?' The voices of the two men dwindled, amiably contentiousas they hammered out terms for their bargain. Trionn sat up in thebrush, feeling whitely shaken. He wished all the cats had not left.In balled up, tongue-tied frustration, he watched the stallion stormout one last gust of air, then settle his head down to graze.
A sadness near to pain ached in his chest at the thought thatsuch a beast should ever be trapped or taken.
Distressed beyond concern for the slaughtered pig, Trionn saw thesun gone, and the sky turned silver at twilight before he trudgedback to resume his neglected chores. The first thing he noticed as heapproached the haphazard cluster of frame buildings that made upSilverdown's manor was that lights burned in nearly every window.Reflections of a hundred flames danced in the boggy, sediment-chokedditch that fronted the tumbledown breastworks. Trionn might have aclumsy tongue, but he was exceptionally quick at balancing. Hecrossed the ditch by footing across a slime-caked log, last remainsof the decrepit palisade. He reached what the servants called theyard, a narrow, irregular court whose cobbles were furred in moss; orhad been. A fresh, dirt-colored scar sliced one corner, where adrudge labored by torchlight to scrape the paving bare.
More of the new Lord's fussiness, Trionn concluded. Stones couldnot grow clothes of moss, and wax lights and tallow dips could beburned without care, as the animals were slaughtered for the table;as a great dun stallion could be torn from his freedom and used as abribe to court a girl. Wrapped in unhappiness, Trionn failed tonotice the cat that had found him already. It trotted up andshouldered between his shins, joined at a run by two more. 
II2 
 The alley past the stables bustled with activity. Horseboysjogged between stalls with buckets and grain to tend a half dozenstrange mounts. Notes spilled in haphazard arpeggios from the gallerywindow as a minstrel tuned up to entertain. A woman laughed and ahound howled, while guards who normally would have argued over dicestood up straight and silent at their posts. Their weapons had neverbeen less than sharp, and they had stayed alert enough to challengeintruders; yet their past rows had enlivened their duty watch, endingalways in companionable laughter. The change in Silverdown's rule hadseen new uniforms with badges at the shoulder. Trailing streamersadorned each man's polearm, as if they were bedecked for atournament.
 But the occasion was no holiday. The servants had little cause tocelebrate. All of Silverdown had been swept into change, until Trionnno longer felt at home. He hurried between a drudge with a basket ofsoiled linens, and the fowler, who carried the cranky old goshawkhooded, and muttered that his dearie should be mewed up and asleep tokeep her health.
Trionn threaded a practiced path through the turmoil, until theorange tabby streaked across a patch of torchlight to join hisimpromptu escort. The cat's arrival drew the eye of the cook, enroute from root cellar to bakehouse to chastise the Lord's page fordawdling.
'You! Trionn! Where've you been all afternoon, and the pots allstacked up for washing? You're a wastrel, boy, and due for whipping.Get inside and back to work, or it's the Lord's own war captain'11 bethe one who stripes your back.'
Trionn ducked his towhead between his shoulders and ran. The cats obligingly followed. Clumsy all of a sudden, he tripped over the doorstoop and crashed into a servant with a basket.
'Boy! There's good bread you've close to spilled and wasted, andthe new Lord with a hall full of guests to feed! Say you're sorrynow!'
 Trionn bobbed his head. He did not answer, though he was capable;speech did not always tie his tongue up in knots. His silence hadlong since branded him half-wit, and shy to the point of cold sweats,Trionn did not argue the misconception. Let Silverdown's staff thinkhim stupid. The sting of their scorn was less than his dread of usingwords to correct them. He talked to the cats well enough when hewished, and had held very halting conversations with the old Lord, before his illness had broughtphysicians who would bar the master's door rather than admit ascullion presumed to be a simpleton.
With the cats, now four, trailing on his heels, Trionn left thebread girl to her curses. He zigzagged past the spits into the pantryto avoid the butcher's notice, lest his absence at the slaughter pencause contention. For all his care, he was spotted.
'The pigs take the knife better when you're there, Trionn,' thebutcher reproached gruffly. 'You want them not to suffer. Well, ifthey're held still, the cut is fast and clean.'
But it was not at all the matter of the pig's dying; had Trionnbeen asked his own wish, he would have let the animals stay alive.His oversensitivity was no simple affectation. Where others inSilverdown's service might lament upon the waste, and curse theLord's lavish feasting that saw a surfeit of scraps thrown to thehounds, Trionn woke up each night in cold sweats, apologizing inhalf-smothered whispers to the dead beasts needlessly sacrificed.
Today's pig would haunt his dreams no less for the fact he hadnot bloodied his own hands.
 Left at last to his duties, Trionn hauled water to the washtuband started to work the dirtied pots. Cats curled around his feet,knotted together in contentment, while the speculative gossip of theservants came and went through the rattle of plates and crockery.
Enith, as always, was most outspoken. She did not sigh over hernew romance with the war captain, but turned sharp-tongued invectiveagainst the master. 'Chased the linen maid as if she wasn't married,and never mind the tart he worships in his next breath is thishighborn daughter of a duke.'
'She may well be Silverdown's next Lady,' interrupted the page.'You should be careful what you say of her.'His comment was ignored.
'She's small, and no beauty, it's said. All dark hair and wideeyes, and hips too narrow to bear a child.' This from the cook, whohad a brood of eight, and his wife once again near term.
'Never mind looks,' the butcher ventured his opinion. 'It's thelass's dowry that's at issue. She'll bring three chests of gold toher bridegroom, and if we're to have candles for the dark nights thiswinter, better all of us pray Silverdown wins her.' 
II4 
 Trionn reached for another pot, and a gob of wet sand forscouring. Behind him, watched by the lazy eyes of his cats, theLord's steward hurried in, looking harried. 'Another five bottles ofthe red wine, and quickly, before there's trouble.'
'Man's brought his horsebreaker to table,' the cook grumbled.'Those kind always drink.' He wiped greasy hands on his sleeves.'Enith, take down the lantern and go for more red!'
'Been to the cellar twice already tonight,' she howled back.'More big spiders than bottles left, that's certain.'
'No help for that.' Still mournful, the cook added, 'Do yousuppose the horsebreaker's here to handle that murdering dun stud? Ifso, he'll want the wine. It's the last drink he'll have before he'sdead.'
 The pageboy took umbrage at this. 'Khaim's better than that. Ionce saw him break the neck of a colt who tossed him. Hit it a blow that knocked it sideways, and it couldn't stand up afterward.'
'No man's that strong,' the cook objected over the creak of thehearth chain as he dragged a kettle off the fire.
'Horse had to be a weak, spindly thing, maybe,' ventured thebutcher. The page insisted not.
Trionn let his scouring sand sink to the bottom of the washwater, sickened all over again. Though he strove over the noise andthe chat to picture the stallion at his fiat, free run across themeadow, instead he was poisoned by visions: of blood in the grass andthe air split by a scream that might have been a woman's. Except thata horse in agony will make the same shrill sound. Trionn doubled overand shivered.
 A hard hand cuffed him back upright. 'Get back to washing, boy,'snapped the cook. 'There's barely a clean pot in the rack yet.'
Half dizzied, Trionn groped for a ladle. His hand stopped stillin midair. He could not touch the gravy that seemed suddenly the samecolor and sheen as congealed blood, nor could he look at the washwater clinging to his skin, so much did it shine like salt tears. Thecook saw his stupefied pallor, and cuffed him all the harder.
'Oh, no, lazy boy. Though you're sick clean down to yourboottops, you'll stay and scour, until all this stack of washing isdone and dry.' 
II5 
 Trionn nodded dully. Midnight came. The lanterns and candles allburned down, leaving darkness cut only by the struggling wick of atallow dip. Alone in the cavernous kitchen, he finished his appointedchores. When he stumbled out at last to find his cot, the mists hadhidden even the moon. 
Banners snapped, and dust blew. The new Lord had invited two friendsand all of his companions at arms to watch the dun stallion'sbreaking. Once again Trionn had shirked his part in the slaughterpen, since a calf roast was to finish the occasion. Hidden in thecrowd of Silverdown's servants, he stood in cap and apron, only onecat by his shins; the commotion had driven all but the boldest andmost determined tom away.
The stallion on whom all this interest centered galloped the farfence line, ears tripping backward and forward, and nostrilsdistended in deep-chested snorts of alarm. Trionn could not watchhim. He could not be as the others, and admire the glossy silvercoat, nor the high, black tail that cracked like a flag in the wakeof his thundering run. Trionn could not bear the sight of thecreature's eye, rolling white, nor could he forget the dreams thathad repeatedly broken his sleep: of blood in the grass, and thestallion's ringing neigh of distress.
And yet, unlike the dragging of animals to the butchef's knife,here, he could not be absent. Tormented by a sickness of fear thatate at his spirit from within, he could not run, but only stare downat the worn-through leather of his boot toes, his shoulders ashunched as though he expected a beating; as if he carried upon them aburden that could bend and break, as finally and carelessly as grassstems were trampled under the feet of today's thrill seekers.
The scullion knew when the horsebreaker climbed the fence by thescream of the dun stallion's challenge; second and without importancecame realization that the onlookers had ceased conversation, even thecordwainer's apprentice, who was said to jabber in his sleep. Theslap of a rope shaken out of its coil reached Trionn's ears, eerilyand evilly distinct over the drumroll of the stallion's charge. Thescullion bit his lip. He felt through his feet the shake of theground, and his sensitized nerves seemed to shudder at the step of the man who paced the greensward, eyesnarrowed and line poised to toss.
The stallion came on like thunder, like storm. The crowd suckedin a taut breath. The horsebreaker poised with slightly bent knees,admiring, though his life stood endangered. He was confident when thedun snapped up short from his run and towered into a rear. The man'shand on the rope did not tremble as black forelegs raked out tostrike. He tossed his loop then, supremely, recklessly sure that hislifetime of skill would not fail him. The throw missed.
 Too fast for the eye to follow, the loop collapsed in a whippingslide off the stallion's knee as his head snaked down, and hewhirled.
 Not off his guard, nor yet shaken, the horsebreaker shouted andsnapped the rope. This horse, like a thousand others, would be boundto shy from any movement, half-seen where equine vision was obscuredby the length of his muzzle. Stallions could be predicted. Theirforehooves came down, then their head, with ears pricked to assessthe threat to their footing; the shy ones would often whirl and run.
The dun stud twisted instead. He landed, still spinning, his earspinned fiat. The horsebreaker shouted to drive him back to a gallop,his hands swiftly reeling in rope. But the stud had done withrunning. His silver-blue quarters bunched, and one hoof flashed backin deadly perfect accuracy to hammer the man where he stood.
Bright blood flecked the green grass. The horsebreaker layunmoving, while a woman screamed, and men on all sides startedshouting, most jostling back from the fence, but others pressingforward. The stud danced a half pirouette, some swore, in celebrationof his unholy victory. The grooms and the stable hands disagreed; thehorse was a killer, but not so driven by rage that he ever oncestopped thinking. The blue dun was far too crafty to mire hispasterns in a corpse or a tangle of rope.
Solitary, unmoved to any human commiseration, Trionn crouchedwith his hands laced over his face. He alone had not exclaimed in shocked sympathy as the Lord's men reached beneath the lower rails,and dragged the horsebreaker's body beyond reach 
II7 of further mauling. The victim was wounded beS*ond solace, if notimmediately dead, and the tears of Silverdown's scullion were shedonly and completely for the horse.
His terror-inspired visions did not leave him. There was blood onthe grass, but a man's, and the beast's, for a surety, must follow. 
The talk in the kitchens after sundown encompassed nothing else.Trionn scrubbed his pots in his corner, and took no solace from thecats, who were thicker than usual about his feet. They might not havespeech, but as he did, they could sense when trouble was afoot.
Enith was shrill in her complaints, as she tapped chilled butterfrom the molds. 'What if the Lord sends his captain to do thekilling? Waste of a fine piece of manhood, did that happen, and ourchampion took a kick like that horsebreaker.'
'Won't,' grunted the butcher, who recalled just short of amistake that the cook would run him out for spitting in contempt onthe floorboards. 'The captain's a bastard for pride. He'd scarce soilhis sword on a job better suited for my flensing knife. Though, mark,if I'm asked to cut that devil creature's throat, I won't, unlesshe's tied down.'
 'Who's to tie him,' Enith snipped back. 'No man but my captainhas the courage.'
'Your captain?' muttered a stable hand, in to grab dinner betweenseeing the guests' horses harnessed. 'Man's owned by nobody, least ofall any one lass. He tumbles anything in skirts, every chance hegets.'
His muttering tangled with the voice of the cook, who offered,'T'were mine to say, I'd use poison. Why take chances, when a bit oftainted feed dumped over the fence could do the job just as well?'
The Lord's page overheard, as he entered with an emptied platter.'The horse won't be killed,' he called clearly. 'He's much toovaluable for that.' Heads turned, all wearing hostile expressions,except Trionn's; he stared fixedly at his hands, immersed to thewrists in grease-scummed water, while the cats butted heads againsthis ankles. 'The Lord has already decided,' announced the page in crisp arrogance. 'He's sent for a gypsy horse-caller. It's broken forsaddle he wants that stud, not dead.'
The cook slammed his cleaver upon the cutting board. 'Magic,' hesaid in contempt. 'Where's the coin to pay for such? Gypsies with thecaller's gift come dear.' His thick, sure hands did their task slowlyas he heaped steaming meat on the platter the Lord's page held ready.
'It's the girl he wants to impress.' Enith sniffed. 'Silverdownwill be beggared ere his Lordship wins her.'
'That's not your trouble,' the Lord's page sniped back, out ofsorts because he was no longer entrusted to wait upon his master'stable. With Duke Tanemar's daughter expected to accompany her fatherwhen the stallion was presented as a gift, the Lord had borrowed apage of higher station, and presumably more refined manners, from hisbrother's household in Tanley. Appointed to serve the lower halluntil a gypsy could be found to tame the stud, the displaced pagemade his resentment felt at every opportunity. Only Enith was exempt,since the boy yet held out hope he might win her favours from thecaptain; to any who would listen, he bragged that soon it might be hewho tumbled her in the hayloft over the barn.
Crouched over the washtub until his hands shriveled and his cuticles chapped and split from the unending mess of dirtied kettles,Trionn reflected sourly that he lost nothing from his disinclinationto speak. What were words after all, but winds that blew here andthere to no purpose? The cats had better sense, to express theircontentment through purring. They yowled only for misery, and metdaily disaffection in dignified, unblinking silence.
The slaughtering continued the next afternoon, yet Trionn wasexcused. The master commanded, and for fear of his Lordlydispleasure, every servant not required for other duties set to workin the sun, pulling out briars by hand. Trionn was given the noisometask of raking dirty rushes from the hall. The wooden boardsunderneath were to be sanded and cleaned. Enith, between frequentsniffs, claimed carpets were sure to follow. When the lastwheelbarrow filled with beetle-infested straw was carted out, Trionnset to with sand bucket and rags. As cats scattered back from thespatter of his scrubbing, he reflected that Enith was spiteful. Therushes had been spread at the behest of a lazy house servant, andonly after sickness had confined Silverdown's doomed 
II9 cripple to his bedchamber. l'he floors be[ore then, back to the oldLord's rule, had been shiningly kept oiled.
Trionn was still at his work, mopping up sand in the shadows ofa back corner, when the gypsy horse-caller arrived. She proved to bea woman, to the surprise of all; tiny, raven-haired, and wearing apatched mantle of greens and browns that might have been pilferedfrom a minstrel. The tassels at the hem were worn to a ragged motleyof threads, and though her hair was braided and clean, her skin wasthe ocher of mud baked dry in the sun.
Trionn recognized her gift when the cats at his heels fled herpresence. Silent as shadow, they stalked off in stiff-backedirritation. The scullion watched their retreat. A chill brushed his skin; as if he, too, sensed the power over beasts that this gypsysorceress could command, and his spirit raised hackles in protest.The hounds did not run. Fickle creatures that they were, bred overgenerations to subservience, they converged in a pack of waggingtails, tongues lolling in canine enthusiasm. They reacted as if thestrange woman in her dusty, faded finery had been the mistress theyhad obeyed since their whelping; as indeed she could be, if shechose. No dumb beasts, and few men, were proof against a gypsycaller's craft. But unlike humans and cats, dogs set small value onindependence. Like whores, they flocked in unabashed eagerness aroundthe woman's boots, begging and whining to be dominated.
Trionn threw down his r~si. oblivious to the fuss _as _servants and guests, and at last the Lord himself took loud-voiced notice ofthe intruder. The scullion unseen in his corner did not follow the woman's words as she announced herself, but heard only the silverytimber of her voice. The pitch set up echoes inside him that noamount of clamor could still. He saw courtiers eagerly joining thecircle of dogs, who were now belly down and begging. Yet Trionn'ssenses gave back false sight. In place of hounds and gentlefolk, hismind could not throw off the vision of the silver-dun stud with his grand neck bowed in submission.
Sudden tears stung Trionn's eyes. His stomach heaved. The bloodon the grass had not been the horse's; better by far that it hadbeen. The Lord who had died a cripple had insisted many times thatdeath held the keys to final freedom. 
Moonlight washed over the meadow. It limned soft silver over the 
I20 stallion who grazed content in tall grass. Trionn sat outside thefence, his lap encumbered by sleeping cats. His hand caressed thebone handle of the butcher's flensing knife, stolen after dark fromthe closet. Over and over, Trionn stroked the blade's edge, checkingits razor keenness. He turned the weighty steel in his hands, andremembered the kick of a pig held pinned in his arms as it died. Helicked dry lips, and sighed as he tested the resolve he had made indesperation, and found himself wanting. He lacked any kind of brashcourage. The fate of the horsebreaker did not haunt him, nor fear forhis own life and limbs. He simply knew. When the dun stallion benthis knees and laid down to rest, Trionn had no will to creep throughthe fence and cut the creature's throat to forestall its misery.Whatever freedom death might offer could not compensate for the poundof wild hooves, or the ripple and play of muscles burnished likeshining silk under sunlight. The stallion would live to be broken,for Trionn did not have in him the requisite hardness for murder.
He sat in the calm of the night, surrounded by cats and the chirpof crickets, and miserably wished he were bold enough to run away.Yet far as a lifetime of travel, though he crossed the rocks of themountains beyond the sands, the memories and the visions would followhim, locked inescapably in his mind. The gypsy caller's powers wouldsting him, no matter where, and he would ache for the stallion's lostspirit. kike the cling of the cats, the persistence of his dreamscould not be shed.
 The deepest and worst of his misery was that he could not eventurn the steel upon himself. The pain did not deter him, nor thedying, but the strange, insistent surety that the cats would be leftbereft. Wise as the creatures could be, they would not understand whyhe should desert them for the sake of one horse's lost liberty. 
The butcher recovered the purloined knife after Enith, returning fromher nightly tryst in the hayloft, caught Trionn in the yard by thekitchens. Particular to a fault when it came to his cutlery, thebutcher's shouted obscenities progressed to extra work as punishment.Trionn was assigned the task of sharpening every tool left dull inthe course of shearing Silverdown's weeds and grass. Left wary afterthe slaughtering that Trionn was practiced at 
12I haring off, the butcher took no chances. He locked the scullion inthe tool shed with a half-filled bucket and a whetstone. The cats could find no way in, however hopefully they sniffed and circled. Intime they were compelled to settle in disgruntled bundles on the doorstoop.
Inside, the shed was suffocatingly hot. Hedged by darknessinadequately beaten back by a bark spill soaked in resin, Trionn setto with the whetstone. He braced the bucket between his knees, andworked the marred edge of a sickle, his mind consumed by awareness ofthe cats' balked desires. He was powerless to ease their unhappiness.
The butcher jammed a wedge under the sill outside. Until he choseto return, or someone else happened by to fetch a tool, Trionn'simprisonment was complete. The likelihood nobody would visit the shedbefore the spill burned out did not matter. Silverdown's servants hadleft for the meadow, the reason for their gathering a distress thatalready fretted the scullion raw. He dipped the stone and resumedhoning, relentless in his determination. He would not think upon whatmust inevitably happen when the gypsy raised her powers to subdue thestud. And yet the moment touched him, all the same.
The tones of the gypsy witch's call clamored through him like thestruck chime of a bell. The whetstone slipped from Trionn's fingersand splashed into the bucket. Droplets warm as blood trickled downhis shins. He did not feel their wetness. Nor did he notice as the spill flickered out, leaving him kneeling in darkness. His eyes werevision-bound to a sunlit meadow, and the form of the slate dun studshaking back his mane, his ears snapped forward to listen.
The gypsy sorceress repeated her call, lower now, almostwheedling.
Trionn felt the resonance of her tone play through the marrow ofhis bones. He remained oblivious to the ribbon of true blood that laced his wrist, from the knuckle laid open on the sickle.
His eyesight remained locked as his mind: on the horse, whotwitched glossy skin, as if to drive off flies. But it was no insectthat stung him. From her perch half on, half over the fence, thegypsy crooned out a binding. The stud's ears flattened and hestamped, where once he would have thundered into a run with his teethbared in fury. 
I22 
 The call came again, compelling. As if whipped, the stallionstarted. He edged one step forward, then two, while in the soundlessisolation of the shed, Trionn winced. Sweat rinsed his cheeks and hisnails gouged his palms as his fingers clenched to fists in the throesof unasked for empathy.
Now the gypsy began a sing-song rhythm that raised the hair atTrionn's neck. He shivered and jerked in concert with the stud asneed swelled into compulsion. The horse lowered his proud crest. Hishooves raised no dust as he advanced. To Trionn, the gypsy's magicsqueezed and confined, as if the leaping flame of a bonfire werecompressed down into one spark. His breath jerked in gasps from hischest.
 'No,' he whispered. 'No.' He closed eyes that had long sincestopped seeing. 'No!'
Yet his physical cry could not alter the spell. The stallionmoved inexorably onward. He had crossed half the distance to thefence, and the woman, tasting victory, climbed down with her handoutstretched.
 The murmurs of the servants, and the Lord's triumphant laugh rangbrittle as breaking ice against the deeper vibration of the summoningthat continued to draw its victim in. One touch from the witch would seal the stallion's submission. 
Trionn understood this in a gut ache of inside of him snapped.
He bit his lip, knees clasped, as his same wrenching sickness hefelt at the 
intuition, and something 
body spasmed with the slaughtering of the pigs. 
Only this time, the cramping and the agony were a thousand times moresevere. He fought to breathe, fought to think, while the sweatmingled unnoticed with his blood and pattered on the dusty floor.
The stallion was a half-stride away from defeat. His loweredmuzzle brushed the grass tips. His eyes were dull, unfocused, and histail, as lackluster as any gelding's.
Trionn knew a spearing agony that threatened to rip away hisreason. He clamped his hands over his sweat-slicked face and forced ahalf-strangled breath. 'No.'
Before his heart could burst, before the great dun could nuzzlethe woman's outstretched brown fingers, he imagined the horse as hehad been, a creature of terrible beauty that no man in his right minddared touch. 
Trionn pictured the stallion with his head upflung, and his eyesrolling white rings in hatred.
There followed a moment of torment, as if the inner fiber of hisbeing was seared by a whirlwind and torn apart. He had no voice tocry out, and no thought beyond a pinpoint awareness that centered onthe slate-blue stud.
 For a second he seemed to be that horse, his senses overwhelmedby the scent of summer grass, and a second, sourer odor left by atrespassing human. Trionn saw through the stallion's eyes the vistaof the fence, and the crowd that lined the rails in maddening noise.He felt the unleashed tension that whipped through the horse as thegypsy's near-finished binding snapped like so much spun thread.
Ever mindful of the horse's speed and power, the woman was fasterthan her predecessor. She dropped and rolled, even as the stallionscreamed in rage. He reared. His shadow raked over the onlookers,driving them back in a panic as his forehooves slashed through air.The woman was no longer there, but already through the fence in awhirl of motley robes. The stallion spun, and from his hind legslaunched himself into a gallop. A bolt of silver fury, he ran. Hismane flew, and his tail whipped behind like the curl and twist of awar banner.
 The shouts of the irate Lord of Silverdown seemed insignificantbefore the racing tattoo of hooves.
In the tool shed, Trionn woke to himself, sobbing beyond allcontrol. The finger unwittingly sliced on the sickle was stinging inthe salt of his sweat. He splashed water from the bucket over thecut, and found his limbs heavy with weariness. His lungs hurt, as ifhe had been racing on foot alongside the galloping horse. The fact hehad not been seemed unreal. Still weeping, he lay back against therolled burlap used to save seedlings from the last blighting touch ofspring frost. His soaked hair plastered to his forehead, he fell intoa dreamless oblivion nearer to unconsciousness than sleep. 
The day waned. Trionn wakened to a slap. He gasped, started upright,
and, dazzled by the glare of low sunlight, saw the butcher standing
over him. 
'Lazy lout!' the man was shouting. 'All day you were in here, 

I24 

and nothing to show for your time. I should have guessed you'd passthe hours sleeping if you could!'
Trionn propped himself up on one arm. He blinked, rubbed hisaching cheek, and glanced around to locate the cats, who should havestolen their chance to bolt inside the instant the door was cracked open.No cats were in evidence.
 For the first time in his life that he could think of, his felinefriends were not there. The stone stoop was empty of their presence,and the butcher was still howling nonsense.
If Trionn was grudging with his speech, he was equally adept atnot listening. He rubbed his arms to ease the chill that swept hisskin. If the cats had left due to the butcher's ranting, thetroubling fact remained: none of them lurked in the shadows behindthe seed sacks, or crouched with flattened ears beneath the shovels.
Above anything else, Trionn dreaded to know what awaited when heventured out of the shed.
 'I should be throwing cold water at your head, boy, to snap youout of your stupor!' The butcher raised the handle of the bucket,prepared to act on his threat, when a second voice cut him off.
'There you are, Trionn!' hollered the cook, his fat bulk dammingthe small band of light that made its way through the doorway. 'Beenfollowing cats into crannies all afternoon, and it's here you've beenskulking all along!' Oblivious to the butcher's prior grievance, thecook barged past and grabbed his errant scullion by the wrist. 'Getmoving, you lunk. There's a stack of pots need scrubbing, and hisLordship in a temper since that cheating snip of a gypsy disappearedand can't be found.'
 Distracted from his ire over scythe blades, the butcher thumpeddown his bucket. 'lt's true, then? The woman was a charlatan?'
'The fact she ran off makes you think so.' The cook jerked Trionnafter as he plowed a path toward the door. 'The Lord's set his ridersto find her. When she's caught, I'd guess there'll be a hanging.'
'And the horse?' Turned thoughtful, the butcher fished hiswhetstone from the water, and reached for an unsharpened sickle.'What's to become of the stallion?'
 'Dogmeat,' the cook affirmed, his head cocked over Trionn'sshoulders. 'The captain at arms was told to down the rogue with anarrow, next time the kennelman needs a carcass.' Then, 
~25 bothered back to priorities by his scullion's dragging feet, the cookturned his invective upon Trionn. 'You heat sick, boy? Pick yourselfup and walk, else I'll pack your bones for the knackerman along withthat devil of a stallion's.'
 Engrossed in miseries far removed from the cook's irritation,Trionn stumbled through the wicket gate into the courtyard. No catscame flying to greet him. Not even the mackerel striped tabby sunningherself on the wall. Dread left him the appearance of listlessness.He responded mechanically to the cook's yanks and prods, not wantingto test what change might have touched him while he had been lockedin a tool shed, and a gypsy had signally failed in the taming of aman-killing stallion.
The entry to the scullery loomed ahead. On the stoop lolled twowhite-muzzled hounds, skinny and scarred, but not too old or tooproud to disdain begging for scraps. Enith leaned against thedoorlintel, sampling a slice of sausage, while the hounds tippedtheir heads at her and rolled their moist brown eyes.Trionnstiffened, half-wild with trepidation.
'Are you daft, boy?' exploded the cook. He gave an abusive yank.The scullion gripped in his meaty fist stumbled forward with abreathless cry.
The dogs immediately stiffened and turned their heads. They sawTrionn. Enith and her sausage were forgotten as they shuffled into alope, tails wagging, and eagerness in their cloudy old eyes.
Trionn flung back from their rush, appalled to a burst of speech.'No,' he croaked, 'not this,' as the dogs rushed to him and leapt forjoy around his knees. They whined and nosed at his fingers, as ifgreeting a long-sought friend.
'What's happening?' yelped the cook, put out afresh by confusion.He threw off the scullion and the dogs, hands raised in nervoustrepidation. 'Always before it was cats.' His tone held a bite ofaccusation as he added, 'Or have the Lord's bitches gone crazy?'
Enith shifted a lump of sausage into the back of her cheek.Around chewing, she said, 'Looks uncanny to me, as if that gypsywitched the dogs instead of the stallion.' Then she fixed hard eyeson Trionn. 'You never said you could talk.'
'Oh, he can,' supplied the cook. 'He just hates to. When he waslittle, his parents beat him for stubbornness. Didn't do any 
I26 living good.' He raised a booted foot and kicked the nearest dog,which yelped and bounded back, to shelter behind Trionn's knees. Thescullion flinched from its touch, hunched and unaware as thediscussion continued around him.
 'Enough foolishness now, Trionn,' berated the cook. 'The potsaren't getting any cleaner while you stand out here acting foolish.'
'If he fakes being dumb, maybe he's not so stupid,' Enithsuggested, while the cook pushed the scullion reluctantly toward thekitchen doorway. She stepped disdainfully aside to let thempast, adding, 'Are you stupid?'He gave no answer.
When the dogs sought to barge through on Trionn's heels, both sheand the cook howled in chorus. Ousting the dogs required all theirattention, and until the door to the kitchen was secured, neither onenoticed that Trionn had not retired to his corner to silently,doggedly, scrub pots.
'He slipped out the side way,' snitched the Lord's page, idle atthe table chewing sausage. He gave a hopeful smile toward Enith, whoresponded with a flounce, cut short as the cook had a fit.
'I'11 have the both of you washing pots!' he roared in fistwavingfury.
The page snickered, as if the threat was a joke. An instantlater, he found himself installed at Trionn's washtub, cursing thestink of tankards and plates left awash in skins of rancid grease. 
Well beyond earshot of the fracas in the kitchen, Trionn ran as a manmight when driven by whips. Wherever he went, the cats in their turnfled his presence. Uncannily choosy by habit, they recognizedprecisely what the gypsy caller's gift had wakened in him. A horsehad been wrested from her spell by his bidding, and of humans withsuch powers they were chary. Trionn knew pain beyond words. Thedependable warmth of the cats' companionship was lost to him, reftaway by an afternoon's longing that in ignorance, he had never knownto fear.
 In his passionate wish to keep the stallion wild, he had neverguessed that desire by itself could afflict him. He raged to admitwhat the cats knew, and the dogs by their mindless fawning: that thecaller's talents had been somehow thrown awry by 
I27 his meddling. The taint of her mystery had touched him. He did notknow if the fluke could be reversed. Though his lungs ached and hismuscles burned, he pressed on in useless exertion. For the inevitableoutcome had not altered. The kennelman was promised a carcass, andthe huntsman's arrow must fly. However far Silverdown's sculliondrove his body, the vision pursued and harrowed him. Still, he sawblood in the grass, the scream of the stallion's dying an echo thatresounded through his mind.
Dusk found him crouched on the rise above the meadow, hisforehead cradled on crossed wrists. He had decided to break down the gate, a desperate act that would ultimately not solve anything.Loose, the dun stallion was a liability. He would steal mares fromall but the sturdiest paddocks, and kill any fool who interfered. Inthe end, he would be chased down. The archer's shot would take him,but in the open, as he ran in all his pride and splendor.
If Silverdown's scullion escaped the fury of the horse heresolved to set loose, what should befall him at the Lord's hand forpresuming such interference defied imagination. In his misery overthe desertion of the cats, Trionn did not care. His fretting over thestallion's fate had long since destroyed his peace; the pain ofspirit he already suffered could hardly be made any worse. All thatremained was to endure until the darkest hour before moonrise.
 The birds quieted, and the crickets began their chorus. Above thesmall sounds of the night, Trionn heard the bell that summoned thefield hands to supper. Past the bog he saw the glimmer of candleswastefully alight in the Lord's hall. The feast went on regardless,the gypsy's failure with the stallion no impediment to the pleasureof those highborn guests still in residence. Yet the thriftlessnessof Silverdown's Lord was of little concern to Trionn. Now that he had firmed his course of action, the stillness as the stars brightenedlent him a measure of peace. The Lord's riders were fanned out acrossthe countryside in search of the vanished gypsy; patrols on theestate would be light, and widely spaced.
The gloom deepened. The breeze carried snatches of Enith'slaughter. The Lord's page could be heard shouting curses at the cook,while in the gatehouse, the captain berated a dozing sentry. Thecobbled yard between lay empty, most of the household settled insideat their supper. Trionn chose his moment. Sweat chilled on his bodyas he rose and crept downhill through mown 
~28 grass toward the stallion's pasture. From a pile of cut brush left bythe laborers who cleared the fields, he selected a stout branch ofoak. He stripped off the bark and twigs, then hastened on toward thegate, nailed shut ever since the forgotten proclamation that thestallion might live undisturbed.
No one stopped him; no rider emerged to cry challenge. Trionnmoved in fixed purpose, too numb to acknowledge his trepidation. Thegate loomed ahead, a barred silhouette against a starlit expanse ofopen grass. He shot his branch home between the heavy planks and thepost, snatched a quick breath, and threw his shoulder into prying.
The nails were well rusted. The ones nearest the oak branch groaned and loosened, while the others stubbornly stuck fast. Dry,weathered wood resisted the strain with a crack. The stallion could not help but be drawn by the noise. Horses were curious by nature,Trionn knew; he desperately shoved all the harder, digging his toesinto dew-drenched grass to keep his stance from slipping. At best hehad a space of seconds before the stud cried challenge. His neighwould draw the Lord's riders. Did they catch the scullion at hismeddling, they would kill him, cut him down without trial as a horsethief.
 Never mind that the stud was a rogue, and the only one wrongedmight be the kennelman. Luck might sour for him, since as a runaway,the dun was as likely to be slain on some other noble's demesne, withthe carcass claimed as spoils in compensation. The kennelman wouldbeat any scullion till he bled, when he learned who had cheated himof fare for his hounds.
 Trionn jammed his hip into the prybar until sweat stung his eyeslike tears. 'Go,' he grunted to the groaning, giving nails. 'Go!'
The rusted steel proved oblivious to pleading; heavy oak mightsplit, but resisted breakage. Trionn thumped his fist on the gate infrustration, then set his branch to the base of the panel and hurledhimself into fresh effort.
 He shoved, his sinews straining in agony. The lower boards gaveway in a shower of jagged splinters. Trionn shifted his prybar, anymoment anticipating the rapid-fire pounding of hooves, followed up bythe bone-cracking punishment of an angry stallion's teeth. He wastaking far too long. Every second his struggle lasted wound hisnerves to the edge of snapping. Dizzy before he realized he wasinadvertently holding his breath, Trionn jerked, dragging the next 
~29 nails from the post with a force fueled by terror. He needed a restbut dared not pause as he confronted the final plank.
Something bumped his shoulder. Startled, Trionn emitted a yelpthat silenced the crickets. His pry branch dropped, thudding into theground. The stud shied back on his haunches with a snort.Horse and boy regarded one another, each one poised to run. Trionnlicked his lips. Panic held him rooted before the gapped boards ofthe gate. His thoughts raced with his heartbeat. Should he bend toretrieve his branch, the stud wonJd strike and kill him; turn andf~ee, and he risked a ripping bite that would cripple him for life.Should he escape with the gate just half broken, his resolve wouldend in bleak failure.
 The dun stud stamped in the starlight. His ears flicked and heshook his neck, his mane spattered like ink down his crest. Hesnorted again and took a tentative, interested step forward.
Trionn watched, paralyzed, as the horse shoved the loose boardswith his head.
 'Dear God,' the scullion mouthed, astonished. Then hisstartlement faded as he noticed the horse's manner held no fury. Acharged, unnatural shudder left him trembling to the soles of hisfeet.
 The stallion shouldered his neck between the gap and shuffled thesleeve of Trionn's shirt. He lipped the cloth, and snorted again,messily wet in his inquisitiveness.
'Dear God,' Trionn repeated, this time in a choked off whisper.His every assumption had been wrong. After all, he had not bidden thestud to assert his own savage nature; not a bit. In his colossal,scullion's ignorance, he had done worse, in fact overturned the gypsywoman's spell with a binding entirely his own.
The dun stallion that had been a killer now answered only to him.
Blindly Trionn bent, groping through dew-drenched grass for thebranch he had dropped in his terror. Shaken to cold sweats, heloosened the final boards of the gate, while the stallion lipped athis hair, and blew gusty breaths in his ear. The huge creature eyedhim through tangled strands of forelock as the last few nails gaveway. Trionn yanked down the battered boards. 'Go!' he urged, his faceaverted, that he need not be tormented by the absolute trust thepowerful stallion placed in him. 'Get out of here!'The stud obliged by standing still. 
~3o 'They'll kill you!' He waved his hands. 'Run!'A bony head banged his elbow.
'Oh, be off,' Trionn cried. He stumbled back in a flummoxed fitof frustration. Never in his ugliest nightmare had he thought toguard against an assault by the mad stallion's friendliness.
Unfazed by human foibles, the horse followed, his nostrilswidened in a companionable snuffle that stopped just short of anicker. As briskly as the boy whose unwitting call had touched himcould back away, the stallion strode after, unhurried, butunshakeable in equine determination. Trionn belatedly understood thatshort of outright shouting, or a blow to the nose with a stick,nothing would drive the stud from him. The noise of his outcry wouldcertainly bring investigation from the riders; and any blow he mightstrike would now be an unthinkable betrayal. The horse was no longerwild, nor tamed to any touch but Trionn's own. His dilemma over thestallion was compounded.
Bonded as he was to the horse, it was inconceivable to leave himloose to be hunted and butchered for dogmeat.
Trionn sat in the meadowgrass, glaring morosely at his boots.They were worn at the toes, unsuited for the miles of wear he was nowgoing to have to require of them. The already tired leather would rotoff his feet by wintertime, and where could he steal or beg enoughcoin to pay for the stallion's upkeep? Such worries were moot if hefailed to hide such a distinctive and costly animal from discovery bythe Lord's patrols.
The rising moon already glimmered through the trees. No timeremained to restore the gate and formulate a reasonable escape.Shoved again by a warm nose, then tickled about the ears by theinquisitive stallion's lips, Trionn cursed. The horse raised his headas if puzzled.
'Well, I don't know what to do,' Trionn said aloud, more wordsthan he had used in one breath for ~che better part of a month.
In the end, he settled for walking. The great dun paced at hisheels with no more shame than a dog might show, adoring a master whohad kicked him.
 'You were wild,' Trionn accused bitterly. 'You liked it that way,remember?' The horse only snorted, wetting the back of his neck.
The path beyond Silverdown's back thickets stretched away throughan expanse of tenant farmland. It was dusty, left rutted from the passage of the costermonger's carts that would rattle to themarket before dawn. Now, when the field-hands were sleeping, and mostnobles sipped wine in the comfort of candle lit halls, the way wasempty, a silvered ribbon twisting away toward lands that Trionn hadnever dreamed of seeing. He was hungry, tired, and lost outside hiscorner in the kitchen where the pots and the washtub waited. Hebrooded as he walked, while the stallion grazed the verges, thentrotted between mouthfuls of snatched grass to keep up.
At intervals he would nudge Trionn, or playfully nip at the boy'ssleeves. To turn around, even once, was to acknowledge the creature'smagnificence. The full impact of what had gone wrong at the moment ofthe gypsy witch's call left an ache of inconsolable frustration.
'I'm the last person you should trust to look after your fate,'Trionn cried, exasperated.
He crossed a plank bridge, the boom of the stallion's hooves athis back a disturbance that shattered the stillness.
 A rustle from behind the span, and a half-seen, fitful movement,caused the stallion to shy back. He arched his neck, ears flattened,then feinted with bared teeth toward what he saw as a threat. Startled silly, Trionn gaped as what looked like a bundle of ragsextricated itself from the undergrowth.
The moonlight revealed a small woman, her manner decidedly vexed.'By my mother's blood! It was you who turned my call!' The fury onher oval face was justified. 'Why in hell's name did you do it, boy?My reputation's thoroughly ruined.'
The stallion screamed and struck. Quicker than he by ahairsbreadth, the gypsy hopped the rails of the bridge, stillcarping. 'Call him off, idiot. Before we're noticed, and findourselves cut down for stealing.'Mistrustful of words, Trionn gave a shrug, palms up.
The woman snapped back an obscenity in the gypsy language of thehills. 'You've got uncommonly strong talent, for a boy who doesn'thave the faintest idea what he's doing.' Her acid commentary cut offas she ducked beneath the bridge to avoid the enraged stallion'sstrike. As teeth lunged for her wrist, she dropped out of reach andlanded mid-stream with a splash.'Lay your hand on him,' she instructed, annoyed as if she had 
132 just turned her ankle on a stone. 'The horse will feel your touch,and sense through you that I mean no harm.'
Trionn feared to approach the whirling mass of equine nerve andmuscle that could, and had, killed men outright. But the clatter asthe horse rampaged across the bi:idge span demanded immediatereaction. He steeled his nerve, reached out, and was startled yetagain as the stallion anticipated his movement, and seemed at onewith his intent. The creature settled back on all fours, curved hisneck, and lipped at Trionn's fingers.
From the far side of the bridge, bedraggled and wringing wet, thegypsy woman shouldered out of the briars on the river bank. Sheregarded the mismatched tableau presented by the awkward, diffidentboy and a stallion bred to carry princes. Her eyes turned absorbedand thoughtful, while the moonlight glinted off the water thatdripped from her rags like a fall of thrown diamonds.
'You're exceptionally gifted with animals,' she mused. 'I expectyou also know how to ride?'
Trionn cast her a look of mortified affront, and the stallionsnorted warning in concert.
The gypsy witch shook her head, and busied herself wringing muddywater from her skirts. She sighed at last and straightened. Trionnreceived a long look that chilled his flesh, and set his knees totrembling.
A gypsy horse-caller's spells could be used on more than a beast;her voice when she finally spoke held a whetted edge of threat. 'Ifyou never dreamed of owning this horse, of riding him, why in thename of the mysteries did you wrest him from my control?'
Trionn swallowed. There would be no running away from her; hemust force his throat to loosen, and his tongue to shape coherentspeech. 'I didn't,' he blurted clumsily. 'I wanted the stallion tostay wild.' And unbidden, the tears started, born of shame, that he,and the last person living to crave dominion, had been the one tospoil the stallion's fiery independence.
'My mother's blood!' the gypsy swore in a voice that cracked intolaughter. 'You've a gift to outmatch mine, and you thought to stay asimple scullion? I suppose the cats jumped into your cradle since themoment of your birth, and nobody knew what that meant?'
Trionn nodded. He swallowed again, painfully. 'I hate myself. Forbreaking the stallion's spirit.' 
I33 
 The gypsy gave another breathless laugh. 'You didn't. Not atall.' Her brusquehess was intended to reassure, but caused Trionn astart of alarm. Dropping handfuls of wet hems, she sat down in thedust by the roadside, and rested her pointed chin in delicate, almostelfin hands. 'Boy, listen to me carefully. You did not harm thathorse. What you did was bond with him. He is now your best friend,and more. He is twinned to your thoughts. I will teach you what thatmeans, but for now you must understand. You called, and he answeredentirely of his own will. His wildness was won over by your depth ofcompassion, and that was no mean feat. Believe me in this, for Iknow. I also touched that horse, and the distrust in his heart wasburied deep. You bested my skills through no mistake. That stud waslistening for your voice to command him from the moment he was firstfoaled.'
 'But I don't understand how that happened!' Trionn cried inrising unhappiness. 'And I felt your call! It was painful!'
The gypsy shouted back, 'Hurtful to you, boy, because it was notpitched for your spirit!' Her manner suddenly gentled. 'I know you'reconfused. But what counts this minute, is that the Lord of Silverdownwill not pardon either of us if we're caught. He will find his roguestallion gone, and believe that I accomplished the task I was biddento. The dun's attack upon me in the meadow will be taken for awitch's trick, arranged to cover my escape. You must understand whatyou've caused, boy. I'll be blamed for the stud you called, and behunted and hanged as a horse thief.'
She did not exaggerate. Too well Trionn recalled thehorsebreaker's warning to Silverdown's Lord, that were he to summon agypsy, the stallion he desired to break would be stolen the firstnight after gentling. Awkwardly the scullion locked his fingers inthe warmth of the horse's mane. 'What's to be done? I know nothing atall beyond pot washing.'
The gypsy caller sighed. 'I'11 become accomplice to a horsethief, after all.' She shrugged, rose, and gave another of hersilvery laughs. 'The hangman might as well find me guilty. Still, myskills should be enough to turn the Lord's riders awry. With luck, Ican hide all three of us. But I have a condition to set.' She regarded the scullion and his unlikely companion, a horse so noblyproportioned, that men might try murder to possess him.
Trionn looked warily back, never before conscious of how tiny shewas, and how determined. Even clad in drenched rags, she had 
134 the poised tension of a wild thing, or an owl in the moment beforeflight. For the first time he could recall, words came easily in thepresence of another human being. 'What do you ask?'
'That you learn to ride, because we're going to need to travelfaster and farther than either of us can go on foot.' At Trionn'sscowl, she bore unmercifully on. 'And you must swear to stay with meuntil such time as you can marshal the talent you were born to.''That's two things,' Trionn pointed out.At his shoulder the stallion stamped.
The gypsy woman caught his eyes and compelled him to hold hergaze. 'Is it yes?'
And the boy who was destined to be other than Silverdown'sscullion bit his lip. Haltingly he gave his oath. When he finished,he added vehemently. 'I am not a horse thief!'
To which the gypsy witch laughed as she hurried him on down theroad. 'As you wish, boy, but face fact. That's what your gifts makeyou best at.' 
The stallion's disappearance was years in the past, and forgotten byall but a few when the stranger arrived at Silverdown. He came to thegates just past dusk, clad in a dark dusty cloak. To the watchman whocalled him challenge, he gave no name. He insisted, quietly firm,that he had business with $ilverdown's Lord.
 'Lady,' corrected the guardsman, his chin out-thrust over thepole of his halberd. 'Have you no news of the folk you've traveled tovisit? The Lord's been dead these five years, and his wife and oneson survive him.'
 The stranger bowed in apology. He did not appear to be a brigand.Nor could he be mistaken for a beggar out to win a meal. He waited inthe twilight with his head cocked, as if the palisade and stone gatekeep were a surprise he had not expected. The buttons on his cloakwere silver. He journeyed on foot by choice: at his shoulder stood amagnificent silver-dun stallion, bridleless, halterless, saddleless.Muscled and shining like high-gloss silver, the creature had the fireof a warhorse, but with significant difference. He followed the manwithout restraint, apparently of his own free will. Dark, equine eyesregarded the gatekeeper, who studied the horse-master in turn withsearching 
I35 distrust. Yet the man carried no war gear. He was, in point of fact,unarmed.
 'Let me speak with the Lady, then,' the stranger insisted. Thetimber of his voice was persuasive, if not impossible to deny. 'Iwill take but a minute of her time, and need not ask lodging for thenight.'
Much against his orders and inclination, the guard grudginglyopened the gate. The stranger strode inside. Without any visiblesignal, the horse flanked him stride for stride.
The pair reached the courtyard, where a tabby cat leapt up fromcleaning itself. One glance at the stranger, and it fled withflattened ears and streaming tail. The stable boy who came to tendthe horse was waved back.
 'He will stand,' insisted the man in the same voice that hadplacated the gate guard.
The stallion remained at liberty in the courtyard, obedient tothe letter of command while his master pursued his business insidethe keep. Beyond the occasional switch of his black tail, thecreature might have been a statue. He raised no hoof, but laid backwarning ears at the stable boys who ventured too close in admiration,and the old, half-blind master at arms whispered behind his scarredhand that despite the silver buttons on his cloak, the visitor musthave a taint of gypsy blood. 'At least, that stallion shows a witch'stouch for a surety.'
'But he had light hair,' objected Enith, grown blowsy through theyears since she had claimed distinction as the captain's latestconquest. 'The man didn't look to me like any gypsy!'
Still regarding the horse, as if he were pricked by a memory justbeyond grasp of his awareness, the armsmaster gestured in contempt.'You would see as much or as little as that man allowed, for such isthe nature of his sorcery.'
The discussion heated into argument, as darkness deepened over ayard left sadly gloomy by the utter absence of torchlight.
Upstairs in the hall, before trestles more scarred than heremembered, the stranger paused in the flickering firelight thatspilled across the floor before the hearth. On boards scraped bare ofwax or polish, he bowed in respect to the Lady. The dimness, or maybehis economy of movement made him seem at one with the shadows as helifted a pouch from the crook of his elbow. This he placed with aclink on the table beside the embroidery she had 
I36 abandoned since the last daylight had fled. He did not comment on thedearth of candles as he said, 'This belongs to you.'
The Lady's silk-dark eyebrows arched up. 'I beg your pardon, sir?My Lord left debts, not debtors, or none that he mentioned at hisdeath.'
 'This one he must have forgotten,' the strange man corrected mostgently. 'Let me offer my condolences on your husband's passing,though we were never friends. His heir is the proper recipient. Thecoin in that purse is Silverdown's gold.'
'Might I know what service was rendered to require such generouspayment?' Piqued to curiosity, the Lady leaned forward enough thatthe firelight touched her. She locked trembling hands in her lap,though the gesture failed to conceal the calluses that marred herfine skin. Silverdown had fallen on hard times and yet, even as herstraits were exposed to the eyes of her visitor, she did not snatchup the pouch. As if need did not demand that she count the moneyinside, though the fringes of her shawl were dark with tarnish, andher dress had been embroidered at the bodice to hide its past historyas a cast off. Poor as Silverdown's Lady might be, her bearing neverdeserted her. She carried herself regally as a queen.
Her presence was forceful enough that the stranger stood as iftongue-tied, betraying awkwardness before highborn grace. Or perhapshis diffidence stemmed from reluctance to reveal an unpleasantnessbetween himself and the late Lord, whom very few folk had cause tolove. In a musical softness that somehow did not convey theimpression of grudging character, he said, 'Mark the entry in yourledger as stud fees, and back payment for the purchase of a horse.'
'I don't understand,' said the Lady. 'My Lord never stood anystallions.'
 Something about her smallness stirred recognition, or maybe hercareworn, homely face made him ask, 'Are you the Earl of Tanemar'sdaughter?'
Startled to an intake of breath, she admitted, 'I am.' Since herfather had fallen out of favor with the King, not many cared tomention his name with kindness.
 'Then,' said the stranger in sweet courtesy, 'ask his grace theDuke of the blue-dun stud he was promised as a gift when your lateLord aspired to become your bridegroom.' 
I37 
 The Lady glanced aside too quickly. 'I can't,' she admittedafter a difficult pause. 'My father has been imprisoned. The fine tosecure his freedom is more than my brother or I have in our powers topay.'
But politics and the feuding of the highborn lay outside thisstranger's concern. His silence grew prolonged. When the Lady at lastsought to prompt him, she discovered the chamber left empty. Herelusive visitor had departed. Only the pouch on the table remained asproof of his presence.
The coins inside were heavy gold, and the full count of them, amiracle. When the Silverdown's ancient steward checked on his mistress hours later, he found the Lady silently weeping. A shiningspill of coins lay in her lap, and in sparkling piles around herfeet.
 Months later, Silverdown's Lady did the stranger's bidding formore reason than to ease her curiosity. She did not inquire of herfather, for the Duke became irritable at reminder that Silverdown'sgold had bought his reprieve from the King. The tale was recounted bythe butcher, of a man-killing stallion that had been stolen on thesame night as a scullion, mistakenly called dumb, and a half-wit, haddisappeared without trace from the estate.
'He was a shirker, a sneak, and a liar, too,' the butchervehemently summed up.The Lady frowned. 'I thought you said he could not speak?' 'Well, notentirely,' the butcher allowed. He stroked his unshaven chin. 'Trionnnever talked to anybody, a queer enough habit to have. He wasn't thesort to care about repayment of a debt. He stole my best blade, youknow, the same day he took off with the stallion.'
The Lady tucked a fallen strand of hair underneath the edge ofher hood. 'You got the knife back?' she asked outright.
The butcher shrugged, then nodded. 'One of the servants caughthim crossing the open yard. He never said what he'd intended to dowith it,' this last, on a note of self-defense.
Silverdown's Lady gave back no reproach beyond a sigh. 'From thelook on your face, l'd expect that nobody ever asked him.' Shereflected a moment on the gold, the value of which added up to asurprising fortune. The man who had repaid the coin, and then gonehis way after scarcely a dozen words, had left wealth enough 
138 to buy out the estate and its lands, twice over; the irony of thatraised a mystery. As if the fortune itself had been the pittance, andthe principle behind, the tie to conscience. 'If I were to guess,'the Lady ventured, 'I should say that none of you knew the boy.'
The butchef's only answer was a mutter that may have maskedcontempt.
Alone in the cut of the wind through the yard, the Lady huddledinto her cloak. Fiercely, and for the rest of her days, she regrettedher well-bred restraint. Too late she wished she had asked the strange visitor to stay, or at least to take a light supper. He maynot have been comfortable telling about himself, but perhaps shemight have learned more about the horse that had restored her tofortune and future. 
I39 Double Blind 
The encounter happened entirely without warning, in the thick ofbattle at Dead Star 3I. As if by design, the Fleet's most juniorlieutenant sat drumming his fingers at the controls of a state-of­the-art Fleet scoutship. Light from the monitors silvered hisaristocratic profile, which expressed bitterness, frustration, andlonging. The scout craft Shearborn was commissioned as a chaser,handily styled for concealment. She carried just two plasma cannon.Hit and run, or follow and hide, had been her designer's intentions;'mop-up following engagement' read the bottom line in her battleorders. Last month, even yesterday, Commander Jensen had burned for asmall part in the Alhance offensive at Dead Star 3I. Today, whileothers were earning advancement and citations of valor for cripplingthe new Khalian dreadnoughts, he ached for action.
The firing studs so near his tapping fingers were dandy, exceptthere were never going to be enough of them to satisfy the ambitionthat smoldered beneath the lieutenant's faultlessly correct Fleetbearing.
Across the cockpit, Harris slouched in the untidy gray of hispilot's coverails. The wing patch at his shoulder crumpled under hisfingers as he scratched himself, paused, then whistled as if at awoman. 'What the hell?' His eyes widened, bright with the reflectedflashes of battle off the analog screens.
Jensen spoke frostfly from his crew chair. 'Have you something toreport?'
The pilot raised his eyebrows at the reprimand. His most insolentgrin followed, as he banged a key for redefinition, then added inlilting admiration, 'What the blazes is a tub-engined private haulerdoing blasting ass across a battle?' 
I4O k ;t
 Narrow-eyed and intense, Jensen regarded the offending speck onthe screens, hedged now by flashes of plasma fire as she slicedthrough warring factions of Khalian and Fleet dreadnoughts. Overhead,the monitor on citizen's frequency blared a curse and a startledchallenge; the tone of the officer who hailed the offendingmerchanter matched that of Harris, exactly.
As the civilian vessel continued to hurtle across the lines, aprickle of intuition touched Jensen. His gut went cold and hisfingers clenched. 'That's nobody's merchanter.'
He keyed his board for more data. At once the craft'sconfiguration flashed in design graph on his screen, ugly andungainly as a toy assembled by a kid from unassuming bits of junk.Recognition struck Jensen like a blow to the vitals. He knew thatcraft, would remember her anywhere, from any angle, even to his dyingmoment. What could the Marity be doing carving a line across a Fleetoffensive? It meant nothing but the worst sort of trouble; hercaptain happened to be the craftiest skip-runner in the Alliance.
Harris stared, captivated at the analog screens. 'Bugger, thatpilot's got the gift. Will you look at that evasion?'
Jensen needed no proof of the Marity's maneuverability. He hadpersonally experienced MacKenzie James's corkscrew style at the helm.Recall left the young officer sweating, not out of nerves but inmemory of the aftermath, and a degrading depth of humility a proudman would kill to erase. Jensen reacted this time without thought.'Follow him.'
 Harris looked up from the screens. Blank with incomprehension, hesaid, 'What? Are you brain-shocked? That guy's Weasel steaks in themaking, mate. He's ducked into the Khalian lines.'
'I saw.' Jensen turned his chair away. 'I ordered a chase on thathauler. Section seven, bylaw four sixty two point zero, punishmentfor insubordination -'
 'Court-martial, followed by death without appeal at conviction. Iknow.' Harris flipped off his pilot's beret and scratched his red-thatched scalp. The hair sprung in snarls beneath his fingers.Challenge lit his eyes, which were blue, and about as innocent as athief's. 'Your faith in my ability is a compliment, mate. What I'dkiss fish to guess, is what excuse you've got ready for old by-the­book and his-grandpa's-an-admiral Meier. Because if your joyridedoesn't get us slagged by Weasels, the commodore's surely going to sling your ass on a plate. Remember section seven, bylawfour sixty five point one, punishment for disregard of standingbattle orders and leaving assigned position?'
Jensen said nothing. He sat straight in his chair, his hair waslike combed ebony, and his fingernails trimmed short like a model's.Harris pressed switches and sequenced the Shearborn's condenser coilsinto recharge for FTL. Then Jensen fussed with the adjustment of hischair belts, as Harris shrugged, punched up the gravity drive, andwrenched their little chaser out of Station.
 Immediate protest issued from the ship-to-ship com speakermounted above the controls.
 'Commodore Meier, howling for both your balls,' surmised Harris.His fingers hesitated ever so slightly above the flight board.
'Just carry on!' Jensen tripped a switch, and the angry voice oftheir superior became buried in background noise as the power banksgunned maximum thrust into the engines.
Harris grinned in that cocksure manner indigenous to pilots.Skill of his caliber was too scarce to waste; when the boom camedown, he could count on some measure of immunity.
Against the wrath of irate brass, Junior Grade Lieutenant MichaelChristopher Jensen, Jr, had only the far-reaching influence of hispolitician father; if, that was, Jensen senior chose to bend hispublic stance of calling no favors for his son. Harris preferred tobelieve that paternal sentiment would prevail as he spun the chaserin a neat turn and opened throttle.
The lieutenant in command knew otherwise. Heart pounding, Jensenexpected that hell would freeze before his family would bail him outof trouble. It had been his father's imperiousness about carving hisfortune on his own that had tangled his fate with that of the skip-runner captain in the first place. The Shearborn's pursuit simplyresumed unfinished business.
 Vigorous protest arose right on schedule. Commodore Abe Meier'svoice barked angrily on emergency interrupt. 'I'11 have yourofficer's bars, boy, and a mark for desertion on your record thateven God can't erase.'
 Slammed back into his crew chair by inertia, Jensen laced hisfingers to stop their shaking. No threat could make him reconsider;by now, their course was committed. Harris's cocky grin was gone,dissolved into a frown of sweaty concentration. 
I42 'Snarking game of live pool,' the pilot murmured, and intentlyslapped a control.
The Shearborn veered, narrowly missing the expanding nebu1osityof a plasma burst vessel. Debris pattered against the hull, andsomething clanged against the port gun housing. Then they were pastand screaming a tortuous course through the flank of the Fleetoffensive.
 Jensen barely noted the glittering bursts of fire on the analogscreens. Harris's wizardry at the helm escaped him utterly. He sawonly the white streak that was the Marity, twisting now with theimmunity of a miracle through the thick of the Khalian fleet. DeadStar lay beyond, a disk sharp as a compass cut through a backdrop ofscattered stars. As if that dark body were a magnet, MacKenzie Jamessteered his craft for the core.
 'Crazy,' Harris muttered over the scream of the gravity drive.'Slag his coils for sure, if he doesn't slow down to shed heat.'
Jensen sweated with his uniform fastened to the chin. The course Mac James had chosen was too predictable not to be deliberate. Thelieutenant reaffirmed his intent to capture the space pirate. Noprice was too great to see the Marity's captain brought to justice.'Don't lose him, Harris.'
The pilot half spun from the controls. 'I won't melt down anengine for anybody's pleasure, sir. Not to capture the devilhimself.'
 Jensen knew Marity's master was the devil incarnate. His shoutfor Harris to continue was cut off by the rising wail of theproximity alarm.
The pilot shrugged, stabbed the switch to raise the chaser'sshields. The alarms went silent. Seated like a stone image and half-lighted by the angry yellow glitter of the monitors, he continued hissilence, clearly challenging his superior to pull rank.
Jensen refused argument. Ruled by the need to evade the fire ofFleet and foe alike, Harris could not abandon their new course all atonce; and a slight change on the analog screens offered a tellingreason why the Shearborn should continue.
Absorbed with planning an evasive maneuver, Harris took longer tonotice that the Marity appeared to be braking. If the skip-runnercaptain who flew her intended to slip pursuit, deceleration cost himthe chance. Past Dead Star and the forefront of the battle lines, theFleet chaser would be on him like a wasp. 
I43 Mac James never made stupid misjudgments.
Convinced that he witnessed the power lag as the Marity chargedher coils for FTL, Jensen grinned with a candor normally kept hidden.The Shearborn was newly commissioned; fitted with gadgetry hot offthe design boards, she was capable of following her targets throughFTL. 'Harris, close in tight. We're going to trace the Marity's iontrail.'
 'Just a snarking minute!' The pilot shot a glare at his superior.Giving a skip-runner chase across a battle line was a lark he couldboast of to buddies, a daredevil affirmation of skills that mightbring the customary slap on the wrist for high jinks that traditionaccorded a gifted pilot. Deserting the scene of a battle was anotherthing, a speed-class ticket to court-martial and a firing squad. Leftgrouchy by the risks just taken, Harris ended with a gesture thatbrooked no argument. 'Forget it, sonny.'
Jensen's amusement vanished. His obsidian eyes never left theanalog screen, where a tiny fleck of light winked into being. Itblinked once, then steadied onto a vector that bent gently andmatched course with the Shearborn. The lieutenant keyed foradditional data and almost laughed outright in satisfaction. 'We'vepicked up a stalker mine,' he announced. Even his recalcitrant pilotmust now bow to expediency; the only effective evasion was to transitto FTL before the missile closed.
 Harris scanned the readout without alarm. 'Stalker mine's a damned lousy reason to go AWOL, sir, when we carry the coded disarmfrequency.'
'For Fleet any offensive,' Jensen responded. He sounded smug.'This one's manufactured by the Freeborn. Check your screen, pilot,only do it fast. If you hesitate, Marity escapes, and we getconvicted posthumously.'
Harris shot a withering glare, fingers flying over the controls.'What's Freeborn hardware doing crapping up this sector, anyway? Itmight just get us killed.'
Jensen answered with a confidence born of ruthless networking.'Fleet intelligence scoped a Freeborn plot to slam the Khalian rearwave. But the codes for rebel stalkers weren't part of the package.'
Harris cursed. Jensen's explanation made no sense whatever; sincesecession from the Alliance, the Freeborn were hostile to the Fleet.But dispute of the fine points made a fool's errand. The 
I44 damnable fact remained: a stalker mine of enemy manufacture hadlocked onto the Shearborn as a target. Either Harris abetted Jensen'scraziness and punched into FTL, or two million credits' worth ofchaser got cremated. The reasonable alternative was to commitdesertion in pursuit of a recognized criminal, except that the pilotwould need to fly a course like macram~ to make transit before thestalker took the Shearborn out.
 Harris tripped the controls with an attitude of reckless abandon.Spun hard against her limits, his spacecraft flexed and groaned underthe stresses of centrifugal force. As a grade-one test pilot, Harrishad survived a lot of mistakes; he had a sixth sense for gaugingtolerances. The chaser might protest, might develop a stress shear ortwo, but her tail pins would stay tight as she twisted and spun togain distance from the less maneuverable mine. Harris caressed themachinery, wooing the electronics as he would a lady; the wail of thealarms and the digital display showing the stalker's course ofintercept made him itch, as if the hot breath of the hardware fannedthe back of his neck.
 Jensen followed only the skip-runner ship that drifted like alopsided jewel at the rim of Dead Star's disk. Apparently nerveless,he cared for nothing beyond the moment when Marity's image flashedand vanished from the analog screens.
By then Shearborn was barely inside the requisite radius for anion trail fix, with the stalker closing fast.
A green sequence of numbers flooded the navigational screen.Harris waited a panicky moment for resolution of a course readout.When the figure stabilized, he hammered the lever down and blew akiss in sheer relief. Never in life had he been happier to suffer thequeer hesitation in continuity that marked the transit to FTL. Heblinked, elated that no explosion had erased his existence. The nextinstant, triumph died, quenched by the realities of the moment.Harris unclipped his seat restraints and rounded angrily on hissuperior.
'Snarking hell, Jensen. You damned near got us roasted. You knewFreeborn stalkers were loose out there! For that I'd like to pushyour face in. I wonder if you understand how close we came to beingionized?'
 Jensen swung his crew chair from the screens. His dark eyesshowed not the slightest trace of regret. 'Try to remember howclose,' he said. 'If you lose Marity on me, that stalker 
I45 mine will be the only excuse we have to offer at our defensebriefing.'
'And may you shrivel in front of the ladies for that,' snappedHarris. He wanted a drink, and a chance to take a leak in realgravity. What began as a lark had turned seriously sour; until thesensors signaled Marity's transit from FTL, nothing remained but towait and brood, because certainly no sane man was going to fathom theintentions of Lieutenant Jensen. 
The transit lasted days. Harris slept, or banged about in thechaser's tiny galley unearthing the beer he had stashed where heswore no Fleet inspector would check, never mind that access to hiscache took most of his off-watch time. He needed his comforts. A man couldn't get booze in detention; to Harris's thinking that wasprecisely where Shearborn's hare-brained officers would be headed.
'Autolog won't lie for us,' he carped when the lieutenant incommand crossed paths with him at meal time.Jensen refused to debate.
Harris parked the heels of his boots on the table and cradled hismug, which untruthfully read c o F F E ~, between his knees. But evena barbarity of this magnitude provoked no reaction. Nettled by thelieutenant's secretive silence, the pilot added, 'A leap this longcould send us clear to Halpern's.' Which was about as far fromKhalian raid sites as a ship could go, and stay within chartedAlliance space. 'You better think up a very fancy alibi.'
Jensen sat down opposite, drank his orange juice in chillystillness. His uniform looked as if he had just stepped off parade.No stubble shadowed his chin. Just when had he taken time to groom?Harris wondered. Since the jump to FTL, the man had done little elsebut pace before the analog's blank screen, brooding over theunguessable motives of Marity's skip-runner captain. 
Despite such fanatical vigilance, the tracking alarm caughtShearborn's crew of two napping. Harris shambled from his bunk,stretching like a bear and complaining of a hangover. As always, heslept in his uniform. Jensen had not. He bolted without ceremony from his berth, clad in fleur-de-lis pajamas that looked like theyhad been starched with his uniforms.
 'You guessed right,' he announced when Harris reached the bridge.'Marity broke light speed in Halpern's Sector.' He flicked irritablyat his uncombed hair and killed the FTL drives. The Shearborn abruptly ended transit, underwent that unnerving blurring of edgesthat heralded return to analog navigation.
Harris winced as his hangover flared in sympathy. Once realitystabilized, he laid his cheek against the cowling of the companionwayand muttered something concerning martyrs and zealously sobercommanders.
 Jensen ignored the comment, fingers drumming impatience while thesensors assimilated data and the screens flashed to life.
 Visual display revealed the dim red disk of a dwarf star, astrangling haze of interstellar dust, and no immediate reason forMarity's choice of destination. Jensen chewed his lip. 'Why should aplanetless star in Halpern's interest MacKenzie James?'
Harris pitched himself into the pilot's chair, his coverailshalfway unfastened. He studied the readouts, then shot his companiona look of surprise. 'That's Cassix's star.' The lieutenant continuedto look blank, which proved to a certainty that his source networkhad not included scientists. Harris explained. 'Any test pilot knows.That's the site of Fleet's classified orbital R&D lab the deep-spaceflight-and-weapons division, where the fancy new gadgetry getsprototyped. Security like a church vault, though. A skip-runnershouldn't be able to get close.'
But along with gunrunning, MacKenzie James's speciality wastrafficking military secrets; he'd stolen records from Fleet Baseonce and gotten away clean. Uncomfortably, Jensen consideredimplications. The skip-runner was a dangerously subtle man. If theShearborn's crew caught him attempting a raid upon the Cassix base,they would instantly become heroes.
Jensen thought quickly. 'Where's Marity? Have we still got a fixon her?'
 Harris raised his brows with dry sarcasm. 'You haven't lookedthrough the tail port?'
Jensen did so, and colored as if caught in a gaffe. The Maritydrifted off the Shearborn's stern, so close that the scurfs of everycareless docking could be counted in her paint. To the last wornstrut, the craft looked her part; that of a privately 
I47 owned, hard-run cargo carrier that had suffered and survived asuccession of mediocre pilots. Scratches to the contrary, the man atthe Marity's helm had to be Harris's equal or better to have achievedher present position with such delicacy. The chaser's most sensitivemotion detectors had tripped no alarm.
'Serves you right for leaving FTL without taking precautions,'muttered Harris. 'That merchanter's inside our shield perimeter. IfMac James is inside, he's certainly laughing his tail off.'
Yet Jensen surmised that the truth was very different. MacKenzieJames had a smile like crystallized antifreeze; his eyes could beunnervingly direct, but no man in Fleet uniform had ever known theskip-runner captain to laugh.
When the Shearborn's lieutenant offered neither comment nor orders, Harris's annoyance shifted to suspicion. 'Why should acriminal of Mac James's reputation lure us out here in the firstplace? I say you've played right into this skip-runner's hands. Ordid you maybe agree to collaborate with him beforehand?'
Jensen spun from the analog screen, furious. Whatever rejoinderhe intended never left his lips. That instant the communicationsspeaker crackled crisply to life.
'Godfrey, but you boys like to bicker,' drawled a voice. Theaccent was vague and untraceable, trademark of any operationengineered by MacKenzie James. Harris swore in astonishment, that anyskip-runner alive should brazenly commandeer a monitored Fleet cornband. Across the compartment, Lieutenant Jensen went threateninglystill and cold.
 Incisive as always, the skip-runner captain resumed. 'If yourpilot can fly covert, and if between you the initiative can begathered to eavesdrop on local transmissions, you'll discover aterrorist action in progress. The director of research on Cassix isbeing coerced into breach of Alliance security. Now it happens thatthe Shearborn is the only armed vessel on patrol in this system.You'd better prepare to intervene, because your course log can't beerased, and your careers will both be stewed if you can't justifyyour precipitous withdrawal at Dead Star.'
Harris slammed a fist into his crew chair and wished he could kick flesh. 'Well, happy snarking holiday! Just who in hell does thatarrogant sonuvabitch think to impress?'
But MacKenzie James returned no rejoinder. The Marity vanished,dissolved from continuum into FTL, leaving the Shearborn 
148 drifting unprepared. The instruments which flagged ion trails werenot yet reset; neither Fleet officer had thought that a necessity,since every current theory assured them that the departure of theskip-runner's craft should not have happened solo. Within such closeproximity, Shearborn should have been swept along as the coil fieldscollapsed. Yet Marity went FTL without a flicker of protest from theinstruments.
 'We've lost him.' Harris lifted his opened hands, his light eyesbright with disbelief. 'That rumor must be true, then. The bastardbuys technology from outside.''Maybe something an Indie found,' Harris speculated.
But the whys and hows of Marity's systems were suddenly the leastof the issue. Hunched in the command chair with a frown of obsessed concentration, Lieutenant Jensen rose to the challenge. CassixStation lay on the far side of the dwarf sun from their currentposition. If a raid were in progress, and if skip-running instigatorshad jammed communication by translink, they would be forced tocoordinate their operation through local transmission. Temporarilythey would be blind to more sophisticated sensory data, which meanteverything scoped by deflection imagery. The Shearborn was shadowedby Cassix's star. She would not yet be noticed; but to stay that wayand eavesdrop on the terrorists, she would have to launch a probe torelay signals from the dwarf's far side. Crisply, Jensen listedorders.
 His pilot responded with indignant disbelief. 'You aren't goingto believe that criminal!'
 'I never knew him to lie.' Jensen gestured with extremeirritation. 'Carry on.'
Harris fastened the front of his uniform with uncharacteristic care, then entered the codes for navigation access. 'Well, thesociety releases on the news bulletins don't cite that guy forhumanitarian idealism. If I wore the stripes on your jacket, I'd bewondering what's in this for MacKenzie James.'
But that was the uncomfortable question Jensen dared not ask. Hehad sworn to escape his father's shadow by outwitting and bringing tojustice the most-wanted criminal ever to work Alliance space. Forthat he would have to beat the skip-runner at his own game, and thenecessary first step was to play along. Jensen said, 'I wantsurveillance on that station, and quickly. Secure trajectory data andsequence ignition for launch of a relay probe.' 
149 
 Harris could be strikingly inefficient when pressed against hiswill. But driven now by pique, and a morbid desire to humor Jensenuntil the young officer screwed himself through the folly of his ownarrogance, the pilot donned his headset and applied himself to thenavigation console.
The probe launched with a minimum of kick. No trail showed on themonitors. Satisfied only momentarily, Jensen hastened off the bridgeto don his uniform before his coveted data started to arrive.
 Harris bided the interval by plucking loose threads from the cuffof his coverails. Upon Jensen's return, he had fallen asleep in hisheadset, his large hands loose in his lap, and his mouth open withsnoring.
The Shearborn's officer in command spared no attention forannoyance. Tracking monitors showed the relay probe carving a wideparabola around Cassix star. The moment the light flashed green onthe signal board, Jensen reached without ceremony and stripped theheadset from his pilot. Harris woke with his customary hair-triggerreflexes and banged his head on the bulkhead as he rocketed out ofhis chair. 'Damn you,' he growled at Jensen.
Finding his fanatical commander absorbed by the new transmission,Harris stalked off to the galley.
He came back after an interval, munching a dessert bar. Jensenhad already assembled details enough to confirm MacKenzie James'sassessment. Harris stopped chewing as his senior recited the facts.
Trouble had found opening because the fleet which normallypatrolled Cassix had been pared down to one ship, in support of theoffensive at Dead Star. That cruiser had fallen to skip-runners whoby long-range design had kidnapped the director of research's twoinfant daughters from an earlier raid on a passenger vessel.
'A straight-forward case,' Jensen reported, 'except for theirbent for terrorism. The bastards killed the director's wife to provethemselves capable. The two little girls they hold hostage will bespared, provided the staff at Cassix surrenders a working prototypeof the new laser weapons system.'
Harris stood for a moment, crumbs from his snack fallingunnoticed down his chin. For once his blue eyes were direct. 'Whohired the talent for this? Indies? Junk freighters 
I50 equipped with that scale of armament could make for a very uglymess.'
 'Indies, or rebels, or some independent faction who buys throughskip-runners, does it matter?' Jensen yanked off the headset, thenreflexively smoothed his hair. 'I want data on that station, asquickly as you can manage.'
Harris sank mechanically in his crew chair. He shoved his lastbite of cookie in his mouth by reflex, while the headset between hishands repeated in precise and ugly detail just what would happen tothe director's little daughters if the terms of their kidnappers werenot met. He swallowed with difficulty, for his mouth had gone dry. 'Ican't,' he said finally. 'The specs on Cassix Station are one hundredpercent classified.'
'But you flew test runs there,' Jensen argued. Mac James hadoffered him a challenge he intended to win; and as a Fleet officerhis duty was explicitly clear. 'Reconstruct what you can from memory.The skip-runners intend to exchange the children for the weaponssystem by cargo cable at 2ooo hours, which leaves us very littlemargin to prepare.'
Harris looked up sharply. 'Cargo cable? We have a chance, then.Security might be recovered, but only if we write off the lives oftwo kids.'
 'Just carry on!' Jensen added no promises. Ruthless as his choiceseemed, in this case Harris knew the young officer was not playingfor heroics. If the weapons system currently in development at Cassixfell into Indie hands, far more than two little girls would suffer.
The Shearborn prepared for intervention. Jensen activated thecloaking devices and ran checks on shields and weapons. Harrisapplied himself to navigation and mapped a course calculated toconceal their approach behind the mass of Cassix's star until thelast possible moment. Neither man spoke. Harris held single-mindedlyto duty for reasons of conscience; Jensen's penchant for advancementpromised that his record in a crisis must be impeccable.
Presently, the Shearborn hurtled on a meticulously arrangedcourse around Cassix's star. At the precise instant she crossed intoscanner range, Harris kicked the attitude thrusters, killed herdrives, and made a face as the snack in his stomach danced flip-flopsto the pull of inertia. Tumbling with the random majesty 
151 of an uncaptured asteroid, the scout craft he piloted went dead toobservation.
 'Nice work,' said Jensen. Awkwardly stiff in his command chair,he smiled. Their timing was perfect, a clean thirty minutes beforethe scheduled exchange between skip-runners and station. As thescopes resolved data, the lieutenant leaned anxiously forward. Heexpected the spider-armed sprawl of an orbital station, gravitypowered, and glittering with the lights of habitation.
What he saw was deep-space darkness, scattered with distantstars.
 His blank-faced dismay raised laughter from Harris. 'Well, whatdo you want for a security installation? Billboard lights and adocking beacon?'
Jensen shut his eyes, opened them, and tried not to blush at hisfoolishness. Like the chaser he commanded, Cassix Station would besurfaced in camouflage. The complex would be dark except for lightedpinpricks that simulated stars. Her deep-space side would be paintedin reflective, and unless a ship chanced to cross her orbital planeand catch her in occultation with her parent star, she would beinvisible to passing traffic.
Jensen bridled rising annoyance. He dared not use the Shearborn'sfancy surveillance equipment. Without knowing how sophisticated hisadversary's gear might be, he must assume that deflection beaminterference would warn an already wary skip-runner that hisactivities had drawn Fleet notice. There were other ways to locate anorbiting body. The simplest involved time-sequence imaging, then acomparison of star fields to determine which objects were artificialby drift; except time was the one most glaring commodity this blitzoperation lacked.
'There,' Harris said suddenly, startlingly loud in the silence.'I've got a fix on the target.'
His experienced eyes had spotted the skip-runner craft. A fiatflash of reflection confirmed his sighting, as a shiny surface on herhull caught reflection from the dwarf star. Jensen turned up theresolution enhancer on the analog screen. Though his pilot patientlyinformed him that the hardware would not perform under $hearborn'serratically violent motion, the lieutenant continued searching untilhis eyes burned.
Hope of coherent conversation seemed nonexistent; Harris shruggedand made a show of initiating a star-field comparison search. Lights flickered on the control panels as computer circuitrynormally reserved for navigation diverted to speed his results. Thepilot laced blunt hands in his lap. Wearing the cynical expression hepracticed for women who pressed him for marriage, he stretched backin his crew chair, adjusted his headset, and wished he could watch aporn tape. Sex was a better sweat than listening to the terseexchange between a desperate parent and an equally nervous skip-runner who doubtlessly wondered whether any Indie contract was worthtaking risks of this magnitude.
Suddenly Harris shot upright, the mockery gone from his face.'Sir, your plan won't work.'
Jensen held his focus on the analog screens, where, faint againstthe deep of space, a spider-filament of cable arced out, then ever sogradually drew taut.
'They're sending the babies down, linked to a timed explosive,'Harris continued vehemently.
This time Jensen answered, very bleak. 'Linked? How? To thecarrier capsule, or the cable itself?'
Harris listened. 'Cable,' he replied after a moment. 'Thedetonation code will be kept by the skip-runner. Which means the scumwill skip system, leaving station personnel fifty-five seconds toreel that capsule in and cut those kids free before the charge goes off.'Jensen became very still.
Harris showed a rare mix of deference and regret. 'l'm afraidwe're shut down, sir. Best we can do is record data that might helpan undercover agent round them up.'
'Which will be impossible to manage, not before the Indies havereplicated that laser design.' All nerves and anger, Jensen flexedthe fingers of his right hand. 'I'll shoot out the cable link betweenthe explosive and that capsule, first.'
Harris grinned, sarcasm restored. 'Boy, we're in problems up toour nuts already. Brass won't award a winning ticket for blowing twobabies to bits. You'd have to be marksman elite to maybe hit thatcable at all, far less the connecting link between a carry capsuleand an explosive charge.'
Jensen returned a nasty smile, then drew a chain from his collar.He dangled before his pilot's insolent gaze a medallion of skill thatnot one man in ten thousand held the privilege to wear.'Shit,' saidHarris. 'How was I to guess?''You couldn't,' Jensen shot back. He was the youngest, by nearly 
153 a decade, ever to obtain the premier marksman's rating, but this oncepride did not prompt his temper. The mission chronometer by his elbowadvanced another fraction. A margin of minutes remained if theShearborn was to foil the kidnappers.
The problems ahead were formidable, as Harris was quick to pointout. 'You can't hit that small a target without an attitudeadjustment. Shearborn's still tumbling, remember?' The pilot slasheda finger beneath his chin in graphic pantomime. 'We break cover, andthe little girls die. We're shot down the second we fire our gravitydrives.'
 Jensen made contingency for that. 'We wait,' he said, anintensity about him that Harris had never seen. 'After stationpersonnel cable the plans up to the terrorists, the kids start downin the capsule. We stabilize our attitude then. Surprise will be inour favor. I shoot out the linkup. The kids and the charge are infreefall but recoiling away from the break in the line. Stationpersonnel will reel the babies in, bet on that. And with an enabledcharge drifting back toward its point of origin, the skip-runnerswill have their hands full cutting loose that trailing cable. Thatgives maybe ten seconds for us to blast their ugly presence out ofspace.'
'Clever.' Harris scratched his chest in that thoughtful mannerhis drinking cronies would have recognized for a warning. 'But yourrange is extreme. You haven't allowed for drift, or for the proximityof Cassix's star. Gravity will pull your shot off target.'
Jensen reached out, gently smoothed the wing insignia on hispilot's coverails. 'That's where your part comes. You'll plot myaiming point. If my shot were treated as an exercise in driveballistics, you and that computer would have no trouble getting itright.'
Harris felt sweat spring beneath his collar. The accuracyrequired would likely be past the limits of the technology. Thoughthe more brilliant pilots did such things in the course of test-flight emergencies, this was another matter. A man had no businessrisking the lives of two little girls to instinct, the reflexivestyle of hunch which routinely carried a badly drawn design throughwithout mishap. Harris had no grounds - but his wilder nature waspiqued. Here was a daredevil stunt like no other; if he pulled itoff, there would be accolades. 
 Harris set steady hands to the keyboard. 'Give me the specs onyour pellet rifle, and may the god of foolish ventures smile on usboth.'
 Jensen grinned for the first time since the start of theoperation. Whatever queer challenge MacKenzie James had handed thecrew of the Fleet chaser Shearborn, one of his skip-running brethrenwas about to get hammered out of space. 
The inner lining of the pressure suit wicked away the sweat fromJensen's skin. Doused alternately in shadow, then the burnished,bloody glare of Cassix's star, he belted himself into the serviceniche by the forward air lock. The state-of-the-art gauss riflecradled on his arm hindered his movements very little. The Shearborntumbled dizzily underneath him. Yet in null gravity, as long asJensen did not fix on the scenery, the radical attitude of the hulldid not disorient him. Any nerves and tension he suffered stemmedfrom the unrevealed motives of MacKenzie James. That pointpreoccupied the lieutenant to the exclusion of all else. The childrenand the laser prototypes Jensen currently jeopardized his career tosave had become prizes in a ritualized duel of wits.
Jensen checked the time. The suit chronometer read 2012. By now,the crate with the laser prototype lay in skip-runner hands. Duringthe ascent, the speed of the cable's drive motor had been measuredand recorded into Harris's flight computer. The lieutenant braced hisrifle ... and waited.
 In the darkness beyond Cassix, the lift motor hummed andreversed. Cable turned through frictionless gears, and a capsulebearing two children and an attached packet of condensed explosivebegan the kilometer-long transit toward the waiting arms of thefather. Harris finalized his calculations.
 The chronometer read 2026. A buzzer trilled in Jensen's helmet,and the pilot's voice read off coordinates.
Precisely on signal, the Shearborn's gravity drives kicked over.Centrifugal force slammed the lieutenant against his belt restraints;stars spun like a pinwheel around him as the Shearborn's attitudecorrected with vicious and vengeful precision, compliments of pilotHarris in sharpest form.The scout craft stabilized. The parting kick of inertia was punishingly severe. Jensen's 
I55 helmet struck the hull with a clang that made his ears ring. His headspun sickeningly and he cursed. If his vertigo did not stabilizefast, he would be unable to orient and take aim. Obstinacy born ofexhaustive practice allowed him to slot the rifle stock into theconnector which linked to the suit's visual display. At a secondsignal, he switched on the targeting scope.
On the Shearborn's bridge, the monitors would be screaming, onered alleyway of warning lights as the skip-runner ship trainedweapons on the chaser which dared an intervention. Both ships hadtheir screens down. On Cassix Station, speakers blared as personnelshouted in dismay ... too late. The integrity of the exchange theyhad promised the skip-runner was disrupted now past mending. No last-minute plea would convince a ruthless band of criminals that thisrescue had not been betrayal. A father wept while a skip-runner'smate with shaking hands stabbed the detonation codes into a keypad.All men waited - one of them grim and another in tearful anguish. Inunder sixty seconds the silvery capsule on the cargo cable wouldexplode in a coruscation of light.
Jensen raised his gauss rifle in the absolute silence of vacuum.With a clear head he locked the targeting scope onto coordinates,then cool-handedly squeezed the trigger.
The rifle kicked. Very far off, tiny to insignificance, apinpoint of light crawled along a fragile thread of cable. The pelletwhich raced to intercept sped unhindered through vacuum, its coursebent gently by the pull of a red dwarf star.
Sweating freely now, Jensen counted seconds - five, six - themarking tone sounded a final time. The lieutenant gripped hard to thecombing. The reflective markers on the cable glistened like dewdropspoised on spider silk. By now, the magnetized pellet should have cutthrough. Jensen felt an ache in his chest. Along with the possibilityof defeat, he realized at some point that he had stopped breathing.
Then the cable parted. Jensen shouted in relief as the tiny fleckthat was the children's capsule drifted in a graceful arc against thestars.
 A flash answered almost immediately, as the skip-runner shipfired gravity engines. The technician in her hold abandoned hiskeypad. Cursing and furious, he wrestled into a pressure suit,desperate to free the locking clamp that secured the trailing cablethat now 
rebounded treacherously under recoil. Jensen's marksmanship had
brought havoc, for now the fully enabled plasma charge drifted
straight for the kidnapper's cargo bay.
'Now, Harris, now,' shouted Jensen.

His helmet went black. Reflex shielding protected his vision asHarris manned the weaponry, and both of the Shearborn's cannonsopened fire.
The helmet's shielding stayed opaque for a long and maddeninginterval. Jensen fidgeted like a child, cursed like a dock worker.His visor cleared finally to reveal a spreading, glowing curtain ofdebris that had once been a skip-runner ship. The moment warmed likevintage wine. Jensen smiled. He stroked his rifle like the thigh of anaked woman and said softly, very softly, 'Up yours, MacKenzieJames.' 
Jensen tugged the sleeve of his dress whites from the grasp of yetanother congratulatory technician. The lieutenant had received ahero's welcome the moment the Shearborn touched the dock. Everymember of Cassix Station personnel had come forward. They had shakenhis hand, thanked him, and insisted upon an impromptu reception tomeet the key administrators.
'Just coincidence we happened into this sector at all,' Jensensaid in answer to the technicJan's question, the same question he hadrepeatedly fielded over a three-hour supply of coffee and cakes. 'TheShearborn was in pursuit of another suspect. Yes, that one got away,but his escape turned out to be fortunate. No Fleet scout would haveentered this system if that chase hadn't gone sour. Yes, it was riskyto shoot out that cable, but the children were unharmed. Now, ifyou'll excuse me? I've a promise to keep.' He hefted the gilt-paperedbottle he had cadged for his pilot. An unwilling victim ofregulations, Harris had been forced to remain on duty aboard thescout.
 The technician smiled and shook hands again. 'You're a braveyoung man, sir, and a pride to the Fleet. You've saved the Alliancemore than you know by keeping those weapon prototypes from theIndies.'
 Jensen smiled back, raised the bottle apologetically, then dodgedanother wave of admirers. Any other time the lieutenant would havereveled in public adulation; but not here, not now. A most telling 
I57 question remained unanswered, one detail left loose to rasp hisnerves. MacKenzie James was nobody's humanitarian. A criminal of hiscaliber was unlikely to act out of piu~ for a father's little girls.Jensen dared not consider the incident finished until he was back at his post on the Shearborn and out of the Cassix system altogether.The fact that Harris could not share the celebration became his onlyexcuse to slip away. 
The docking hangar was very dark. After the brightly lit accesscorridors, Jensen found it difficult to adjust. Strange, he thought,that the overhead floods should be switched off. On the heels of a major crisis, he would assume a conscientious staff would take extraprecautions.
But when Jensen queried the guard on duty, negligence proved notto be at issue.
 'Damned skip-runner blasted the communications turret.' Thesecurity man gestured in resignation. 'Lights in here run off thesame solar banks, and we'll need more than one shift on deep-spacemaintenance for repairs.'
Though the explanation seemed reasonable, Jensen's nervousnessincreased. He crossed the echoing expanse of hangar with swift stepsand hurried up the Shearborn's ramp.
Instinct caused him to hesitate just inside the entry. He sensedsomething amiss, perhaps from the conspicuous fact that Harris wasnot at his usual post in the galley with a row of empty beers forcompany. Jensen paused midstride, almost in the corridor to thebridge. That moment, a shadow moved just at the edge of vision.
Jensen ducked. The blow that should have felled him glancedinstead off his ribs.
 It knocked the breath from his lungs nonetheless. The bottle spunfrom his hand and smashed in a spray of glass and spirits. Jensenbent double, whooping for air that tasted sickly of whiskey. Hesnatched by reflex for his side arm. But the shadow moved ahead ofhim.
 It proved to be a man, a large man who already dodged the shot heknew would follow. A Fleet officer accomplished enough to earnmarksman elite could be expected to handle his gun as if it were anextension of his living flesh. 
 Jensen's shot crashed into the bridge-side bulkhead. Paddingexploded into fluff where the intruder's head had been but a fractionof an instant before. Cursing, the lieutenant shoved another roundinto the breech. He hastened forward, skidding over the puddle ofalcohol and glass. The cold portion of his mind wondered why theintruder had fled. A second blow, better placed, might have killedhim in that instant before surprise kicked into adrenaline surge.
Jensen whipped around the innerlock, slammed shoulder first intoa stowage locker. He trained his pistol squarely upon his quarry,only to flinch the shot wide. His curse of white hot anger blendedwith the clang as the pellet hammered harmlessly into high impactplastic.
Over the heated end of his gun barrel, Jensen beheld the limpform of Harris, gripped like a shield in a pair of coilscarred hands.The name left his lips, unbidden. 'Mac James!'
'Godfrey,' came the muffled reply. 'Tired of the party early, didyou?'
The face, with its icy gray eyes, stayed hidden. Jensen was givenno target for his murderous marksmanship, which was a feat. Mac Jamesoutweighed his unconscious hostage by a good sixty pounds. As to howthe skip-runner had stowed away, Jensen recalled with sinkingrecrimination that the Marity had passed close enough to plant aboarder on the Shearborn's hull. The stowaway's life-support ofnecessity would have been limited to the capacity of his suit pack,which meant that Mac James had gambled his life on the lieutenant'ssubsequent behavior. Had the $1;earborn's crew backed down, returnedthrough FTL to Dead Star, the skip-runner would have been fried inthe coil field. Instead, the heroics which had preserved thestation's integrity and the lives of two children had earned theShearborn a warm invitation, without security screening, into aclassified research installation. With a dawning stab of outrage,Jensen understood. He had been nothing more than a pawn. His triumphover the terrorists had provided the linchpin of a plot for MacKenzieJames.
 'I could kill Harris to see you dead,' Jensen said thickly.Certainly he was ruthless enough, MacKenzie James should recall.But with insight that bordered the uncanny, the skip-runner 
I59 sensed why the lieutenant dared not fire to kill. 'First you'll wantto know just what mischief I've set loose while you were celebrating,boy.'
Jensen's fingers whitened on the grip of his pellet gun. Histhoughts darted like a rat in a maze but found no opening to exploit.He had visited the control bridge on the Marity. Her captain'sability to manipulate hardware was real enough to frighten; and ifHarris had slugged down drugs with his beer, the Sbearborn's systemshad been open to sabotage for something close to three hours. Anyhavoc was possible.
Mac James's laconic observation interrupted the lieutenant'sthoughts. 'Now, I see you have two choices. Murder your pilot to getme, and you've got a Fleet investigation on your case. You can betthey won't send a lightweight to chew your ass. Not if you killwithout witnesses and a suspect like me turns up deadon your chaser, smack in the middle of a classified installation.''That won't save you,' Jensen said quickly.
'Maybe not.' Harris's head lolled to one side as Mac Jamesshifted his grip. 'But a review of Sbearborn's flight log willuncover a coded file, accessed through stolen passkeys. The data listincludes plans for every project Cassix Station personnel have goingon the drawing boards. Fleet court-martial will nail you on theft ofmilitary secrets, without appeal. You need me alive, boy. Unless youknow enough to go into that system and monkey that file out ofexistence without leaving tracks.'
Jensen felt shaky down to his shoes. He lacked the expertise toclear the encoded locks on the Sbearborn's software, much less toalter records on the other side. His helplessness galled doubly. Inthe event of a trial, the very ignorance that ensured his innocencewould be impossible to prove.
'You're much too quiet, boy.' Mac James shifted his weight withsharpening impatience. 'Why do you think I've been so busy?'
Rocked by a stab of hatred, Jensen perceived more. 'You sent thatother skip-runner in, pitted me against him specifically to gainentrance to Cassix Station without leaving traces. The Indie contracton the kidnappers was only a cover.'
A strained silence followed, broken gruffly by Mac James's reply.'A man lives according to his nature, you for pride and advancement,and Captain Gorlaff for his bets. That one buried his futurepermanently because he neglected to watch his odds. You 
I6O can, too, boy. Or you can lift off Cassix and rendezvous with theMarity, where I can transfer that incriminating file without leavingtraces in the system. I'll return Harris in a cargo crate. When herecovers from his hangover, he can fly you back to Commodore AbrahamMeier for the commendation and promotion you both so richly deserve.'
Jensen steadied his grip on the gun. His hand trembled, and hisface twitched. A single shot would restore his inner pride butshatter his public career forever. Swept by rage, and by a desirelike pain to see the skip-runner captain who had manipulated him endup cold and bloody and dead, Jensen shut his eyes. Cornered withoutrecourse, he made his choice. 
Commodore Meier stepped forward on the dais, and stiffly cleared histhroat. 'Each man lives according to his nature,' he said in officialsummary. The medals in his hand flashed brightly in the lights of thevid cameras. 'May others draw inspiration from the bravery andinitiative cited here.'
 Jensen held very still as the precious medallion was affixed tothe sash on his chest. Like MacKenzie James, he never gambled; therehad been no allowance for doubt. A Fleet officer with a future mightpursue a skip-runner to the death. The duel of wits would continue.Reveling in his promotion and his honors, the newest LieutenantCommander in the Fleet promised himself victory at the next pass. 
I6I 

The Snare 
Inspired by the painting 'The Wizard'by Don Maitz 
The opening move was deadly because of its extreme simplicity.Iveldane caused one of the candles in the Wizard's private study toflicker out. There was no draft; the casement was tightly closed andlatched against any intrusion of the starry night without. The Wizardraised no arcane defense. Mellowed, perhaps, by wine and smoke fromhis hookah, the enchanter, whose stare had once shattered mountains,and whose spoken word leashed earthquakes and stilled the raging seasof hurricanes, suspected no threat from a single, darkened candle. Heglanced up, even as a mortal might, annoyed at the sudden invasion ofshadow across the drifting trough of his lap.
Spindled with smoke, the spark-tipped wick glowed red as the eyeof a demon, pinning the Wizard's gaze. Before he shaped a Command ofRekindling, Iveldane's snare transfixed his unguarded mind like aspearshaft, and held it.
Wind tore like laughter through the chamber. Flung headlong fromits ensorcelled current of air, the Wizard's goblet shattered in aspray of glass and wine. Iron candlesticks toppled, scattering thecarpet with necklaces of flame. The spellbook crackled, a tumblingwheel of pages, as stone walls wavered and danced in destruction'swild light. Bound, the Great Wizard of Trevior sat with blinded eyes,unaware of all but the voice of his antagonist.
'Long have I awaited this moment, Master!' Deep in his cave ofice and rock, Iveldane smiled. The winds of his summoning screamed inecho of his taunt, and fanned the white mustache and tailored robes of his enemy into profane disarray. Hapless as adoll in the hands of a cruel child, the Master of Trevior was unableto protest.
Iveldane's smile broadened. 'Does my return from the prison youfashioned for me surprise you?'
He loosed his grip, slightly, allowing the Wizard enough will toreply. But the silence was disturbed only by the crisp speech offlames, and the Wizard did not imprint the inanimate with anymessage. Through the heat of his triumph, Iveldane sensed frost. Itmade him laugh.
Still, the Wizard said nothing. Iveldane borrowed current fromthe stars and banished the study with all its ruined comforts. Forhalf an age, he had planned this. Spells spiralled and wove throughhis slim fingers. His dark brow shone damp with sweat. Presently, theMaster of Trevior stood before him, bound in glassy chains ofwizardry and ice.'Do you fear me, Master?' The tone was mocking.
The Wizard's black eyes met blue ones without expression. 'I fearonly a past misjudgment.' His words were calm as the sea's depths.
Iveldane felt his heart twist, but hatred did not shake hiscontrol. 'And was a thousand years of agony confined in a volcano'sfiery core a misjudgment?' Iveldane stared at his enemy, weightedwith the bitterness and suffering of days past.The Wizard bore his stony gaze, patient. 'Was it?'
Iveldane's expression soured, and echoes of his laughterbounced off pillared shafts of icicles. 'You'll answer, before I have done.'The Wizard bowed his head.
 Iveldane's confidence wavered. An icy draft tumbled across thechamber momentarily raising gooseflesh on his braceleted arms. Theornaments hid scars left by fetters of fire, and that nod had beenthe same gesture which condemned him to torment ten centuries past.But this time, nothing happened.
He taunts me, Iveldane thought. Rage clamped his gut like iron.He called upon the earth, and dirt rose from the floor like a gauntold hound, circling the Wizard's feet.
'I will seal you, living, into your grave, even as you did tome.' Iveldane's whisper carried clearly over the grind of soil andstones. The Wizard made no reply, though that freedom had been lefthim. Once, with a word, he would have smoothed the earth 
I64 
to rest. Iveldane waited, then wondered why he did not. 'I don't
understand,' he said.
The Wizard looked up. 'You never understood.'

Iveldane unleashed his anger. Dust rose in screaming fists ofmaelstrom. When it settled, the Wizard was buried wholly beneath abarrow of earth. Iveldane sat, with his chin on his fist, and waitedfor the Wizard to tumble the barriers that imprisoned him from thelight. Yet he did not.
'You were once my Master, and my friend.' Iveldane stared at themound of rubble, and memory surged over him like the tide . . . 
He saw himself as a boy again, frightened of the night and soaked bydriving rain. The door against which he huddled, shivering, suddenlyopened, spilling him awkwardly across a marble floor at the feet ofthe Master of Trevior. 'Why have you come here?' said the Wizard.
Iveldane looked up, and it seemed those dark eyes saw only thewater which dripped from black hair onto the ragged cloth of hisshirt. 'My Lord, I wish to learn.'
The Wizard's veined hand tightened on the door panel as he pushedit shut. 'Do you think I will beat you any less than the smith youran away from?'
Iveldane flinched. Yet his reply was bold. 'My Lord, you are theWorld's Master. Should you beat me, then surely I will have earnedit.'
 The Wizard looked abruptly away, and a small shiver seemed togrip his thin frame. 'Remember this. The lesson of wisdom can bepainful. And only one can be Master.' Flat as dark obsidian,his eyes returned to the boy. 'Do you understand?''Oh, yes, my Lord.'
The Wizard extended a strong warm hand, and helped the boy to hisfeet. 'Then let us start with dry clothes and warm soup.' 
You never understood. The words mocked, sharp as needles. Iveldane
stared at the rubble which covered the Wizard who had uttered them,
and felt the hair on his nape stir. He tried to laugh, but it felt
wrong. 'Never once did you beat me.'
The earth was still. 

I65 

 'Instead you betrayed me. Are you listening?' The anguished wordsshattered into echoes against the glassy rungs of ice. When no answercame, Iveldane looked once more into the past... 
'I have taught you all I know.' Cloaked in the golden glow ofcandles, the Wizard stood with a shadowed face. 'The time has comefor you to leave me.'
Iveldane raised eyes pale as frost. His hair glanced in the lightlike a raven's wing. 'You are the World's Master. There is no place Ican go where I will not walk in your shadow.'
The Wizard spoke with sorrow. 'Some things cannot be taught. Ifyou have loved me, go, and learn contentment.'
'That is a poor return for the years and the knowledge you havegiven me, Master.' Iveldane knelt on the patterned carpet,unashamed. 'Let me stay and serve at your side.''Service is not yourfate.'
 Iveldane looked up, and saw an old man with tears on his face.His own heart turned in anguished response. '! beg you, let me stay.'
Salt-drops fell like sparks in the candlelight. The Wizard criedout, once, in protest, before steadying his control. Then he raisedhis Mastery, and sure hands carved the air like ice. 'There is onlyone reward I can offer for such loyalty.'
The room crumbled out of solidity with a sigh. Iveldane felthimself lifted as though weightless. His sight blurred intoblindness. All bodily sensation fell away, until his spirit seemed tostream across eternity like blown smoke. Held fast by shackles ofwind, Iveldane made no attempt to resist. If the World's Master sawfit to imprison him, no skill he possessed would avail.
Air was a gentle jailer. Iveldane knew neither pain nor want, andhis thoughts were his own, for the Wizard left him alone. He tests mylove, Iveldane thought. Certain in his loyalty, he waited onethousand years with flawless patience. Yet the Wizard never came.
'Have you forgotten me?' Snatched by tireless currents of wind,Iveldane's appeal went unregarded. Doubts assailed him. He foughtthem, when they grew too strong. His beleaguered mind imagined theworld swept by flood, famine, and earthquake.'Disaster would keep my Master from me,' Iveldane reasoned 
166 aloud, and he wept. 'Free me, Lord. Gladly would I lend my strengthto yours.'
But if the winds carried the words to their Master's ear, he didnot respond. Perhaps he, too, is prisoner, Iveldane realized. Desirefor freedom arose within him like a wave. Tireless as the tides, itbattered his patience until he could no longer endure.
Iveldane struck at his bonds. He struggled until his musclesburned with exhaustion, and the sweat of exertion chilled on hisskin. The wind's whisper mocked his efforts. To silence it, he raisedglittering webs of enchantment, and discharged them as blazing whitewheels of fire. The wind swallowed his energies, scatheless. It wouldheed but a single master's word, and that one, the Wizard of Trevior.But confinement had robbed Iveldane of reason. He fought, untilweariness claimed him, then wo~e and fought again. Yet against hisprison of air, all efforts were. vain. Centuries passed. His passioncooled to listless despair.
Sucked clean of emotion, Iveldane lay passive. The wind graduallyclaimed the hollow place his thoughts had abandoned. Its sibilantvoice filled his battered mind until sight and sound were forgotten,and former experience became shadowy and insubstantial as a dream.Iveldane merged with the wind, became the wind, and so inherited itssecrets.
 Years went by before that knowledge held meaning. Startled totears, one day, by realization he held the key to his own freedom,lveldane spoke with a tongue long unaccustomed tt) words. His bondsdissolved. The air turned around him. His feet struck ground and hestumbled, unprepared for his own weight, and landed on his knees insand.
 For one unbelieving moment, he knelt, blind with weeping,nostrils filled with the salt breeze off the sea and the sour scent of marsh grass. The earth was whole, untroubled by the nightmares hiscaptive mind had imagined. Relieved, Iveldane raised his eyes to thesunlight, and saw the Wizard waiting for him on a rock-strewn rise ashort distance away. The breezes toyed with blue and gold robes,rippling the sleeves like banners.
Iveldane rose, aflame with the joy of reunion. 'My Lord, I amyour servant, still.' Naked and polished to slenderness by lt)ngyears as the wind's captive, Iveldane crossed the sandspit.
The Wizard watched his approach with black, fathomless eyes, nowelcome at all on his face. 'l never doubted your love.' 
I67
 Iveldane checked, wrenched by sudden confusion. Elation drainedfrom his heart, leaving terrible emptiness. 'Then, my Lord, why didyou banish me?'The Wizard stared at the breakers, silent.
Iveldane bent and scooped a palm full of pebbles from the soil athis feet. Their roughness scoured at his skin, as one by one, he castthem tumbling, into the teeth of the surf. 'Did you take the ideafrom Maegrel?' Unwanted bitterness threaded his tone. 'He did thesame with his apprentice, apparently for sport.'
'True enough.' The Wizard watched the last stone's flight, thebrief splash of impact drowned in the rush of incoming tide. 'Can youname Maegrel's apprentice?'
Iveldane's hands hung at his sides, empty. Wind teased his blackhair back from features stippled with sweat. 'Does it matter?'
'Perhaps. He still lives.' The Wizard's gaze never left the sea.
'You told me he killed his master.' Iveldane's words were edgedwith self-doubt. But he did not add, as I suddenly long to kill mine.The Wizard fixed unfathomable eyes on his face. q know.' Chilled,shaking, Iveldane shouted back. 'But I never wanted to challenge you!I was content with what you taught me. Did you think I would askanything more?' 
 Still as stone, the Wizard said, 'Do you recall the warning Ispoke when first you came to me?''Only one can be Master.' Iveldane shook his head, puzzled. TheWizard glanced down at his hands and spoke a word. Flecked with chipsof mica, a small pebble appeared in his palms. A quick, hard gesturesent the stone spinning in a high arc. Iveldane's eyes followed itsplunge toward green, foamlaced waves.'So be it,' said the Wizard.
The stone struck with a splash. Water closed over Iveldane'shead. Aware too late of the trap, he screamed protest. But shadowydepths had already claimed him, and the sea's chill embraced hisflesh, unyielding. Iveldane's heart ached like an old wound. Foruncounted years, salt-tears mingled with salt water... 
i68 Iveldane shivered free of memory's grasp. He stared at the mound hehad raised, as though his eyes could read the Wizard's thoughtswritten on the earth itself.
 'If you had been on the shore the day I won free of the sea, Iwould have left you,' he said to the still air. 'Instead, I learnedhatred. You taught me, when I reached dry soil, and you bade theearth imprison me in turn. Tell me, how does it feel?'
Iveldane smiled, accustomed now to silence. 'But it was the firewhich came after that made me desire your death...' 
For fire had been a cruel warden. Iveldane had needed every secret hehad gleaned from earth, sea, and air for bare survival, and even thatknowledge was not enough to ease his agony. Of all elements, fleshwas least tolerant of fire, and the volcano in which the Master ofTrevior had chained him was far hotter than any flame. Iveldane'sscreams had shaken the roots of the mountain. Desire for vengeancealone bound him to life. Ten centuries, he endured unimaginabletorment, all for hope of the chance to trap the World's Master at hismercy.
But his strength had run out. Cursing, he had lost his battle,and flame had consumed him, utterly. Yet he did not perish. Possessedby the volcano's molten core, its lessons had scarred his soul. Heemerged with mastery of fire, and an unquenchable passion to inflictpunishment on the Wizard who had consigned him to torment ... 
Restless in his triumph, Iveldane released his binding spell. Soilslithered back, exposing the Wizard's torso. The Master's face wasstreaked with dirt. Grit had brought tears to his eyes.
'What a sorry sight you are.' Iveldane rose and leaned close. 'Ihaven't the patience to waste centuries for your secrets.'
The Wizard stirred dusty shoulders. 'Between us there are nosecrets. I was Maegrel's apprentice.'
'You!' Iveldane stared, and the ice cave rang again with hislaughter. On impulse, he seized the Wizard's arms and, with cruelforce, jerked them free of the earth. The Wizard blanched in pain.Yet he did not resist as Iveldane twisted his wrists and bared scars twin to the ones the bracelets covered. 
I69 'This, for loyalty?' Iveldane released his enemy and stepped back.
'No.' The Wizard's voice caught. He paused to cough up dust.'Maegrel thought me ambitious.'
'You returned and killed him.' Iveldane waited, still as aserpent.
'To my sorrow.' The Wizard spoke without bitterness. 'It was notnecessary.'
Iveldane smiled with poisonous delight. 'Do you plead with me foryour life? I'm amused.' Suddenly his expression darkened like astormfront, and a sharp word left his lips. Fire rose, crackling fromthe torn earth. The Wizard screamed, even as his apprentice hadscreamed when the lava had seared his flesh. 'Master, one day youwill plead with me for death.'
Iveldane turned his back on the Wizard's suffering and retiredfrom the ice cave to more comfortable quarters above ground. Thesetting of the snare had taxed him, and though the Wizard's demiserang sweet in his ears, he wanted rest. Settling himself on a silkenbed, he slept ... 
... and dreamed. Cold with horror, he saw the earth stripped of life.Trees cast shadows gaunt as skeletons over sere ground. Lake basinsshimmered under mirage, dust-dry, and webbed with fissures. The airwas poisoned by the stench of death. Pierced to the soul withunnameable pain, Iveldane opened his mouth to cry out. No sound came.
He fell upon the ground, dug his hands to the wrists in ruinedsoil. Great, hoarse gasps ripped his throat as he shaped the commandswhich would call air, water, earth, and fire to his will. Emotionallyflayed by the earth's torment, he stared as the sky wheeled abovehim, yet no response came. No living force answered; even the oceanswere dry.
Crushed by despair, Iveldane wept. The soil drank his tears.Night fell, garish with stars, and a three-quarter moon rose,grinning like a skull. Iveldane covered his face with his fingers.The earth's wounds pained him as the fires never had. Wracked byinconsolable loss, Iveldane screamed at the empty sky.
'Who has done this?' The shout lost itself without echo. Rageflared in his gut. 'Who has done this?' 
I7O 
 lveldane flinched at the sound of that familiar, hated voice.Slowly he rose to his feet.
Sure and unmarked in blue and gold, the Master of Trevior stoodat his shoulder. 'I have caused the death of the earth. Dare youreturn and avenge it?'
Iveldane stared into eyes as reasonless as a snake's. His shakinghands reached to throttle the pale, soft throat of his enemy. But theMaster's form shimmered and vanished. 
Iveldane woke weeping. Anger shook him like a stormwind. He flung thecoverlet from him with violence enough to tear it. Back, he went, tothe ice cave, possessed by fury no pity could contain. Iciclesflashed, prismatic in the flickering light, until his shadow quenchedthem. Captive still, the Wizard of Trevior writhed in his chains,tormented by a crown of fire. Iveldane banished the flames with aglance.
Coarse against sudden silence, the sound of his breathing mingledwith its own echoes. '! am going to destroy you. Do you hear me?'
The singed head stirred. The Wizard looked up, his cheekscrystalline, awash with tears. 'I hear.' His voice was serene, evenjoyful.
The incongruity struck Iveldane like a blow. The great anger inhis soul faltered and, dizzied suddenly, he staggered back. 'Filth!Earth-murderer! As World's Master, how can you weep for joy?'
'That title is no longer mine.' The Wizard raised eyes that wereclear of deception. 'You, as my successor, at last have delivered mefrom that responsibility, and the power with it.'
Iveldane drew a harsh, sobbing breath, and saw it was so. Water,air, fire, and earth had each impressed him with their secrets, andthe dream had shown him how deeply ingrained was the instinct toprotect all that lay under his charge. Like a blind man given sight,Iveldane reached out with his mind, and saw the earth whole in themoonlight.
'Did you think I would punish you for nothing?' The Wizard spokewith such trepidation, Iveldane laughed and made haste to releasehim. 
Dreamsinger's Tale 
The spring grass grew long and lush in the glade, and a brook wherepeepers shrilled in annual courtship ran close by. There, HuntressSkyfire flung herself down, panting and hot after a long run throughthe forest. She drank and splashed cold water through her hair, thenshed her bow and her spear and her sweaty, winter-musty furs androlled onto her back. Mother moon peeped like a needle of bonethrough the leaves. Skyfire regarded its thin crescent and sighed,not quite content. Something was missing, lacking, not right. Hard asshe ran, fast as she could shoot an arrow into fleeing prey, shecould not quite catch up with whatever it was.
Her wolf-friend, Woodbiter, arrived at the clearing. Old now, andsurly where he had once been full of antics, he had leaves stickingin his coat. With his ears canted back, he crouched in the grass,panting also. The breeze that wafted through his fur carried thescent of something dead.
**Rolled in a scent patch. Again,** Skyfire sent. She wrinkledher nose in distaste.
 Woodbiter regarded her with unwinking yellow eyes. **Go huntingnow.** The wolf's image held the savory taste of hot blood, thethrill and the kick of prey as his jaws closed and snapped the spine.
'**No.** Skyfire rolled onto her elbows, irritable as a she-wolfpast her heat. **No.** She was hungry, but hunger was not what droveher. She would go hunting, but not now, not tonight.
Woodbiter endured his elf-friend's gaze for the span of aheartbeat, then whined, rolled, and showed the pale fur of his throatto appease her aggressive mood. **Hunt alone,** he sent. 
172 When the Huntress neither answered nor forbade him, he sprang up andslunk off into the forest.
 Skyfire hammered her fist into soft spring soil and flopped withher chin on her elbows. The not right feeling persisted. Though shetried, she could find no name for it. This was no anticipation ofdanger, like the moment when the prong-horn's charge caught a spear-thrower off guard. Neither was it a feeling of threat, like the packsof human hunters who sometimes wandered too near the holt. Skyfiretwisted two grass stems between her fingers. Decidedly, this was noteven the faintly giddy feeling one got after eating too manydreamberries. She frowned at the brook, and watched the moon's brokenreflection frown back. She could not say why she was here, lying idlein new grass when her belly growled with hunger. Well afternightfall, the tribe would be wondering why their chieftess did notappear to lead the hunt. Yet Skyfire made no effort to rise. Shewould not take up her spear. Some instinct as deep as earth urged herto linger.
She plucked a grass blade and chewed the stem, only to spit itout because it tasted sour. In the stream the shape of the moonrippled on as if nothing was wrong. The peepers shrilled in a forestthat seemed touched by strange, waiting silence; not the quiet ofapproaching predators, but a sort of stillness that caused the hairto prickle. In that moment, with discontent sharp as a thorn in herside, Skyfire first heard the singing.
The melody touched her first, high and sweet and filled with thevitality of growing things. Skyfire tilted her head, tense andlistening. She sniffed the air, but smelled no taint of humans.Belatedly she noticed that this song held none of the grunts whichpassed for language among the five-fingers. Perhaps in sound, perhapsin sending, this singer used no words at all, only notes laid out inbrightness and light. Each lilted phrase filled Skyfire with a pureand innocent joy. Without quite knowing she had moved, she foundherself on her feet. The song drew her as nothing in memory had everdone before.
 Only the sternest habits of survival made her remember the spear,bow, and quiver lying in the grass. She paused to gather them up,though the delay made her ache. The sweaty fur garment she had shedno longer seemed important, so she abandoned it. Clad only in thinleather tunic and cross-laced boots, Skyfire slipped into the dark ofthe forest. 
I73 
 As only an elf or a wolf could move, she followed the elusivesong through thicket and draw. Yet the singer eluded her. Between theblack boles of oaks, over ferny hummocks and marshy hollows, hewalked and left no marks. Neither branch nor briar nor deadfall seemed to slow him. Huntress Skyfire shook her bright hair inannoyance. She was considered a fine tracker, lacking only the noseof a wolf to unravel the most difficult trails. She hurried, silentand adept and forest-cunning, and determined as never before; butsomehow, the uncanny song caused her native grace to abandon her.Scratched on twigs, scraped on thorns, she felt clumsy as a five-finger, and as foolish. Yet to stop or even slow down was to lose themusic that even now filtered through a copse of saplings. The melodyran flawless as stream water, describing delight that bordered theedges of pain. Skyfire ran. Breathless, she twisted around treebranches and half tripped on roots and vines. Still the singer evadedher. His melody drew relentlessly farther ahead, until at length itbecame no more than the memory of beauty, the fading essence ofdream.
 Skyfire cursed and stumbled to her knees in moss. Tired,confused, and even hotter than before, she rubbed at scratches on herspear arm. The discontent which had troubled her earlier intensified,became a disappointment near to sickness. She jabbed at soft earthwith her spear-butt. The silence, the terrible absence of song, lefther aching in a way that knew no remedy.
Around her, night had begun to fail. Gray light shone betweenbranches and new leaves, and birds awakened singing. Soon humansmight be abroad, dangerous to any elf who foolishly stayed in theopen. For once Skyfire did not care. Crossly she threw herself prone,her chin cupped in her fists. She did not move as the world grewgolden with dawn, nor when the sun speared slanting through theboughs, striping her shoulders with warmth. Furious at her own folly,yet helpless to free herself of yearning, she lay and frowned untilher head ached and her thoughts spun with hunger. The music pulled ather still. The memory did not fade before the now awareness of herwolf-sense; notes spilled and echoed in her mind until she wanted toweep, bereft.
Woodbiter found her at midday. The wolf had fared well on hishunt and his belly was gorged. He had dragged his kill 
I74 beneath a fallen log, then urinated upon the place to mark it; thecache was not far, and still fresh. Yet meat would not assuage theemptiness left by the singer. Skyfire refused her wolf-friend'soffer.
 The animal sensed her discontent. He licked her eyelids incommiseration, and finally curled in the shade to sleep.
Skyfire left him there. Irritable and alone, she arose andretraced her trail from the night before. The path of her run wasclear, a swath of torn leaves and twigs freshly snapped. Many timesshe had stepped carelessly on soft soil and left the imprint of herbooted foot. Although she searched and sniffed, she found nothing ofthe singer. His melody haunted her. Once when she might have stoppedto spear fish, his memory stung her haplessly onward.
In time, the daystar lowered and the birds flew to roost.Exhausted, and hopelessly in thrall to the singer's dream, Skyfirestumbled and fell. She caught herself short of a bang on the head;and there, between her hands, found the impression of a bare foot.The track had four toes, clearly made by an elf. Yet Skyfire knew atonce that none of her own tribe had trodden here. Precisely betweenthe hollow of toes and heel, there bloomed a flower entirely out ofphase with the season.
Astonishment overwhelmed Skyfire, and her breath caught. For noreason she could name, she knelt by the blossom and wept. Then, as ifthe release of emotion had snapped the dream's hold on her mind, sheacknowledged the sending from the holt which had sought her for somehours. Most oddly, it was Twigleaf, the youngest cub in the tribe,whose call reached her first. Skyfire returned reassurance of herwell-being. Then, with weariness similar to the feeling of wakingfrom dreams of escaped prey, she rose and returned to lead the hunt. 
For an eight-of-days, the chieftess ran with the pack as always. Therough way of the Wolfriders and the song of their mounts as theyhowled before the hunt stirred her, made her heart lift and the bloodrace through her veins. Only now the challenge of survival seemedsomehow less keen. The lilt of the song stirred 
I75 within her at odd moments, like an echo never entirely lost. And aswas her habit in the old days of Two-Spear's strife, Skyfire wanderedoften. Perhaps not by chance, she found her way back to the clearing.There, yet again, she waited for something she could not name.
This time clouds shadowed her vigil. Rainfall slicked her hair onher shoulders and dripped coldly down her back and groin. She shookherself like a wolf, licking irritably at the runoff. Long hours shelistened between the patter of droplets over leaves, but no songreached her save the shrilling of peepers in the damp and thepuddles. Shivering, saddened, but never quite miserable enough toleave, Skyfire finally dozed.
The song returned in her dreams. Notes tripped and spilledbetween thorn brakes where no rain fell, and the forest lay dappledwith sun like high summer. In dream, Skyfire leaped up and pursued.The song flowed like sending, and images swept through her sleepingmind. Though the singer used no words, his music spoke of othertimes, of taller, fairer elves than those who ran with the wolves.They wore beautiful, many-colored clothing. Beyond them Skyfirebeheld strange dwellings, then stars sprinkled uncountably acrossblackness deeper than night. She saw suns that blistered her eyes,and moons silvery as the trinkets that humans cut from mussel shells.And yet there was sorrow beneath the beauty of this song. Woventhrough the strangeness and wonder of the images lay a memory ofcold, like death. In the dream, Skyfire started. The stars and themoons abruptly vanished, and dark against the silver-ice light of newdawn, she beheld the singer.
He stood before her, clad in grey. A wolf of the same hue lolledat his side. The eyes of wolf and rider were eerily alike, deep andlight as mist. But the elf-singer's hair was black, hanging tangledand unkempt down his back.
Convinced she had awakened, Skyfire surged to her feet, all graceand speed and anger. Nobody, wolf or elf, ever sneaked up on her likethat, far less a stranger in territory hunted by her tribe and pack.
Yet even as she raised her spear and called challenge, the singerand wolf both vanished. Skyfire checked. The dream dissolved aroundher and she woke in reality, to chilly rain and daylight. Her breathcame painfully to her chest. On the 
I76 ground, where in the dream the singer's feet had trodden, the grassgrew sere and dry as autumn. A single oak leaf lay caught between thestems, not the new soft green of spring, but coloured red as blood.
Skyfire gasped. She brushed the dried grass with her hands andshivered. This singer of dreams was surely part throwback. The magicof the old ones ran deep in him. 
The storm had split into broken clouds, and the leaves drippedsullenly by the time Skyfire returned to the holt. Most of the tribelay in tree hollows, sleeping, but a few of the young ones tussledlike wolf cubs in the shade. One just barely an adult watched overtheir play, her hands weaving baskets out of rush.
'Been stalking black-neck deer?' Sapling taunted. Her fingersstilled on her handiwork as she tossed back pale hair. 'Or maybesomething bigger than a deer stalked you? Looks like you spent thenight holed up in a thicket.'Skyfire bent and snatched a rush. 'Close.'
'Barren hunt?' asked Sapling, quick enough to grab back herstolen green. Such teasing had been part of her life since she was acub.
 The chieftess shook her head, but the ravvit she had caught andeaten on her way home had not left her sated. The dreams and thesinger were driving her to distraction. Even her wolf noticed herribs, as if she was gaunt from the season of white cold. As Skyfirereached the tree which held her sleeping hollow, she sensed theconcern of Pine, who sometimes lay with her after the hunt. She neverconfided in him, but the fact that she was troubled had been noticed.Yet Pine's embrace offered no comfort. Chilled and confused as Skyfire was, she did not wish the warmth of a lovemate. A strange elfwalked the forest, one who belonged to no pack, and who owned depthsnot seen in cubs born for many generations. He was Wolfrider, surelyenough, but different in ways not easily understood. Skyfire sensedtrouble. If she told the rest of the tribe of the song-dreams andtheir maker, the wolf in them might precipitate an outcome that couldnot be controlled. Though pack ways and pack actions served well inmatters of survival, Skyfire struggled to balance instinct against 
I77 a drive that ran deeper than curiosity. She realized she must trackdown and confront this singer without help from the other Wolfriders.
The limbs which led to her hollow were smoothed with manyclimbings. Skyfire pulled herself upward out of habit, her mindpreoccupied with unfamiliar concepts. Against her nature, she mustplan, for the tribe must not suffer for her pursuit of the singer.She must lead the hunt through the night, and then in the gray hoursbefore daybreak, slip away.
The hollow in the tree was dim and invitingly cool, but Skyfiredid not sleep. Curled in her furs, her bright hair wound damply overher shoulders, she wondered how an elf could track a shadow. For thesinger was shadow, a figure spun of dreams. In the depths of hisgray-silver eyes she could easily become lost. 
The mild weather of spring quickly gave way before the darker foliageand the stronger sun of summer. Like most elves, Skyfire abandoneduse of' her sleeping hollow altogether, preferring to curl up like awolf in the dappled shade of a thicket, her body against cool earth.But while the winds stilled, and prey grew fat and plentiful, and theWolfriders became sleek with easy hunting, their chieftess grew leanwith muscle. After the nightly kill, she ran, until she couldtraverse the dense forest in silence at speed. She learned not tothrash through briars, but to twist and duck and dodge through thenarrowest of openings without slackening stride. She practicedleaping over streams, from rock to fallen log, to banks treacherouswith moss. Her feet became very sure; for the first time, Woodbiterhad trouble keeping up.
*'~Gray-muzzle,** she teased once, as the two of them lay pantingin companionship in a forest glade. She licked the corner of his lipsin the manner of one wolf showing affection for another.
Woodbiter's eye rolled and met hers. **Killed deer,** he sent inwolfish reproach. Except for rank, distinctions were never madebetween members of the wolf-pack once a cub reached adulthood. A wolfeither hunted successfully and held his own, or else failed tosurvive. 
I78 
 Skyfire slammed playfully into her wolf-friend's shoulder andtussled, rolling over and over upon the ground. As elves, her tribehandled life with little difference. Hardship made no allowance forindividuals who were not strong. Such was the way of the wild. But asSkyfire wrestled with her wolf in the midsummer heat, she thoughtupon the singer's dreams. For the first time, she wondered whetherTimmain's sacrifice, which first mingled the blood of wolves andelves, might have been made in the hope of something more. 
That night the hunt went well. Early on, Spearhand brought down alarge buck. Then Skimmer and his wolf, Brighttail, flushed a herd ofprong-horns. The Wolfriders leaped eagerly in pursuit. By the timethe two moons lifted toward the zenith, there was feasting. Skyfiredid not gorge on the meat with the others, but ate sparingly andwrapped a second portion to carry with her. Then, leaving her spearin Sapling's care, she tightened the strap of her quiver and settledher bow over her shoulder.
 ':'::'Going?~":~ sent Woodbiter. He licked his bloody muzzle andraised expectant eyes.
Skyfire returned the image of the clearing by the brook. By thatthe wolf understood she would spend another night running, or perhapssimply sitting by water staring at nothing. He chose to remain withhis kill.
 Huntress Skyfire twisted her red hair into a braid. Aware thatshe prepared to embark upon another night of wandering, her tribe-mates did not ask why. Neither did they try to go along, as oncebefore they might have. Skyfire did not explain her leaving. If awolf-chief wanted solitude, he drove off his subordinates withsnarls, not affection. Skyfire could be as fierce in defense of herwishes. No elf in the tribe cared to provoke her wrath as Two-Spearhad, on the day she had challenged him for leadership.
Yet the more distance Skyfire set between herself and the membersof her tribe, the more determination deserted her. She paused, leanedagainst a tree, and rested her cheek against rough bark. She hadheard no singing for many eights-of-days. All her practice at runningand her nights of vigil had led her no closer to the strange elf thanthe time when the peepers called. Soon the 
I79 forest would change. Frost and cold winds would strip the green fromthe leaves. The season of white cold would follow and the strugglefor survival would force an end to her search. Recalling the marvelsin the singer's dream, Skyfire clenched her teeth in frustration.Somehow she knew that if she failed, the lost feeling inside herwould never be answered.
 Accordingly, she tucked her bow more comfortably across hershoulders and began to jog. Tonight she paid no attention tolandmarks, but traveled without purpose or direction. She mightencounter humans, or even one of the clearings where they set snaresfor game, but this once caution deserted her. The singer's longsilence drove her, aching, to recklessness.
Sky fire ran. The familiar paths, the known trees, the territoryhunted by the wolf-pack, all fell behind. Breathless, weary, thechieftess would not rest. Deer started out of her path, and nightcreatures looked up from their hunting. Still she ran, while starsblinked endlessly between the leaves overhead. The earth jarred overand over against the soles of her feet, and her bowstring raspedblisters on her shoulder. Still the chieftess ran.
 Her breath came in wrenching gasps. She did not stop. Not untilher legs failed her and she tumbled headlong into old leaves. Themusty smell filled her nostrils, and skeletons of veined stems caughtin her hair. Skyfire rolled miserably onto her back. Her frustrationskirted the edges of despair, but she was too spent even to curse.
She could do nothing at all but lie still and listen to silenceuntil her ears stung under the weight of it.
In time her heart stopped hammering and her breathing slowed.Something stirred in her mind and she heard a faint drift of melody.Skyfire shut her eyes, uncertain whether her imagination might betricking her as had happened so many times before.
But the singing grew stronger. The melody turned and interwovelike a waterfall, intricate beyond understanding. Skyfire rose up onher elbows. Longing woke within her. Feeling tears burn behind hereyelids, she pushed at last to her feet. She did not feel the protestof her tired body as, once more, she started to run. The singer'sdream enfolded her senses, drew her irresistibly like a moth towardflame.
 Skyfire no longer saw trees, or the night-dark vista of forest.She ran through a waking dream of wide, open plains under cloudless 
I80 forest would change. Frost and cold winds would strip the green fromthe leaves. The season of white cold would follow and the strugglefor survival would force an end to her search. Recalling the marvelsin the singer's dream, Skyfire clenched her teeth in frustration.Somehow she knew that if she failed, the lost feeling inside herwould never be answered.
 Accordingly, she tucked her bow more comfortably across hershoulders and began to jog. Tonight she paid no attention tolandmarks, but traveled without purpose or direction. She mightencounter humans, or even one of the clearings where they set snaresfor game, but this once caution deserted her. The singer's longsilence drove her, aching, to recklessness.
Skyfire ran. The familiar paths, the known trees, the territoryhunted by the wolf-pack, all fell behind. Breathless, weary, thechieftess would not rest. Deer started out of her path, and nightcreatures looked up from their hunting. Still she ran, while starsblinked endlessly between the leaves overhead. The earth jarred overand over against the soles of her feet, and her bowstring raspedblisters on her shoulder. Still the chieftess ran.
 Her breath came in wrenching gasps. She did not stop. Not untilher legs failed her and she tumbled headlong into old leaves. Themusty smell filled her nostrils, and skeletons of veined stems caughtin her hair. Skyfire rolled miserably onto her back. Her frustrationskirted the edges of despair, but she was too spent even to curse.
She could do nothing at all but lie still and listen to silenceuntil her ears stung under the weight of it.
In time her heart stopped hammering and her breathing slowed.Something stirred in her mind and she heard a faint drift of melody.Skyfire shut her eyes, uncertain whether her imagination might betricking her as had happened so many times before.
But the singing grew stronger. The melody turned and interwovelike a waterfall, intricate beyond understanding. Skyfire rose up onher elbows. Longing woke within her. Feeling tears burn behind hereyelids, she pushed at last to her feet. She did not feel the protestof her tired body as, once more, she started to run. The singer'sdream enfolded her senses, drew her irresistibly like a moth towardflame.
 Skyfire no longer saw trees, or the night-dark vista of forest.She ran through a waking dream of wide, open plains under cloudless 
I80 sky. The stars seemed close enough to touch, and the wind held a biteof cold that burned her throat as she breathed. Scents of manydescriptions filled her nostrils, intoxicating in their detail.Skyfire sniffed deeply. She realized that she ran with the senses ofa wolf, even as Timmain had done generations in the past. Yet thoughher limbs might seem clothed in fur and her body that of a beast,still her mind was not entirely animal. The compassion, thegentleness, and the sorrow of her ancestors reverberated through herbeing. As she raced on four pads over the plain, she shared echoes ofTimmain's thoughts.
Then the singer's melody changed. The dream of sharing wolfshapefaded and turned deep and sad and lost. The cold deepened. Snow fell,a whirling maelstrom of flakes that smothered the memory of summer orstars. Frost cut cruelly into flesh no longer clothed in theprotective pelt of the wolf. Skyfire cried out, painfully rubbingfingers that were thinner, longer, and more delicate than those shehad been born with. She experienced the past suffering of the firstones, and the crippling confusion of minds accustomed only tocontemplation. Terror ripped into nerves she never knew shepossessed.
She cried out, stumbled, and fell waking into the icy reality ofa snowdrift. Cold shocked her back into memory of self; around her,the singer's melody sang of despair that approached madness.
Skyfire rolled until the end of her bow no longer hampered herlegs. She shook icy flakes from her lashes and hair, and stoodupright with a shiver. The music seemed very near, and it pulled ather heart without surcease. Around her the trees drooped under ahardened burden of ice. Summer stars shone faintly through the cold.Skyfire blinked. Unquestioning as a wolf, she shook off the muddleleft by the chill and pressed forward. The snow deepened. Before longshe labored through drifts that rose to her chest. But her effortsbrought progress. The melody grew stronger as she went; the spell ofthe singer wove inescapably through her being. Whether she riskeddeath, she would not stop now.
The way grew more difficult. The snow acquired a hardened, glassycrust of ice that cut at her fingers and toes. Skyfire was notdressed for such weather. Her flesh gradually went numb. She shivereduncontrollably, and longed for the stoic presence of Woodbiter at herside. Still, harsh as her own straits seemed, nothing prepared her as she scrabbled over the final rise in the snowand beheld the singer at last.
He sat with his head bowed over crossed arms, bare feet buried tothe ankles in the pelt of his gray wolf. Black hair hid his face,trailed in unkempt tangles over shoulders clad thinly as Skyfire's.He did not shiver, though his fingers seemed frozen and bloodless asquartz. His song surrounded him with magic. Thick as mist, the spellshe sang brought cold deep enough to crack stone, and grief enough tomake the trees weep.
Skyfire besJr~red as J~f struck by a blow. Then, before she quiterealized she had reacted, she was running, sliding, flailing down thesteep drift, to tumble breathless at his side.
The gray wolf looked up and growled, its eyes all silver-brightand wary. For once as brash as her brother, Skyfire dared its wrath.She recovered her footing and addressed its uncanny companion.
':';:'Who are you?** Though she had not planned, her words cameout as sending.
The singer looked up. Eyes identical to those of the wolf methers, and it seemed for a breath that the earth stopped turning.
Then his song changed, flowed without break into sending. Themelody itself framed answer, describing him as Outcast, wild as thebachelor wolf who runs with no ties to a pack. Skyfire, listening,heard a melancholy that made her spirit ring with echoes. The songdescribed more than an elf with silver eyes, more than a hunter whoroved alone. The chieftess of the Wolfriders heard silence more deepthan sky, wind more free than storms, a spirit more solitary than theterrible moment of death. She knew then that she had been gifted withthis elf's soulname, and in the depthsof his silver-ice eyes she saw her own self reflected back at her. *'"' Kyr.* '~
There, in an unseasonal enchanted snow, Huntress Skyfire becameRecognized by an elf who was a stranger, and who conformed to no lawand no pack. More terrifying still, the melody this outsider sangheld all of the exhilaration, and all of the pain, and all of thetwisted madness that the magic of the high ones became heir to on theworld of two moons.
 Even through the compulsion of Recognition, Skyfire senseddanger. The spell the song wove was not gentle, but filled fullmeasure with remembered tragedy from the past. The effect was 
182 compelling enough to wound, and both she and the one fate chose forher mating were entangled in its threads. One of them must free theother, and of the two, the singer was most lost in his dream.Recognition offered no choice in the matter. Skyfire reached out tothe singer, but never completed her touch. The gray wows warningbecame a snarl of rage and his muzzle lifted over bared teeth.
The despair of the singer's spell only hampered. In desperation,Skyfire sent to the beast, her image all strength without threat. Thewolf did not respond as a pack member would. Mad as his outsidermaster, he rose and advanced on stiffened legs. Skyfire sensed thetautening of muscles beneath the silver-gray pelt. The wolf waspreparing to rush her, and she carried no spear to defend.
Only her bow remained to her, hung uselessly across hershoulders; if she made the slightest move to free it, the strangerwolf would charge. Skyfire knew better than to attempt to flee. Thespell slowed her reflexes and the snow would mire her. The wolf wouldsense her disadvantage. That would inevitably provoke an attack, andshe had no desire to die with fangs sunk into her neck from behind.
She glanced to the singer, but no help awaited her there. Snowfiurried over his dark hair, and his eyes were mirrors of grief. Songand sorrow had overwhelmed his senses; his magic ran out of control.
The wolf growled again. It shifted onto its haunches. Aware shewas out of options, Skyfire snatched for her bow. The string barelycleared her shoulder as the great beast sprang. He was larger thanWoodbiter, and young. Skyfire raised the frail wood, tried uselesslyto stave off his rush. Fangs closed over the shaft and splintersflew. Then the chieftess was borne down beneath hard-muscled weightand gray fur.
She ducked to protect her throat. Battered into snow, she rolled.The terrible iaws clacked over her head. The wolf pressed for anothersnap. Skyfire twisted and managed to jab a knee into the animal'sribs. The wolf snarled in rage and tried again. Once more she dodgedits teeth. Her quiver banged into her thigh, spilling stone-pointedarrows treacherously over the ground. If she rolled in an attempt tothrow the wolf off, she risked becoming impaled. Yet she had littlechance if she hesitated. The wolf caught her braid in its teeth andworried, slamming her head from side to 
I83 side. She punched at its eyes, missed, and caught a glancing slashfrom a fang.
The wolf scented blood and attacked with renewed fury. In dangerof severe mauling, Skyfire braced against its chest and sent,**Submission-fear-fury-submission.** She hammered the beast's mindwith her self-awareness, the irrefutable knowledge of her right tolead. She had challenged for dominance, and won. This stranger wolfmust back down before her, or else kill, or be killed in turn. Suchwas the way of the wolves.
Skyfire gritted her teeth, the scent of her own blood strong inher nostrils. She knew no fear, only determination; this the wolfsensed. Its great heart faltered. Skyfire sensed its instant ofunsureness. She twisted, used a wrestling trick and threw the heavieranimal down. At once she went for its throat. Her nails caught itsflesh and twisted, hard. The breath rasped in its throat. It livednow only by her sufferance. Her green eyes stared into ones ofsilver-gray, elf and wolf both equally savage and fierce.
Then the wolf went limp. Its lips stayed turned back, but itarched its neck to farther expose its throat. Skyfire gave the animalan extra shake to enforce her moment of victory. Then she backed off.
The air felt very cold. Grazed, disheveled, and bleeding from herslashed wrist, the chieftess licked at her hurt. She watched the graywolf warily, but it rose with its tail down and settled on the farside of the singer. Only then did Skyfire realize that the terriblesong had stilled. She looked around to find the black-haired elfsenseless in the snows his magic had spun. But the dreams of the pastwhich inspired him had dissipated. His awareness was dark as thenight.
Skyfire shrugged her torn tunic back into place. Stiffly sheregained her feet and went to him. His eyes were open and empty asclouds. Outcast he had named himself; but to Skyfire he wasDreamsinger, and would remain so, though he had no pack to name him.Slowly the chieftess knelt at his side. She cautiously extended ahand, and this time the gray wolf did not challenge. Her fingersbridged a gap of empty, wintry air, and touched.
His flesh was very cold. Skyfire sent thoughts of urgency intohis mind, and could not reach him. His magic had carried himperilously far. He would return on his own, perhaps, but unless 
I84 he wakened soon he might freeze. The possibility filled HuntressSkyfire with a new and uncomfortable dilemma.
The way of the wolf-pack urged her to leave. Survivors did notburden their resources; to be encumbered by the helpless was toinvite a pointless death. Yet the dream of the singer had poisonedthe familiar, pushed Skyfire's awareness beyond the limits ofexperience. Though taxed by the rigors of her night4ong run, andshaped by the same wild laws which had arbitrated her dispute withthe wolf, the chieftess hesitated. Skyfire found herself incapable ofleaving the Dreamsinger to die.
Surely Recognition might cause such madness. Partially reassured,the chieftess caught the stranger beneath the shoulders. The graywolf whined, but did not interfere as she half lifted, half draggedhim over the heavy drifts. The Dreamsinger was slight, perhaps thesame build as Sapling. Yet the Huntress was tired, and the snowhampered her steps. Leaving her arrows and broken bow, she laboredover the ice with her burden until her feet stumbled beneath her. Her strength was long-since spent. Somehow she continued. In time themagic of despair fell behind. The stars overhead lay pale in the glowof dawn, and green ferns and moss cushioned her steps.
Skyfire lowered the Dreamsinger in a clearing and flung herselfdown by his side. Whether or not there were humans, she could go nofarther. She curled on the ground beside the strange elf and slept.After pacing with uneasiness the gray wolf curled on the oppositeside of elf-friend and buried its muzzle beneath its brush. 
Huntress Skyfire awakened to song. Sunlight dappled her shoulders andeased the ache of her cut wrist; yet even summer's warmth seemed thinbeside the joy in Dreamsinger's melody. The chieftess stirred, andfound eyes of unearthly silver intently watching her. The black-haired elf seemed poised, as if for flight; only the ties ofRecognition prevented.
Speech itself seemed an intrusion, a sour note against amagnificence of song that no living being might dare to spoil. ':'':'Come,* ':' Skyfire sent. She raised her arms toward him.
The outsider elf hesitated. Outcast, the song defined him, and athread of sadness slowed the cadence. 
I85 
 'No.' Skyfire smiled, for the moment as sure as bedrock.'Dreamsinger.' Though the ways of the pack and the vision of dreammight war inside her, the call of Recognition obscured them.
For a moment the fey elf clid not move. All his years ofwandering cast a current of doubt between them. Skyfire smiled,uncaring; and the pull of longing overwhelmed. The Dreamsingeranswered the name he had been given and gathered Skyfire into hisembrace. His song swelled around her. For an instant she knew thewild joy of Timmain running with her wolf-mate; then the pound ofblood in her veins overturned the dream. The notes of the spellshifted afresh, transformed the clearing to a place of new springgrass that was softly perfect for mating. Skyfire had known theexertion and thrill of the hunt. She had killed for food and for survival, and lived the fierce way of the wolf-pack. She had howledin moonlight, and chipped winter ice for drinking, and gnawed uponbones when her stomach was hollow with hunger. The life of the packcontained all there was to know of death and survival. But in Dreamsinger's arms the Wolfrider chieftess learned gentleness, andthat one thing overturned all else.
Dreamsinger traced her many scars with light fingers. His songspoke now of healing, and places where elves need not kill. Skyfireheard, ancl ached with the terror of the unknown. This dream whichlacked the howl and the hunt tore away the familiar, left her adriftwithout bearings. The Dreamsinger sang of the past, lost forever, orof a life impossibly far into the future. Skyfire caught her fey mateclose, for his body was warm and listening caused pain. Yet littlecomfort came to her. He was the song, and his strangeness broughtconflict beyond bearing. The pull of Recognition would not let herleave, not let her run and join Woodbiter, and find refuge in thepack. She could not go; in time she no longer wanted to. TheDreamsinger's strange magic touched her spirit and wove irrevocablechange.
After the mating he caught up her fiery hair and gloried in thecolour, which promised both sunset and dawn. As he braided theshining length of it, Skyfire looked up past his head and watched atree burst spontaneously into blossom. The scent made her languid andcontent, until the Dreamsinger's spell changed key, as, inevitably,it must. He belonged to no pack. As Outcast, he must leave her, orrisk the leadership she had won from Two-Spear at 
I86 such cost. Dreamsinger's music encompassed the brightness and sorrowof that. Released from the drive of Recognition, and caught incontention between ways, Skyfire pulled free of his arms, unable tospeak.
The aftermath of their joining was bittersweet. The Dreamsingerpulled on his ragged clothing with his back turned. Before theafternoon was spent, his grey wolf arose and slipped away with himinto the forest. 
Evening fell, and the moon rose. Skyfire sat amid drifts of fallingpetals. Woodbiter crouched at her feet, insistently proud of findingher; she had strayed very far from known territory. The old wolf'ssides heaved as he panted, yet occasionally, in concern, he wouldturn his muzzle and lick at the cut on his chieftess's arm.
 Skyfire scratched absently at his ears. She was hungry but had noinclination to hunt. The woodland silence oppressed her, filled herwith a strange, numb emptiness that the way of the wolf could neverfulfill. She would bear a cub to the Dreamsinger; such was the fruitof Recognition. But his song and his dream might leave her with morethan offspring, if she was bold enough to risk leading the tribe intochange.
For by the way of the wolf, Dreamsinger was Outcast. The magic ofthe high ones ran to madness within him. Rightly the earliergenerations had driven him out, for compassion and dreams of peacehad no place in pack life. Yet Skyfire had shared his visions. Shehad experienced the hopes of Timmain, and through them she understoodthat her ancestress had mated for more than the toughness andsavagery of the wolf. The ancestress had wished to pass on hardinessand forest cunning, yet retain the bright dreams of the first ones.All of this had been lost over time. Skyfire's tribe lived only theway of the pack, and not an elf among them questioned why.
The chieftess rose restlessly to her feet. She drew on her boots,and blossoms fell like snow from her shoulders. She considered the cub she would bear from this mating. It might inherit its father'sfey madness. By pack law, it also might suffer and be driven awayinto solitude. Skyfire flicked her braid back in frustration. By thenshe herself might not remember the song and the dream, for thewolfsong eroded the memory. This minute she 
187 perceived very clearly. If the tribe continued as it had, they wouldhave nothing to offer their cubs bht hardship and hunger and thechangeable luck of the hunt. Something precious stood to be lost,perhaps without chance of recovery.
Dreamsinger himself held the answer. He wandered the forest ir~exile, hunting what he could forage, and driven relentlessly by giftsthat had potential to l~ill him. Yet he had not died. His madness hadharmed no others. Skyfire might bring him into the holt, and ensurethe continuance of the dreams his songs inspired. But to do so defiedpack law. For that the Wolfriders would challenge her, force her tofight and fight again until all had submitted to her will. Herchieftainship might be lost. She might be defeated by another, andearn death or even exile without hope of reprieve. The thought ofsharing Two-Spear's cruel fate filled her with distress. Woodbitersensed, and whined softly by her knee.
Skyfire stroked the wolf's head, but not to offer reassurance.':":'Find Dreamsinger,** she sent.
The wolf hesitated. Sharply impatient, the chieftess drove himforward. She had learned a thing worth fighting for, wdrth even therisk of total loss. Elves might hunt with wolves, and share thehardships of survival. But Dreamsinger had showed her another way,neither elf nor wolf, but a glimpse of Timmain's wise vision. Skyfirechose change. She slipped through the thickets like the wild creatureshe was, her ears listening keenly for distant strains of a song shestill could not distinguish between the sending of an elf, or truesound. 
I88 Triple-Cross 
Lieutenant Jensen paced, spun in a tight circle, then hammered anangry fist on the chart table. Loose marker pins scattered from theblow, falling like micro-shot through furniture tight-knit as abattle formation. 'Damn the man, what godforsaken plot could send himback to Guildstar?'
 'Information, maybe,' suggested Harris, who lounged with closedeyes on the wall bunk, his pilot's coverall in its usual neglectedstate of crumple. Quarters on Sail were far too cramped for displaysof violent frustration; by now resigned to having sleep disrupted byhis senior's obsession with the obscure motivations of a criminal,Harris chose not to fight the inevitable. 'You can bet Mac Jamesisn't making the run for any merchant's sake.'
The model of a Fleet officer in a faultlessly fitted dutycoverall, Jensen swore. Black-haired and classically handsome, heleaned on his knuckles and glared at his holo map of Alliance space,which hogged whatever paltry space their quarters had to offer. Thedisplay was crisscrossed with threads and speared with markers inthree colors: blue for those sites the skip-runner MacKenzie Jameswas rumored to have visited; yellow for a confirmed sighting, and redfor any station or planet or interstellar vessel that had fallen preyto his penchant for piracy. Mac James being the most wanted criminalon Fleet record, the map was peppered red from end to end.
'Or else the source you bribed is selling you a line of crap,'Harris added.
 Jensen swore again. He smoothed back bangs razor-trimmed in thelatest military fashion. 'My informant isn't wrong. I pay anotherrebel to cross-check her.' Harris knuckled the orange stubble that roughened his jaw. He 
I89 failed to open his eyes, or speak; but his kilence on the subjectspok, volumes.
'The two are not in cahoots,' Jensen defended, hotly enough t(send another pair of markers bouncing across the narrow aisle odecking. They fetched against the corrugated plastic of the showestall, where the lieutenant irritably retrieved them. 'My peopl,don't even know each other, and since when does a Freer business witha Caldlander without one sticking a knife in th, other?'
Now Harris did sit up, incredulity etched across lines left b,laughter and self4ndulgence. 'Damn, boy. You've been had. I knovyou're rich, and that you've dumped all of Daddy's allowance int~tracking skip-runners, but didn't anyone tell you? Freerlander neversell out on a comrade. Mac James has been named in thei honor songsince the day he jammed that surveillance station ore Freermoon andknocked it out of orbit.'
 Jensen returned an arch look. 'This Freerlander is the one whos,ancestral burial grounds got slagged under nine tons of radioactiv,junk, direct result of that foray.'
Harris flopped backward. 'OK,' he agreed in defeat. Jensen' back­up informant wouldn't be lying for gain, but hell-bent o~ bloodyrevenge. Harris wasted no energy wondering who els, besides rebelshis aristocratic senior had courted for access t( Mac James'ssecrets. He shrugged one shoulder and said, 'So you damnable piratehas business on Guildstar? So what?'
 Jensen's brown eyes narrowed. Because it made no sense, thought,slipping into one of those sudden, uncommunicativ, silences thatclaimed him when he contemplated the skip-runne captain whoseactivities preoccupied him wholly since the Khalia~ wars wound down.Combat action was reduced to a minor fev far-flung outposts, and thepresent best chance for glory promotion remained the capture ofMacKenzie James. And James who was never careless, never forthright,and never in his lift involved in honest trade, should have beenanathema in a systen as straitlaced as Guildstar. Half the merchantson the council ther, had suffered losses due to Mac's operations; hisship, the Marity should in theory have been blown to bits the instantshe applied fo a docking bay.
Webbing creaked as Harris shoved to his feet. His pilot's reflexespared him from stepping unshod on spilled tacks, but the near mis: 
I9O sent him muttering toward the galley cubicle for coffee, or beer, orthe chocolate bars he ate after difficult flights that unjustly neverfleshed out his middle; even his tailored dress uniform hung on himlike a mechanic's coverall.
 Jensen's lips thinned in distaste. Harris's sloppiness wastolerable only because he could fly the shorts off just about all ofhis peers. And if Harris resented his assignment on Sail, a three-manscoutship commanded by a lieutenant whose father had stonewalled allreasonable opportunity for advancement, the pilot was toolackadaisical to care. Jensen despised such lack of ambition, butkept his contempt to himself. Without Harris, Sail had no prayer ofintercepting the Marity. Longingly, Jensen reached out and fingeredthe single green pin in the display. How would his pilot respond, hewondered, if he knew that Daddy's allowance had gone toward thespreading of false information? Would Harris file for transfer if heunderstood that the green pin marked a trap most painstakingly laidto entice the Marity's master, precisely so that Sail could effect acapture?
But the Marity, damn her wayward, disingenuous traitor of acaptain, appeared not to be buying; instead she was making a thirdrun to Guildstar, decorously scheduled as the merchanter sheassuredly wasn't.
Jensen loosened a clenched fist and retrieved a marker, a blueone; with determined steadiness he imbedded the pin by the existingpair over Guildstar, then muttered, 'It makes no sense.'
Though Harris could overhear from the galley, Jensen felt noembarrassment. While other officers jockeyed for leave to visit wivesand families, the lieutenant curried favor with Intelligence. He wasfirst among the lower ranks to hear that the Khalia had been armedand financed by the Syndicate; the shock just beginning to filterdown from above was that war was far from over. The heated issue now was location of the Syndicate's worlds. Weasel sources held no clue,spies in the most sensitive positions drew blanks, and the brass wasreduced to screening hearsay in a vain search for coordinates. Jensenviewed the dilemma with an eye for opportunity. His passion to trapMacKenzie James took on increased importance: a skip-runner whotrafficked in state secrets and whose record held multiple charges oftreason would be acquainted with the Alliance's enemies. TheSyndicate should be numbered among his customers. If James did notknow their home system, he would have a contact, or a base of operations that wouldopen a direct lead. To capture him, to claim the hero's honor foruncovering the turf of the enemy, Jensen was prepared to stake hisname and career.
 Lieutenant Michael Christopher Jensen, Jr, tapped the blue pininto the holo map, then considered another red one with a speculativefrown. Mac James had pilfered plans for prototype weapons the Fleethad in classified research; the designs had not turned up in Indyhands, as everyone first supposed; where hadJames sol~d his booty that time? Whet'e?The blue pin mocked, byGuildstar.
 'None of this makes sense, damn you to Weasel castration!' Jensenexploded, as though the arch criminal he hunted could hear his curseacross space.
In the galley cubicle, surrounded by crumpled cups and a fashionmagazine left by the ensign, Harris lifted doubtful eyebrows under acrown of red-gold hair. 'Obsessed,' he muttered to himself, and thecoffee just ordered from the dispenser sat cooling while he rummagedunder the mission's accumulation of debris after his illicit cache of beer. 
In a dusty rebel settlement far beyond Sail's patrol, a bar had beenerected from slabs of modular siding filched from derelict stationsand an abandoned colonial settlement. The corners did not match, andthe sand took advantage. The floors were terminally gritty. In a sideroom, walled off by a fringed curtain, a Freerlander raised her cowlto veil a vicious smile. Her narrowed, desert-weathered eyes caughttopaz light from a candle flame as she shifted gaze to the man whosat in the shadows. 'The young officer was told outright, Captain.Guildstar, the time, the date. Everything short of your corn codes,but the word is he hangs back, still.'
A dry chuckle answered from the darkness. Pale eyes flicked upand glinted, while on the wine-sticky tabletop, a pair of handsscarred by coil burns flexed and straightened and flexed with an easethat, by the nature of such injuries, never should have beenpossible. Over the noise of the spacers' bar beyond the doorway, avoice equally grainy and grim observed, 'Then the boy is not quitethe brash fool he once was. No point in renewing the lease to thatruerchanter when this run's finished. I'll recall Marity when 
I92 she makes port at Guildstar. Let out word that my next move will bethose private sector interests on Chalice.'
A chair squeaked as the Freerlander sat straighter, and a sighissued from the hawk-nosed man wearing Caldlander harness who loungedopposite. After a black glance at the Freer, the Caldlander said,'But I understood the take on Chalice was worthy of a raid? Is it notrisky to be baiting an Alliance scoutship on site at a real operation?'
 'Well, Godfrey,' drawled the man with the scarred hands. 'Ifthat's what it takes to get me access to a documented Fleet vessel,there's the ticket to the party. My mate Gibsen'd find the heat morewelcome than bus driving guild cargoes, there's certainty.'
The Caldlander made a disparaging sound through his nose; theFreer readjusted her cowl.
Both were cultural signs of displeasure, ignored by theskiprunner captain who stretched and rose, still in shadow. He halfturned, scooped up a rattling collection of weapons belts and hikedthem over his shoulder. Then he exposed blunt teeth in an expressionthat Freer and Cald both knew better than to mistake for a smile.
 'Gentleman,' said MacKenzie James in his boyishly amiablefashion. 'Lady. If one of you kills the other after I leave, take mypoint, I'll gut the survivor like a fish.'
No sound answered but a whore's raucous laugh beyond the doorway.
'Good,' Mac James concluded. Still slinging the weapons he had,after all, never promised to return, he spun and ducked out, a large-framed bear of a man with a tread that incongruously made no sound.The door curtain slapped shut after him and left two enemies face-to­face over a wildly guttering candle.
'Damn his arrogance,' swore the Caldlander. His fist slappedirritably against the hip that now held neither knife, nor sheath,nor pistol.
The Freer expressed her frustration through silence and a twitchof steel-nailed fingers. She found she had something to say afterall. 'If it were only his arrogance, neither of us would have comehere, nor agreed to run errands to benefit some snot-nosed boylieutenant.'
 The Caldlander stiffened fractionally. His eyes showed wide ringsof white. 'You suspect the information on Chalice is a setup?' 
I93 The face under the cowl yielded nothing. 'The question is, doesMacKenzie James?'
 The enemies parted then, each wrapped in their own breed ofsilence. Days later, when Freer and captain were both beyond contact,it occurred to the Caldlander that Mac James's formidable cleverness might have fallen short. This once he might have overlooked thesignificance of a past action that had slagged a Freer ancestralmemorial. 
Sail emerged from the queer, deep silence of FTL on a routine run todeliver dispatches to Carsey Sector base. The capsule was relayed,another received to replace it, and in the six-sided capsule thatserved as cockpit, Harris snoozed in his headset, bored. Behind him,in the command alcove reserved for Lieutenant Jensen, Sail's thirdcrew member slouched in the process of painting her nails. SarahAshley del Kaplin, called Kappie by her deckmates, was short, whip-thin, and full-lipped. She had inviting, dusky skin and a deep voice,and she had taken assignment on Sail knowing that the lieutenant washandsome, but an iceberg, and that Harris was a bum who pinched. Thepinches she fielded with equanimity, until they got too personal toignore. Harris received a bruise he swore happened in a shower thatwas gravity stabilized, and the iceberg lieutenant was left to hisromance with the machinations of MacKenzie James.
 'Why's his nibs not out here reading off new orders?' Kaplinmused, turning her wrist to admire her nails, which this round weremetallic lavender.
 'Huh,' muttered Harris. One elbow on the astrogation unit, hescratched his chest through his unsealed collar, then added, 'Thelieutenant will return to duty when he's finished housekeeping hismap tacks.'
A shout emerged from crew quarters, followed by what sounded likea war whoop. Harris shoved out of his slouch, and Kaplin swiveledaround, her almond eyes wide with astonishment. 'Did I hear that?Could this mean we've been assigned leave for the next tour?'
Harris grunted again. 'Small chance. Jensen spends leave doingvolunteer scut work for the recon boys.' Kaplin's groan wasinterrupted by Jensen's explosive appearance 
194 at the companionway. His rangy frame filled up the narrow opening;lit by the overhead panel, his face was flushed and his eyesoverbright with excitement.
'He's done it!' the lieutenant shouted, waving a recent messagecorn. 'He's finally taken the bait.'
The 'he' needed no definition; nothing short of obsession withMacKenzie James could cause Jensen to overlook the crew member who usurped his command chair, the nail polish a calculated affront tohis dignity.
From the pilot's station, Harris drawled, 'Let me guess. We'regoing to go AWOL, maybe pay an unscheduled visit to Chalice? At leastI presume all those messages coming and going between us and theprivate sector were not over an affair.'
Kaplin watched this exchange, her nail brush forgotten in herhand. 'If our boy is even capable of an affair,' she muttered sottovoce.
 Jensen failed to take umbrage as he crossed the cockpit in astride. Risking an undecorous crease in his trousers, he leaned onthe instrument panel cowling. This drew a frown from Harris,disregarded as the lieutenant plunged on. 'No. We go under regs, bythe book. Sail's a scout and recon owes me a favor. Once we've placedthese dispatches, I can get us an assignment to do a discretionarypatrol sweep. Since the mines on Chalice are the juiciest operationthe military has going with private business, they'd naturally needto be checked.'
 Harris raked his fingers through a rooster comb of red hair, thenreplaced his beret with its frayed Fleet insignia. 'That'd work.'Only Kaplin insisted on particulars. 'What's at Chalice for us?'Jensen let her sarcasm pass. 'Everything. I've been months setting itup. We're going to capture MacKenzie James and through him trace thehome worlds of the Syndicate.'
Kaplin raised pencil-thin eyebrows. 'Oh? And what's in Chalicefor MacKenzie?'
 Smug now, Jensen smiled. 'A trap. My trap. James thinks he'sgoing to heist core crystals, ones engineered with the technologyused to interface those fancy brainship modules with their hardware.But once in, he'll find out the booty was bait. Sail might not haveall the latest tracking gadgets, but she's strong on gunnery. We'regoing to stand down the Marity.'The nail brush by now was thoroughly dry. Tossing it aside in 
I95 exasperation, Kaplin flipped back ash-brown hair. 'You're crazy.You'll get us all court-martialed.'
'Or decorated,' Harris interjected. 'That's what happened lasttime.'
 That moment Jensen noticed the gaudy, nonregulation nail lacquer.'Ensign Kaplin,' he rapped out. 'One more breach of protocol on thisbridge, and I'll have you confined to quarters.' His voice did notchange inflection as he resumed with orders for his pilot. 'Harris,charge the coils and prepare for FTL. I want our dispatches deliveredas if they were hot, and Sail on flight course for Chalice.' 
In fact the logistics took days to work out. On fire with impatiencelest they miss their timing at Chalice, Jensen paced through $ail'stiny corridors. He ran through his plan to trap Marity over and overagain. Since the scoutship's living quarters consisted of twobunkrooms, a galley cubby, and the bridge, his crewmates grew sick ofhearing it. Harris escaped by closeting himself in astrogation towatch his library of porn tapes. Kaplin got bugged enough to argue.
Her fingers tapped the mess counter as she voiced her list ofobjections. 'First, you took a helluva risk assuming those recon boysyou brown-nosed could wrangle us an assignment.'
'Irrelevant point,' Jensen snapped. 'We've got our papers and theassignment, both on target.'
Kaplin shot a glance at the soup he would not eat because ofnerves, and her next nail snicked against the counter. 'Second, theexplosive you had that dock worker rig in case your plans went awrycould misfire.'
 Jensen gestured his exasperation. 'Not if you know, as the restof Chalice personnel does, that the box with the self-destruct is adummy. The crystals inside are fakes, a decoy for MacKenzie James.'
'Oh ?' Kaplin's eyebrows arched. 'You told everybody about yourplot? Even the janitors? Hell, man, if you left things thatwide~open, your skip-runner's deaf not to know it. His intelligencenetwork's better than Fleet's, if he's got connections with theSyndicate. So who's fooling who on this mission?'
'Mac's best style is recklessness,' Jensen countered. 'And hewants those interface crystals very badly.' 
196 
 Kaplin threw up her hands, almost banging the dish locker in herirritation. 'You're telling me nothing but insanity! Our successdepends on MacKenzie James being quantum leaps dumber than you are.'
Now Jensen grew heated in turn. 'If you can devise a better plan,I'd sure be interested to hear it!'
 The lilac-colored nails drummed an agitated solo on thecountertop. 'I can't,' Kaplin said finally. 'But God, we'll be luckyif our asses stay whole through this one.' 
The queer, intangible stagger that human time sense underwent throughthe shift from FTL came to an end, but confusion lingered. On re­entry to analog space, Sail seemed to hesitate and bounce, as if shewere a plane engaged in a turbulent landing. Then something movingand metallic impacted her high-density hull with an awful, ear-stinging clang.
'Jesus!' screamed Harris from the pilot's seat. 'We've dumpedslap into a war zone!' He spun the spacecraft, tossing Kaplin andJensen hard into their couch stations.
 The lieutenant strained against the pull of vertigo and managedto punch up an image on the screens. Instantly his eyes were searedby the glare of an expanding plasma explosion. Sail had not entered awar zone; instead, the station logged as her destination had beendetonated to a cloud of gases and debris. Harris responded,reflexively kicked Sail's grav drives into reverse with a scream ofattitude thrusters. Small fragments rattled against the hull. Thegravity drives accelerated into the red, and buzzers sounded warning.
Jensen stared at the blowing burst of destruction that Harrislabored feverishly to evade. What could possibly have gone wrong? hewondered, and his shoulders tensed in anticipation of Kaplin'sacerbic, 'I told you so, you arrogant, stupid fool.'
But Kaplin said nothing, only sat with her face in her hands,caution lights from the recon unit a glare of yellow against herknuckles.
 'Je-sus,' Harris repeated, the Eirish accent of his childhoodbreaking through the more cultured tones he had acquired in air-tactics academy. A gifted sixth sense and instinct enabled him toquiet the drive engines; Sail described a smooth course just beyondthe event horizon left by the explosion. 'What now?' 
197 
 Nobody spoke. None of the three in Sail's cockpit cared tocontemplate what might have been had their scout probe broken throughFTœ just half an instant sooner. Jensen looked at his hands, foundthem clenched whitely on the arms of his crew chair. Sincehe could not change the fuckup, he forced his brain to work. And theobvious stared him in the face.
 'Kappie,' he said sharply. 'Engage sensors, sweep the vicinityfor the presence of other warcraft.'
'What?' Overdue, the ensign's reproach was cutting. 'Have yougone nuts? You set a live charge on Chalice station, and now you'reafter the culprit who blew it?'
Lieutenant Jensen repeated his command, his voice back undercontrol. 'The charge I had rigged was a contained net explosive. Ifanybody set it off, even accidentally, it might have burned onesector. Not the whole station. We're seeing the afterimage of aplasma bolt. Now, make your sweep. Our lives depend on it,because the enemy who manned the weapon is still out there.' 'Couldbe renegade Khalians,' offered Harris.
Nobody had time to suggest otherwise. An alarm cut across thecramped cockpit, one that signaled an inbound distress call.
Kaplin locked in on the signal. 'A survivor,' she called crisply.'He's in freefall with no life-support beyond a service suit.' Shelisted distance and vector, then added figures for Harris tocalculate drift factor. The human bit of flotsam moved with the debris from the station, no less a victim of the blast. 'He's got amaintenance coding,' Kaplin finished. 'Probably a repair man who wascaught outside when the charge hit.'
'Set course for intercept,' Jensen ordered. 'By regs, we're boundto pick the fellow up, and maybe he can tell us what happened.'
A pilot other than Harris might have protested; laying coursethrough a high-speed, tumbling mass of debris was hardly the safestof undertakings. But Harris leaned over his console, a half-crazedgrin on his face. As he began the maneuver, he relished tellingKaplin that she'd better not unbelt to fetch a Dramamine. The vectorchanges were going to be fast, and violent, and if she was going tobe sick from inertia, better that than wind up splattered against abulkhead.
 The interval that followed became a hellish parody of a carnivalride. Harris alone found the gyrations enjoyable. He leaned overSail's console with his nose thrust forward like a jockey, every 
I98 sense trained on the attitude displays, and his hands almost wooingthe controls. The spacecraft responded to his measure, rolling,twisting, and sometimes outright wrenching a clear path throughpinwheeling debris. Harris pressed Sail to the edge of her specs andreveled in every moment. His voice as he announced that the survivorwas now close enough to grapple aboard sounded near as he came toelation.
 Lieutenant Jensen issued orders through his vertigo. As Kaplinset hands to her couch belt, he told her to stay on station. 'Keepthe scanners manned. If we're not the only craft out here, 1 want toknow it fast.' Then, as if $ail's cockpit were too small to containhis restlessness, he strode out to manage the loading lock andgrapplers on his own.
In keeping with most scout craft, $ail's utility levels were awarren of bare, corrugated corridors as poorly lighted as a mineshaft, and unequipped with simulated gravity. Experienced enough todisdain magnetic soles, Jensen made his way aft through the servicehatch, hand over hand on the side rails. Although he had logged morespace hours, Kaplin was more agile than he. She could zip throughnull grav like a monkey, never the least bit disoriented. Jensen'sjaw muscles tightened. A lowly female ensign should not make him feelthreatened; but thanks to the almighty wishes of his politicianfather, others as inexperienced had earned their promotions ahead ofhim. Kaplin might easily do the same, despite the fact she was apt toact flighty on duty, and her record held a collection of demerits.
The frustration of being continually passed over caught up withJensen at odd moments. Intent on the injustices of his career, hedrifted over the open-grate decking to the space bay, flipped openthe grappler's controls, and slipped on the headset inside. Heclicked the display visor down, powered up the unit, and initiatedrecovery procedure as if the drifting speck on the grid representedno castaway, but an enemy target in a weapon scope. Since Jensen helda citation for marksman elite, the mote of human flotsam wasrecovered in commendably short order. Jensen tossed the headset intoits rack. Poised before the trapezoidal entry to the lock chamber, heengaged the space bay controls, then waited, his hand on the bulkheadto pick up the jarring vibration that signaled closure of the outerlock. His ears measured the hiss of changing air pressure asatmosphere flooded the chamber. Only greenhorns and 
I99 fools trusted to idiot lights on the monitor panel. Electronics werenever infallible, and there were prettier ways to die than voiding anunsuited body into vacuum.
The pressure stabilized within the bay. Jensen flipped off themanual safety and unsealed sliding doors through the innerlock.Inside the steel-walled chamber, the figure he had recovered driftedlimply in null grav, clad in the bulky, ribbed fabric of a deep-spacemechanic's suit. The elbows showed wear, the knees were grease-stained, and the tool satchels were scuffed with use. The hands intheir fluorescently striped gloves did not rise to undo the helmet,and a second later, Jensen saw why. The face shield was drenched fromthe inside, with an opaque film of fresh blood.
Nausea kicked the pit of his stomach. He had not expected asurvivor who was injured, or maybe dead. Hindsight made hisassumption seem silly. The emergency tracer signal emitted by thesuit did not necessarily trigger manually. The backpacks and toolsatchel compartments were typical of a repairman's, and such gearoften had a proximity fail-safe: if the worker wearing the rigaccidentally came adrift from a workstation, the alarm would set offautomatically. Jensen swallowed back sickness. He had seen deathbefore, had once blown a man's brains out point-blank from behind.Now, duty demanded that he ascertain whether this suit contained acorpse, or a medical emergency.
Queasiness reduced to irritation, Jensen pushed off into the lockchamber. He bumped against the drifting figure, clumsily captured itin an embrace, and managed to hook onto the handrail before hecaromed off the far wall. With one elbow crooked to maintain position, he wrestled the suited body upright, then flipped theclasps on the helmet.
As he lifted the face shield, the figure moved against him. Aspace-gloved hand gripped his waist from behind, and a hard objectjabbed his side.
Probably just a tool appendage, Jensen rationalized, his pulsequickening. But the face behind the blood-streaked shield dispelledhis last vestige of delusion. The lieutenant looked down into slate-colored eyes and an expression that held only ruthlessness.
'Godfrey, you boys are predictable,' said the voice of MacKenzieJames. The cheek in shadow beneath the face shield showed a smear of new blood, but the hold that gripped Jensen, and the arm that shovedwhat surely was a firearm against the lieutenant's 
200 side, were not those of a wounded man. MacKenzie James was bearishlystrong, with reflexes not to be trifled with. Jensen had cause toremember.
 Shocked by the skip-runner's presence and enraged to have lostthe upper hand to a castaway, the lieutenant fought to stay calm. 'Ipresume you deep-spaced the man who owned the suit you're wearing.'
The query prompted an insouciant smile. 'Cut the crap,' saidJames, his voice multiplied by echoes off of the lock bay walls. 'Ifyou've got any scruples about killing, they're faked.' He shook backmussed brown hair and nudged the gun barrel in the ribs of hisvictim. 'Unfasten my suit clips.'
Jensen saw no option but compliance; if James decided to shed thebulky suit, a way might arise to seize advantage while his enemy wasencumbered by the sleeves. Convinced that the pirate had tripped thecharge in the bogus crate of brain crystals, and that an accompliceon Marity had seen the explosion and opened retaliatory fire onChalice, Jensen talked in an attempt to distract his enemy'sthinking.
'You'll never get away with a hijacking. $ail's courses areautomatically logged, and she runs under check-in protocols. Alltransmissions are coded and routinely traced.'MacKenzie James saidnothing.
'Give yourself up, man.' Jensen set hands to the last shoulderclip. 'If our schedule is disrupted a millisecond, we're presumed tobe boarded by enemies. We're tagged and targeted for armed search,with orders to be slagged on sight.'
The clip unlatched with a click. James raised insolent brows.'Let go,' he instructed. As Jensen hesitated, James swung his bodyand wrenched the officer's fingers. Painfully freed, Jensen felthimself spun around, his right wrist looped neatly in a tool tether.
The lieutenant struggled, tried to jab an elbow in his enemy'sface. The move was both anticipated and countered; after years spentin freefall standing ambush, Mac James had mastered null gray to afine point. He did little but shift one hip. The result provoked aspin as he and his captive drifted in tandem from the rail. Jensen'sfast movement added vector that hammered him sideways into the wall.James was protected by his suit; Jensen, caught on the inside, gotthe breath crushed from his lungs, and a bruise on the temple thatnearly stunned him. Weakly he clawed 
201 for the lock. If he could reach the control, he might signal and warnthe bridge.
The tool tie on his wrist jerked him short and rebound slammedhim backward into James. Jensen tried to fight. A punch thatineffectively dented suit padding was all he could manage before akick in the groin killed his resistance. Amid the chaos of motionprovoked by his shoves and thrusts, the tool tie looped his otherwrist. Mac James controlled his random tumble. He shucked the suit,revealing blunt features and a pair of nondescript coverails soakedlike camouflage with bloodstains. Plainly the suit's original ownerhad died from exposure to vacuum. Left queasy by pain, and by thecoppery sharpness of the droplets drifting in freefall thatunavoidably got inhaled with each breath, Jensen cursed.
The gun barrel was no longer pointed at his face. James's hand onthe grip was relaxed, even negligent as he loosened the neck of hiscoverall; this action was an effrontery by itself since Jensen wasnot fully helpless. His feet were left free to kick; but to do so innull grav without use of his arms was asking for a nasty crack on thehead. Mac James understood that Jensen was experienced enough to knowthis. The skip-runner relied on that wholly, an arrogance his captivefound infuriating.
Jensen cursed again. He despised the notion that a criminal couldso easily guess his mind. He decided any effort was worth theinevitable concussion, but on the point of action, James caught thetool tie and jerked it like a leash.
Snapped in line like a disobedient puppy, Jensen wrestled withshoulders and forearms, half gagged by the taste-smell of blood. Hisstruggles skinned the flesh of his wrists, no more; Mac James towedhim expertly through the inner lock. Crimsoned, coil-scarred fingerstapped across the control panel. The skip-runner was no stranger toFleet vessels, Jensen observed in bleak rage. The lock hissed shut,fail-safe seals engaged.
'You lost your ship, at least,' Jensen managed through clenchedteeth as he was dragged past the service access to condenser anddrive-engine compartments. 'I hope she was blown to a million bits asa result of your late misjudgment.'
Mac James half turned. A glimpse of his snub-nosed profile showeda sardonically lifted brow. 'Misjudgment? Godfrey, boy. I'm exactlywhere I planned to be, which is more than you can say for yourself.' 
202 
 Jensen returned an epithet, clipped short as he twisted to stop anose dive; Mac James towed him through the access hatch into theupper level of the ship, and gravity slammed his shoulders into thedeck grid. The breath left his lungs and his feet drifted stupidly inthe gravityless well of the service corridor.
'Up,' said Mackenzie James. The pellet pistol was back in hishand and fixed in nerveless steadiness on the vitals of his captive.'Move, now!'
An impatience colored the skip-runner's tone that only a foolwould question. Jensen rolled, pulled his knees beneath his body,then flinched as his captor clapped a hand to his shoulder. He wasruthlessly hauled upright, spun, and marched ahead. The tool tietautened, stressed his arm sockets without mercy, while the pistolnuzzled the base of his skull.
 'Now,' said James in his ear from behind. 'We're going to thebridge. At the companionway, you will stop and instruct your pilot toset course for Van Mere's station in Arinat.'
 Jensen automatically began to protest. A shake from Mac Jamescaught him short.
The captain qualified. 'Your current orders permit you to act ondiscretion. And discretion, if you wish to stay alive, says Sailengages FTL for Arinat.'
Aside from the weapon at his neck, curiosity urged Jensen ahead.That James knew the fine print on his orders was a cold anddisquieting puzzle. 'Why Arinat? And what's at Van Mere's except atrading colony for a remote agricultural outpost?'
'Quite a bit,' James said uninformatively. Then, as if statingeveryday business, he added, 'The Marity didn't blow to bits alongwith Chalice. She's spaceworthy, and awaiting rendezvous, and will gounder your escort through the security zone checkpoint to Arinat.'
At which point Jensen knew searing rage. He had played blindlyinto an ambush. Months of intricate planning had led him to this: notas the hunter, but the trapped prey, forced to play puppet for theskip-runner Mackenzie James.'Carry on, Lieutenant,' the gruff voice instructed in his ear.
Jensen did so purely out of hatred. He swore he would find a wayto turn the tables, to bring this pirate to a justice long deserved.
Skip-runner and captive reached the galley nook; beyond lay thecompanionway to the bridge. The hand that poised the gun 
203 at Jensen's neck tightened ever so slightly. Since Mac James wasnever a man to act by half measures, Jensen squared his shoulders. Hestepped up to the companionway, faced through toward the cockpit, andcrisply called out orders.
'Ensign Kaplin, discontinue your search pattern. Harris, I wantthis ship on a new course for Arinat. Plot FTL coordinates for thesecurity zone checkpoint, and from there to Van Mere's station.'
Harris shot out of his habitual slouch. He turned his head,stared at his superior officer with an insolence peculiar to pilots,and said, 'You want what?'
The pistol nosed harder against Jensen's neck. He swallowedstiffly. 'Harris. You're insubordinate.'
'When isn't he,' Kaplin commented with her usual flat-tonedsarcasm. She shut down systems for travel and spun her station chair,in time to see Harris narrow his eyes.
'No,' the pilot said, quite softly. 'We've done too manyassignments together for me to buy on this one. I'll set course forArinat on one condition, sir. Step in here and show me both of yourhands.'
 Jensen had no chance to warn, no chance to act, just one instantof crystallized fear as Mac James shovecl him asicle. The pelletpistol went off, a compressed explosion of sound. Jensen staggeredoff balance, heard Kaplin's scream, and knew: Mac James had gunneddown his pilot, even as he, on a past mission, had killed theMarity's mate. In his own way, but for different reasons, Jensenshared such ruthlessness. He was not shocked, but only whitely angry,when he recovered his footing and saw the fallen figure sprawled inthe helm chair. The pilot's beret had tumbled off, and the fierythatch of hair dripped blood. The long, lean fingers that hadperformed feats of magic at the controls were not relaxed, buttwitching in an agitation of death throes. Mac James's pellet hadtaken Harris through the forehead. He'd probably died betweenthoughts.
A muffled sound across the cockpit reminded Jensen of his other,surviving crew member. Sarah del Kaplin looked sheet white; yet themakeup like garish paint over her pallor masked an unexpected depthof character. Scared to the edge of panic, she hadn't lost it enoughto stand up.
Which was well, for the murdering skip-runner shoved onto 5ail'sbridge and snapped his next orders to the ensign. 'Lady, yourtraining included flight rating, and you'd better know the 
204 material, because you're going to push that body off the helm and flythis vessel to Arinat and Van Mere's?
 Kaplin turned a shade paler. She lifted wide eyes to her seniorofficer; and prodded by the gun in twitchy hands at his back, Jensensaid, 'Kappie. Just do it.'

She returned a jerky nod, rose, and struggled with Harris'scooling corpse, her hands with their extravagant nail polish shakingand shaking, but able enough nonetheless. She sat in Harris'sspattered chair and engaged instruments to plot the skip-runner'scourse.
 MacKenzie James followed the figures that flashed on her board.The criminal knew his astrogation, solidly; that he watched overKaplin's shoulder told more clearly than words that there were stakesto this foray. A hum pervaded Sail's hull, followed by deepervibrations. The coil condensers began their charge cycle inpreparation for FTL, and as if the change in the ship's drivegalvanized Jensen's thinking, it dawned that Marity had blown Chalicestation deliberately, her purpose to hide Mac James's tracks.
'You've stolen the brain crystal interfaces,' Jensen accused, hisvoice muffled by his own epaulette as Mac James shoved his face downand to the side, and manhandled him sideways into the hanging lockerreserved for officers' dress coats.
 James responded with a grin that had no humor behind it. 'Youhelped make it convenient.' He pushed down, ramming his captive intothe dusty closet. 'Chalice security was busily watching your box ofrigged bait. Really, boy, I'm surprised. A man would expect you tolearn not to keep on meddling beyond your depth.'
Jensen winced as his elbow caught on the door hinge. Jammed on anerve, he gasped, sweated, and vainly thrashed for purchase in anarea too constricted for bodily movement. 'Damn you,' he grunted,before the fine silk of his officer's scarf was forcibly crammed inhis mouth. James used a length of shock webbing to tie the gag inplace, then shoved the door closed.
Jensen crouched in fetal position, his wrists lashed bloodlesslytight behind his back. Pressure against his cheek flattened his noseagainst his knees, and the toes of Harris's battle boots groundrelentless dents in his buttocks. Unable to move, unable to speak, hestill could hear. The dry tones of MacKenzie James instructed Kaplinto adjust her course; she'd missed a decimal point. The result, asJames phrased it, would get Sail an unscheduled refit, 
205 since Van Mere's star had an asteroid belt that could skin the shields off a battle cruiser.
 Jensen squirmed and managed to cramp his left thigh. He could notstretch to relieve the discomfort, but only sweat with the pain. Thecloset quickly became stifling, and somewhere between nausea andfrustrated tears, he missed the shift to FTL. He knew the transitionhad happened when the cramp eased off, and he realized the vibrationsfrom the condensers had subsided back to a whisper.
A light tread crossed the cockpit; not Kaplin's, Jensendetermined. She tended to slap her heels down, result of a flirty,provocative hip-sway she habitually used to distract. Most men werenot immune, but James would prove the exception. Jensen knew theskip-runner to be formidably focused in his actions. The stepspaused, and the couch by the com station creaked.
'You'll tell me Sail's security code schedule,' James suggestedin his gravelly bass.
Silence. Jensen squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. Kappie, hethought desperately, you'll go the way of Harris. He tensely awaitedthe shot.
 'Godfrey, girl,' said James. He sounded strangely tired. 'Don'tshake so hard. I only shoot on sight when somebody's fixing to killme. Your pilot kept a gun in the pocket next to his jock strap, ordidn't you know that?' A pause. 'No, I see not. His whores shared thesecret, and for a pitiful bit of change, they talked.'
In the closet, Jensen drew a shuddering, sweat-stinking breath.He had not known Harris packed a pistol, never mind under thatridiculously baggy coverall. Jensen's worst nightmare had neverallowed that James might run a network that extended so deep, intothe back streets of who knew how many worlds. The haunts of pilots onleave were notoriously varied, and scattered as stars to scope out.That this criminal's interest had focused so intently on Sail's crewwas a most unsettling discovery.
'The codes,' reminded MacKenzie James, his voice gone strangelysteely. Above the subliminal hum of FTL, the cockpit beyond thecloset seemed gripped in waiting stillness.
Kaplin gasped as if hit. 'I can't tell you,' she lied. 'I don'tknow them!' Her bravery held an edge of hysteria.
Jensen braced for a shot that never came. The chair by the cornconsole creaked again as Mac James shifted his weight. 
206 'Dearie,' he said in a tone of deceptive gentleness. 'I'm running outof time. That means you talk, or I embarrass the brass higher up.'
In the closet, Jensen frowned; and Kaplin's tremulous silencebecame underscored by James's quick tread, then the tap of fingersover the keys on what had to be the command alcove console.
'What are you doing?' Kaplin asked in a blend of fear andsuspicion.
'Canceling our course coordinates,' MacKenzie James replied.'We're going to stay in the Chalice system until a battle cruisercomes to investigate.'
'You'll get us all blown to hell,' said Kaplin with the acid biteshe used to admonish her senior lieutenant.
 'Very likely you're right.' James left the command chair, and bythe squeals of outrage that followed, Jensen judged that the skip-runner tied Del Kaplin to the pilot's station with his usual ruthlessstyle.
There followed a wait, in which the skip-runner fixed himselfcoffee. In the protocols manual under the console, he found Sail'ssecurity code schedule and ascertained the time for her next check-in. Then, with a style more flamboyant than Harris's, he spun thescout craft on a trajectory that blended with the expanding debrisfrom the explosion.
Nauseated by vertigo, and jammed in the suffocating closet,Jensen felt a horrible, hollow lurch in his abdomen as the artificialgravity was switched off. More controls clicked in the cockpit as theskip-runner adjusted Sail for total shutdown, making her invisible toall but a tight-focus scan.
An hour passed, then two. $ail's call-in was due in thirtyminutes. Jensen sat, ears straining, to hear how MacKenzie Jamesplanned to handle the Fleet cruiser that was sure to arrive at anymoment.
 Kaplin must have been left facing the screens, because when thebattle cruiser arrived, she spoke with tense satisfaction. 'That'sthe New Morning. She's a flagship with an admiral aboard, and anescort fleet of six.'
 'Eight,' James corrected. 'Chalice got off a distress torp.' Hedid not sound upset, but crossed to the corn console and rapidlybegan punching keys.
'You're going to beg amnesty?' Kaplin said, just missing herusual sarcasm. 'No. Personal phone call,' James qualified. 'To yoursenior, 
~o7 Admiral Nortin.' A burst of static hissed across the screen, followedby the chime that signaled a clear transmission. James spoke crisply.'Ah, Admiral, I seem to have disturbed you in the shower?'
Jensen tried to picture his crusty senior officer in a towel or abathrobe. Imagination failed. Nortin was always, and ever would be,square-shouldered, tight4ipped, and well-groomed, with a daunting rowof medals on his chest.
 In tones slightly rusty from surprise, the admiral answered, 'Getto the point.'
'Indeed.' James paused for what had to be a nasty smile. 'I wishto know the security codes for the scout-class vessel Sail.'
'She's on reconnaissance assignment.' The admiral recovered fast;already his words had recovered their customary bite. 'Why Sail?'Then the admiral's voice became softly menacing. 'You on her?'
James made no verbal reply; instead, his fingers tripped lightlyover the console. A moment later, Jensen heard the click of the drivein the log tape reader.
The admiral's voice came back jagged. 'Where did you get thatfilm clip?'
'From an extortionist who wanted something much too big for hisresources. He got killed instead. His tape collection, unfortunately,survived him. Now, I want Sail's codes, and quickly, or the fact youtook pay to hang back from engagement at Elgettin will be broadcastto the satellite feeds.'
 'It was never so simple as that.' The admiral sounded suddenlyvery aged.
'It never is, sir.' A false note of sympathy colored Mac James'splatitude. He was, after all, committing blackmail. Jensen raged atthe indignity forced on the admiral, as, over com, he heard the oldman calling information from security.
Sail's codes came through promptly after that, and Jensendespaired as he confirmed the accuracy of each sequence. MacKenzieJames had done his legwork with the efficiency that trademarked hiscareer. He humbled large men and small with the same evenhandedruthlessness. For his pains, the skip-runner captain had gainedhimself a scout-class vessel with open search orders. He could travelthe breadth of Alliance space, or any of a half-dozen security zones,and not be questioned; the Marity could accompany openly,masquerading under military escort. 
208 
 The effrontery of the piracy cut Jensen like a razor. He did notmourn for Harris. He felt only passing sympathy for his admiral'sprivate shame; but for his own whipped pride and the certain ruin ofhis career, his hatred burned murderously bitter. Fury did not allowfor limits. Crushed and cramped into a hole not fit for a dog, Jensentwisted his shoulders sideways and strained against the tool ties. Heforced numb and bloodless fingers to open and close and grope for thenearest object to hand, which happened to be Harris's scuffed, oldbattle boots.
 Two places the Eirish pilot wore those shoes without fail: ondeck during combat, and off on leave, where his hobbies had beenwhoring and brawling. The toes were reinforced with steel caps, andJensen sawed his bonds feverishly against the metal in the futilehope of fraying through high tensile mesh.
Activity continued on the bridge. MacKenzie James reset theautopilot, then, in a masterful orchestration of instruments,crosswired the grav-drive regulators and the life-support emergencygenerators to charge the coils in a split-second burst of power.Sail's banks reached peak capacity and transferred into FTL in onescreaming instant of vertigo. New Morning's instrumentation wouldhave seen the surge, but not in time to evaluate whatever had causedthe burst. To keep ends neat, they'd chart the anomaly as an unstablebit of debris from Chalice's fusion reactor.
 Assured that Sail was safely away, James confined Kaplin to thestores locker behind the galley. Jensen missed the light-footed treadthat returned to the cockpit, but not the change back to analogspace, and the voice that activated the corn and summoned the Marityto take station to Sail's rear.
 Mac James relayed instructions to his mate. 'I'11 escort youthrough the checkpoint at the security zone, as planned. Once inArinat system, we'll separate. Sail will execute patrol patternswhile you transfer the goods and take payment. We'll rendezvousafterward off Arinat nine, darkside of the satellite called Kestra.That's the only blind spot in the Syndicate's sensor network, andit's a damned narrow one. Misplace a vector, and we're vapor, so becareful.'
 As the skip-runner closed contact and restored Sail's alteredcircuitry to reprogram his original course, Jensen paused in hisattempt to free his hands. Furiously he combined facts, those he knewwith others he'd heard. His final conclusion was chilling. 
2o9 ~~~ For MacKenzie James inferred that the agricultural colony beneath VanMere's was a covert Syndicate outpost, undiscovered by the Allianceand, indeed, unlikely to be, since Arinat system lay within theMolpen security zone that ships could not enter without passing amilitary checkpoint. The added inconvenience should have discouragedspies; but in a backhandedly clever sort of way, the compromisedlocation made sense.
 Who knew, and who had ever thought to look for sophisticatedtechnology underneath three continents of crops? The secret wasviciously guarded, since James had risked acquisition of Sail to haveher in system for his transaction. If the Syndicate faction behindVan Mere's valued their skip-runner contacts lightly enough to blowthem out of space after goods transfer, the wisdom of Sail's presencemade sense. On patrol, her sensors would detect explosions or plasmacharges. She would be duty bound to report such abnormalities andfile for investigation. The spies on Van Mere's would wish to avoidsuch attention in the interest of preserving their anonymity.Stations that traded with agricultural outposts rarely acted withaggression, and that profile provided essential cover.
MacKenzie James had indestructible luck because he unerringlyplanned for contingencies. As Jensen resumed sawing at hisrestraints, he had to admire the man's genius. Mac's operations hadthe feel of a grand dance, precisely timed, and disarminglymasqueraded as coincidence.
That Sail should be commandeered for treason was no sane endingto contemplate. The lieutenant leaned back in the cubicle, flexed hiswrists, and groped at his bonds with his fingertips. The webbing wasnot the least bit frayed, and a tug to test the knots showed hisefforts had only chafed skin.
A man who hated less might have quit. Jensen rammed his shouldersagainst the wall and relentlessly sawed all the harder. He persistedthough his muscles cramped into screaming knots of agony. He cut andcut and cut the tool tie across the toe cap of Harris's boot throughthe hours of passage to Arinat. His hands went numb, and then hiswrists and elbows. He kept cutting. Sail completed her transit,kicked out of FTL, and the web of the tool tie he'd been tearing atshowed the faintest trace of a nap. He rested, listening as Jamesrefined course and opened contact in an unfamiliar language with hisSyndicate contact on Van Mere's. 
210 
 Orders were relayed, and Marity assumed position for the sale ofher stolen technology. Core interface crystals took years tomanufacture, and there were many, many bodies left crippled from thewar that waited, bathed in nutrients, in the hope of future servicein a brainship. Since crystals were unique, and the idiosyncracies ofeach required a precise match with the consciousness of theindividual they would be paired with, today's loss meant the death ofhope for someone who valiantly clung to life in total helplessness.Jensen ran swollen, aching fingertips over the light fuzz on the tooltie. He acknowledged the sorry fact that he could never rip free intime to matter.
 In the cockpit, MacKenzie James logged in Sail's codes andestablished routine patrol at Arinat's. He set up a closed bandconnection with his mate on the Marity, and the core crystals camecloser to changing hands.
Prisoned in the closet, Jensen shut his eyes. He reviewed everymemory of Harris. There had to be a reason, besides steel toe caps,why the pilot insisted on a particular pair of boots whenever he flewinto combat.
 'Never catch me being lab rat for a Weasel,' he had once confidedover beer; Harris, whose whores had known he wore a pistol in a hipstrap over his undershorts. Jensen reasoned furiously. The combatboots had metal-capped toes, but no ankle laces. It followed thatHarris might have chosen the style to carry a knife in his bootcuffs.
 Jensen strained to raise his arms, hampered as his elbows jammedagainst the back wall and the door panel. He lacked the space to flexand reach the boot tops only inches away from his wrists. He grunted,forced blood-starved muscles to contract. Using wall and door towedge his shoulders, he raised himself inch by torturous inch andscrunched backward. He sat on the insteps of Harris's boots; while inthe cockpit, MacKenzie James monitored the exchange of the crystalswith a coolness that rankled the nerves.
 Jensen groped, caught the left boot cuff between his knuckles. Hepinched, kneaded, and crumpled the tired old leather, while hisjoints tingled horribly in complaint. He found nothing. Close totears of frustration, he twisted at his bonds, forced his shouldersinto an angle that all but flayed his back, and managed to hook theright boot. He found what he sought, not a knife, but a razor-thinstrip of metal sewn between the seams above the ankle. 
2II 
 It took him a pain-ridden hour to work the implement free. Bythen utterly exhausted, he had to rest, his hands numbed lumps ofmeat, and his wrists scraped down to raw gristle. In the cabin,MacKenzie James wrapped up his transaction and gently set Sail on anoutward spiral toward Kestra.
Jensen cut himself twice before he got the razor positionedagainst his bonds. He nicked the weave of the tool tie over and over,his hold precariously slippery with his own blood. The stubbornwebbing gave way. Shivering, wretched with discomfort and relief, hewormed his arms into his lap and cradled his hands to his chest. Hehad to pause through an agonizing interval of time, until Mac Jameschose to leave the cockpit. Jensen dragged off his gag. He used thespoiled silk to wrap his gashed fingers, then, uncontrollablyshivering in a cold sweat, he stole his moment to act.
The lieutenant tripped the catch to the closet and spilledunceremoniously onto the deck. His legs refused to obey him, and hismanual dexterity was shot. Aware that he had only moments, he halfdragged, half rolled his body across the cockpit to the weaponslocker. More seconds were lost as he blotted blood from his hand so the security sensor could read his palm print. The lock clicked open.Not trusting his aim with a kill weapon, Jensen chose a riot pistolarmed with stun charges. Then, scuttling crabwise, he positionedhimself against the companionway bulkhead just as Mac James steppedin through the access corridor.
The skip-runner saw the opened closet and instantaneously jerkedout his pistol. Formidably fast, he spun sideways, almost into coveras he punched the switch to shut the access hatch.
Jensen's charge nipped through the fast-closing panel andhammered the skip-runner in the shoulder. Nerves and muscles wentdead and the pellet gun clanged to the deck. The barrel wedged in thehatch track. The door jammed, leaving a sliver of a gap; enough forJensen to squeeze off another round.
Luck favored him. The charge caught Mac James as he leaned tokick free the jammed pistol. He grunted what might have been a word,then crumpled and sagged to the deck.
Jensen could not resist a crow of triumph. He might not have theMarity, might have lost the precious interface crystals to the enemy,but he had MacKenzie James. And along with the most wanted skip-runner in Alliance space, he could deliver the first definitive 
212 proof of a spy connection with the Syndicate. The wreckage of hisplans at Chalice had not ended in failure.
The sweetness of victory and the sure promise of promotion madehis recent humiliation worthwhile. Gripping the stun pistol in hisswollen, lacerated hands, Jensen pushed to his feet. He had detailsto arrange, a criminal to secure, and no choice but presume that thespies on Van Mere's monitored military corn channels. He'd need towithdraw from Arinat system as if nothing untoward had happened, andinitiate FTL before he dared call for an escort. Marity was still atlarge. The mate left on board would know James had encounteredproblems when rendezvous failed behind Kestra. Yet unless MacKenzie'sman wished to broadcast Fleet connections and face reprisal from VanMere's, he'd be powerless to pursue until too late.
Jubilant, drunk on his own triumph, Jensen cleared thecompanionway door. He gave the stunned body of his captive avengeful, self-satisfied kick, then squeezed past to free Kaplin fromthe supply cubby. She could damn well reset their course log, sinceher infernally manicured fingers were probably not mangled toincapacity. As he stumbled on nerve-deadened feet, Jensenacknowledged that he desperately needed to use the head. Heconsidered his ruined uniform, and wondered, between planning,whether his efforts to escape the hanging locker might havebloodstained his best battle jacket. 
Well after the code check at ~7oo, Ensign Kaplin drifted crossleggedin the dimly lit corridor by the space lock. Unimpressed by Jensen'sbubbling elation, and unconcerned that her hair needed fixing, shesullenly chipped enamel off a broken thumbnail. Her thoughts centereddarkly around the admiral whose record was impeccable, but whose pastwas anything but. Her future in the Fleet would become deadlocked asa result of the tape she had witnessed. The lieutenant was a fool ifhe thought the captive held trussed in the lock bay was going tosweeten an admiral whose private shame had been leaked to the crew ofa minor class scout. As Kaplin saw things, MacKenzie James mightnever see trial; more likely he'd die of an accident, or someonewould pull strings to set him free. He hadn't gotten where he waswithout connections in high places. His record of success was toobrilliant. 
 Kaplin jabbed at her fingernail, plowing up a flake of purplelacquer. Jensen was an idealistic idiot, and Admiral Nortin adesperately cornered man; no need to guess who'd survive when thedirt inevitably hit the fan.
A discreet tap at the lock door disrupted the ensign's brooding.She started and looked up, saw the haggard face of MacKenzie Jamesdrifting by the small oval window. His hands were bound; he'd managedthe knock by catching the pen from the bulletin alcove between histeeth and rapping the end against the glass.
'Damn,' Kaplin muttered under her breath as her grip slipped andmangled a cuticle. She sucked at the scratch, pushed off from thefloor grate, and, still cross-legged, peered through the glass. 'Whatdo you want?'
Other than a leak, she mused inwardly. If the stun drugs had justworn off, that's what most people wanted.
Mac James ejected the pen from his teeth. 'Talk,' he said, hissuccinctness blurred by echoes. He bunched his shoulders against thewebbing Jensen had contrived to confine him. The result would havetethered a bull elephant, Kaplin felt, but hell, she was only theensign. She unfolded elegant legs, set her shoulder against the lock,and lightly braced on the door frame. 'Should I listen?'
James managed a grin. His forehead had somehow gotten cut duringtransfer from the bridge to the lock bay, and a bruise darkened thestubble on his jaw. 'You might want to.' He tossed back tangled hairand added, 'I'd hate like hell to be left at the mercyof an admiral whose secrets were compromised.' Kaplin pursed herlips. 'You're quick.' James's grin vanished. 'Always.'
The ensign considered her torn thumbnail, then elegantlyunfolded her body and tapped the controls to her left. The lockunsealed, and a rush of cold air from the barren metal bay raisedchills under her coverall. She shivered. 'Speak fast. I'm not sure Ishould be listening.'
'Be sure,' said James. 'I can get you reassigned. To anotherdivision, under another admiral, with a few less demerits on yourrecord.'
 Kaplin regarded him carefully. Trussed hand and foot, hismassive shoulders twisted back, James did not seem discomforted. Hisexpression was much too confident. He watched, his eyes steely andlevel; as she noticed the scar over his right carotid artery, and as she lingeringly weighed the rusty stains that remained of a Chalicemechanic that patched his threadbare flightsuit. He was a man who hadseen death from many angles. The possibility the next might be hisown failed to move him.
 'You'd have to free me, get me back to rendezvous at Kestra,' hefinished in a voice that was dry with disinterest.
A pirate should have owned more passion, Kaplin felt. The list ofcriminal charges did not seem to fit with the man. She thoughtdeeper, while those gray eyes followed; her hand tapped involuntarytattoos on the railing. MacKenzie James, skip-runner, should havegunned the other crew down with Harris. His hold over the admiral wasall he truly needed to commandeer Sail without questions.
As her oval chin rose obstinately, Mac James seemed to follow herreasoning. 'I didn't kill Jensen because I need him. His obsession isa tool, invaluable because it's genuine. A man's hatred is alwaysmore reliable than the best of laid plans.'
Kaplin narrowed her eyes. 'Who are you,' she demanded. 'You'lltell the truth, or we don't talk.'
Now Mac James studied her. He no longer seemed boyish, orhardened, but only unnervingly perceptive. 'I take orders fromSpecial Services,' he said, his face like weather-stripped granite.'And my criminal record is genuine. I could be tried and convicted onall counts, and no pardon would come through to save me. I amlegitimately skip-runner, traitor, and extortionist, and because ofthat, I have served as the Alliance's contact to disclose the motivesof the Khalia and, now, the Syndicate behind them.' A strange threadof weariness crept into the prisoner's voice. He tried, but did notentirely hide a ghost of underlying emotion. 'Sometimes it takes abad apple to know one. And through Sail's surviving officers, theFleet is free to deal with what Van Mere's is actively covering.Marity is not involved, my cover is kept intact, and the Syndicate'sbest outpost is exposed to counterespionage before anyone insideknows they're compromised.~
He was not pleading, Kaplin decided. He was appealing to herloyalty on a higher level; loyalty to humanity above her oath toserve the Fleet. She considered what he had not said, the threats hehad not outlined: that Marity was yet at large, that Sail was still along and lonely distance from the nearest battle cruiser or station,and that the Special Services branch of Intelligence often stooped to ugly tactics to free its operationsfrom interference.
 Fractionally, James shook his head. 'Gibsen won't pursue. He'sunder my orders, and he won't break. Not to spare me fromarraignment. The Syndicate outpost was always our target, whether Iam sacrificed or not.'
 Kaplin chewed her lip. 'Damn you,' she whispered into the echoingchill of the lock. 'What about the interface cores? And the outrightmurder of Chalice station?'
 Now James lowered his lashes. His inscrutable expression crackedinto a grimace of wounding compassion. 'The cores we traded weregenuine. The thirty pieces of silver, as it were, to confirm thepresence of the enemy. And Chalice personnel, curse their bravery,defended their post with their lives.'
Kaplin drew a shuddering breath. She bunched her hand and slammedthe closure button; and the lock hissed shut, leaving the skip-runnerand his haunted bit of conscience to the solitary chill of the spacebay.
'Oh, damn you,' Kaplin muttered. 'Damn you to deepest hell.' Sheneeded a coffee, she decided; and every other habit that was ordinaryto quiet a vicious inner turmoil. For the favor that MacKenzie Jamesrequested for the higher good of the Alliance was nothing short ofmutiny. As she left her post and propelled herself through null gravtoward the galley, she reflected that Jensen was going to dismemberher. 
Lieutenant Jensen snapped awake to the realization that Sail'svibrations had changed. She was no longer traveling FTL, but poweredby her more obtrusive grav drives. The lieutenant glanced at hischronometer, his worst fear confirmed. Sail had deviated from hischosen course and orders. He leapt from his bunk, jammed his legsinto the nearest set of coverails - Harris's by the smell of beer andsweat - and raced full tilt for the bridge.
He found the pilot's chair deserted. The course readout on theautopilot confirmed trouble well enough: Sail was currently undergentle acceleration out of the Arinat system. Directly astern, like athing cursed, lay the cratered lump of rock some forgotten mapper hadnamed Kestra. Jensen was too enraged to swear. 
He spun, plunged through the companionway hatch, and hurried with allspeed through the service corridors.
He reached the lock to the space bay. A furious survey showedKaplin drifting cross-legged in the chamber, twisting and twistingthe shock webbing that once had confined MacKenzie James. She hadbeen weeping. The mechanic's deep-space suit was gone, of course,along with the skip-running criminal who had killed its owner forhijack.
'My God, Kappie, why did you let him go?' Jensen's voice was ascream of unmitigated anger.
The ensign looked up, startled to fear. 'Sir! He's SpecialServices, and on our side.'
Jensen heard, and a greater rage crashed through him. Hishandsome face twisted. 'Damn you, girl. He's the biggest con artistin the universe. You were had, and he was lying. You're nothing buthis pawn, and a traitor.' There would be an inquiry over Harris'sdeath, Jensen's frantic mind understood. A trial would follow, andunder investigation and cross-examination, the flimsy plot arrangedat Chalice would surface and ruin his reputation.
I-he lieutenant ceased thinking. He reacted on the reflex of acornered animal, and hammered the green, then the yellow, then theorange button on the console. The lock door hissed shut, cutting offKaplin's panicked scream. Warning lights flashed, but the hooter thatsignaled a deep-space jettison never sounded. Kaplin had disconnectedthe alarm to release MacKenzie James for his rendezvous.
 For that reason, her pleas could be heard very clearly. 'Jensen!Listen to me! You're MacKenzie's best pawn, and he knows it!' Shelaunched away from the wall, hammered her model's hands against theinnerlock. 'We could stop James, both of us could stop him! Blow hiscover with Special Services, and he's lost his righteous reason tokeep skip-running. You didn't see his face, but I know. The remorsewould put him over the edge.'
Jensen's lips stayed fixed in an icy half smile. Deaf to pity,mindful of nothing beyond the ambition that was his life, he groundhis palm hard on the red jettison button. The outerlock doors cycledopen. Atmosphere vented outward, along with the corpse of the ensignwho had dared to turn triumph into failure. 
2~7 Admiral Nortin's office on New Morning was sumptuously large, butbare to the point of sterility. On the hard metal bench by thedoorway, Jensen sat in his dress uniform. He kept his eyes straightahead, resisted the urge to search the impeccable white of his jacketfor bloodstains the cleaners had soaked out. He waited, rigidlycorrect, while the admiral's pearl-white fingers paged front to back,through his report.
The words matched the circumstances closely enough: Sail hadhappened across a raid on Chalice station and picked up the trail ofa skip-runner who had stolen core intelligence crystals. Thelieutenant in command had given chase, followed the space pirateMacKenzie James to Arinat, Van Mere's station. The log spool on theadmiral's desk held proof positive of a Syndicate spy post, in theform of a recorded transaction between James and a covert network on Van Mere's. Sail had maintained a standard patrol pattern, thenpursued as the Marity made her getaway. Battle had resulted. Sail'sbridge had sustained severe damage, her pilot and her ensign dead inthe course of duty. Jensen, sole survivor, had nursed his commandback to base.
 The admiral finished reading. He raised bleak eyes to theimpeccably dressed lieutenant before his desk. He did not point outthe unmentionable, that the log spool might hold proof of a Syndicatespy post, but events differed drastically from the report. NeitherJensen nor the admiral wished the particulars of that tape examinedfor documentation. Jensen staked his future on the surety that Nortinheld the power to misplace, or alter, or erase, the flight logs andcheckpoint records of Sail's passage between Chalice and Arinat.Jensen balanced everything on an extortionist's secret imbeddedwithin proof of his own crimes. Only the admiral's guiltcould spare him from certain court-martial and a firing squad. Aminute passed like eternity.
The admiral's cragged face showed no expression when at last hedrew breath for conclusion. 'Young man,' he said sourly. 'Foroutstanding service, and for your discovery of a Syndicate spy base,you'll report for commendation, decoration, and promotion. Thenyou'll be transferred into Admiral Duane's division, and I trustwe'll never need to set eyes on each other again.' 
218 Dreambridge 
The axe fell and blood ran, not from living flesh but over treebark,to spatter across frosted ground. The unnatural warmth raised steamagainst the bite of wintry air, each drop a stark splash of scarletagainst leaves left curled and frail by the season that prevailed inthe earthly lands across the veil.
Far off in the borderlands, in a cottage under forest eaves neverblighted by cold or steel, Kirelle awakened shivering in tangledbedclothes.
 The dream, she knew, had been no nightmare to be shrugged off andforgotten upon waking. The bleeding tree would be real, though themortal whose hand had wielded killing steel would bide unaware of hisdamage. In earthly lands no sign would show that this axe-woundedtree was something more than the mature offshoot of an acorn.
Kirelle sat up, wishing the soft scents of apple blossoms andpressed herbs could ease her gut-deep uneasiness.A snowy owl satperched on her windowsill.
The instant it saw her take notice, it flew, ghost-silent onspread wings. Mild air stirred through the space it left vacant,rustling the bundled herbs strung in rows from the rafters. Thephials of potions and simples above Meara's work-table loomed in dimranks on their shelves; useless, all, Kirelle despaired. If thetrappings of an herbalist's lore held no remedy for an axe-stungtree, the deeper mysteries of the art could be called on for otherthan succor; this she feared as she crossed in trepidation to thewindow. Bird and dream would not have arrived by coincidence. Owlscould read the future, and owls alone could cross at will from theborderlands that bridged like a ribbon between the fey realms andmortal earth. Kirelle reached the sill, touched by wry thought of Meara, who 
2~9 had laughed when first asked why their cottage must lie in thethickest heart of the forest, an inconvenient distance from thevillage. 'There's a part of our trade, girl, that has naught to dowith sick babes and dry cattle. Sure as rain falls, you'll learnwonders.'
 Wishing the wise woman was not away to Eastling to attend abirthing, Kirelle saw a rider on a silver-gray horse awaiting belowin the dooryard. Old and straight-backed, and elegantly mantied, hisskin was dark as turned earth, the beard that bristled from under hishood a glint of pale silver by moonlight. Both hands were gloved inblack. The air all around him seemed alive with owls, weaving likesilent shuttlecocks through the warp and weft of the breeze.
The Wizard of the Forest, and none other, had come here to askfor some favor.
 Oh, trouble had come, of the direst measure, Kirelle understoodas she hastened to her wardrobe to dress. Little mysteries thatothertimes would have evoked her delight failed to lift herforeboding, not the teasing play of the airsprite that whirled a mildtempest of apple petals through the casement, nor the wakeful mockingbird that sang in the melodic tones of a lark. Kirelle hastily pulledon the patched hose and shirt that briar snags should have sent tothe rag bin. Too fast for neatness, she brushed and braided herwaist-length dark hair, then threw on her cloak, its thread spun byfey from the fibers of midsummer flowers. Lighter than down, warmerthan wool, the fabric shimmered like twilight from palest blue todeep violet.
From her pantry, Kirelle snatched up her satchel and a seed cakesweetened with honey. She was no fey, to go without sustenance untiltouched by a whim for gay feasting. Neither was she entirely human,since the day she had been snatched as a changeling from parents shecould not remember.
 The Wizard of the Forest had once been human also, before he hadbeen guardian of the border realm. His knowledge of the mysteries ranso deep only rock itself was any wiser. If he held any name beyondhis title, it had been forgotten, or else, like the most ancienttrees, through long silence words had lost all power to rule him.
Uneasy for the dream that had drawn his presence to herdooryard, Kirelle pushed closed the cottage door. The latch droppedwith a clear chink of brass, and the silver-gray horse raised itshead. Bells on its trappings trilled an answering chime as the Wizardreined around to face her. 
 His study felt distinct as a physical touch. Despite the mildlines that etched his features, the merciless strengths of his powerswere too fierce to mask in serenity.
Overcome by the presence of portents too large for her skills toencompass, Kirelle gave way to impatience. 'Why should you send sucha dream?' she burst out. 'Bleeding trees bespeak evil deeds, and noherbal of mine can heal such, nor ease the wrath of the fey when theylearn that mortal steel has cut heartwood.'
 Motionless, the Wizard regarded her. His horse champed softly atthe bit. Harness bells clinked in single notes, and the starsthemselves regaled his presence in a thousand points of bright light.'You are most quick to say what you cannot do.' Like his bells, hisvoice was rich in overtones, and his searching gaze never wavered.
Unsettled and out of her depth, Kirelle wished the wise woman whotaught her might stand here in her stead.
'If Meara's aid was needed, I should be in Eastling, to fetchher,' the Wizard added gravely. 'And I had no part in any sending.Instead, I followed the dream's path, and that, of itself, led toyou. The Eld Tree that holds the last link with mortal earth liesthreatened. Can you know this and still refuse help?'
Sorry for her haste, and never more aware of her inexperience,Kirelle could not ignore the implications. When fey magic had knittedthe borderlands that divided the otherworld realms from mortal earth,thin places were left in the fabric, some said for hope that mankindmight someday outgrow their heedless ways, and that misunderstandingsbetween races might be eased. Others claimed the fey still cherishedmortal lands for their plangent and transient beauty. Whichever taleheld truth, a chosen few Trees from the Eldforests were left bound toearth's soil as anchorpoints, and on such sites the veil could becrossed in the months of solstice and equinox. While mortal kind grewever more estranged from the mysteries, such crossings were made lessand less, and finally rarely at all.
Few could say when the fey had last ridden the wild hunt atmidsummer. Except for the isolated foray to snatch a few changelingsfor mischief, the borderlands bridge through the veil lay all butforgotten. Only one Tree yet remained tied to earth, sorrowfully agedby the turn of time and seasons. If it died, the last link would begone; fey mysteries would be lost to earth forever. 
22I 
 'You do see,' the Wizard said gently. 'A mortal with an axe hasviolated the last Tree, and the fey, when they hear, will cryvengeance. If blood-price is not met, their wrath might leave theworlds forever sundered.'
 Kirelle regarded the clearing that held her cottage, then theorchard, bejeweled with dew in the still, brief hour before dawn. Shewatched the windsprite dance amid shedding blossoms, and relived herirritation at the burrow the gnome had dug in his hope of stealingapples when they ripened. The chance that the powers that quickenedthese things might come to be unraveled tore at her heart like pain.
'How has this happened?' she asked the Wizard. 'What disarmed theguardspells that should hide the last Tree from the eyes of anyblunderer bearing steel?'
'Ah, wise lady, the answers I have are too few. There was not oneman, but three, and the owl I sent to turn their footsteps was shotdown while in flight.' The Wizard bent his head, grief in his eyeslike hot sparks. 'My brave messenger lies dead, murdered with aslittle thought as the axe-blow that cleft the Eld Tree.'
Kirelle could have wept then, for certainty. 'My task is to goacross and turn these mortals from their reaving?'
His hands crossed over his saddlebow, the Wizard regarded thesilent flight of the companion owls still left to him. 'The choicemust be yours. My birds see the future, and they led to you. Sincethe Tree's cry for help chose you also, the mysteries themselves havetheir reason. But more than these borderlands lies at risk. If youcross, I intend to pass with you.'
No need to belabor the dangers, that to step through the veil wasto risk a cold exile: perhaps aging, surely death, if mishap occurredon the other side. Once the fey learned of the harm to one of theirown, their anger would demand retribution. Blood-price would be askedthat one of three mortals must pay, or the borderlands themselvescould be forfeit.
 'We must go. Time is short, and the crossing is most easily madeat the site of the Eld Tree itself.' The Wizard wheeled his horse,expectant that Kirelle must follow.
'I haven't said I'd go at all,' she whispered. But reluctancecould not unmake dire portents. Kirelle trailed along under the glideof the owls, pierced through with sadness and dread. The avaricious,sneaking little pranks of the gnomes in retrospect seemed joyfully 
222 endearing. Nothing she owned would have been too precious togive, to ensure safe return to her orchards.Dank under shadow and the slow drip of dew, the paths that hadled Kirelle to share in the wood's lore and wisdom tonight neitherwelcomed nor befriended. Breezes muttered through the branches to atireless sibilance of leaves that whispered of driving men mad. Inthe past, when the worlds were still joined, to stray uninvited intoan Eldforest was death, and sometimes worse. These trees were rousedand aware, and although they had known no touch of cold steel sincethe veil had been raised to protect them, they remembered oldertimes, and thoughtless humans. Outside the borderlands, an Eld Treehad been maimed by an axe. Although Kitelie had never trodden thoselands ruled by time, or done aught but rejoice with growing wood, theforest in its anger, in the thick, stately flow of its sap, did notcare. Oppressed by unsainly hostility, Kirelle tightened grip on hersatchel. Her voice shook as she crooned soft notes to reassure the trees of her harmless intentions. The Wizard chanted strictures of his own, mightier by far than any song of hers. But melody and litanyavailed nothing. Black boughs dipped low and laced the way likeknotwork. Chill leaves pressed down like a shroud.The gray horse snorted uneasy alarm and sidled as, gently, theWizard addressed the trees. 'Your rage is misplaced. Would youhinder ones who go to help?'The forest paid no heed.The rustle of boughs held no reply, and a brooding momentpassed. Kirelle endured the scratching touch of twigs and theprisoning, chill kiss of leaves.From somewhere near at hand an owl called; the Wizard's voiceanswered, steady and soft. To Kirelle, he added, 'The forest hasdenied us free passage, and further persuasion will not sway it.Without the Tree's bridging powers, I can do nothing but raise rawforce and send on one of us alone.' He looked at Kirelle, clear-eyedand awaiting her decision; if she went on, she must brave the earthlyworld and three reaving mortals by herself.But to stay behind was to remain here, trapped by the rage ofthe forest until the threat to the Eld Tree was righted. Fail in thattask, Kirelle knew, and no path she could tread would be safe. Theclearing that held Meara's orchards would be barred from human use.Without the small daily gifts that bought blessing, the apple
 223 ~~) trees would be choked out, root and branch, and the cottage tornasunder stone from stone.
 In such things, the balance that ruled the borderlands wasunforgiving. Gifts of life and sustenance were never to be taken forgranted.
'I will have to place trust in the Tree's dream,' she finallysaid. 'Let me be the one to go.'
The Wizard bent in his saddle and offered three flakes of slate smoothed by the waves on the lake shore. 'These talismans carry adreamspell that can be tuned by your healer's gift. Set one in thehand of each mortal as he sleeps, and let the beliefs in his heartshape his fate. Once you've crossed, ! cannot help. The Eld Tree mustshow your way back. My white owl will attend as your guide.'
The appointed bird banked in a whispered curve and called,mournfully dusky and wild. Beyond that, the wood's hostile stillnessremained unbroken. Not the ratchet of crickets nor wind in the leaves wished her well as the Wizard raised uncanny spells to bridge theveil, that twisting, intricate web of energies that divided earthlylands from the otherworldly realm of the mysteries. 
Alan lay wakeful in the chill of a blustery winter night. It wasn'tthat his sleeping bag was too thin; he'd bought a good one, suitedfor subzero temperatures, when he'd thought he'd be hiking in theRockies. As much as the cold was apt to bother him, his palms weresweating hot.
Raw nerves kept him jumpy and wakeful. Not good at lying,especially to himself, he could not deny that his years in theservice had wrecked his appreciation for the wilderness. Not a truthhe liked to admit; still less to the two others with him: Bill, allmacho bluster, and Rafe, who acted the suave city sophisticate, butwho'd die before letting anybody see he couldn't beat a jock at hisown game.
Why was it, Alan thought bitterly, that male pride too often heldnonconformity as a weakness?
He reached out for the hundredth time in an hour and checked the rifle gripped in his hand. Deer season - what a laugh. He found nojoy in hunting animals, hunting anything, in sad fact, not since histime in the service. Then, killing had meant plain survival, untilthe mind grew sick on its own fear, and a man 
224 could grow to live for the unholy thrill of an enemy's blood on theground.
Another man dead meant staying alive. Except those who came homefound that life had somehow rearranged itself, and nothing of pastimportance had retained real meaning anymore.
Alan stroked icy steel and shivered like a baby. The safety onhis weapon wasn't set. Recollection left him sweating, of beingripped out of sleep by flares and gunfire, and of the buddy who'ddied because of a shot he couldn't return fast enough. The windlashed at the trees, and a scratchy patter of leaves tumbled past.Alan tensed, halfway to a crouch with his rifle up, before he couldstop himself and rationalize: this was the States, and rustlingleaves here were just that, not an enemy stalking to kill.
God, he shouldn't be here. Never mind he felt obliged to mediate,to keep Bill and Rafe from destroying each other in a rivalry neitherone would let wither. Twenty years since discharge, and, no usepretending, there were moments when his nerves were still peeled raw.Alan berated himself for not having sense enough to shrug off outwornhigh-school loyalties. He should've let two friends that time hadchanged and distanced thrash out their competitive egos on their own.
The wind blew, mournfully soft. The dressed-out carcass of Bill'strophy spun creaking from the rope that lashed it up. The owl thatRare had winged just to even up the score would be bleeding somewherein the brush, if it wasn't just as wastefully dead. Strung out withnerves, Alan couldn't bring himself to close his eyes, not withoutsomebody on watch. To turn his mind from past horrors, he thoughtabout Bill's indefatigable boast that he shot his trophies for thefreezer. Everybody knew his wife felt sick at the thought of a deaddeer.
 Alan shifted, discovered himself checking his gun again, andcursed himself for a fool. Who cared whether or not he could face himself if Rafe and Bill were left alone to drive each other too hard? Both men were married; Bill had a daughter. The wives shouldhave taken over the chore of being the influence that tempered.Sweating more, and hurting tense, Alan took a breath of frost-sharpair that turned in his fickle mind to the smells of steaming hotjungle, and sharp-edged anxieties of enemies that lurked in danktunnels. He stared up at oak leaves to moor his slipping sanity, andto shove unwanted survival patterns into a past that refused to stayquiet. 
225 
 Sometime after checking his gun for the two-hundredth time, hedozed and fell into fitful dreams. 
The first step beyond the veil raised the sharp crackle of dryleaves, cause enough for Kirelle to stiffen in alarm when she hadknown nothing underfoot but lush moss. Then the air, equally strange,edged with frost and suffused with the underlying scents of rot anddecay. This was the other side, where the wrong word or themishandled chance encounter could doom the unwary traveller tolifelong exile and death.
Kirelle paused, aware of the pull of the moon in her blood, ofthe wheeling swing of strange stars, and the slow, insistent agingthat ruled all aspects of earthly life.
Curiosity filled her, too. She had been born here, taken acrossthe veil as a changeling unknowable years in the past. Never beforehad Kirelle felt moved to wonder whether her human parents hadgrieved when the glamor left by the fey wore off, and they discoveredan unbreathing bundle of twigs left in place of their stolen child.
A moment later, listening uneasily Kirelle noticed the wood'sappalling silence. Wind alone dared raise voice in this place. Nocrickets called, nor any night-singing bird. The missing, subliminalthread of harmony her art should have sensed from growing wood raisedpanic, until she realized: stripped branches and hard-edged,unsoftened moonlight were proper, here. This world went dormant forwinter, its smaller creatures frost-killed or departed until therenewal of spring.
The only vibrant life within reach of Kirelle's senses seemed tobe the Wizard's white owl, that carved impatient circles as it waitedfor her to regain wits and purpose. Kirelle touched a sapling toborrow from its rooted firmness the assurance to brace her failingnerves. But her contact revealed something worse than dormancy; theyoung beech felt sluggish and dull under her hands, stupidlyreft of its power of being and retarded from self-awareness. Horrorand pity sent her reeling a step back.
These earthly trees were mute, brutishly groping through soil andsunlight without the gift of wakening. No one had walked this woodfor many years who understood how to nurture the spirit nature ofwild trees. 
 Kirelle bit her lip, tasting tears. The anger of the fey wouldbring justice for the neglect and contempt that had befallen thesesorry forests. But if the dissolution of the borderlands and thefinal separation of the mysteries was a punishment suchthoughtlessness deserved, her own fate and the Wizard's freedom werenow as deeply entangled.
Grown urgent at her delay, the white owl banked broad wings andflew. Kirelle stumbled to follow. The ache in her assumed the proportions of despair, that the threatening presence of threereavers permitted her no interval to rouse these trees to aware­
ness. 
Against the mute void that heartlessness had allowed this wood tobecome, the true-song of the Eld Tree rang in solitary splendoragainst the far distant chime of the stars. Long before the white owlswooped to alight on the mighty oak's branches, Kirelle could senseits power. Although leaves, trunk, and branches embraced the earthlyworld, the taproots of this Tree bridged the veil and sank deep intoborderlands soil.
 Yet reunion with the familiar brought no sense of rejoicing. TheTree's muddied anger all but stopped Kirelle's breath. Sour windtugged her cloak hem and stirred the hair that twigs had raked loosefrom her braid as her healer's gifts picked past raw rage to bare thethread of stark pain underlying. A moment later, as the late risingmoon sliced torn clouds, she saw the gleam of the axe left struck instriated bark.
 Even from several paces off, the steel raised an ache in herbones. Fully as hurtful was the blood reek of the stag, thanklesslykilled, then gutted and lashed to a branch by a rope that creakedin,the wind. Other unidentifiable odors dizzied Kirelle's senses asshe made herself close the last steps.
And there they were, three forms sprawled out on bare ground andwrapped in bright-colored bedding that to Kirelle's eye looked lightand fine-woven as silk. They smelled of woodsmoke and damp leaves andthe animal tang of dried sweat. No aura of savagery warned which hadcut the Eld Tree, or which had slain the Wizard's owl. Asleep, themen looked innocent and ordinary, in their way as dumbly vulnerableas this world's unloved trees. Kirelle saw nothing she recognized asa weapon beyond the axe, 
227 though other steel things whose use she could not fathom riddied thesite of their camp.
Touched by a strange surge of pity, Kirelle shivered. The axeblade in any earthly tree would have roused no uncannyreverberations. But with the Wizard left trapped by the Eldforest'sire, her healer's preference for mercy must not lead her to risk thatthe fey's cry for vengeance be balked from finding expiation. Thetalisman stones must be set, and their dreams be given rein tounravel three minds into nightmare.
The nearer man slept in a sprawl, one powerful arm clenched overhis chest, and his legs entangled in his bedding. He breathed in therhythm of untroubled rest and never stirred as Kirelle reached outwith shaking fingers and tucked the first stone in his palm. Softly,silently, she engaged the powers of her art to sound his intents andmake a weaving of his vulnerabilities. 
Bill Farlane leveled his rifle. Equipped with the finest telescopicsight, he aligned the crosshairs on the buck. The moment came back inperfect clarity, from the clean bite of the wind to the winter-thinpatch of sunlight that danced on the deer's dun pelt.
He held his breath to steady his aim, squeezed off the round likea caress - then felt the triumph in his gut freeze to horror as thedeer dissolved, replaced before his eyes by his daughter's pink andblue parka.
No.t - his thought too late. Already the report of the rifle spatits flat crack through the wood. Crows exploded into raucous,indignant flight. Pink acrylic showed a blossoming stain of red, anda pitiful three-year-old body crashed headlong into sun-dappled leafmold.
 'Nice shot!' Rafe said, his personal brand of sarcasm making evenpraise feel like insult.Bill straightened, mouth opened to cry Sallie's name.
But to his utter terror, his heartdeep cry of grief emerged asbanal conversation. 'It was a nice shot, darned if it wasn't.'Those words, he thought wildly, they'd been said over a deer. But nobuck lay in the clearing. Only Sallie, dreadfully bloody and still.The rifle still warm in his hand had shot her cold, and like someugly, played-over script, Alan's voice was repeating, 'Well, fine.You've bagged your trophy. For the love of mike, go 
228 in quickly. Make sure the shot was clean and use your knife if itwasn't.'
 Bill screamed in impotent silence: That's my daughter. Yet thewords stayed mired in his head. His shoulders set for a satisfiedswagger, he ejected the spent shell and laid his rifle against atree. Locked into actions that denied his raw grief, reft of allpower to stop himself, he saw that willpower and muscle, all of hisprideful strength and competence were going to do him no good. He wasgoing to rise, going to walk, going to kneel down by his little deaddaughter, and dress out her body as he should have done the killedmeat of a deer.
 While Rare said something ordinary and Alan gave a meaninglessreply, Bill felt himself rise from his stalking crouch and heft hisnew knife in his hand. The first step toward Sallie's body tore himto inward shreds; he knew, oh god oh god, he knew that the feel ofsoft, white skin, the drum-leather punch as the blade sliced throughflesh, the steaming blood as the abdominal cavity opened, was goingto sear him from sanity... God, oh God, Sallie, NO! 
The huge man curled into a ball, tearing pitifully at his bedding. Hesucked breath after gasping breath while his stubbled face twisted inanguish.
Kirelle fought back tears and guilt, aware as never before thather healer's instinct to mend in this place might tempt her toirrevocable folly. These were reavers, whose actions threatened ruinto the borderlands. Their misguided feelings could not be permittedto matter. Kirelle fished the second stone from her satchel and approached the next man, the one with the gentle face who lay withhis cheek neatly cradled on one elbow. By appearance, he seemed themost harmless of the three, with his fine, pale hair, and the glintof a linked gold bracelet circling one elegant wrist. 
Feeling the sting acutely - that Bill had bagged a deer be shouldhave seen first - Rafe lounged in bed and telired the frustratedmoment when the owl had chanced to fly past. His reflex reaction hadmade up for the lapse, as he'd ripped off that snap shot on impulse. 
229 
 He shut his eyes, revelling in the satisfaction he'd felt as thebird tumbled out of mid-flight.
The snooze alarm's buzz erased Rafe's faint smile. Lord, heshould have had his tail in and out of the shower ten minutes ago.
Worried over the financial summary he was expected to present,that was in order as far as notes went but needed fleshing out beforethe meeting, Rafe slugged aside designer bedclothes and stopped inshocked surprise. His hands were smeared with fresh blood. On thesheets by his pillow lay an owl's feather, broken and wrung andblotched scarlet.
 Four-letter words were inadequate. His first thought, that he'dbe late for the board meeting, was belatedly followed by theincongruity of the gory feather. He hesitated, unwilling to come togrips with the weirdness, that a dead owl could enact some spookysort of vengeance.The concept was just too bizarre.
Unwilling to lend credence to hallucinations, Rafe plungedbullishly on toward the bathroom.
But his hands as he turned on the shower were still maddeningly,scarletly drenched. The fancy's irrational persistence left himticked enough to plunge into the spray while the water was still icycold. Through subsequent shivers and gooseflesh, he refused to notethe color of the water that swirled down the drain. Blast if he'd be sorry he'd shot some worthless owl.
He killed the water, snapped a bath sheet over his shoulders,shaved, then made a paranoid inspection of his knuckles. There had tobe a cut he hadn't noticed.
 Nothing. He dug out a clean shirt and dismissed the distractionas he hurried through the motions of dressing.
The blood appeared again as he snatched up his briefcase.Frantic, he dropped the expensive leather handle before the stainssoaked in. The case hit the hardwood floor with an echoing bang andfell over as he dashed to the kitchen for a dish-cloth. His thoughtson his presentation all scattered, he dabbed ineffectively at theblotches left on his briefcase. Predictably, they didn't come out.He'd have to spend the bucks to buy another one.
A harried glance at his Rolex showed he was now irretrievablylate. The report was going to have to be presented in its current,raw state, no credit to his months of hard work. Annoyed 
230 by life's unfairness, Rafe snatched his overcoat from the closet andran.
 He got no farther than his apartment door before his fingersbecame drenched in blood again. An explosive curse ripped from him.This time, he'd managed to spatter his shirtcuff into the bargain.Back in the bathroom, hands under the running water: this has to be anightmare, he thought. Raggedly nervous, he reached to straighten histie, then recalled his wet fingers and jerked short. The last foolstraw in this messed-up morning was to look as if he'd dribbledbreakfast down his front. With a sour laugh at himself, he grabbedbriefcase and overcoat, rushed out of the apartment and sprinted intothe parking lot. He unlocked his BMW, breathless and feeling pigstupid, and hopeful the fresh air might steady him.Probably stress and anxiety had caused his mind to play tricks. Butwhen he jabbed the car keys into the ignition, the fresh blood wasback again. Damning, slippery fingerprints smeared on everything hetouched. Choking back sobs of frustration, he saw another mangledowl's feather float down and settle on the dashboard.
 At that moment Rare fully understood: he was not going to handlehis meeting; he was in fact going to lose his job. The money andprestige and quick thinking upon which he had secured his successwere not going to save him. An owl shot down for a moment's stungpride had marked him, and the crime was going to blight his lifeforever... 
Kirelle sat back on her heels, saddened by what she had learned. Thetwo rearers she had dreamspelled were just thoughtless, pridefulbraggarts, ignorant rather than evil. A stag and an owl had died tono purpose, and for that, she must see two mortals driven from thewood with incentive not to return. The last of the three, by default,must have been the one to cut the Eld Tree. He must be left bound in sleep to even the balance when the fey arrived to demand blood-price.
Bent with the stone cupped in her hands, Kirelle composed herselfto discharge that last unpleasant duty. Beside her, the blond manwith the costly bracelet moaned in the deep throes of nightmare, andthe third rearer snapped out of sleep. 
231 
 Silent, he was, and blinding quick. His explosive surge threw offblankets to bare the moon-caught gleam of hard steel. Breathing fast,his grip on his weapon bone-white, he swung to take out the intruder.
The near proximity of cold metal had already stung Kirelle toinadvertent recoil. Her braid tumbled down across her shoulder, aslash of dark against the fey-woven shimmer of her cloak.
The reaver sucked in a breath half-strangled with surprise andmanaged, just barely, to curb his reflex to kill. 'A girl!' Heshifted onto one elbow, stiff with unfriendly suspicion. His weaponcontinued to threaten as he snapped off an emphatic question.
His accent was unmusical and clipped, the words too rushed forunderstanding. Kirelle shook her head, while his attentivenessdissected every inch of her. She saw his moment of reassessment: thatshe was a woman, if small and otherworldly, and not some briar-scraped child dressed in tatterdemalion rags. His eyes stayed madnonetheless, empty as smoke over water. If Kirelle had expected himto be ugly, he was not. Reaver he might be, and patently vicious, buthe was neatly made. In body and feature he had as deadly a grace asone of the fair folk themselves.
 Kirelle stared at him, undone by fear and unsure what to do next.Beside her the blond companion ensnared in spelled dreams startedhoarsely and raggedly to sob.
The man yanked back in a flinch at the sound, and Kirellesnatched the chance to try retreat.
His left hand shot out and caught hers, and painful strengthcaged the half-enspelled stone between their shared grip.
Kirelle cried out, aware of the danger, but utterly unable totear free; and so it passed that the dreamsnare unfurled and meshedwith two minds and two hearts.
 For a second, all senses upended. The mortal man beheld himselfthrough borderland eyes in a spinning rush that made him gasp. Theslaughter of a deer and an owl became re-rendered as pittance beforehis own most thoughtless axe-blow, so innocently motivated, a plainmeasure of safeguard to stow edged steel so that nobody shouldblunder into an unsheathed tool after dark. Torn headlong from mortalheedlessness, Alan saw blood well from heartwood. He felt its painshake the silence of winter night to disharmony, then knew the deep,subliminal thunder of an Eldforest's awakening to ad ~d ~n 
d 
rage. Full knowledge of his deed wrung from him tears of abjectdespair.
At the same moment, Kirelle, helplessly torn from her roots, feltherself seared by the murderous war that had plundered the joy from alifetime, horrors that had tortured and killed, an unconscionabledestruction of land and life that had left this survivor half-unstrung in time of peace. The ways of mortal earth had nigh brokenAlan's spirit, Kirelle saw. Least-likely reaver of the three, it washe whose blood would be called to right the balance to placate thewrath of the fey. The irony cut, as her healer's perception furtherrevealed that the hurt in him cried out for reprieve: that afteryears of misery, his heart had raised its answer: the desperatestrength of his need had unbound the arcane defenses. The Eld Tree ofitself had shed secrecy, to invite this man across the veil.
'You,' she gasped, as the firestorm of images thinned and finallyreleased her. 'It was you who invoked the great mystery.'Alan freed her hand, head bent and shaking. 'I didn't know.'
'That's not entirely true.' Kirelle sighed. 'Your heart led youbetter than you realized.'
Reminded that moment of the gun still clenched in his hand, Alansnapped on the safety and cast it aside in distaste. His gaze, lightas smoke, flicked across her. Then he got up. Still terrible ingrace, he strode away from his sleeping companions to draw theoffending axe his blow had left wedged in Eld oak. He ran light handsover scarred wood until his longing burst out into words. 'Show methe way to cross the veil. Your borderlands are more beautiful thandreams, and what life I lead here has no meaning.'
'You can't know what you're asking!' Kirelle said, moved todesolation by his plight. 'Your steel has harmed the last Eld Tree onearth. Across the veil, the blood of your deed will draw the forest'swrath and mark you out for fey vengeance.'
He stood, resolute in the calm of his conviction. 'Then let meanswer there for my ignorance.'
His words fell with an uncomfortable, sharpened clarity upon anight that abruptly seemed changed. The deep shadows went suddenly,painfully harsh-edged, and the moonlight seemed alive with vibration.
'Veil magic,' Kirelle gasped, her dread overridden by apiercingly musical voice. 'Debt must be answered for, here and now!' 
233 
 Overhead, the Wizard's white owl raised wings and exploded intoflight as Kirelle whirled, the mortal man along with her.
Around the trunk of the Eld Tree stepped a rangy, graceful figuremagnificently clad in green and gold. A black lacquer bow adornedwith river pearl crossed his shoulder. Beneath hair the glossy darkof a raven's wing, his eyes shone a lucent silver gray. No crackle ofsound betrayed his step as he crossed the carpet of dead leaves. Thesightly beauty of him made the earthly air seem to burn and shimmerwith his presence.
The mortal man by Kirelle's side gasped aloud, his deadly fastreflexes turned stupid and still by the uncanny arrival of the fey.
Kirelle had never owned courage; old Meara often had chided thatunsettled nerves made her tart. Before the fey could raise voice toclaim blood-price, she found herself crying useless protest. 'Yourkind had abandoned these woods. Who is to blame if spells of guardset so long in the past have thinned to the point where one man'sneed could wake the mysteries? Alan's act was without malice. Hisdesire was only to protect.'
The fey regarded Kirelle in all of his bright, cold arrogance.'Price must be paid, nonetheless. Steel has cut an Eld Tree, andblood must atone for blood. It is true enough the guardspells haveweakened; thus ! am sent here, to unmake the last link in the veil.'
'Why claim the one man whose heart could touch an Eld Tree?'Kirelle begged, piercingly torn for a failure that could not save theWizard's borderlands, nor spare one innocent life. Her gestureencompassed the two men asleep on the ground. 'There are other mortalreavers whose interests are the more callous.'
 'Two lives for one?' The fey raised his brows, perhaps preparedto strike a bargain, until Alan reached out and caught Kirelle'swrist, his fingers coldly unsteady.'Wait. I forbid this.'
Years and reason and counseling had never satisfied his guilt,that chance had granted him survival when others more worthy haddied. Blundering through life without faith or clear purpose, thistime he could not walk away. To the fey, he insisted, 'If it's trueand I've offended, I will give what is asked.'
'No,' Kirelle whispered. 'You will yield up nothing. Your deathwill not win reprieve, nor will it save the last link. The mysterieswill be cut away from your earth, and our borderlands will perishalong with them.' 
z34 
 The fey regarded her, narrow-eyed. 'What does any of that matter?Earthly folk care nothing for Eld ways. The mysteries, to them, arejust tales, and true magic a beauty forgotten.'
Which was, perhaps, the real reason why the veil's guardspellshad slackened, Kirelle thought. The mysteries themselves might havereached out to a mortal to thwart further shrinking of theirboundaries. She knew now, beyond doubt, why she had been the onechosen to receive the Eld Tree's dream. 'Your complaints could bechanged,' she said quickly. 'These woods are not dead, nor unfeeling,but only numbly asleep.'
'You would stay, then, and waken them?' The fey laughed, hismirth a sword-sting of mockery.
Kirelle swallowed. One word, one act, and she would be trappedfor a lifetime. She glanced at the mortal beside her, felt once againthe unquiet pain that tormented him, the creative potential thisworld's works had taken and twisted and ruined. 'Let this one go,'she begged, knowing the border}ands could ease him. At last, her ownwill was certain. 'I will stay. This wood will have me as guardian,and the old mysteries will be quickened anew to nurture and guard theEld Tree.'
 'A life for a life,' the fey agreed, unsmiling in acknowledgmentof the pact. 'Your mortal shall have his reprieve. He may cross backwith me to the borderlands if you remain here in his place.' 
Dawn threw gray fog over the campsite when Bill awakened from hisdream. Gasping and sweating as if he'd been running for his life, heglanced up, saw branches half blurred in dawn mist, then loosed asharp, breathless laugh. Nightmares, he thought, overwhelmed by awash of relief; only nightmares. For a second, on waking, he'dactually believed he'd shot down and gutted his own daughter.
The vision remained acidly vivid. Bill pushed onto one elbow toreaffirm that the trophy he'd dressed was a buck.
The shock hit like a slug in the gut: for there was no deer, onlySallie, hanging by one ankle [roma bloodstained length o[ rope.Behind her, clad in a cloak that looked cut from no earthly sort ofcloth, a tiny woman stood with the wind blowing through her darkhair.
 Reproach in her eyes as biting as frost, she spoke before griefcould unhinge him. 'Go. Take your trophy, and upon 
235 your heart's blood, may you never kill again for your van~ty.'
Weeping with fear, shaking and weak at the knees, Bill scrambledout of his sleeping bag. 'I can't do this,' he gasped. But thewoman's eyes gave him no quarter. More frightened of her than oflosing his last hold on sanity, he rummaged underneath his jacket,found the knife he'd stripped off the night before. Half blind withtears of remorse, he reached up and cut his daughter down. Sobbingdeep in his throat, he wrapped her slack body in his sleeping bag,then clumsily smoothed her blonde hair.
His hand brushed fur, cold gray fur, then the unyielding tines ofan antler. In his arms, cradled against his bare chest, lay theblood-rank carcass of a buck.
 Bill looked up, too shocked to be angry, but the woman who hadthreatened him was gone. Unsettled by feelings that every move hemade was being watched, he spilled the wretched carcass upon theground, packed up his gear, and fled without a backward thought forhis forsaken companions. 
Left alone at the campsite, Rafe roused to a spill of winter sunlightand the rustle of foraging birds. No apartment, no office, no reportdue, he understood in a flood of rising spirits. He thrust his armsfrom his sleeping bag to stretch ... and froze, half crippled bychills.
 His hands were running with red blood. He started up in panic,then all but retched as he blundered across the stiff, featheredcorpse of an owl that someone had left dumped on his chest.His scream tore apart the forest silence.
The small woman who watched him went unnoticed until he ran out of breath. She stood over him, uncanny and bitterly accusing. 'Youwill go,' she said clearly. 'Kill no more for your ego, and the deathof the owl will be forgiven.'
'Who are you?' gasped Rafe. But he didn't want an answer, notreally. He just needed out of here, as fast as he could throw onclothes and jacket.
Afraid for his sanity and survival, he abandoned his expensivegear and fancy rifle where they lay. Without pause to look for Billor Alan, he raced headlong to his car. Sweaty, panting, and shaky, 
236 he waited until he had the engine running before he dared to checkwhether the blood was gone from his hands. 
Under the Eld Tree, in a morning wood emptied of reavers, Kirelleregarded rank after rank of sunlit, sleeping trees. Amid a litter ofmeaningless camping gear, she sensed the soil beneath her feet andlistened to winds that had long ago forgotten speech. She found noregret in her heart, but a strange, eager joy for the task that layahead of her.
 Rapt as she was, intent upon the needs of the forest she hadadopted for her own, she did not hear the silent beat of wings. Theowls that flew widdershins around the Eld Tree went unnoticed as theyflocked and finally settled to roost in the branches over her head.
The first she knew of the Wizard's presence was the merry chimeof brass bells. She spun, surprised, as he reined his gray horse to astop and regarded the oddments of gear the rearers had abandoned whenthey fled.
A smile carved his face. 'Did you think to bring back themysteries to mortal earth on your own?'Kirelle laughed. 'I didn't think at all, but only chose as I must.'She moved to the Wizard's side, pleased that they would waken thewood together, and knowing that borderlands magic would one day cometo bridge the veil and restore the lost link between worlds.
'Alan is with Meara, and safe,' said the Wizard. 'Anyone lackinga healer's compassion could have left him unjustly condemned as areaver.' The secretive smile behind his silver beard turned ruefullyreminiscent. 'You may not have known, but my guardianship began withan inadvertent slight to an Eld Tree. When our labor is complete, andthe wild hunt returns to ride these earthly fields, I much doubt yourexile will be permanent.' 
237 Song's End 
The wolf's jaws snapped shut with a sound like the crack of new ice.Deadly teeth slashed nothing but empty air, and the beast'sfrustration could be felt, hot as the spurt of fresh blood. On dampearth barely one stride distant, Huntress Skyfire rolled and evadedthe edge of the stone knife which stabbed down to kill her.Breathless, sweating, bleeding from three previous challenges, shescrambled into a crouch and leapt while her opponent recoiled fromhis lunge.
On the sidelines the wolf whined. Its lips lifted into a snarl,and its haunches bunched, quivering. But this combat was a thingbetween elves. The pack was forbidden to intervene.
Skyfire struck her attacker solidly in the chest. Heoverbalanced, and both of them rolled with the throw. The knifegrated against dirt. Skyfire took a knee in the ribs; air left herlungs with a grunt. The scent of her opponent filled her nostrils asshe gasped a fresh breath. His odor carried a tang of fear. This,because she had bested two stronger challengers before him; thosedefeated had not lingered to watch her fight again. Both hadretreated to the wolf lairs to lick wounds and nurse resentment.
 Skyfire caught the new challenger's knife-hand and bore him downin swift and merciless attack. Fright made him dangerous, evendesperate. The chieftess clung grimly as the Wolfrider thrashedbeneath her. Anger lent her tenacity to match his fear. She barelyfelt the blows as he kicked and punched to win free. She twisted thewrist in her grip, felt the sinews tighten. Bone grated beneath thepressure of her hand. While pain distracted her opponent, she kickedaway the knife, and sought his throat.
Abruptly the Wolfrider went limp under her hands, chin lifted insubmission. Skyfire released his wrist and neck. Wearily she 
238 gathered herself to rise, to turn, to face the next of the challengesthat had inevitably followed her return with the Dreamsinger to theholt.
 Only that morning, she had shouted to the first dissenters whocrowded round. 'He is an elf, and a Wolfrider, and by the Way, I saythat he stays in this tribe by right!' Now, in her exhaustion, thewords seemed still to ring in her ears.
At some point during the second fight the Dreamsinger had fadedinto the forest. With him had gone the scent of dreamberry blossoms,and soft south winds of spring. His leaving changed nothing. Wolfsonggripped the tribe like lust, and the open outbreak of rivalties hadupset order within the pack. Skyfire barely noticed Rellah's hostileglare. These fights made distasteful work, since the challengesthemselves were an indulgence of wolfish instincts. That Skyfire didbattle to temper those same instincts mattered little. Bites andwrenched joints and knife wounds demanded exhaustive concentrationand energy drain, and Rellah had none of Willowgreen's natural gift.Still, with the healer gone away with Two-Spear's exiles, only Rellahremained to fill that responsibility. She carried on with a learnedknowledge of herbs and bandaging, and an uncompromising sense ofduty, ancient as she was.
* *Dreamsinger,** Rellah sent, * *is spell-blind, mad. Not worththis bloodshed, desist.**
Skyfire refused the reprimand. Scuffed, stinging, sticky with theblood of conflict, she shook back tangled hair and snarled.
Rellah failed to flinch; and that lack of reaction by its veryincongruity raised Skyfire's hackles. Prompted by distrust, she spun,her snarl changed to a growl of rage. The sudden movement spared her.She took the knife thrown by treachery from behind in the shoulderinstead of the heart, where it was intended.
'Murder!' screamed Rellah. 'A curse upon Timmain for mingling theseed of the beast in our children.'
 But Rellah's outburst reflected only ignorance, and anger atthings she could never understand. Skyfire gripped her shoulder, hotblood dripping through her fingers, eyes narrowed with a rage onlyTwo-Spear might have equaled. This assault had not arisen from theblood of the wolf; pack hierarchy was a discipline ritualized tominimize deaths. Stealth, subterfuge, attacks calculated to catch thevictim disadvantaged were subleties reserved only for the taking ofprey. 
239 
 Ready now to kill out of hand, to discipline in the manner of thepack, the Wolfriders on the sidelines crowded around the offender.They caught his hands and feet, splayed him helpless upon the groundthat, wolfiike, they might rend him limb from limb.
First in their longing to tear out his throat was HuntressSkyfire; yet she did not. She shivered and overran instinct andkicked the nearest of the scufflers, who happened to be Skimmer, withher boot. 'Stop! Let him go.' When others were slow to listen, shejerked the knife from her flesh, then dove in and hammered them allwith her fists, her elbows, her knees, and sent the offenders rollingaway in surprise. Dizzy now, and caked with clinging dust, she glaredaround the circle of her follow. 'No elf must die.'
 She remained upright until the knife-thrower had shambled to hisfeet and fled ashamed from the circle. Then the dizziness took her,and she staggered... 
ú.. and awoke, sweating in noonday heat, to scratch at a scar thatseemed endlessly to itch, and to wonder just why this dream shouldreturn to trouble her. The tree hollow was stifling. Skyfire brusheddamp hair from her eyes. She rolled for a breath of fresh air, and asher hand brushed empty space, realized. The Dreamsinger had left her.In the dance of moons since the fights had ended, this was not likehim.
 A chill roughened her skin, a premonition of something amiss. Byreflex, Skyfire reached out with her mind for her mate.
His sending cut her awareness, sharp as a knife's edge withdanger. One with his mind, she felt a blow strike his shoulder, thena sensation of falling, falling; and then pain, sudden and shatteringand violent. She recoiled in shock, and slammed hard against the treewall. Her mind rang with the Dreamsinger's sending, and the last,whispered syllable of her soulname.'Kyr!' Her own scream snapped the link. 'Dreamsinger!'
She scrambled in a rush from her nook. Down the tree limb she slid, without bothering to reach for handholds. Bank scraped herskin. When she reached the main trunk, she leapt outward.
And re-experienced the rush of the Dreamsinger's fall for aninstant of shared memory.
Then she struck ground. Rolling, banging into roots and thedetritus of last year's leaves, she reached out to recapture thelink. 
~4o She received not the smallest spark from the Dreamsinger. Where oncethe air itself sang in echo of his magic, emptiness remained. Thesong, the life, the vitality, all had ceased in a terrible, smashingfall from the heights.
Skyfire fought her way to her feet. He was dead; she knew thisbeyond doubt. The wolf-pack sensed the kill through her distress.They gathered already, restless to dispose of the remains. Such wasthe Way, and not a thing Skyfire would forbid. Her mate was beyondhelp. Reason more dire than sentiment caused Skyfire to spring intoaction. With the weight of the Dreamsinger's cub heavy within herbelly, she broke and ran from the clearing.
Only Sapling saw her go. But though Skimmer was soundly sleeping,and Pine was busy with a lover, and Owl absorbed by another of hisenigmatic weavings, Skyfire's emotions cut through with an urgencythat would not be denied. One by one the Wolfriders arose from theirhollows, or abandoned the thread of their activities. In silence theygathered to follow their chieftess; of them all, only Rellah wasobliged to ask where to look. 
The ravine lay in the direction of sun-goes-up from the holt. Treesdid not grow near the rim; only the toughest lichens could garner afoothold upon the jagged, flint-black rock that stabbed like teeththrough the soil. Below, the stream carved a course like knottedthread, frayed at intervals into waterfalls that threw driftingcurtains of mist. The sound of water tumbling and frothing over stonehad fascinated the Dreamsinger. Many an afternoon he had lingeredabove the ravine, perched on an outcrop with his feet dangling.
Now Rellah stood on that same formation, her hide skirt pinchedin nervous fingers, and her skin roughened by the moist chill thateddied off the falls far beneath.
 'The Dreamsinger's song is ended,' she said. Unlike theWolfriders gathered at the site, she avoided looking at the shadowyforms which darted like ghosts along the streambed. Years had donelittle to accustom her to the ways of the wolves. The fact that themangled rag of flesh and bone that had once been a living elf was nowonly meat to sustain the pack revolted her. Curiosity alone broughther to the scene of death. The attraction for many of the others wassimilar. But Skyfire was not among the few who clustered with Sapling out of concern.
Apart from friends and Wolfriders, the chieftess knelt on theearth at the forest's edge. With a diligence that brooked nointerruption, she examined the ground for sign, and found none. Now,more than ever, she missed the companionship of Woodbiter, who hadhunted his last ravvit soon after the coming of the green season.Without the guidance of her wolf-friend, Skyfire could not unravelscents too faint for her nose. That such clues existed only fueledher frustration. Here she could smell the rancid leather track of a sandal, and there, clinging to ferns, the musky hint of sweat; justenough to know that an elf other than Dreamsinger had recentlytrodden this path. But the subtleties escaped her. Precisely whichelf Skyfire had no way to determine.
Absorbed by the problem, the chieftess did not look up as therest of the Wolfriders began to disburse. Sapling slapped hershoulder in sympathy, and Pine offered condolences. She acknowledgedboth with a nod, but made no move to return to the holt. Rellah'sinsistence that companionship might ease her grief was ignored.
'He was mad,' the older female said in her infuriating, superiorway. 'His presence caused dissent, and if he chose to end his life,the whole tribe is better for it.'
 Skyfire arose then, so suddenly the taller elf started. Pale withanger, the chieftess said, 'Kyr did not choose to die.'
Rellah recoiled a step. The Huntress's wrath was a palpableforce, dangerous as the wolf crouched to spring. The first elf darednot argue, but retreated quickly, breaking into a clumsy run justbeyond view in the forest.
Skyfire heard her departure as a noisy crashing of sticks, aninept intrusion that rankled upon nerves already overtaxed. Lipsdrawn back into a snarl that was all wolf, the chieftess returned toher task. She quartered the ground in relentlessly widening circlesuntil twilight stole away the light.
Summer night fell, loud with the voices of crickets. The watercrashed down its course, misting the air, and dew beaded the rocksover the precipice where the Dreamsinger had fallen. Huntress Skyfirestraightened, aching in ways that had nothing to do with the fact shehad spent hours on her knees. She perched in the niche her dead matehad left vacant, eyes closed in misery. No longer would the treeswear blossoms out of season, or brambles blaze 
z42 with the colors of autumn during spring. The Dreamsinger was 'gone,his magic reduced to a memory. Only one legacy remained: the cub inSkyfire's womb quickened and steadily grew toward its birthing. Asmuch for that unborn life as for her own grief, the Huntress couldnot let the father's death rest. The tragedy that had overtaken theDreamsinger might one day happen to his offspring; as surely as shebreathed air she knew that another elf had dealt the blow that precipitated the fatality. The act was a poison, a danger hidden as asnake among the tribe; a Wolfrider's mindset was trusting by nature.The Way of the wolves had no analog for murder.
Skyfire kicked irritably at the moss-caked stone of the ravine.To search out Dreamsinger's killer posed almost insurmountableproblems. The sending she had shared in the instant beforeannihilation had shown no face; just the roughness of the hand thatpushed, and the terrible plunge, and the pain. A wolf might unravelthe scents, but by now the trail was cold. The tribe had crossed andrecrossed the paths to the ravine, and $kyfire's own search hadfurther obscured the evidence. Even without these complications, noother rider's wolf-friend could be trusted to investigate in herbehalf. Paek members who bonded to an elf owed their first loyaltyelsewhere. Should her request fall on a tribesmate who was involved,or in sympathy with the killer's cause, she would learn nothing butlies. Dreamsinger's madness had been feared, distrusted, and at thelast resentfully tolerated because she had fought and bested everyWolfrider who had dared to challenge his presence. But dissidentsremained, too timid or too crafty to fight. Of the many who hadlicked wounds in defeat, some might whisper for retribution. Factionslingered yet from the days of Two-Spear's chieftainship; Skyfiresensed them at the hunts like tangles in the continuity of the pack.Though most Wolfriders were not capable of intrigue, any one of themmight be led by conspiracy.
Half lost in his song and the visions woven by magic, theDreamsinger had never thought to take precautions. For that, Skyfireblamed herself. From the head of the ravine she listened to the howl carried out in her mate's memory. She did not return to participate.Alone on the height that had killed, she listened, straining todetermine which voices were missing, and which sounded uncertain. 
243 
 Her suspicions knotted uselessly into confusion. The howl for theDreamsinger ended quickly. His brief stay with the tribe had largelybeen misunderstood. Skyfire alone had been able to temper hismadness, and see beyond to the shape of Timmain's dream. Only she hadseen promise of a future where the gentleness of elvish heritagemight coexist with the hardy cunning of the wolf. Yet now, with onewho murdered magic at large among the tribe, that future and thatdream lay threatened.
Night deepened. The two moons lifted over the trees; lightthrough the leaves dappled the forest floor, and touched the rocks atthe precipice with a glint like dagger steel. The larger of the moonsled the dance, silvering the spume which veiled the head of thegorge. The place where the Dreamsinger had fallen lay lost in blackshadow. Brooding, sad, and uncertain what to do, his grieving mateshook back her bright hair.
'Which of us wished you dead?' she asked the empty air, the facesof the moons, the soft sigh of the wind. Only crickets answered.Their song of summer's plenty held nothing to console an empty heart.Restless with loss and frustration, the chieftess cursed.
At the sound, something at the forest's edge started back.Alarmed, Skyfire ducked low in the niche. Carelessness made hercross. She had been as trusting as her mate to linger here, andcertainly as foolish. Now the rushing water at her back held threatenough to raise the hair at her nape. She carried the Dreamsinger'scub. If she could sense its gift of magic as it grew, so mightothers; so might the killer who had destroyed its father. A push fromthe same hands might send her to share his death. Memory of thatplunge and the agony of its aftermath returned with a force likepremonition. Sky fire shivered.
Cautiously she hugged the stone. A leap to safer ground mightprovoke a retreat; already this elf had proved his lack of courage.Yet she chose a more dangerous course. If she could tempt an attack,make her situation seem more precarious than it actually was, shemight emerge after a scuffle with Dreamsinger's killer held captive.
But time passed, and the tunes of the crickets continuedundisturbed. Skyfire listened until her ears ached. The forest nightrevealed nothing. At last forced to conclude that the movement hadbeen an illusion born of grief, she raised her head and looked.The angle of the moons had changed, plunged the trees in deep 
~44 shadow. Yet the dark beneath the branches was not empty; there shonea pair of silver eyes, eerily identical to the Dreamsinger's.
Skyfire gasped. At the sound, the eyes flashed and turned, lostin the forest's dark. Shaking now, and fighting tears, Sky firescrambled up from the precipice. She rested her cheek on cold rock.Her mate had not turned spirit to haunt her; she had seen only hisgray wolf, who shared the color and intensity of his eyes. While therest of the pack retired to sleep off gorged bellies, this onerestless beast sought a master who would never hunt again.
Deprived of Woodbiter's company, and robbed forever of theDreamsinger's mad passion, Skyfire longed to reach out to the wolf,to sink both hands to the wrists in his luxurious silver pelt. Shewanted to weep in his warmth, and then to run, fast and strong, intothe heat of the hunt.
 'Song,' she called, though she knew the wolf would not come.Wolves who lost elf-friends did not bond to another tribe member; sosaid Owl, who sometimes, after dreamberries, remembered such things.
The appeal of Huntress Skyfire to her Dreamsinger's wolf broughtonly a flash of white brush as he turned and retreated into thetrees. For a moment, she almost let him go.
Reason why she must not snapped her mood of brooding heartache.Skyfire started up from the rocks. Her brow furrowed with adetermination the rest of her tribe knew better than to cross. Songwas more than a wolf who had lost a master. He was the key to theidentity of Dreamsinger's killer. For that one name, Skyfire waswilling to undertake any difficulty, no matter how impossible.
Huntress Skyfire raced into the forest. The wolf fled ahead ofher. Running hard, she glimpsed his form as a flash of silver throughthe glades where the moons' light struck through. She heard him as arustle of leaves, the scrape of claws on stone, and the soft,disturbed breath of air as he sniffed his back trail for pursuit.Song was fleet, young, and clever enough as a hunter to have survivedthrough the Dreamsinger's exile. Yet he was not a maverick by nature;he had challenged for position, and won acceptance in the pack thatran with the Wolfriders. Skyfire had fought him once, in the courseof helping his master. She had gained the victory, but Song'ssubmission had not cowed his spirit. His trust would be troublesometo earn, and time was of the essence. The Huntress understood enoughof wolves to know that she must win Song over at once; otherwise loneliness would drive him toidentify irrevocably with the pack. 
The two moons lowered with the coming of dawn. Shadows turned vagueand gray under the trees, and in that uncertain light, obstaclesbecame difficult even for a keen-sighted elf to discern. A wolf, withbetter sense of smell, had less disadvantage. Song unavoidably drewahead. Grimly Skyfire held to his trail. Exhaustion blurred herpurpose; threat to her unborn cub merged with grief for herDreamsinger. As she drove each tired foot into the next stride, thesilver wolf who darted like a wraith out of reach came to symbolizethe mate she had lost. If she could only catch up with the beast, ifshe could once touch its fur, something of the compassion she hadlearned through love might be recovered.
But Skyfire's persistent desperation won no ground. Song's intentto escape became all the more frantic. He did not understand theHuntress's motives; his strongest memory of her had been a fight,after which he had been forced to yield to her will. The wolf had lether run at her Dreamsinger's side out of submission, not goodwill.Now, with the master gone, Skyfire's pursuit keyed nothing but aprimal instinct to flee. Years spent with an exile lent the wolfcunning: he was not habit-bound to any territory. Where a pack-raisedbeast would keep to familiar trails, his run a wide loop around achosen area of forest, Song ran straight cross-country. He might notanticipate every twist in the terrain, or fallen log, or stoneoutcrop. He might be slowed by unexpected roots, or avoidance of athicket too dense and tangled for running. Yet the Huntress whofollowed was equally disoriented; the safety of the cub she carriedmade her uneasy in strange country, where men might prowl, andunknown terrain lead her into danger. Eventually her two legs musttire, and then Song could slip like a shadow into the wood to seekout his own kind.
 Still, Skyfire had spent most of the summer season huntingwithout any wolf-friend to bear her weight. Spring's crop of cubs hadalready been weaned when Woodbiter died, and those that were inclinedto partner an elf had already bonded. Aware her predicament mustextend through the next turn of seasons, the chieftess had hardenedto compensate. She did not quit, but continued, stumbling and pushingthrough the brush, until long 
246 ú after dawn. The sun blazed high overhead when at last she threwherself, panting, in a glade.
Song was footsore as well. His belly was empty of game, and hissinews too spent to hunt. Tail drooping, nose low, he sniffed out asmall cave beneath an outcrop. There, he curled up and slept torecover his strength. 
Although Skyfire was too weary to run, stubbornness would not let herquit. She tracked Song's footprints through last year's leaves, abriar thicket, and over the moist bed of a stream shrunken down to atrickle by summer. The heat of midday wore upon her energy, andhunger nagged her belly. Soon, for the sake of the cub she carried,she must stop for food and rest; but not yet. The impressions ofSong's pad,; told of a stride no longer fluid. The wolf was tiredalso, and not so urgent in his flight. Presently Skyfire observedthat his path began to meander, as he searched for a lair to takecover.
 She paused then to wipe sweat from her face. If she found thewolf before he woke, she had a chance.
The cleft was situated beneath an outcrop of moss-caked stone.Spring water pooled nearby, protected by a stand of trees. Song'smarks were plain in the mud by the bank. The darkness between therocks held the warm scent of his fur. Certain the wolf had laired there, Skyfire retreated from the area with the care of a seasonedpredator. She left no unnecessary scent, and made not a whisper ofnoise. Song must not awaken and discover her presence too soon.
The Huntress knelt at the spring and drank her fill, then wove asnare for small game. She retreated after that to wait. The sun onher back made her drowsy, yet she battled the lure of sleep; if shesuccumbed, and Song left while she rested, she would lose him. He hadrun too far through the night, well beyond the territory of the packthat ran with the tribe. This part of the forest was hunted by wolvesunfamiliar with elves. Song would be forced to fight for a placeamong them, or move on as a loner who spurned others. His memory ofthe Dreamsinger's companionship would fade quickly, and Skyfire knewthat success must depend on prompt action.
A ravvit jumped squealing into the snare. Huntress Skyfirestarted out of a drowse, shaken by the fact that sleep had taken herunaware. Quickly she studied the light. The sun's rays slanted justslightly lower; her attention had lapsed only minutes. Stretching 
247 stiffened muscles, the Chieftess arose and drew her dagger. Shekilled the ravvit with one deft thrust, but resisted the instinct togorge. With the blood of fresh game on her hands, she set out toshare meat with Song.
Her approach to the grotto was cautious as before, but the slightincrease in moisture as the day waned made the scent carry. Blood-smell aroused the sleeping predator from his dreams of chase and thehunt. Skyfire heard the click of claws on rock as the great wolfbounded to his feet. She felt the gust of his breath as he sampledthe air, then greeted her presence with a low growl of warning.
The Huntress froze instantly, ravvit flesh dripping between herfingers. She made no further move, but waited at the entrance to thecleft for Song to consider her gift.
The wolf made no effort to advance. Skyfire accepted hisambivalence in stride; she had expected no less. Wolves weredistrustful by nature, and interactions between members of a packwere rigidly dictated by rank. She had bested Song, and by tradition,he could fill his belly only after she had gorged ~and lost interest.To share food without regard for hierarchy upset the order Songunderstood; and things not understood were to be feared.
Skyfire sensed the wows uneasiness. She held firm, even as hishackles rose, and a snarl furrowed his muzzle. Shining gray againstthe dimmer gray shadow of his head, the eyes of the wolf never lefther.
 *':'Song.* * Skyfire put sending in the word. She offeredreassurance in place of uneasiness, warmth in place of cold, foodagainst the pain of hunger. She promised joy, and life, and the headythrill of the hunt in full summer.
 Song's snarl intensified. He remembered the past fight. That hadended with his throat bared to her mercy. His instinct wassubmission, but the close rock walls confined him, cut off his escapeif this Huntress pressed her proven superiority against him. Theravvit promised nothing. The smell of its blood only drove the wolfto frustration, for he was hungry, yet dared not feed. Enraged byconflicting instincts, Song crouched on the hair-trigger edge of aspring.
'Song,' Skyfire whispered. She shifted her weight slightly toease a cramped leg; and that small movement tripped the balance. 
248 
 Song lunged. Wild with fear, crazed to escape, he leapt for theelf in the entryway.
Skyfire could have dodged aside, let the wolf brush past to winfreedom. But the name of the Dreamsinger's killer was a threat moredire than mauling. Her tribesmates must not run with a murdererunknown in their midst.
 Tired, and slowed by hunger, Skyfire met Song's rush with bracedfeet. His weight slammed her, hips and shoulder, and his jaws snappedclosed on her wrist. The pain was terrible. His teeth ripped downinto muscle, and grated with bruising force against bone. Skyfireyelled, in part to distract him, but also to vent the shock and theagony of a wound that wrung her mind with faintness. Just enoughawareness remained for her to hammer a fist at the wolf's gray eyes,Dreamsinger's eyes, shining now with the lust to tear and kill.
Song released her before the blow fell. He would not risk hissight; nor could he entirely forget his former defeat at the hands ofthis same elf. He had attacked, but she had neither given way norsuccumbed to fear; either reaction would have invited furtheraggression. Yet since the elf met challenge with a savage intent tofight, Song backed down. Snarling, he lowered his brush and retreatedto the farthest cranny of the lair.
Skyfire knelt, her shoulder pressed weakly to cold stone. Theravvit lay where it had fallen in the dirt between her knees. Shecradled her injured forearm in her hand, wrung dizzy by the odors offresh-killed meat and new blood. Somehow, through pain, she clung toher purpose. She must not leave the grotto, must not permit Song anopening to leave. The safety of her unborn cub depended on hersteadiness now.
 Teeth clenched, Skyfire worked off her tunic. She wrapped herwrist to slow the bleeding. She knew from past mishaps and rememberedscoldings from Rellah: slashes were the least of her worries. Moreserious were the narrow purple punctures which cut deep, but did notdrain. Without herbs to draw out the poison, these were sure tofester, slow her with sickness and fever until she lost her strengthand died. Dreamsinger's fall from the cliff had been a much cleaner end.Skyfire squeezed her eyes closed. Such thoughts had no place, exceptto obscure one fear behind another far more dire. She had but one purpose: to win the murderer's name from Song before 
:49 her tribe's future came to grief. Cautiously the chieftess shoved toher feet. Her shoulder scraped the rough stone, but she needed thesupport to rise, to stand straight as if she still had spirit to callchallenge. Let Song once gain the impression that she could notfight, and the contest of wills was lost. At the slightest hint ofhelplessness, the wolf would attack and press for victory.
With a low growl of warning, Skyfire carefully, so verycarefully, stepped back. She waited then, though dizziness skewed herbalance. Song did not react. Skyfire clung to the stone. She thoughtot' tile 15reamsihger'k mus~k:, now (orever sni~'ed; t~fie angertsfiat; went with that memory helped to support her through anotherstep, then still more slowly, another. Song watched, but offered noaggression.
Beyond the mouth of the grotto, the sun shone red in thetreetops. The heat had eased, but Skyfire sweated in discomfort. Leftno other alternative, she knelt at the entrance to Song's lair andtrailed her injured forearm in the spring.
The icy water eased the ache and cleared her head enough for herto notice the emptiness in her belly. The meat dropped in the lairwas lost. As twilight fell gray over the forest, she heard the sharpcrunch of bones in the jaws of the wolf who had bitten her. Song hadgrown bold enough to appease his hunger on the ravvit. Skyfirewondered how long before he became restless, or desperate, or thirstyto the point where he challenged once again for his freedom.
Darkness brought stars and heavy dew. The sultry heat of day gaveway to light breezes; frogs croaked in chorus with the crickets.Skyfire lay and listened to the night woods, her wrist soaking in thespring. Pain would not let her sleep. Light-headed with exhaustion,she reviewed each member of the tribe in her mind. Most were friends;all but the very oldest were forest-cunning, wise, and dependable inthe hunt. All had shared through lean times, and bickered over triviawhen there was plenty. True enough, there were factions, brittletensions left over from Two-Spear's time. But the turn of the seasonshad dimmed the old distrusts. Skyfire had taken pains never to showfavor; always in council she had listened to any rider who spoke out.The fights over Dreamsinger's presence had caused the only opendispute since her chieftainship began.
Skyfire curled her fingers in the current, and winced. The painof the bite had not lessened. The swelling had increased to the 
250 ~ved :ded call not t of 
3S. er er 
)r 
e 
e r i 
point where she could not effectively grip her knife or spear. Eventhe simple snare she had woven that morning lay beyond her dexterity.The Huntress rested her sweating forehead against the earth. Help andthe holt were beyond call. Yet even the threat of starvation couldnot turn Skyfire from her quest. That the hopes she had discoveredthrough Recognition should be left at risk to a murderer offered hurtfar worse than any wound. Song alone held the answer; only the wolfcould reveal which friend, which Wolfrider, which elf under her truststill harbored enough hatred to deceive.
New day dawned humid and close. Birds flitted from the treetopsto drink at the spring, but Skyfire could only follow their flightwith her eyes. Song was awake and pacing. Fretful herself, Skyfiretried and failed to find a more comfortable position. Her arm hadswollen to the point where only the icy water in the pool offered anyrelief. Her pain could be tolerated as long as she kept the woundsubmerged.
By noon, the sun fell full on the rocks. Song lay panting in theshadows, eyes fixed ceaselessly on the elf who kept him penned.Skyfire dipped water from the spring in a fold of her leather tunic.She offered to share with the wolf, but Song declined with a growl;irritable, restless, he arose and paced his prison.
Skyfire sweated with her back against the boulders. Reflectionsoff the water hurt her eyes, and the wind which gusted through thetreetops rushed unpleasantly against ears that rang with fever.Sickness only increased her determination. Periodically Skyfirechecked the lair. Sometimes she saw the Dreamsinger's silver eyes,watching in silence from the grotto. Other times she sawonly a silver-pelted wolf, vicious and surly with frustration. 'Whokilled you?' she raged in delirium.
The wolf flinched away from the sudden croak of her words; theDreamsinger refused to give answer.
Skyfire tossed fitfully. She dreamed in the throes of fever thatfish with the teeth of predators came to gnaw at her hand. She awoke,screaming with pain, and faced the fearful certainty that her arm hadfestered from the bite. Rellah was going to be angry; except thatRellah and her bags of smelly herbs were too far distant to help. Thethought somehow seemed funny, that the sour old female might wind upscolding bones. Skyfire laughed outright, while thunder growled, anda late afternoon storm showered rain on her head. 
25~ 
 Lightning flashed, throwing white-edged reflections into thelair. The Dreamsinger's eyes followed her, shining gray in theshadows. 'You're dead,' Skyfire muttered, mad with torment and fever.'I will die, your cub will die, and an elf who kills other elves willshelter like a snake in the pack.'
Her ravings were absorbed by forest stillness. Twilight darkenedaround dripping trees. Skyfire lay on her back in the mud, talking tostars that shone through sooty drifts of cloud. They did not bringher Sapling, as she asked; neither did they intercede to prevent thedream that racked her over and over: a staggering step into air, anda fall that ended in blood and pain on the rocky bank of a stream.
Night deepened, and another sort of darkness blanketed Skyfire'sthoughts, until even suffering lay beyond feeling. 
She awakened, ice-cold, and shivering uncontrollably. Night had gonegray with new dawn, and the wind carried promise of heavy rain.Skyfire opened her eyes. Weakly she attempted to sit up.
Hard hands shoved her back, crashed her bruisingly onto stone.The impact shot pain from her injury clear down her arm to hershoulder. Shock knocked the breath from her lungs. Through a suckingtide of darkness, she saw a face, and tangled hair, and a raggedy,leather-clad elf. His features were familiar. Through dizziness,Skyfire strove to remember.
'Stonethrower?' she murmured; and vertigo fell sharply awaybefore memory. This elf was an outsider, an exile, not among thefaces of friends who shared the howls at the holt. Fear followed,thick enough to choke: Stonethrower had gone off with Two-Spear, hisparting words an oath of undying vengeance for the plight which hadbefallen his chief at Skyfire's hands.
'You!' said Skyfire, recognizing through touch the memory of asending that had ended in a fatal fall. 'It was you who pushed mymate from the ledge!'
Stonethrower did not speak. But the flash of the stone knife heraised above her body offered answer enough. He had returned only tokill her. Skyfire rolled clumsily aside.
'Whelp of a starved she-wolf!' Stonethrower jerked her back. 'Youwon't escape. You've strayed too far for sending to reach 
252 the others. They'll have no warning from you when I return and killthem, one by one, until there is no tribe left.'
Strong and cruel and crazy, Stonethrower caught her hair, twistedher head to bare her neck to his knife.
 Skyfire thrashed. Her reactions were muddled from fever, andsickness left her too weak to evade the blow. Still, she fought.Aside from threat to her tribe, her death would take the life of thecub within her belly, and the legacy of old magic bequeathed by theDreamsinger might perish unborn. Frustration, grief, and anoverwhelming sense of terror shaped a cry to a mate who wasbeyond all answer.* * K YR ! * *
Skyfire's sending framed the Dreamsinger's essence, just asStonethrower struck downward.
 A leaping streak of silver flew between. Song launched from thecave mouth with a growl of animal rage. He recognized the smell ofhis master's murderer, and Skyfire's sending rang over and over withechoes of the Dreamsinger's presence. Song's sense of loyaltyblurred. He leapt for the hated attacker, bristling with a rendinglust to kill.
 Stonethrower sensed only movement; then the great wolPs chargeovertook him. Committed to his thrust at the chieftess, he barelyturned his head when the silver male's weight knocked him down. Jawsfound his exposed throat and closed over gristle and windpipe withforce enough to crush. Stonethrower dropped the knife. He never heardthe splash as his weapon sank in the spring. His heels battereduselessly into stone as the wolf's jaws tightened and worried him,shaking elf flesh until the last scent of life was extinguished.
In time, Song tired of the corpse. He dropped it a short distanceoff in the forest, shook his pelt straight, and returned to lap atthe spring. Once his thirst was satisfied, he raised his drippingmuzzle and sniffed the dawn air for game sign. A moan from behindmade him turn.
 The she-elf lay where she had fallen. The hand outflung from herbody smelled overpoweringly of hurt. The wolf whined. A presence wasmissing from his side. Restless now, Song trotted a few steps backand forth. The scent in his nostrils meant trouble; the hunter whoshould partner him lay wounded. Drawn by the mystery of packinstinct, the silver creature stepped close, 
253 crouched down, and began to lick the still fingers of the elfhand.
He still worked at the task past sunrise, when Wolfriders burstfrom the trees.
 'She's here!' called Skimmer to the others. Rising wind andclouds heavy with rain served only to increase his concern. 'Ourchieftess is hurt. Sapling, run and fetch Rellah.'
Song poised, ready on an instant to run, to abandon the tie sotenuously forged in the night. But a familiar pack surrotmded him,and the habit of companionship was strong. As the Wolfriders hurriedto succor their chieftess, Song raised his head. Holding ground athis elf-friend's shoulder, he growled challenge to any who might dareto interfere. 
The Renders 
Stars flecked the sky when Jaiddon reached the headland thatsheltered the town of Fisherman's Cove from the sea. Every turn inthe deserted road showed the Pattern which secured all Shape on theIsle of Circadie against the Void. Delicate as knotted gilt thread inthe failing light, its interlocking tracery of force was visible inthe veins of the leaves, the curve of the hills, even the dry sand ofthe shoreline which stood against the tireless rush of the sea.
Beyond the headland lay a scene of devastation. As though smashedby a fallen sky, the town lay splintered in ruins. The sight struckthe breath from Jaiddon's lungs. Not even the boats in the harbor hadbeen spared. The beach glittered with the silvery, crescent corpsesof a skip-jack's dismembered hold. Smooth sand lay sundered by aragged gap that passed clean through the shore. Ocean swells rolledthrough the breach, unimpeded by shallows or shoreline, and on theother side, the land where people had once raised homes lay twistedbeyond memory of patterned Shape.
.laiddon could count the bodies. Trained since childhood, hecould see the snarled remains of the patterns that held their spiritsin life.
 Air sobbed into his throat. Renders had undone an entire town as though its existence was no more solid than morning mist. Jaiddonhardly felt the path beneath his feet as he stumbled over the dunes.The Renders had gone on into the hills. Their trail would not be hardto fol~w, marked as it was with wreckage.
Anger and hatred gripped Jaiddon in the shadow of that levelledtown. Would all of Circadie be undone, as Fisherman's Cove, until hertortured rings lost power and slumped into the sea? Jaiddon bunchedthe hands whose promise had set him against the Renders into fists.Perhaps if he released the solidity of the ground where the 
255 cursed beings stood, he could drop them into the deep. Certainly,that had never been tried. The Masters, all, were bound by oath topreserve the Pattern.
Jaiddon showed his teeth in an expression not quite a smile. Hemight wear a Master's Colors, but he had sworn no such oath.
Over and over, he was impressed by Circadie's vulnerabilityuntil, half blinded by tears of frustration, he was sorry he had notrefused the Master's request.
He still found it difficult to believe the bedridden cripple hehad faced that afternoon was the Master Shaper of Circadie. TheMaster whom Jaiddon had always known was a tall, ruddy man,blackhaired and full of humor. His hands had been strong and capable,nothing like the warped, skeletal claws Jaiddon had seen trembling onthe coverlet. And the face! Jaiddon flinched with horror at the memory of features deformed beyond all recognition.
Yet the eyes in the deep, crumpled sockets had opened. They werestill yellow, not yet devoid of the life that once shaped the cyclesof Circadie with such enviable confidence.
 'I am blind, Jaiddon, though within, I can still Shape yourmemory,' the Master said. The light eyes closed. The ruined facesmoothed as an image of a white-robed, barefoot novice with sparelymuscled bones and hair the color of brass formed behind seamed lids. 'Jaiddon, there are Renders in the land.'
The Master's words drove a sharp spike of fear through Jaiddon'sthoughts. Few could stand against the power of Renders, outsiderswhose disbelief could unravel Shape like a tear in knitted wool. Noteven the Pattern of Solidity, foundation of all Circadie, was secureagainst the destruction such a mind could unleash. Blind and deaf toall but Reality, two of them had once blundered through an entireforest without perceiving the fragile power that held its existenceagainst the Void. Everything they touched was destroyed, reduced in amoment to the flotsam from which it had been created.
 'The Renders number three,' the Master Shaper said, snappingJaiddon's paralyzed shock. 'They are shipwreck victims, dazed anddelirious with thirst. Megallie thinks they are mad. Certainly, theyare strong, stronger than any Render who has ever challenged theSolidity of Circadie. We are desperate, Jaiddon. That is why you havebeen summoned.'
 'But my Lord!' Jaiddon stared with fresh horror. 'I barely passedmy apprenticeship a fortnight ago!' 
256 A nightmarish parody of a smile touched the Master's withered lips.Jaiddon felt his heart twist in response.
'Years and experience have proven useless against theseRenders.' The Master Shaper spoke with difficulty. 'Varna,Loremistress of the Pattern, lies dead. Myself, they have broken. Ican no longer Shape even a child's toy. Circadie is dying. I placeher last hope in your hands.'
Tears spilled sudden and hot down Jaiddon's cheeks. He was gladthey could not be seen by the man in the bed. 'What can I do that youcould not?'
 The Master was silent for a long while. 'I do not know,' he saidat last. 'You are young. Your training is incomplete. But you aretalented beyond all that have gone before, so is it inscribed in thePattern of your hands. It is my hope, all of Circadie's hope, thatyou, with your untried, unchannelled power, might find means yourforebears missed by the wayside. I realize I am probably asking yourdeath. Yet, I ask. Will you face the Renders, and challenge theirReality with Shape?'
Jaiddon stood like a statue. Sunlight spilled through the windowand branded a square of warmth in the sweat that chilled his back. Hewas afraid. Once as a child he'd had a cut that would not stopbleeding. It had been Shaped to health, but the man, the Master whosehands had wrought against the Void, lay dying of a Render's touch.Jaiddon swallowed again, and spoke.
'My Lord, the Renders will have me anyway. I may as well meet theVoid in their path.'
But the blue tunic and white shirt of Mastery given him after hisaudience did nothing to ease his self-doubt. For all his allegedtalent, Jaiddon could not even read his own lifepath. His peers hadlaughed often over that. 
Black as oblivion, the Renders' path ran northward. Jaiddon couldsense its presence without sight by the utter lack of resonancebeneath his feet. Here and there, his step struck solidity, and herecognized the harmonics that answered. They were Megallie's. Newlyappointed Loremistress in Varna's stead, she had been mending,perhaps after seeing the Master Shaper comfortable.
Her work had been cursory, her touch, unerring. Gazing downwardthrough the darkness beneath his soles, Jaiddon saw where 
257 a Grand Axis of the Pattern was laid bare. Megallie had fused it,perfectly. He could not repeat her work. Years of training lay aheadbefore he dared attune to a major ring, far less forge one complete.
Jaiddon cursed. His earlier plan was no better than a foolishdream. Having seen the original Pattern of Solidity after which allothers were formed, he knew himself incapable of breaking even itssimplest curve.
Jaiddon moved on. Anger drained away and left a rocky bed ofdespair. 
The Renders lay in a hollow beneath a tangle of scrub thorn, asleep.Jaiddon came upon them so suddenly he nearly fell into the ditchtheir unbelief had torn through the fabric of the ground. There werethree, as the Master had said, opaque bodies dark as blight againstthe Patterned perfection of grasses fired like crystal by starlight.Even passive, the Renders' Reality radiated threat like a breath ofcold.
 Jaiddon shivered and fought revulsion. His ancestors had oncebeen formed of substance, as these Renders were, but generations ofShaping had transformed them gradually away from Reality. Cast uponthe sea as exiles, they had delved among the mysteries of the mindand the illusory laws of sorcery, and in their fusion, developed theart of Shaping. Circadie was raised above the waves throughgenerations of effort. Ring upon ring of power, joined andinterlaced, held its soil dry above the tide. From that framework,the Shapers of Circadie forced tiny allotments of wood, metal, andstone to serve the needs of many.
The Pattern and the Shape that was Jaiddon would not be visibleto the Renders when they wakened, just as the grass, the trees, andthe soil did not exist through their senses.
Jaiddon groped through despair for an action, any action, thatmight halt the Renders' terrible course. He knew from memory eachpassage from the ballads that described past encounters with theirkind. But such facts were useless. The Master Shaper had charged himto abandon precedents. Jaiddon pressed damp palms to his temples. IfCircadie and the people who inhabited it could be made visible to theRenders, their disbelief might weaken, diminishing their ruinouseffect upon the Pattern. 
258 
 The simple act of enforcing the shape that surrounded them wouldnot suffice. That had been attempted already without success. Jaiddondecided instead to inscribe the Pattern directly upon the minds ofthe Renders. Surely even Reality's logic could acknowledge and acceptthe laws of solidity and allow Circadie existence.
Jaiddon took a last breath, unmindful of the thornbranch thathooked his sleeve. Substance never yielded its Reality easily, and aRender was a living entity, self-aware, and defended againstintrusion. Prepared for struggle, Jaiddon closed his eyes and reachedout for the thoughts of the Render who lay nearest. Had his trainingbeen complete, he would have known the Pattern of Solidityrepresented the framework of madness to the mind he sought to Shape,but he had barely won his novitiate, and in ignorance, he touched.
Contact opened a blind abyss of unreason. Jaiddon broke intosweat, strove to hold firm against a Reality whose nature commandedShape to go molten and flow formless into the Void. It seemed asthough his Pattern of existence would be crushed to powder beneaththe weight of the Render's mind. As the first tremor of dissolutioncrept through the fibers of his body, Jaiddon cried out. So this waswhat happened to the Master! Panic thundered through the gaps in hisbeing, twisting reason into a hard knot of terror. Jaiddon tore free.
He was drenched, shaking, and the echo of his scream seemedreflected in the quivering stars. Shocked by the enormity of failure,Jaiddon did not pause to review the nature of what he opposed.Instead, he flung himself recklessly into a second attempt. Thistime, he shaped fear into a bastion of support.
The Render flinched beneath his touch. He stirred and moaned softly as Jaiddon began to inscribe the primary axis of the Patternbehind his thoughts. As the secondary axis was begun, his protestbecame louder. Jaiddon tasted sweat on his lips. If he slipped, hewould die. With remorseless determination, he bent the will thatopposed him and fused the first of the seven rings of power.
The Render shot bolt upright and yelled. His companions roused atonce, and the force of their waking thoughts threw Jaiddon from hisfeet.
 'Sweet Jesus, Alaric, what ails you?' said one of the Renderssharply. 
259 Alaric shook his head and shivered. 'I dreamed. Mary Mother, Idreamed I saw grass and trees, land.'
'Ye're mad, man,' his companion said. 'There's nothin' here butocean, and this silly boat afloat on it.' He thumped his hand.Circadie shuddered in recoil. Bushes, soil, and a nearby boulderfrayed like overstressed fabric, and vanished.
Jaiddon dragged himself to his knees, numbed beyond thought bythe heaving dark that bloomed at the Renders' touch. He had failed.Though the effort left him weakened, he had to move clear of theRender's blundering presence and think of something else. Slowly, herose.
 The motion caused Alaric to whirl, eyes widened in panic. Theincomplete Pattern within his mind allowed him partial sight of theShape surrounding him, and he yelled hoarsely. 'Almighty God, there'sa ghost!'
'Alaric, ye fool! Ye'11 have yerself overboard!' A companionjerked him back by the shoulder, then fixed a flat gaze upon the spotwhere Jaiddon stood. 'No ghost there, man. Nothin' but sharks 'n'salt water.'
 Unbelief struck Circadie like a stormwave. Shape shattered tofragments before it, land and the life it harbored flung piecemealinto the yawning dark of the Void. Jaiddon cried out as the groundunder his feet came unbound. Every skill he possessed fought to holdhis being complete against a rushing tide of ruin. Loose pebbles andsoil slipped like lost hopes through his fingers as he tumbledbetween debris toward the restless ocean beneath.
 His fall was broken by unyielding blue light; a bar of thePattern itself laid bare. Deformed like wax touched by flame, it hadnot yet parted beneath the stress of the Renders' unbelief. Jaiddongroped for handholds in the riven earth, dragged himself upright.Dizzied and confused, he forgot caution, and the moment his headappeared above ground level, Alaric screamed again.
The other Renders restrained him with difficulty. "Tis thedevil's work, surely,' said one. 'A clear case of possession.'
Jaiddon dragged himself clear of the ruinous gap. The word devilmeant nothing to him, and with uncomprehending eyes, he watched theRender who had spoken kneel over Alaric.
'Christ deliver us,' he said. 'I never thought I'd perform anexorcism for a soul in an open boat.' More strange words, and thechant that followed was in an unfamiliar language, as well. But its effect upon the Pattern wasinstant annihilation.
 Half a hill exploded soundlessly into oblivion. Jaiddon screamed.The Void rose to engulf him. He felt light, insubstantial as ash. Thebreeze off the sea blew through the rifts as the Render's strangeritual unbound the force that held him complete. Trapped in a rushingvortex of wind and dark, Jaiddon suddenly longed to see the disbeliefthat was destroying him take Shape. Shape could be opposed, and onthe heels of thought came insight.
He had always been ridiculed as a dreamer, unable to master hisown imagery. What if he broke precedent, abandoned control andcoupled the result with his lifelong training as Shaper? Jaiddoncursed and laughed. Poised on the edge of dissolution, he threw hiswild imagination free rein. It seized upon the darkness that gnawedhim and clothed it with pictures. Though they reflected unrelentingnightmare, Jaiddon patterned them and gave them Shape.
Circadie flowed and changed at his bidding. Plant, soil, and twigmirrored the fabric of his images. Fast as thought could unreel,Jaiddon found himself in an alien place of red haze. The groundturned to ash beneath his feet, littered with the Shaped symbols ofthe Renders' disbelief, among them every desire, hope, and motivationthat founded it.
 Jaiddon stepped carefully between the glancing sparkle of gemstones, jewelled goblets, and the dirt-gray bones which were hisreshaping of the Renders' dead senses. He had no understanding formuch of what he patterned, nor was he given time to seek it. Jaiddonwaited to see which form would seek his death.
 They came as demons, three of them, savage and thoughtless as theunbelieving minds they represented. Starved, naked, and crowned bybleached shocks of hair, they moved through the shadowed haze ofimagery, eyes sultry as candleflame, and forked tongues tasting theair. Jaiddon knew immediate fear at the sight of them. But theirShape was comprehensible. It could be opposed.
Bending, Jaiddon scooped up a fistful of ash and placed his willupon it. Form broke and ran fluid at his touch as he repatternedShape to match desire. Controlled, that which seconds ago had beenash assumed the outline of a longsword. Jaiddon tested the balance,then grimly inflected the pattern of tempered steel.
The weapon in his hand warmed. Its rough surface acquired theglassy bluish sheen of the forge. Jaiddon shivered with impatience. 
26I The change would take too long. The demons had sensed his presence,and with a hiss like a water kettle, two of them charged. Thepatterning was not yet complete, but Jaiddon had no choice. He raisedhis blade to meet them.
 The demon that rushed at his throat was impaled. It screamed andwrenched. The half-finished sword snapped off near the hilt. Jaiddonfended the second one away with his forearm. Teeth and nails torelike knives through cloth, then flesh.
Jaiddon bashed himself clear with his knee and thrust the demon back with the jagged remnant of his blade. It sidestepped and spat.Jaiddon turned with it. The fallen one writhed underfoot,treacherously close. Nearby, the third crouched, watching with abaleful yellow eye.
'Render!' Jaiddon forced the word around the terror that grippedhis tongue.
Nimbly avoiding the steel, the demon attacked, slashed, andtwisted clear ofJaiddon's riposte. Thin furrows opened in Jaiddon'sarm as it struck. Blood soaked through shredded silk shirt. Fear madethe breath rattle in his throat. Circling, feinting, he survived twomore rushes. Sweat stung his eyes. The demon was still unmarked. Thethird crouched, still, to one side. Jaiddon knew he was finished whenit chose to fight.
Raising his free hand, Jaiddon shaped in glowing lines thatportion of the Pattern that sealed its final Solidity. The demonhissed in fury and sprang for Jaiddon. Patterning broke with anaching flare of light. The creature bore him down. Hot breath scaldedhis skin. Fangs mashed his shoulder, and the demon's nails gashed athis side and back. Jaiddon battered unsuccessfully with his hands.Dizziness whirled his head. All would be lost in a matter of seconds. Aware of nothing but the final darkness that closed over thick aswater to drown him, Jaiddon threw himself into a last, desperateattempt to Shape. 
He wakened, choking. Water and blood had soaked his hair andclothing. Callused hands shook him.
'Death, 'e looks like the sharks been at 'im,' said a voice fromabove.
 Jaiddon opened his eyes, blinked. He lay in a boat. Two strangersstood over him with faces bearded, gaunt, and peeling from 
262 overexposure to the sun. He struggled, craned his neck, and tried tosee over the gunwale.
'Easy, lad,' said the man. His fingers tightened on Jaiddon'sshoulders, making dizziness flood back. 'Ye come near to drownin'.Best stay still a bit an' catch yer breath.'
Jaiddon closed his eyes and wrestled despair. He had fallen intothe hands of the Renders. Why was he not dead? Where was Circadie?
'Let me be,' he said softly as soon as he could speak. The handsfell away.
Jaiddon sat up, gripping the boat with bloody fingers. His bodyburned like fire, it was cut in so many places. When he staredoutward, a triple image assaulted his eyes. If he looked with aShaper's perception, the hills of Circadie appeared, churned anddistorted where the Renders' thoughts had warped its form. ThePattern of Solidity glowed through, serene and blue where it remainedwhole, black and gapped where the Renders had broken through. On top,pale and insubstantial as a ghost's drawing, moved the heaving,restless shoulders of ocean swells that stretched in endless ranks to the far horizon.
 Jaiddon fell back, suddenly weak. In his last moment ofawareness, he had sought to Shape himself a form beyond the Void. Heshould have died. Instead, his dying act had transformed him closeenough to Reality that the Renders could perceive him. When the sunrose, his flesh would cast shadow, as did all Substance.
Jaiddon dared a look at the Renders. Two stared at him with eyesthat bore the haggard stamp of hardship. The third lay grotesquelysprawled and still in the stern. Jaiddon recognized the Render he hadinflected with a fragment of the Pattern. Remembering, also, thedemon that had fallen beneath his sword, Jaiddon drew a painfulbreath and spoke.'What happened to Alaric?'The Renders started. One of them blanched with fright.
'Dead,' said the larger of the two. ' 'E woke up raving an' died.It was madness that done for him, but how did ye know his name?'
The other Render started forward and shouted. the knew because Satan sent him! Didn't he appear at the moment of Alaric'sexorcism?' He pointed an accusing finger at Jaiddon. 'You come fromHell, your purpose to tempt us from faith. God will punish us forbringing you aboard.' 
263 
 The large Render spat. 'The devil, Chaplain? Do ye smellbrimstone?' Laughter followed, but it was forced.
Jaiddon raised himself onto the seat in the bow. Dizzy, sick, andweak as he was, it was evident the Renders distrusted his Reality.They might kill him, in their misunderstanding. Jaiddon thoughtquickly. Though he knew nothing of Hell, the devil, or exorcism, theywere obviously powerful images to the Renders. Perhaps even thesemight be Shaped to advantage.
'I did not come from Hell.' His voice startled both men. 'I would help, but if you have no faith, I am powerless.''Christ have mercy,'said the Chaplain.
Jaiddon ignored him. 'You suffer greatly from hunger andthirst.' Both men stared, speechless. Jaiddon plunged ahead and hopedtheir confusion would last long enough to weaken their disbelief.'Fetch me a container. 1 will provide you with food and drink. Thengive me your oarshaft, and I will Shape you a sail to carry wind,that you may return to the land you desire.'
The larger Render laughed. 'Would ye make miracles, lad?' Herummaged among the floorboards, and after a moment, extended awineskin. 'Ye've got my faith, what there is of it.'
'Fill it with seawater.' Jaiddon's eye fell on the Chaplain. 'Doyou have faith?'
The Chaplain swallowed and crossed himself uneasily. 'I pray fourtimes daily.'
'Pray, then.' Jaiddon accepted the dripping wineskin. Its roughleather stung his torn flesh unpleasantly, but that did not deterhim. Every kitchen drudge in Circadie knew how to pattern the saltfrom the water they drew to wash their pots. This was the simplestform of Shaping, and it took Jaiddon the space of seconds. He copiedthe Chaplain's motion over the wineskin for effect, and offered it tothe Renders. 'Drink. If you have faith, you will be refreshed.'
The larger Render pulled the stopper, peeling features stifflyexpressionless. He raised the wineskin to his lips, filled his mouth,then swallowed greedily. When his thirst was eased, he knelt beforeJaiddon in awestruck silence while the Chaplain, also, drank his fill .... 
The tale is still told, in dockside taverns, of how a chaplain and adeckhand survived the wreck of the ship Saint Helena by saving a 
264 holy man from the teeth of a shark. In turn, he rewarded them,changing seawater into cheese, bread, and wine by miracle. There werewitnesses who observed the two tacking into the harbor, their sailthe bare shaft of an oar. The holy man was not with them. He was saidto have left the boat by walking on the face of the sea.
Somewhere, over the horizon on the isle of Circadie, Jaiddon'sballad is still sung. It tells of a young novice who took a Master'sColors to defend the Pattern of Solidity from Renders, and how heaccomplished his purpose and returned, bleeding and weary, the onlyShaper since the Founders to cast a shadow. 
No Quarter 
The laser hit burned through the Kildare's shields and vaporized theaft attitude jets in an instantaneous burst of explosion. Theejection of debris and gaseous propellant created recoil that thedamaged system failed to counter.
On the bridge, in the act of rising to visit the head, CommanderJensen was spun sideways into the corn console. The impact left morethan a bruise. Over the stabbing pain of cracked ribs, and throughthe high-pitched, excited curse from the pilot on helm duty, theofficer assigned charge of the Kildare strove against a mind-whirlingonrush of vertigo to muster the necessary attitude of command.
'Damages?' he gasped on an intake of air that was all he couldmanage, being winded.
Across a narrow aisle banked on either side with instrumentation,the ensign still strapped in his seat recovered from surprise. 'Aftattitude thruster's gone, sir, portside. Also the rear screen sensor.Burnt clear out. Hull's intact, but we'll need the engineer's reportto know if it's stable.'
 That explained the horrible dizziness: inertia, not pain. TheKildare tumbled from the hit, her guidance units unable to compensatewith one quarter of the system blown out. Left gray and disorientedfrom his own hurts, Jensen fought the buck of the deck and crashedback into his command chair. 'Find out if she's stable,' he rappedout in reference to the hull. Then he glanced across the gloom of theV-shaped control bridge toward the silhouette of his still-swearingpilot. 'Get this hulk back under control, fast.'
The pilot, the fair-haired son of somebody's father in theAdmiralty, was nowhere near as good as the rating sewn onto 
266 the starched sleeve of his coverall. Neat to the point of fussinesshe might be, but his hands were slow, and his touch, far fromunerring. Trembling, he fumbled the controls.
Whiplashed by a second round of inertial force all the moreaggravating for being unnecessary, Jensen shut his eyes inforbearance. The last pilot he'd been assigned had been a sloppy sonof a bitch when it came to appearance; but he could by God fly.Kildare rolled, bucketed, lurched, and finally wobbled out of hertumble.
 By then the young ensign had recovered his curiosity enough tovoice the obvious. 'Damn, Commander, who would be firing on us outhere?'
 Jensen ignored the question until after he had queried his onecompetent bridge officer, a wary middle-aged woman named Beckettwho'd been born without the instincts of motherhood. 'Gun crews intact, sir, and your engineer gives the drive systems a tentativeokay,' she answered in her husky baritone. The sandy hair pulled backfrom her forehead emphasized bushy eyebrows, and square, oversizefront teeth. If homely appearance had stifled her social life,Beckett poured her frustration into her work. She'd already confirmedthe engineer's next check. 'Dak's testing the coil regulator forsignal overload, but adds it's an outside possibility.'
The laser hit must have grazed them, Jensen determined, andconcluded further that if their shields had been breached, the attackweapon was more powerful than any small vessel should pack. Still,reassured that the main drive systems of his vessel apparentlyremained intact, Commander Jensen stared across an undecoratedexpanse of grate flooring to the junior ensign who had questionedinopportunely; a boy so fresh from his Academy training that he stillwore his hat on the bridge; hunched in earnest over his board, thekid had a clear, pudgy complexion that ran to ache, and ears thatstuck out from under spikes of silvery fair hair. He was currentlygazing, rapt, at the image of drifting fragments on the main analogscreen.
 'I thought I asked you to check on the status of our hull?'Jensen snapped, pained by more than his ribs. He resisted an impulseto blot sweat from his brow, then silently pondered the self-sameissue. His ship was a converted yacht, a rich man's toy hastilyrevamped for Fleet service in the face of threat from the Syndicate.She was armed more for scout duty than defense; and with her untriedcrew and recently promoted senior officer, Admiral Duane hadstationed her as far from any probable site of action as possible. Why had theKildare been fired upon? And by whom, when they were just a patrolsent out for observation, in case the battle that currently centeredaround Target proved to be a feint?'Beckett,' Jensen said belatedly, 'initiate a scan.'
The communications officer nodded her leathery face, eyesunderlit by the scatter of lights on her board. She did not belaborthe point that she had done so, long since, but the blown aft sensorsleft her blind to near half of the analog grid. 
On the bridge of the Marity, by appearance a hard-run merchanter, andby trade a skip-runner ship, a bearish, blunt-featured man scratchedat the mat of chest hair through the opened neck of his coverall. Theflight deck of his vessel was too cramped with instrumentation for aman of his size to stretch. This did not seem to trouble him as he turned deceptively lazy eyes to the mate who worked the consolebeside him. 'They found us yet?'
Slender, elegant as an antique rapier, Marity's mate, Gibsen,turned his head with a half-raised brow. Framed by a vista of illegalelectronics and signal lights of alien design, he said, 'No. Andtheir pilot's a kid who can't fly.'
In the half gloom of Marity's flight deck, MacKenzie James didn'tspeak. On the graying side of thirty-five and muscled like a wildbeast, he made no move. But the corner of his mouth that liftedtoward a smirk said 'incompetent' more plainly than words. Hisscarred hands stopped their scratching, and his gravelly, basso voicephrased orders with a sparseness that hinted at exasperation. 'Forgetsubtlety. Show them.'
As if blowing the hell out of the ass end of any Fleet shiphadn't been questionably unsubtle, Gibsen set tapered fingers to thecontrols and tweaked. The Marity changed position. 
Which meant Beckett, bent yet over a console set for a fine-screensearch, suddenly got an eyeful of side vanes and struts where asecond ago her instruments had shown emptiness. The impossiblehappened. She got flapped, screeched a startled oath, and jerked backbefore she thought to step down the magnification. 'Dammit 
268 to hell with a hangover!' she repeated, sounding more like her genderthan she ever had. 'We're being messed after by a goddamnruerchanter.'
 'What!' Jensen half sprang from his command chair, then sank backwith a grunt of pain. Plagued by echoes of his own startlementreflected back at him by bare, metallic bulkheads, he went suddenlycold to the core. The only 'merchanter' he could imagine near thesite of a major battle against the Syndicate would be the Marity,command of the skip-runner and criminal MacKenzie James. 'Get me aregistry number,' Jensen snapped through stabbing discomfort. 'Orlacking that, scan for specs.'
Beckett read back the requested information in her usual sexlessvoice.
 'Marity,' Jensen confirmed. And his manner held an edge that hiscrew had never known. 
On the dimly lit bridge of the Marity, the mate Gibsen raised balefulhazel eyes to his captain. 'Mac, they aren't minded to be sportsmen,this morning. The portside plasma turret is rotating our way.'
'Beats hell out of being overlooked,' Mac James said laconically.'Now give 'em something to chase.'
Gibsen's narrow features lit in a grin, red-tinged by the lightsof his console. 'Lead them on by the nose, you mean.' His delight didnot fade through the split-second interval as he played his controlswith a touch his Fleet counterpart aboard Kildare would have sworn onhis scrotum was wizardry. 
Beckett patently refused the belief that the Marity was anythingother than a hard-used private hauler; she argued loudly up to thepoint when her screens displayed a maneuver that should by Marity'saged specs have destroyed the integrity of her hull. Caughtmidsentence in denial, the corn officer paused, closed her heavy jaw,then recited the formula that outlined the effects of inertia uponthe Marity's supposed limitations. 'Bits,' she finished heatedly. 'Weshould be looking at flying bits of wreckage.'
Cracked ribs prevented Jensen from rounding on her in a fury. Asa result, his instructions to his pilot came out with unintentionalcontrol. 'Tail her. And set our coils charging for transit to FTL. 
269 If Marity's going to jump, we jump with her, or blow our coilcondensers trying.'
'Bloody hells, Commander, whatever for!' interjected Beckett.'We've an assigned post, and despite the provocation, I see no reasonto abandon our position.'
Jensen moved a foot and swiveled his chair toward her. He glaredthe length of the bare, functional bridge compartment. 'Are youquestioning my direct order?' he demanded with a rage that burnedentirely inward; his face stayed deadpan, and his eyes, unflinchinglylevel.
 Beckett's rough complexion reddened. 'I question unreasonablejudgment.' Nonplussed, her huge hand flicked the switch that assuredher words would be monitored and incorporated into the ship'sofficial course log.
The fresh-faced ensign beyond her followed the exchange with aninterest that could damn, if the issue ever came to court-martial.Frostily stiff, Jensen said to his pilot, 'Carry on, Sarchev.Follow the Marity.'Later, when the craft of MacKenzie James initiated FTL, theKildare followed suit. 
'Hooked,' murmured Gibsen when the queer hesitation in human time-sense passed, and the darkness of FTL settled like a hood over bothof the Marity's analog screens. 'Your boy commander's taken thebait.'
 On the adjacent chair, which had a tendency to leak its stuffingout of several haphazardly stitched rips, Mac James turned his blunt-featured face. Red-lit by the array of the Marity's instruments, heshowed the smile of a sated predator. He flexed his coil-scarredfingers with the method of old habit and murmured, 'After the tanglewe made of Jensen's plot at Chalice station, did you ever think thathe wouldn't?'
 Gibsen lounged back in his crew chair, his long-lashed eyesdeeply thoughtful. He did not say what he felt, that the more youmessed with a man's obsessions, the more dangerous he was likely tobecome. The corollary required no emphasis: Jensen's hatred ofMacKenzie James was no longer rooted in sanity. 
270 On the control bridge of Kildare, Communications Officer Beckettwhacked a ham fist against her thigh. 'You're crazy, and a goddamneddanger to all of us.'
Jensen regarded her outburst with no other reaction beyond ablink. 'Question my authority one more time, and I'll see youstripped of your rank.'
His total absence of passion was all that made Beckett back down.Surrounded by taut stillness that gripped the two other crew memberspresent, she looked down and fiddled a few adjustments on her board.The next instant the chime that signaled departure from FTL soundedacross silence.
 'Short hop,' murmured Kildare's pilot, and the next instanteverybody on the flight deck had their hands full.
The engineer called in to report a power failure in the maindrive. 'Coil leakage,' he said tersely. 'No way of predicting thestress crack that caused it. But FTL's a closed option until thesystem's been drained and patched.'
Even as Jensen drew a pained breath to express his annoyance,Beckett delivered worse news: their precipitous flight after Marityhad landed them all but on top of the leading edge of a war fleet.'Identify,' Jensen snapped back.
The greenie ensign did so, in tones surprisingly steady.'Syndicate, sir. On a projected course toward Khalia.' He would haveadded the pertinent facts, concerning numbers of dreadnoughts andformation, but Jensen's next order prevented it.'Where's Marity?'
'Sir?' Now the ensign's voice did quaver. Naively inexperienced,and fearful of questioning a senior officer, he added, 'We shouldinform Fleet Command, sir. The skip-runner's presence is secondary tothe defense of Khalia.'
 'Mac James's presence indicates involvement with the enemy,'Jensen replied with a patience he did not feel. 'Now find me Marity,fast, because in case you've forgotten your notes, draining the coilsmeans we'll be without shields. We're a sitting duck right now for atrigger-happy skip-runner, and that's our first concern.'
Almost in defiance, Beckett stabbed at her board. The analogscreen flashed in response and gave back an image of scuffed paintand rust-flaked vanes, and the faded letters of a registry code thatthe years had weathered unintelligible. 'She's off our bow,' Beckettadded sardonically. 'Close enough to be in bed with, and right 
27I where we have no weapon to bear, and where our attitude controlsystems are too perfectly crippled to maneuver. That's not luck. I'dsay this was a prearranged trap.'
She did not belabor the point that Kildare was well within rangeto be detected by the approaching fleet. Despite the fact that shewas a conversion from the private sector, Kildare's weaponry specsreadily identified her as a Fleet vessel. In seconds rather thanminutes the Kildare and her crew of seven would be nothing betterthan a target.
The particulars of that dilemma had scarcely registered when avoice horned in through the security net that should have keptKildare's com bands shielded from outside interference.
 'Commander, I'd say your survival options are limited to one,'came an intrusive drawl that made the skin on Jensen's arms roughento gooseflesh. He knew the inflection, would recognize that grainytimbre anywhere for the voice of MacKenzie James. 'Unless you'drather get slagged by a plasma charge,' the skiprunner captaincontinued, 'I'd advise that you surrender your vessel unconditionallyto me.'
 Jensen's jaw muscles knotted. The moment held clarity like asnapshot, preserved in time by preternatural awareness of the bridgecompartment, with its gray drab walls flecked with lights thrown offby the controls, and set in that dance of shadow and reflection, thefaces of his officers, all staring. The pilot wore a stupidexpression of surprise; the set of Beckett's outsized jaw showedcynicism; but of them all the greenie ensign was worst, with hiswide-eyed, choked-back fear that implied utmost faith in hiscommander's ability to produce a miracle.
Feeling the stabbing ache of his ribs and a gut-deep hatred thatmade him shake, Jensen licked white lips. When he did notimmediately speak, the voice of MacKenzie James elaborated. 'Boy,you'd better decide fast.'
'Damn you,' Jensen cracked back, though with no channel open MacJames could not hear.
 Beckett said nothing. The ensign looked near to panic, as his aweof his superior officer became shattered before his eyes. OnlyKildare's pilot managed the wits to speak. 'The skip-runner could bebluffing. He's got no protection, either, and the whole Syndicatefleet is bearing down.'Which was not only naive, but stupid, Jensen raged inwardly. 
MacKenzie James never backed himself into corners, except by clearestdesign. This skip-runner had sold Fleet secrets to goddamn Syndicatespies, and since he was uncannily reliable when it came totrafficking classified material out of the Alliance, the enemydreadnoughts bearing down on Khalia were unlikely to advertise theirpresence merely to take out a contact likely to be useful against theFleet. Nor would they blink at a prize ship stolen from an adversary.Wise to the ways of the skip-runner and determined to stay alive tobest him, Jensen gave the only answer that left him any opening.
'I surrender the Kildare and all her crew to the master of Marity, without condition.' Through the heat of his own humiliation,Jensen was aware of his ensign trying desperately not to cry, and aglare of vitriolic contempt from Communications Officer Beckerr. 
Mac James's pilot had the hands of a monkey when it came todismantling a control board. His narrow, sensitive fingers couldreach and unhitch and disconnect circuitry behind narrow, crampedpanels that by rights should have invited curses. Gibsen whistled,oblivious.
 The sound set Jensen's teeth on edge, as did the quiet,deliberate voice of Mac James as he commandeered a communications console as yet unmolested by Gibsen's tinkering. It did not matter toKildare's former commander that the skip-runner, of his own volition,was following through with the duty first urged by the baby-facedensign now bound and gagged in the back bay of the flight deck. Thatthe message torp bearing word of the Syndicate fleet's vector towardKhalia was fired away under Commander Jensen's own codes did notmatter; that Admiral Duane would receive the communication in time togive Fleet forces the edge inthe coming battle to preserve the Khalian planets did not matter.Jensen's mind centered on one thought.
MacKenzie James was a criminal. He did not act out of heroism,but only callous self-interest. If he wanted Khalia defended, thatcould only be because the two-faced Weasels who'd surrendered made ahealthy, lucrative market for traffic in illicit weapons. Gunrunningbeing second only to state and military secrets on the list of MacJames's transgressions, Marity would be involved to her top vanes.Jensen stared at the stubble of hair that furred the crown of the skip-runner captain's head, just visible over thecom station. Hatred and rage had both given way to a patienceunforgiving as stone.
Tied to his own command chair, unmoved by Beckett's grunts ofdiscomfort from the corner where she lay bound alongside Kildare'sensign and pilot, Jensen waited in motionless tension like a snakecoiled before prey.Gibsen muttered a query from behind an opened cowling. 'Gun turretsnext,' Mac James said in drawllessly succinct reply. 'We'll want thecoil regulator and the magneto banks, but leave life-supportintact.' The salt-and-pepper crown of hair disappeared briefly as MacJames leaned forward to toggle a switch. His next instructions to hismate were buried under a drift of garble fromthe corn, most likely cross-chat on a Syndicate command channel.Jensen ground his teeth.
Gibsen straightened with his hands full of circuit boards; andthe foreign speech paused in an inflection that framed a question.MacKenzie James answered in the same lingo, and the response thatcame back was mixed with laughter.
There followed an infuriating interval while Gibsen and his skip-runner captain stripped the Kildare with sure, no-nonsenseefficiency. Jensen found the pain of cracked ribs less intrusive thanthe pain of humiliation. He sat, strapped helpless on his own flightdeck, un. able to face away from the analog screen somebody hadcarelessly left operational - the screen that showed the passage ofthe Syndicate fleet bound to attack the planet Khalia, dreadnoughtsand their fighters arrayed in formation like some grand, silentprocession.
A few of the behemoths winked their running lights in salute ofthe Marity and her latest act of sabotage against the Fleet.
Blackly murderous, Jensen chafed at the lashing on his wrists. Heconsidered a thousand ways to kill the skip-runner captain MacKenzieJames, all of them lingeringly bloody.
The Syndicate fleet departed, leaving the black of space on theanalog screen. Hours passed. Jensen's hands were numb. His fullbladder became a torment. His wrists stung and his shoulders ached,and his ears had long since stopped hearing the thump and bump, andthe hiss of flushed air from the lock belowdecks as the Kildare's heavier components were off-loaded to the hold on board Marity. Thetap of footsteps coming and going ceased, 
274 replaced by one incongruously light tread recognizable as that ofMacKenzie James.
 At the entry to the bridge he paused, and called instructions tohis mate and pilot. 'Go back to Marity and power up the coils.Syndicate's about reached Khalia by now, and when they find Duanethere to give a hot welcome, I want to be gone from this system.'Gibsen said something that rang with cheerful sarcasm.
Then MacKenzie James strode across the metal floor plates,rounded the central bulkhead that divided the rear half of the bridgeinto two compartments, and ended by looking down at the commanderstill strapped to the central crew chair. He studied Jensen with anintensity that unnerved. For once, Mac's coil-scarred hands werestill. A faded, much creased coverall covered his muscled shoulders,the cuffs unhooked and turned back where they'd bound at sinewedwrists through the hours of hanging in the wreckage waiting to springthe trap. Although the only one of Kildare's original crew without agag, Jensen waited for the skip-runner to speak first.
'Boy, the message torp giving the Syndicate war fleet's vector toKhalia went out under your codes. For that, your brass might overlookthe fact that you were careless enough to get your ship boarded andstripped. If you've got the guts and the glibness to lay your storyright.'
Jensen regarded the captain he reviled with every fiber of hisbeing. His career standing did not trouble him. That concern wouldarise later. Now, only one question burned to be answered. Staringinto an expression like chipped granite, Jensen asked, 'Why shouldyou send that message torp? You're not a man who does favors onprinciple.'
Mac James gave back a rogue's grin that harbored little humor.'Who else could have done the job and been ignored through thepassage of the entire Syndicate attack fleet?'Unsatisfied, Jensensaid nothing.
]'he coil-scarred fingers flexed, one by one in succession withthe familiarity of long-established habit. Mac James qualified on anote of dubious sincerity, 'Say I didn't want Khalia scragged.'
'Did it have to do with your market for illicit weapons?' Jensendemanded, burningly fierce.The most-wanted skip-runner captain in space awarded his 
275 adversary a half shrug of dismissal. 'You have one outstanding asset,boy. Your thinking is simplistically accurate.'
Since the comment was the last that Jensen might haveanticipated, he was left without ready reioinder.
Untouchable, untraceable, and infuriatingly confident, MacKenzieJames turned on his heel. He stepped off the stripped bridge of theKildare and departed through the lock for his transfer back toMarity. Moments later the same accursed analog screen showed theskip-runner ship's departure.
Yet the last word came over the corn channel the captain haddeliberately left open.
'You have no propulsion system, no firepower, and nocommunication or navigational equipment left aboard,' observed theblunt tones of Mac James. 'However, in the aft console where messagetorps are stored, you'll find one Gibsen left behind. That should besufficient to see you rescued, when the fight winds down overKhalia.' A m'oment later the skip-runner captain added anafterthought: 'Oh, yes, and your engineer, is it Officer Dax? He'slocked in the emergency escape capsule. You'll want to let him out.Apparently he pissed off my mate some, and the air supply in thecapsule was left off...' 
It was Cael, one of the laser crew, who worked out of his bondsfirst. Lanky, sallow, and looking as if he'd worn the same coverallfor a week, he arrived on the bridge in an excited gush of talk.'Can't find Dax,' he said breathlessly as he cut Jensen's hands free.'Damned skip-runner must've abducted him, or killed him, orsomething, because he's not in any of the compartments. Jesus, youshould see what's happened down there. Ship's got no guts left, Iswear. Stripped down to her coils, which leak, and are uselessanyway.'
'Cael,' said Jensen, standing stiffly due to discomfort and anicy vista of fury. 'Kindly be silent and cut your fellow officersfree.'
 The next thing Cael chose to cut was Beckett's gag, which fromJensen's point of view was a mistake. She never did keep her mouthshut.
 'You won't get away with this, Commander,' she said, betweenhawking sour spittle from her throat. 'That message torp to Fleetwon't bring you farts for a citation, because I'm going to see youburn. You surrendered a Fleet vessel to a goddamned skip-runner, 
276 saw her stripped to her pins without a fight, and now you think toprofit by it? Guess again.'
Slapped awake from his obsessive desire to see MacKenzie Jamesdead and rotting, Jensen simply stared at her. He did not notice thelooks given him by the ensign, nor the baffled curiosity of thegunman who paused in his ministrations to the pilot. In a tone ofvelvet quiet, the commander said, 'Carry on with your duties. I'mgoing down to free Dax.'
Jensen strode coolly from Kildare's bridge. From the moment herounded the bulkhead, his crew burst into excited talk, but he didnot hear. Sprinting full tilt for the access hatch to the lowerlevel, he thought only upon how to save his career. Beckett was anunanticipated problem. Damn her for having no ambition whatsoever.Damn her for being a stickler for protocol. Old for her post, she'dprobably never been promoted because the officers she'd served underhated her.
 But deep down, Jensen knew that Beckett was only a fraction ~fthe problem. Even if the other five members of the crew went alongwith a falsified story, how long before that greenie ensign or thatall-thumbs pilot talked over their beer?Involved in furious thought, Jensen hurried on.
Around the bend, past the gutted remains of the drivecompartment, Jensen nearly collided with the other member of his guncrew. 'Rogers,' he said, trying not to wince at the stab of pain fromhis cracked ribs. 'The rest of the crew are on the bridge. Join themand wait for my return.'
'Aye, sir,' said Rogers, his corpulent, ruddy features showing nocuriosity at all. Cael often said he only came alive under hisheadset, with a live target in front of him.
Just then, Jensen was grateful for one crewman who was contentwith a stolid outlook. He ducked down a side corridor that narrowed into a tube. The light panels were out, lending a gray, echoingghostliness to a downward plunge into dark. Kildare's conversion hadbeen too hasty for aesthetics; her gratings were blessedly bare.Jensen found the access panel by feel and tapped out the securitycode. A panel hissed open. Striped black and yellow, and glintingwith reflective tape, the last remaining message torp resteduntouched in its cradle, exactly as MacKenzie James had said.Jensen lifted it out, grunting at the pain as cracked ribs protested 
277 the exertion. He hefted the capsule to his sound side, but found theeffort a waste. The strain on the muscles called on to hold his bodyerect against the off-balancing weight hurt him just as much.
Breathing with all the tenderness he could manage and hating thefact his eyes watered from the effort, Jensen inched his way backdown the access tube. He'd have to cross the main bay, which wasprobably unlighted, and that was the moment he'd be vulnerable if anyof his crew chanced to stray from the flight deck.
The lights proved to be on, which was infinitely worse; Jensenfelt exposed as he crossed the open expanse. His hands shook, and hisfingers left sweaty prints on the reflective strips of the messagetorp. He pressed on, toward the shadowed alcove with its reflectiveemergency emblem. 
The escape ejection.capsule's lock cracked open with a faint hiss andan escape of stale air. Grt~nting despite his best effort as heducked, Jensen pushed his way inside, the message torp tucked acrosshis knees. He elbowed the plate that would light the interior, andsaw what looked like a bundle of rags in one corner. The seeping redstains in the cloth belied that assessment.
 Jensen set down the torp, shifted, and light from the overheadflooded over his shoulder to reveal the engineer, Dak, bound, gagged,and rolled up in a shivering ball. The knuckles visible through thestrapping on his hands and wrists were grazed, and he had a gash onone knee, an elbow, and the curve of one ache-dotted cheek. His eyes,which were blue and bugged out, swiveled in surprise at the sight ofhis commander. He moaned something that had the ring of obscenityinto his gag and thrashed determinedly at his bonds.
Preternaturally aware of the access hatch gapped open at hisback, Jensen whispered urgently for silence.
'Hostiles are still aboard,' he lied as he stooped over thebattered engineer. He began with the wrist bonds and whispered intothe ear that poked over the edge of the gag. 'We're in very deeptrouble.'
 Dak flexed his freed hands and gave Jensen a wide-eyed look ofsarcasm. His first words, as his gag came loose, were 'No kidding.'
Jensen let some of the anger he felt toward MacKenzie James leakinto his voice. 'Crew's all dead. Without quarter.' 
278 
 That shut Dak up, fast. Sealed in the escape capsule, he'd had noclue as to what had befallen. He stared in shocked horror as his senior officer continued.
 'They spared me so they could pump me for security codes andinformation,' Jensen fabricated. He paused, made a show of staring athis hands, which were abraded and raw from his constant twisting atthe ties that lashed him to the crew chair. 'I talked some, mostly asa ploy. The skip-runners thought I was scared and didn't view me as athreat. They tied me less carefully than they might have, and Imanaged to work free.' Now Jensen raised his eyes and staredingenuously at his engineer. 'We need to blow the ship,' he confided.'Take out those skip-runners before they have a chance to use mycodes against the Fleet, or to make off with Kildare as a prize.'
'They were going to leave me to suffocate!' Dak burst out in afury. ­
Nervelessly, Jensen played along. 'No doubt.' He allowed a momentfor the unpleasantness of that concept to register, then gentlyprodded for what he wanted. 'I need you, Dak. We're stripped of allenergy sources but that cracked coil unit, and somehow we need todestroy Kildare.'
Dak's face grew thoughtful, almost boyish as he considered theproblem. 'Shouldn't be too difficult,' he surmised, his knobbyfingers tapping his agitation. 'The crack's making the unit unstableanyway. All we need to do is play a current through it. Should createa critical imbalance on short order.' He ruminated for a moment,chewing his lip. 'Trouble is, once I start the sequence, there won'tbe any faibsafe. Kildare will explode, and nothing we do could stopthe process.'
'You'd rather die at the hands of the skip-runners?' Jensen saidbrutally.
Dak shrugged. 'Rather not die at all, truth to tell. But I guessthis is our best chance.'
 Jensen settled back with a show of relief that was not entirelyfeigned. q'11 see you commended in my report, for courageous duty tothe Fleet.'
 For a moment Dak looked wistful. 'My room would appreciate that.If we ever get through this alive.'
Jensen nodded. As his back settled against the console of theescape capsule, he made a point of wincing over his cracked 
279 ribs. 'I've brought a message torp,' he said thinly. 'When you getback from sabotaging the coils, we'll launch the capsule withoutengines. If we're lucky, drift will carry us clear before the skip-runner notices. When we know we're away, the torp will call in arescue.'
 At the crucial moment Dak's childish face looked uncertain. 'I hate to go out,' he allowed. He dabbed at the gash on his knee andmade a face. 'That damned skip-runner's mate fights dirty.'
Cloaked in the icy air of command, Jensen held back a sigh. 'Iwon't remind you of the need to keep out of sight.'
'I don't ever wake up their husbands,' Dak admonished dryly. 'Besure of it, I'll be damned quiet.' He folded his awkward assortmentof limbs, slipped past, and sauntered off into the main bay with hislips curled in a nervous grimace.
Left alone in the stuffy confines of the capsule, Jensen readiedthe panel for takeoff. Mic James had left all the systemsoperational, which was well, for he had no intention of leaving theKildare by drift. He'd go under power, and fast as he could manage,and he'd watch his command blow from space. That his crew were to diewithout quarter caused his hands to shake only slightly.
He'd weighed his options and decided without regret. The ghostsof a greenie ensign, and that dried-up bitch Beckett, a gun crew, andan incompetent pilot would not haunt him half so much as a careerdespoiled by court-martial.
That Dak had to be duped was a pity. The kid was a giftedengineer .... 
In a cubicle office of Special Services, a thin man with a drycomplexion thumbed through the report. The lines that describedJensen's story were straightforward enough - that Kildare had beencommandeered by the skip-runner MacKenzie James, her crew murderedwithout quarter, and only her commander kept alive, for purposes ofinterrogation. With his vessel taken in tow to rendezvous with theSyndicate fleet, Commander Jensen had contrived escape, fired off thewarning message torp to Admiral Duane's fleet, then arranged toscuttle Kildare. He had been rescued from his escape capsule, forty-eight hours after the battle off Khalia, in battered condition withseveral cracked ribs. Cloth rustled as a short man seated in the corner shifted his weight. 'The boy's lying outright. Mac James never killsunnecessarily.'
The thin man's silence offered agreement. He thumbed the cornerof the report for a moment before shuffling the pages straight.
The short man felt moved to clarify. 'The security codes on thewarning torp were Jensen's, but Mac James's personal cipher wasappended. I say he's still alive, and that Commander Jensen destroyedhis ship to hide evidence detrimental to himself.'
The thin man stirred at last. 'MacKenzie James is undoubtedlystill alive. But the promotion to captain that's coming to Jensencannot be stopped without blowing Mac's cover. With the Syndicatefamilies being the threat that they are, l'm reluctant to call down apublic hero. The people need the morale boost. And Mac's far toovaluable a contact to waste just to bring a murderer to trial.' 'Letit pass, then?' the short man concluded.
'No.' The word held the hardness of nails. 'Give Jensen a fi'le in our records. He might prove useful someday.' 
28~ That Way Lies Camelot 
The May sunlight that fell through the window was serene enough totrigger a violence of resentment and hurt. Lynn Allen hurled asodder~, crumb-gritty sponge in the sink and ran her fingers throughhair that fell thick to her shoulders, in neglected need of a cut.Childless, stil~ single at thirty-three, she held little enough incommon with a younger sister whose pretty, homey kitchen reflectedfamily cheer at every turn. And what could anybody say to comfort asibling who was divorced, a mother of three, with her eldest justbarely twelve and lying in a coma, not expected to last out the day?Words failed. Despair raged in like flood tide.
Wretched with the helplessness that overran them all over Sandy'sterminal illness, Lynn blinked and roused and wiped damp palms on herjeans. She tried to regroup, to recover a grip on the immediate,while at the end of the gravel drive outside, a schoolbus slowed to a grind of gears; stopped to a squeal of brakes. Thefront door banged.
'Damn it!' Raw with exasperation, Lynn repeated the same checkshe'd completed five minutes earlier. There'd been no forgotten booksor sweaters in the breakfast nook then; she hadn't overlooked amisplaced brown bag lunch. No dab hand with kids, she'd thought she'ddone miracles to get her nephews out the door on time for schoolwithout their incessant bickering firing her temper.
In typically eight-year-old smugness, Tony hollered bad news fromthe hallway. 'Dog pen's empty, Aunt Lynn! Grail's run off again.'
And the front door, left open, wafted air strongly scented withbursting pre-summer greenery. The patter of the boy's running 
282 sneakers diminished down the porch stair as he raced headlong towardthe waiting bus.
'Damned stupid flea-bag of a mutt!' Lynn clenched her fists,feeling sloppy and out of synch in clothes more suited for weekendpicnics. The dog's timing couldn't be worse; and worse, couldn't behelped. He would have to be rounded up before he finished dining fromthe neighbor's upset trash cans, and nosed out more original mischiefthat would incite some busybody's complaint to the county dogcatchers. Ragged already from grief and exhaustion, Ann was shortlygoing to be coping with the funeral of a son. Given hassles with theinsurance company over hospital expenses worth more than her house,the last thing she needed would be another fine for an unleashed pet.
The dog was Sandy's, after all. Obligation to a child, who couldnot be spared by all the torments of modern medicine, would invokemotherly sentiment by the bucket. The scrofulous yellow hound, withits torn ear and its ridiculous shambling gait, would be redeemed. Anounce of common sense suggested the creature should be better offabandoned to be humanely destroyed.
Through the window, washed in early, blinding brightness, Lynnsaw Tony's neon jacket disappear inside the doorway of the bus.Brian, just ten, had boarded already. One problem less, with the boysoff her hands; which left the damnfool dog. Lynn moved mechanicallyto the closet and snatched the first jacket to hand, an anorak thatwas baggy and grease-stained enough to have belonged to Annie's ex.She grimaced and pulled the thing on. It felt worse than her face,which any other day would have been tastefully made up for her workas design manager for a New York advertising firm.
But her job, as well as the tacked together appointments shecalled a social life, had been wrenched to a halt by Sandy's relapse.The event had impelled her to acts of insanity: to cash in her unusedvacation time and leave the office in a hair-pulling rush.
Her boss's shouting troubled her yet. 'There might not be any jobhere for you, whenever the hell you get back!'
And her reply, as filled with female bitchiness as any chauvinistcould wish, to find fault for firing her later: 'My nephew is ill,and l'm driving to New Hampshire to help my sister. If you've got aproblem with that, then take my resignation in writing, sideways,down the first orifice you can reach.' 
283 
 She'd slammed the office door upon a thunderstruck, stupefiedsilence; and although she'd stayed absent for a month and sent noword, nobody from the firm so much as phoned.
Presently on her knees in the silvery pile of Annie's living roomcarpet, Lynn smothered a halfway hysterical laugh. Just now theconvolutions of high-pressure employment seemed a picnic, beside thedaily management of young boys, and keeping tabs on one alley-bredmutt. She scrounged under the coffee table, careful not to upset theempty pizza box with its cache of stale crumbs, and stretched torescue her sneakers. These had somehow been kicked so far underneath the sofa they were wedged against the back strut. Grunting otherinexpressible frustrations in epithets over the dog, she saunteredacross waxed wooden floors and expensive orientals to the doorway,still open and decorated with a wreath that had Easter eggs wired inwithered sprigs of hemlock.
The decoration had stayed up, forgotten, in the crush of concernsthat followed Sandy's sudden onset of infections and the ugly,inescapable diagnosis that every agonizing scientific remedy hadbought little more time, and no cure.
Lynn crossed the white and green painted New England porch,squinted through light that hurt, and dissected the muddle of shadecast by a privet hedge whose wild growth reflected the absence of ahusband. Though the fence wasn't torn, and the wire gate on itssagging hinges was still wrapped shut with chain, the dog's pen stooddeserted. The infamous Grail had departed on another of his happygallivants.
She sighed. Grail. What a stupid name for an ungainly mutt thatloped like a roll of discarded shag carpet, propped askew on fourlegs. A creature nobody would have wanted, in right mind or not; butas a shambling stray towed home on a length of twine that showedsigns of its salvage from the gutter, he had not been easily refused.Not when his plight had been championed by Sandy, who had sneakedoutside unseen, still shaky and pale from the effects of hischemotherapy treatments. The huge eyes and gaunt face of leukemia inremission had overturned practicality, which would have been fine ifthe idiot dog had been content to enjoy his good fortune.
But the mongrel was friendly and brainless, and possessed by apenchant for wandering. He chewed through ropes, dug under wirefences, then progressed to other escape methods as unfathomable 
284 in their art as Houdini's. It had been grandfather Thomas who hadcalled the creature Grail; the name stuck because of his youngowner's obsession for Arthurian legend, and for the hours the wholefamily spent in Godforsaken searches that seemed as regular andfutile as crusades.
 'Do us all a service and charge in front of a delivery truck,'Lynn grumbled to the creature's absent spirit. She kicked a stone andhiked after its savage ricochet down the drive. Over the grit andsparkle of gravel left mounded by the melt of last season'ssnowdrifts, she rounded the hedge toward the neighbor's yard.
Charlie Mitchell still wore his bathrobe, sash and hem flappingas he ill-temperedly chased down a bread wrapper caught by the wind.The trash can stood righted amid a chewed litter of The Colonel'scolored packaging. Obviously Grail had feasted and departed. Poisedto beat a quick retreat, Lynn moved too late.
White hair askew and pajama cuffs grayed from the dew, Charliepounced on the plastic. He gave a crow of triumph, swiveled around,and realized in embarrassment that his antics had been observed. Flustered by his unaccustomed burst of exercise, he called in carpingirritation, 'Damned dog lit off for the woods an hour ago! Get wiseand buy him a chain, can't you? It's illegal to shoot dogs out ofhand in this state. Or by God, I'd have loaded my shotgun and blownthe mutt to the devil.'
 Lynn choked back excuses that a chain had failed already. Grail'sbrainless skull was narrow like a snake's, and collars slid off himlike so many layers of shed skin. The chain, hacked off a foot fromits swivel clip, now fastened an equally useless gate. She produced apolite apology for her sister's sake, and returned in resignationtoward the house.
 Inside, cut off from the gusty freshness of bursting azaleas andtulips, the rooms were sun-washed and silent. The waxed antiques andstylish hardwoods seemed too warm with life, their expensive comfortsdisjointed by a wider setting of tragedy. Lynn gritted her teethunconsciously as she passed by Sandy's room, with its counterpanebedspread and clutterless floors, all too painfully neat. UnlikeTony, who slept like a hot dog in a bun, Sandy tended to rip hisbedclothes off wholesale and leave them tousled in heaps. Photos ofmedieval castles lined the walls, as well as an old poster, lovinglyframed, from a stage production of Camelot. The books and toy knightswere not scattered across the rugs, nor arrayed for 
285 a charge against Saxons. They sat ranked in rows on the shelf, helmsand ribboned trappings dulled by a layer of soft dust. As if Sandy'sboisterous presence had been subdued, reduced already to a shadowthat diminished the vibrance of his memory. Lynn pressed a hand toher mouth and hurried the length of the hallway, her trackautomatically bending to avoid the clutter of the younger boys' toys.
But the desk in the corner of the master bedroom offered no haven at all.
 Lynn sat, elbows crackling in stacks of envelopes that showed nota curlicue of Annie's idle doodles. The mail lay as it had come,unopened, or else torn apart in fierce bursts, contents rifled forinformation. Nor~h sky through the casement blued the oblong,windowed cellophane; the return addresses of medical labs andoncologists, printed starkly in thermographed typefaces onlypreferred anymore by doctors, lawyers, and funeral homes.
Off to one side, bent-cornered and half buried, lay the unsentapplication for the charity that granted the wishes of terminally illchildren. Only the blanks that related to Sandy's condition werefilled out; the doctors' signatures meticulously collected in heavy-handed, near illegible scrawls. The last sentences, in defiantschoolboy printing, requested a visit to the Round Table of KingArthur. After that, untilled lines stretched in rows. The memorystill cut, of the aftermath, with Ann driven to the edge. 'My God,Lynn. Sandy's old enough to know that a trip to the past isimpossible!'
At this desk, in this chair, Ann had sat white-faced over thepens and the papers gathered up from the kitchen table. She wept indespairing exasperation that the one wish her boy chose to long forwas beyond human resource to fulfill.
Later, around the rubber-soled tread of busy nurses and theunending interruptions of hospital routine, they tried to coax Sandyto reconsider. Donated funds could send kids to Disney World, letthem play with circus clowns, allow them to meet famous rock stars,or tour the set of a movie. But sending a boy back to King Arthur'scourt was just not a practical aspiration.
Too thin, too pale, his scrawny hand clenched on the wrist thathad bruised red and purple from too close acquaintance with needles,Sandy stayed adamant. He would see Camelot, or go nowhere at all.Lynn swore and blinked back tears. It wasn't as if they couldn't 
286 have sent the kid to a Renaissance fair, or a summertime re-creationstaged by the Society for Creative Anachronism. Yet Sandy scorned theidea of a staged joust. He wanted real chivalry, and swords that drewblood, as if the savage bright danger of a legendary past couldnegate the horrors he endured through his illness.
'You know,' he confided to his mother, 'men got hurt in Arthur'stime, and suffered wounds, and it was for a cause. Knights died forother people, Morn. I hurt, and I'll die too, but nobody will bebetter or get saved.'
A boy's view: more than just desire, that leapt reason'srestraint and became dreaming obsession. The tissue of tears andsalvation for him; agony to the family he'd leave behind. Ann hadpulled a tissue from her purse, blown her nose, and put the subiectbehind as best she could. She gave Sandy a hug and insisted itprobably didn't matter anyway, as grants to bring joy to terminallyill children usually were awarded to cystic fibrosis cases. Leukemia,these days, was considered the less devastating disease.Not Sandy'saggressive form, this was true.
Battered by platitudes that even the child could sense weremeaningless, Sandy never complained. Colorless as the pillows he layon, his features made over into an eerie, premature old age by thehair loss caused by his treatments, he had comforted his mother bypretending most diligently to forget.
Now, stung to useless fury by this fortitude, Lynn plowed asidethe paper clutter that mapped a child's last month of life. Shegrabbed the phone and jabbed numbers fiercely.
The line rang once. Ann answered. She sounded beat to her socks.Lynn made a failed attempt to sound cheerful. 'Still there?'
A wrung out sigh came back. 'Still there. At least he still showsbreathing and a heartbeat.' A pause, as Annie roused enough to takeworried notice of the time. 'Did Brian miss the bus?'
 Lynn blinked faster, and felt tears trace hot lines down hercheeks. She could not, so easily, brush away the vision in her mind,of Sandy lying lost in a sea of adult-sized sheets, his wasted formdiminished by the monitors and the tubes, overhanging his bed likemodern-time carrion vultures awaiting his moment of death. 'Brian andTony are at school, and fine. I called because Grail's got out.'
An interval of shared exasperation. 'That dog. He's probablypicking the chicken bones out of Charlie Mitchell's trash. You'd 
287 think the old coot would spend a few bucks and buy cans with lidsthat fit. The ones he hangs onto are a lunch invitation to coons andevery other passing animal.'
'Grail ate the trash already. Now he's run off to the woods.' Theunspoken question dangled - should Lynn abandon the mutt and drive tothe hospital, or embark on a cross-country bushwhack?
'You'd better find him, I suppose.' In the background, over thefaintly heard tones of a nurse and a doctor conversing, Ann said,'Just a minute.' A muffled roar as her hand smothered the receiver. She came back, tiredly resigned. 'There's little enough to do here,anyway.'
'Hang on,' said Lynn. 'I'11 join you soon as I can.' She droppedthe receiver in its cradle, swearing like a sailor, because at thatmoment she hated life. She ached from sad certainty that Ann wantedher off to find the dog because even now she held out for a miracle.Outraged motherhood would not accept that Sandy's final hour musthappen soon. He would not wake up, recover, and come home; but aslong as life still lingered, it was unthinkable to Ann not to have adog waiting, to bark and lick Sandy's hands in greeting.
'Damn, damn, damn,' said Lynn, her eyes now dry to her fury, andher insides clenched in misery. 'There ought to be a law againstmothers outliving their children.'
But there was no law, beyond the one outside the window, incycles eternally unaffected. Nature wove all of spring's fabric ofrebirth, in the flight of nesting barn swallows, and in the sunlightfalling immutably gold over maples crowned with unfolded leaves.
Lynn shoved up from the desk, returned to the kitchen, and dugthrough the clutter of children's drawings and coupons for the sparering of keys. She locked up a house made cozy for living, but thatechoed empty as a tomb. She slammed the door, set the dead bolt, andcrossed the back yard to the woods in a blaze of targetless anger.For Ann, and for Sandy's memory, she'd find the blasted dog. Grailwas the sort who tore up great grouts of earth with his hind feetjust after he defecated. Assuredly no tracker, Lynn nonetheless couldnot miss the divots chopped out of the grass and raked in showersacross the patio as evidence of Grail's blithe passage. A smearedprint or two remained in the mud by the swing-set; these pointedunerringly into the shade, and should have been 
288 companioned by the sneaker treads of a young boy, were it Saturday,and Sandy not mortally ill.
Lynn crossed the dried weeds that edged the sandbox. Dandelionspushed yellow heads through the stalks of last year's burdock. Thewoods lay beyond, and through them, well trodden by young boys, wasthe path that led to the fort they had built out of sticks. Thebirches threw out new leaves, pale lit in sunlight as doubloons. Thepath was strewn with the drying wings of fallen maple seeds, andsnarled mats of rotted twigs. If a dog had passed, nose to ground onthe scent of a possum or hot after the tails of running squirrels, nosign remained. The path dipped toward the stream, the soft, moss-grown banks speared by unfurling shoots of skunk cabbage, and rankedon drier soil, the half-spread umbrellas of May apples. Across thenarrow current lay the fort. Lynn paused. Naturally the water washigh at this season, last summer's stepping stones washed out orsubmerged.
A fallen log offered the only crossing and an exercise in balancenot attempted since childhood. Hesitation over a patch of wet barkcost her a slip. Lynn splashed knee-deep in a sink-hole. One leg ofher jeans, one sock, and one expensive designer sneaker became asicily sodden as her mood.
Hating Grail with fresh energy, she sat, and skinned the rest ofthe way across on her fanny. The far bank was reached without mishapbeyond a torn pocket and sadly tattered dignity.
Longingly she mused upon clothing that was pastel and fluffy. Thesmell of the oil-stained anorak made her feel off, and if the staffin the office were to see her, their worship of her unflappablegrooming would suffer a shock beyond salvage. Well, they could allperish of missed deadlines, Lynn thought venomously, and she smiledas she arose and dusted off particles of bark.
Winter had not been kind to the lean-to that comprised the boys'fort. Snow load had caved in the roof. One wall sagged inward, andthe wooden shield on which Sandy had sketched his make-believe coatof arms rested on the ground, weathered bare of poster paint. Theunicorn lay dulled to shabby gray. A rusty can contained water, blackleaves, and assorted bent nails. Beyond a snarl of moldered stringand a burst cushion, a trash bin still held whittled sticks,imaginatively fleshed out as lances. Sad pennons decked the ends, cutfrom old pillow slips that dampness had freckled with mildew. 
289 Nowhere, anywhere, was there sign or sound of Grail.
Lynn sighed and sat down on a boulder. She listened to thechuckle of the stream, wiggled toes that squelched in the wetsneaker, and finally undid the laces. Her hands got chilled as shewrung out her cuff and her sock. The gravel and mud ingrained in theknit she could do little about; too depressed for annoyance, shehoped the stores still carried laces to coordinate with last year'sfashion colors. She shoved her wet calf to warm in a patch ofsunlight, and cupped her chin in her palms.
A catbird in its plain gray squalled outrage from a maple. Lynnwatched its discontent, abstracted.
How foolish to feel sloppy in jeans and no makeup on a weekday.Now adorned in mud, bits of bark, and dead leaves, her own problemsseemed dwindled to insignificance. The man she'd hoped would becomeserious, who'd never phoned through to Ann's to inquire; the sillystresses abandoned at the office; her boss's tantrum at her leaving;all these seemed reduced, re-framed in the triteness of a sitcom.
By contrast, Ann's efforts at handling the pending loss of herboy seemed unapproachable; as pitiless and futile as a modern-daysearch to define the true Chalice of Christ. Everywhere one turnedlay Sandy's memory; and where recollection had not trodden, newthings cut the heart no less fiercely. The awareness never ceased,that this sight, or that fresh experience, could have stirred the boyto delight.
For two years, he'd had so little, between the doctors and thetreatments, and the jail-like isolation necessary to shelter him frominfection.
 Lynn slapped her wet pants leg. Days like this, under springsunshine with the hope ripped out from under all of them, she feltlike suing Almighty God, that He would allow a little boy to be born,solely to suffer anguish and die. New age philosophies and spiritualmetaphors simply ceased to have meaning, when Sandy had sat straightwith pencil clenched in hand, demanding impossible wishes.
His own way of asking, perhaps, for something the healthyotherwise took for granted. A fit of rebellion, that life, for him,was as unreachable a dream as a quest in historical legend.
That moment, the rusty, deep-throated bay that was Grail's splitthe woodland stillness. Jolted to recovery of her purpose, Lynn 
290 jammed on her shoe and stood up. The sound came again, from upstream.She jogged, her wet sneaker squishing, and hoped the mutt hadn'tflushed a deer. Grail might run dead crooked, his hind legs flailingcrabwise a foot offset from his forepaws, but he could go on tirelessfor miles. As the damp sock wadded up on her heel and began instantlyto chafe a new blister, Lynn determined she was not going to chasethat dog one step further than her breath lasted.That promise she broke in sixty seconds.
In the ten minutes it took to track Grail down, she raked one armon a briar, and ruined her other sneaker in a slithering step acrossa pit of black mud between swamp hummocks.The sight of Grail gave nocheer.
 He was wet, had been rolling in something nameless and noisome,and his coat was screwed into wiry ringlets like an Airedale's. Hisbutt was raised, burr-coated tail waving like a whip, and his snoutwas jammed to the eyeballs in the cleft of a half-rotted stump.Lynn flagged back to a walk. 'Grail!'
The dog yiped, inhaled mold, and loosed a forceful sneeze intothe stump. The beat of his tail increased tempo; beyond that, hersummons was ignored.
Lynn walked up beside him. 'Grail,' she snapped. 'Unwedge yourface and come here.'
 Moist brown eyes rolled in her direction. Grail gave anothermuffled bark.
 'I damned well don't want to share in your hunt for snails!' Lynnreached out, twined two fists in the dank ruff, and pulled.
Grail's hide rolled like bread dough, gave and peeled back untilhis bones seemed suspended in a bladder. She dragged him stiff-leggedout of the cleft, and wondered belatedly whether he had a skunk or amuskrat held cornered and angry inside.
That possibility shortened her temper. Manhandling the dog likean alligator wrestler, Lynn hauled back from the stump.
~Bless my buttons and whiskers!' piped a voice over Grail'sfrustrated whining. From the inside of the stump, somebody waspishlycontinued, 'It's long enough you took then, silly dog, to heed theplain voice of reason.'
Grail yapped. Lynn started, and all but lost grip on his hair asthe animal scrabbled frantically forward. Jerked off balance, her 
29~ ~7: 
uncut bangs caught in her eyelashes, Lynn glimpsed the absoluteimpossible: a little brown man about three inches high steppedsmartly out of the tree stump.
He had red cheeks, and chestnut whiskers that unfurled likefrost-burned moss over a green waistcoat buttoned with brass. He woreleather boots, tan leggings, and a rakish cap topped with a jay'sfeather. At sight of Lynn, he shrieked in high-pitched anger.
She had no chance to stay startled. Grail tore out of her handsin a snarling bound, and as the man skipped backward in agile panic,rammed his muzzle back into the cleft with staccato, hair-raisingyaps.
Knocked to her knees by the fracas, Lynn sat heavily on her rump.'Jesus Christmas!' She wasn't in the habit of having hallucinations;particularly ones of muskrats looking like little brown men who woregreen waistcoats and talked. Where paired-off folk made decisions bycompromise and committee, she had learned, living alone, to call hershots as they came.
She scrambled up out of the leaves and hit Grail in a shouldertackle. He bucked, he heaved, he whined in piteous protest. After alot of scratching and flying sticks, she managed to drag him aside.She then placed her face where the dog's had been, and, ignoringGrail's muddy nose as it poked at her neck and ear, looked into thedim cranny with its rings of old fungus and spider webs.
She almost caught a stick in the eye, one with a brass shod tip,brandished by the furious little man. She yelled at the scrape on hercheek. He stumbled back with raised eyebrows, cursing in a languageshe'd never heard.
 Certainly he was real enough to draw blood. Lynn dabbed at herface, while the man stepped back. Apologetic, he tucked his stickunder one jacketed arm and spoke. 'Ah, miss, so it's you.' His skinwas seamed like a walnut shell, and his eyes upon her might have beenmerry had he not been bristling with indignation. 'It's a wish you'llbe wanting, I presume. Though far likely it is I'd rather treat formy freedom with the dog.'
'That can be arranged.' Sourly, Lynn licked a bloody fingertip,and swore.
 Pressed and heaving at her shoulder, Grail sensed her shift inattitude. He rammed in for another go at the stump, while the littleman hopped and shrieked.'Wait! Wait! Lady, I misspoke myself, I did truly. Pull off 
292 that dog, do please. For your own Christian conscience, let me go.'
Damp, dirty, and possessed by a sense of unreality that yieldedan irritation equal to her captive's, Lynn said, 'Why should I?'
The little man folded his arms. He puffed out his cheeks, lookingat once diffident and crafty. He shuffled his boots, whacked hisstick against the walls of his wooden prison, and finally faced her.'Well,' he conceded. 'There is the wee matter of a wish. You do haveme caught, not so fairly, mind! But it's trapped I would be, Isuppose, if you slipped your hold on that hound.'
'And so 1 get a wish?' Lynn suppressed a rise of hystericallaughter. The strain, the surprise, the total weirdness of what wastaking place smashed her off balance in a rush. 'I need no wishesgranted,' she said tartly, and finished, defiantly flippant, with thethought uppermost in her mind. 'It's Sandy's wish needs theattention.'
 'Ah!' The brown man sighed. He sidled, leaned a shoulder againstthe stump wall and frowned with a bushy furrow of brows. 'A sick boy,it is, who begs a visit to Arthur's Round Table?' He gave a crankyshrug in reply to Lynn's astounded stare, and his anger swiftlymelted to sad compassion. 'You do know, miss, that yon one is soon todie.'
 The grief hit hard and too fast, that even a supernatural figmentin the form of a finger-sized man could know and be helpless beforeincurable disease. Lynn choked back sudden tears.
The man strove quickly to console her. 'Ah, miss, it's not sovery hopeless as all that. Just hard. You ken how it is in thiscreation. Every living creature must choose its time and its place.Such is the maker's grand way. Your boy, now, Sandy. If he's to havewhat he desires, somebody's going to have to convince him to changehis mind.' The stick moved and slapped boot leather in reproof.'Somebody being me, no doubt. That's hard work, just for a wish. Hardwork.' He pinned her again with dark, restless eyes, his annoyancegrown piquant as she opened her mouth, perhaps to ridicule; surely,foolishly to question. Humans did that, would in fact spit on goodfortune when, like Grail, it bounded its way through their frontdoor.
 'Be still, now,' snapped the man. 'Let me think! It's my freedomI'm wanting, and yon's a muckle hard course you've set me if I'mgoing to fix a way to win it!' 
293 
 With that, the little fellow deflated, plumped himself down, andset his elbows on his knees a~d his chin in cupped palms, to ponderthe gravity of his dilemma.
The boisterous Grail had against all his nature grown still, andLynn seized the moment to take stock. She unlocked her hand from thedog's neck, reawakened to discomforts both mental and physical. Onepant leg was icily soaked. She had sticks and leaves in her hair, anastonishing departure. But these upsets paled to insignificancebefore the fact that she could exchange conversation and bargain witha creature that by rights belonged in the province of fairy tales.
After the briefest cogitation, she concluded that her nerves weretoo worn from the strain of dealing with Sandy's illness. That wasenough to wrestle without battling further with a situation thatconfounded logic. Either the creature in the stump was a pixie or aleprechaun, or something else of that ilk; or else she wasirrevocably crazy.The truth in the verdict was unlikely to help Sandy, either way. Thenext instant the matter resolved itself. With no warning, and ablinding quick movement, the little man shot to his feet and boltedfor the opening in the stump.
Illusions didn't bid for escape. Lynn ducked to block off thecleft, and collided shoulder to shoulder with Grail's snarling lungeto achieve the same end.
 The combined effect startled the little man back with his hands palm out in supplication. 'Mercy! It's crushed by your blunderingabout, you'll have me. And unfairly, too I might add, since I'vefigured a chance for the boy to have what he's wishing.'Grail whineddoubtfully and rolled his eyes.
Unwilling to credit the mutt with intelligence, but touched bythe self-same distrust, Lynn glared down at the little man. Invindication for bruised dignity and a growing sense of theridiculous, she was determined to extract satisfaction, even if thenext moment she woke up, rumpled in her bedclothes, to discover thewhole event a silly dream. 'You tried to get away,' she accused.
The brown man sulked. 'What if I did?' He crammed chubby hands inthe pockets of his waistcoat and started with agitation to pace. 'I'mcaught still, and trying desperate hard to remedy that unfortunatemistake!' Grail snarled, as if the creature might be lying. In a blend of 
294 acerbity and sarcasm that was her way of fending off what could notin conscience be taken seriously, Lynn sighed. 'You don't look to melike a man keeping his half of a bargain.'
The little fellow winced, then looked affronted. His rovingcarried him over a blackened acorn cap and across the musty confinesof the stump. Removed from Grail's muzzle enough to feel secure, hestopped and folded his arms, booted foot tapping. 'Is it so? And whatare you thinking? That meddling with a boy's dying, not to mentionplaying hob with a time frame that passes through legend, is easy?Wishes, which you human sorts almost never bother asking, aregrueling business!'
Sore from stooping, Lynn eased her knees by leaning acompanionable arm across Grail's rawboned shoulder-blade. Noisome wetfur was no substitute for upholstery, but the touch of an ordinaryanimal had become a necessary comfort. She looked a great deal lessdisgruntled now than her captive, which brought the shrewdness of hermanagement background to the immediate fore. If she was going to playthe fool and talk extortion with a fey being inside a rotted stump,Sandy may as well have a crack at the benefits. 'Then, to go free,you'll have to show me some results.'
The tiny man sidled; a sly grin tipped up one corner of hismouth, and he stroked at his wiry fall of whiskers. 'It is hard workI'll be going off to then, lady. To fix your boy's wish, truth totell. For that you'll be having to let me out.' He stepped in brashconfidence toward the daylight that shone through the cleft.
Lynn's outraged, 'What?' tangled with Grail's sudden snarl. Thepelted muscle under her shoulder surged as the dog rammed headfirstand growling into the opening in the stump. A scuffle ensued. For amoment, the animal's bulk obscured sight of what transpired within.
Then Grail's tail whipped straight. His buttocks heaved and hebacked up. Clenched in between rows of bared teeth, the little manswung from his waistcoat, his arms waving, his terrified shouts thinas a bird's cries over the growls of the dog. The stick whipped theair to and fro, shining like a little brass pin, and about asuselessly effective.
Lynn spared a moment for sympathy, mostly for the fact that thelittle fellow was probably perishing of dog breath. Discounting hisclothes, the rest of him was unmarked, however much his shriekssuggested otherwise. 
295 
 'Put me down!' he screeched. 'Oh, lady, for pity, I can't befixing wishes as a dog's snack. Surely it's wise enough you are, andmerciful also, to be seeing that!'Lynn set her jaw and said nothing.
Grail sat, lips peeled back and trembling above his victim. Thelittle man kicked in agitation. 'You need me to make arrangements,don't you? Well, true it is I can't do that sick with beast stink andprisoned inside a stump!'
'How do I know your word is good?' Touched to acerbity, Lynn satdown to set her head level with Grail's. She fingered the damp cuffof her jeans. 'Really, if you're going to be trusted, I should goalong as observer, to be certain the terms of Sandy's wish are fullymet.'
 The man's arms fell to his sides with a faint slap. His whiskersdrooped. He hung like a mouse from Grail's jaws, a forlorn morselwith a fat belly that strained at his rows of brass buttons. 'I'm notlying. Spit on my luck if I am.'
Grail's brown eyes held level with Lynn's, imploring canineprudence, and oddly, knowingly, infused with a wisdom no dog she'dever known had possessed. A queer chill shot through her. In a dark,unbreached corner of her mind, conviction grew, that the dog'spurpose was and always had been to find such a tiny man, and take himcaptive.But of course in cold logic, that was ridiculous.
Pressed unbearably against the realities of a child's terminaldisease, and faced by unspeakable suffering and now the bitter endingof Sandy's life, Lynn found reason a poor arbiter. Hope andsuperstition this moment seemed infinitely more kindly. Grave,supremely detached from the ongoing cruelties at the hospital, shesighed. To the tiny man she said, 'That's not good enough.'
'Bother and fiddlesticks!' cried the man. Jostled by movement ofthe jaws that prisoned him, he rolled widened eyes in trepidation.
Grail looked befuddled, as if his nasal passages had sprouted anitch from too heady a scent of the supernatural. The little manobserved this, growing alarmed. He evidently understood that incanines, heavy sneezes often ended with an unkindly whap of muzzleand teeth against the ground. 'I'll show you the results in adream!' he hollered in sharpened anxiety. 'lt's not so simple, you'llappreciate, with a wish involving more than one party, and one ofthem with scarcely an hour left to live. You're wasting time!' 
296 
 '! think not.' Punched inside by reminder of Sandy's condition,and sorry for Ann, waiting alone and unsupported for an ending herheart could not encompass, Lynn held hard to the last fragment ofdetachment still left to her. 'That's not good enough. Dreams can bemanipulated, I must assume, or the dog who holds your coattails wouldbe satisfied. Grail hasn't seen fit to let you go.'
'You'd have me set the Sight on you!' howled the man. Dangling,he managed to look irked as he folded his arms across his chest.'Well that's another wish!' Lynn glowered levelly back. 'That's no wish, but proper surety.' 'Ah,it's hard, hard in the heart, that humans can be, you female sortsmost of all.' The man waved a miniature fist. 'An unchancy businessit is, always, dealing with modern-day mortals.' He unlimbered awrist to wag a finger, cuff buttons flashing like pin heads. 'Youfolk muddle about wide awake, most times, with your dreams the mostliving part of you. Did you know as much, you'd fare better.' Whenthis diatribe left Lynn without comment, the brown man fixed her witha glare that made her tingle. 'Well, it's not my part to adjust yourmortal ills and your muckle mistaken thinking! Very well, miss. Asyou wish. If you're the blundering sort who sets no stock by dreams,it's the Sight you'll get, to witness my part in the bargain. Butsorrow you'll find, and weeping too, when you long to be quit of thegift afterwards!
This was delivered in vindication, not warning, for the littleman raised his hand and flicked his fingers, as if to splat water inLynn's face.
She saw no physical projectile. But something struck her foreheadjust below the hairline. A golden bloom rinsed her eyesight, apainless dazzle that flared and faded, and left her sensesmomentarily encapsulated. As if a bubble had been spun around herconsciousness, she felt as if physically suspended.
She raised her head, gasped; the wood she knew was altogethergone. No skunk cabbage grew; no May apples. The ground was a livingcarpet of shining myrtle. She breathed a chillier, more fragrant air;the trees all about were old oaks, huge towering crowns shafted withmidday sunlight. The ground fell away, toward a clearing floored inivy and moss, and sheltered by water-channeled outcrops.Little men that lurked in stumps were one thing. This, a 
297 
forest setting more appropriate to a page of medieval romantic
illustration, was too much.
Lynn opened her mouth to cry out.

'Be quiet, fool woman!' The little man rapped her fingers withhis stick, which caused her a violent start. 'Wake him up, and you'llspoil Sandy's wish!'
Muddled, unable to re-orient herself, Lynn whispered, 'Wake whoup?'
Apparently the little man and the mongrel dog had made theirpeace, for in course of a wild search, she located him, seated in hisspit-dampened waistcoat, astride Grail's thick ruff. The brass-tippedstick now pointed toward something a ways off in the undergrowth.
Lynn peered through twining runners of ivy, and saw what lookedlike bits of basket woven out of sticks. Closer scrutiny revealed ayoung man, black-haired and high-browed, and barely past his boyhood.He appeared to be asleep. A cheek as innocent and clear-complexionedas a peach rested on uncallused knuckles. His limbs were well made,though delicately muscled, and over his simple tunic he wore whatlooked to be shoulder pads and breastplate all woven out of willow fronds and twigs.'My God,' breathedLynn.
 The little man bristled. 'Not God!' He went on to snap in anundertone, 'Just the magic you've demanded of me, and no more.' Lynncould not quite stifle awe. 'Who is he?'
'Your Sandy will know.' The little man clapped his palms togetherin a silent explosion of fey power.
Lynn's hair bristled. A jolt hammered through her that rocked herawareness to its root. She blinked, shaken by its passage, and thenstopped, slammed cold still, by the sight of Sandy standing barefootin his hospital gown. He stepped forward and paused, eye to eye withthe creature on Grail's back.
 The tubes, the needles, the paraphernalia of medical science thatinadequately sought to prolong his life had all gone. Bruisesremained, under his eyes and on his arms and in the hollow of hisshoulder; the stitchery left by weeks upon weeks of IV needles. Hestill looked sick and thin, all knobby white limbs and a neck thatrose frail as a stem. His eyes shone sunken and huge, haunted yet bythe shadows of his suffering.'Sandy!' gasped Lynn. 
298 But he did not look at her. The little brown man addressed him and his ears seemed sealed to other words.
 'You'll be knowing who that is, lying there?' The stick twitchedtoward the sleeper, and a hand miraculously tiny twined in a fall ofchestnut whiskers.
 Languid as if sleepwalking, Sandy turned his head. He regardedthe young man in his bed of ivy and moss, and a yearning transformedhis face with life. Incandescent in delight, he almost laughed.'Perceval!'
 'You'll be knowing the legend, then,' prompted the fey man whohad brought both together, the sleeping young man and a dying boy'sspirit, to a woodland Lynn could not place in any ecosystem known tomodern earth.
 'Of course I know.' Sandy's excitement broke through hisweakness, made his thin voice ring with derisive joy. 'Perceval wasson to a rebel king, thrown down by King Arthur's justice. He wasraised in isolation by his mother in a far off tower. She hoped hewould become a priest, and escape the fate of his father, to die inbattle. But when from a distance Perceval saw some knights riding, hewas struck by the sun on their armor. He asked what sort of creaturesthey were, for their beauty left him in awe. His mother, afraid hewould leave her to take up fighting and bloodshed, told him he hadseen angels.'
'And so lost him,' the little man picked up, as Sandy'senraptured recitation trailed off. 'For young Perceval replied thatthere was no more worthy quest than to follow God's angels toheaven.' The little man cracked a smile filled with crafty sharpteeth and inclined his head toward the sleeper. 'Well, so you'reseeing,' he confided to Sandy. 'Yon lies Perceval, who set offwearing armor he wove out of sticks, that he could be as like untothe saintly hosts as possible until his reunion with them should befulfilled.'
 Sandy knotted bony hands together. He gazed in admiration at theyoung man, whom he knew would go on from this clearing, to win hisplace at Arthur's Round Table and be one of the chosen few who wouldglimpse the Holy Grail. Drinking in details for sheer delight, Sandystared: at the fine, shiny dark hair, unblemished in health; at theunstained innocence of the face. He looked at the hands, palms softand unmarked; at muscles too delicate to have done much more thanhold books. 
 The hero worship in his look became marred by dawning doubt.'He's a wimp.'The little man said nothing.
Sandy's study encompassed the wrists that lay lax in the moss,unmarred by even a briar scrape. Troubled sorely, he swung around andglared in accusation at the little man. 'You lied. That can't bePerceval. He doesn't at all look like the sort who would go for hardrides and bloody fighting.'
And Lynn, understanding a thing, held her breath, while thelittle brown man answered him reasonably.
'You're part right, my boy. But I never lie. That's Perceval,there, and you've spoken the heart of the problem, his and yours. Forwithin the next hour, your two fates must resolve. You will begreeting God's angels, and he will wake up to discover his "angels"are earthly clay in the form of tough-mannered, battle-trainedknights.'
'Oh!' Sandy stepped back, his soul laid bare by longing. ~If onlywe could change places!'
'Said is done!' cried the little man, and he clapped his handswith a crack that shattered the stillness.Sandy vanished.
Birds started up from the trees, and the young man in his armorof sticks sat up, a look of raw startlement on his face. He raisedhis arms, stared at his palms as if flesh, bone and nerve wereappendages that belonged to a stranger. Then he looked wildly aboutuntil his gaze found and locked on the little man. 'You've done it!'And he smiled as though all the world had been reborn between his twohands.
 'So I have.' The little man laughed and pointed westward throughthe forest. 'Th~t way lies Camelot, young Perceval. Fare you well, onall your quests, until the last, until the day you sight the Grail.' 
Lynn came back to herself, with Grail's tongue dragging and draggingacross her cheek. She sat in soggy leaf mould, one shoulder bracedagainst a stump whose cleft was now empty.
She shivered once, violently; in distaste she pushed off the dog.For once, Grail gave over his affections with deference to the personbeing mauled. He backed off, sat, and looked at her. His tail whacked up a storm of forest detritus. His expression lookedinordinately pleased.
Lynn shivered again. Chilled by uncanny experience, and also byher soaked shoe and pants cuff, she looked about, as if expectingthe woods to be somehow momentously different.They were not.
May sunlight slashed the trunks of the birch trees like knifecuts limned in gold; the catbird's mate sang at her nesting, and twosquirrels ran scolding in a territorial squabble through the burstingleafy crowns overhead.
It did not seem a day for miniature men and bright wishes.Neither did it seem any more appropriate a time for a twelve-year-oldboy to lie dying.
Lynn cursed. Whatever had befallen her, be it illness,hallucination, or stark raving madness, she had an obligation, nowthat Grail was found. She must hurry on to the hospital to lend hersupport to Ann.
That moment, ridiculously, she recalled she'd neglected to bringa leash. Grail seemed to need none, creature of obscurecontradictions that he was. For the first time in his miserable life,he came when called. Apparently content for once to follow, hefrisked at Lynn's heels all the way back to the house. Moresurprising, he stepped meekly into his pen at her bidding; and oncethere, lay down, nose on tail, to fall asleep. He looked like an oldstring mop, stiff-curled as if dried in ocher paint.
Lynn left him. Inside the house, her intent bent exclusively onthe logistics entailed in joining Ann quickly at the hospital. Shoes,one muddy, one damp; dirty jeans, oil-stained anorak; all flew offher into a heap. She wanted a shower, but settled with splashing coldwater on her face. Too pressed to fuss over details, she snatchedkhaki slacks, a silk blouse, and a tailored jacket from the closet.She had dress for success down to reflex, and her thoughts she heldfirmly to practicality, until the first cog slipped in her regimen.
She realized she'd left the shoes that went best with the jacketin the city. Her desperate self-control fled.
Frowning, frantic not to think, and still barefoot, she dug hermakeup case out of the bathroom and parked in front of the mirror.Trivia refused its role; would not keep her preoccupied. 
3Ol She froze through a moment of silent struggle; to focus on anythingand everything onerously ordinary, that she not be overset todisturbance over what had or had not occurred out in the wood.
 Tiny men, and brown thoughts; she was as much in denial ofSandy's straits as webbed about in the peculiar insanity Grail hadlured her to tread. Dangerous ground. Better to debate her choice oflipstick.
She rummaged through her cosmetics and selected a shade of cover-up to conceal the nick on her cheek. Then she glanced up at themirror. And stopped dead.
Where her own features should have looked out at her, she sawinstead a different view. Ann, seated in her untidy cardigan with herback bowed and her face in her hands, beside a bed in a hospitalroom.
 'No!' Lynn shoved her knuckles against her mouth in denial, evenas memory of the little man's protest mocked her. If you're theblundering sort who sets no stock by dreams, it's the Sight you'llget, to witness my part in the bargain. But sorrow you'll find, andweeping too, when you long to be quit of the gift afterwards!
The ache in her died to a whisper. 'No.' But the deathbed view ofher nephew bound her senses, as vitally real as if she were presentat her sister's shoulder.
 No recrimination, no fear, no sense of disorientation ordisbelief could tear her attention from the body, supine under whitesheets. The pastel hospital gown betrayed by its lack of wrinkles howfar removed from life and movement lay the consciousness thatdelineated Sa~ndy.
Lynn choked a breath through her tightened throat, then stopped,even breathing suspended.
For the motionless boy on the bed sighed slightly and opened hiseyes.
They shone, blue and enormous in the subdued, artificial lightingof the hospital. Dark as marks in charcoal, his brows sketched apuzzled frown. Too weak and emaciated to do more, he regarded thesterile white walls, the plastic pitchers, the raised side rails, andthe IV line dangling at his shoulder as if he had never in his lifeknown such sights.He looked as if witness to marvels. 
 Lynn caught her breath in a gasp. She knew like a blow, that thiswas not Sandy, looking out through the eyes of his face. She stood,frozen and trapped before the vision of a perfect stranger residingin Sandy's failing flesh.
The boy noticed Ann at that moment. Perhaps he heard her stifledweeping, or was drawn by her forlorn posture as she convulsed insilenced grief. He raised the hand not burdened with needles, draggedlimp fingers across the sheet, and gave her a brushing touch.Ann started up as if shot. 'Sandy?'
He blinked as she caught his wrist. 'My God, my God,' she criedin wonder and jagged-edged joy.
He looked at her. The familiarity of the gesture tore at Lynn'sheart for the fact that he had no cowlicks left to tumble brown hair across his eyes.
Because of that, she and Ann both saw: the boy's hollowedfeatures were lit from within by a burning, unearthly rapture.'Lady,' he whispered in an accent that sounded gallant and antique.'You must not weep for me. It is promised. I go on to God's glory, tomeet His most beautiful angels.'
The fingers in Ann's chilled hand tightened one last time, andthe spirit, lightly held, left the flesh. 
Lynn came back to herself, gripping the sink too tightly. Wild-eyed,her own face stared back from the mirror. The pinprick cut showedlivid against her pallor, and her chest ached as, in tears, sherecovered herself with a cry.
A strange, exalted exhilaration possessed her, snapped at onceby sharp grief at the jangling intrusion of the telephone.Shestumbled out to reach the hallway extension.
'Lynn?' said Ann's voice as she answered. 'It's over. He's gone,just this minute.' She paused for a wondering breath. 'You wouldn'tthink it, but it happened beautifully. He woke up to tell me...'
Words failed her, and Lynn couldn't bear it. 'He's gone to meetthe angels.'
Startled, still drifty with shock, Ann came back in surprise.'Lynnie, how could you know?'Lynn crouched, weak-kneed, and steadied herself on an elbow 
303 that ground with real pain against the baseboard. 'Never mind sheanswered. 'It doesn't matter.'
 But it did; the uncanny proofs remained with her. Into ol, age,the fey man's gift of Sight never left her; and Grail neve wanderedagain.