Chapter One

In Tuvin Province they serve you chocolate in the morning. It comes in little round cups with flat bottoms and no handles, and people drink it, by and large, outside their homes—in the markets, in sidewalk stalls, on the narrow balconies of the whitewashed houses. It's a warm and sunny place, being north, and all those chocolate drinkers sit there in the mornings with their hats on. Taking in the illusory peace of Ivory's fresh new day. Before they all rush out to swindle and cheat the competition.

That's a generalization, of course, and an unfair one. Particularly coming from me, and considering all I saw and did in that province. Looking back now, it's amazing the amount of trouble I got into there, and have always seemed to get into on Ivory in general. It never happened to me anyplace else. It seems to be what my teachers on Athena would call "an interactive effect." But I acquired a taste for morning chocolate in Tuvin Province, and a taste for Trouble, too. Although I wouldn't expect anyone else to understand about the latter, except for one or two of the Cormallons.

But by all means, let us be chronological. I had just passed my twenty-fifth standard birthday. I had returned to Ivory for the second time in my life. And I was standing alone in the hills of Cormallon, a long hike from the main house, picking cherries for that night's dessert.

It was a cool day for early summer, but being a barbarian I wore a sun hat anyway. Just then I'd taken it off—a round straw thing that came to a peak in the middle—and was filling it with black-red cherries. The morning sky was a long, glorious blue dome and the wind was gentle, and somewhere around the forty-fourth cherry I was deciding how pain between the shoulder blades could come between

one's intellectual appreciation of the day and the actual joy of it, when I heard the distant whirr of an aircar.

If you know me, you'll know there was no horse nearby to be frightened of it. I was only mildly curious myself, being safe behind the Cormallon barrier. I held my heavy straw hat in both hands and waited, and a few minutes later a car I'd never seen before landed on the hilltop.

Kylla came out. She was dressed conservatively (for Kylla) in a shimmering blue and gold robe, with long gold hoops in her ears and her mass of black hair pulled back by a blue and gold thong. No gold swirl on her cheeks; she must have been in a hurry. She jogged down the hill and grabbed me and spun me around.

"Theo, Theo, Theo," she said happily.

Really, it had only been four days since we'd seen each other.

"Lysander gave me an extra hundred in gold for shopping," she said.

So that explained it.

"And now you can come with me," she added. "Ran said you were going to town today anyway."

"When did you talk to Ran?" I asked.

"Half an hour ago, on the Net from the capital. He said you had to go in today to talk to some hateful man from the Athenan embassy. Darling, they're not giving you trouble over your citizenship, are they?"

"No, nothing like that. Just a routine visit. —How did you get the hundred in gold?" I asked, knowing that would divert her.

She smiled widely. "Every time he looks at Shez his heart just melts into a puddle." Shez was her baby girl Scheherazade, currently at the stage where she could stand up if she held onto something.

"Where is the little monarch? Didn't you bring her with you?"

"She's up at the house, Theo dear, waiting for her aunt to come back and change. So give me a cherry, and get into the car."

I gave her a handful, which is the world's usual response to Kylla, and got in.

* * *

On the way to the house she said, "Theo, you have to tell me when the wedding is. How can I prepare if I don't know?"

"Must you always ask this, Ky? You'll be the first to find out, I promise."

All right, I was having a few second thoughts. That's not the same as cold feet. I was young and in love and wondering about the wisdom of settling down for life with a man who, by the standards of his own government, was running a criminal organization. And that was only one of the lesser problems you dealt with when you dealt with Ran.

All this attention to a wedding I was still not entirely sure was going to take place was getting on my nerves.

"Well, what stage are you at?" asked Kylla, never one to leave anything alone she took an interest in. "Have you exchanged marriage-cakes yet? There was a full-moon-and-a-half last week."

Leave it to Kylla the Relentless. "I'm not supposed to tell you that," I said.

"Nonsense. It's a modern world, Theodora. —Heavens, you should know that. You're an outlander. And don't be put off by those stories about not making the cake if you're menstruating. Just lie and say you aren't. It's hard enough going four consecutive months without that, too."

There is, in case you have not noticed, no stopping our Kylla. Certainly she had had no difficulty in marrying the husband of her choice, in spite of the fact that the Shikrons and the Cormallons had been enemies for the last three centuries. Today they were allies. And so far as I knew, her husband still didn't know that she smoked a pipe. Perhaps someday when she was a respected postmenopausal grandmother she would reveal to him that she liked to sit with her legs up. I wouldn't count on the pipe part coming out even after her death.

But you know, in spite of Kylla's inability to take a straight line when a curved one was available, I think Ly-sander understood in the main what he was getting when he married her. Nor have I heard any complaints.

My own potential wedding was another matter entirely.

"Where does all this pressure come from?" I asked. "Neither Ran nor I have said a word about marriage to anybody, I swear, and we've got three thousand tabals worth of gifts up at the house."

"How many have you sent back?" she asked swiftly.

Good point. "All right, we haven't gone out of our way to deny it."

She snorted and banked the car; we were coming in toward the main house. Below us the pavilions and garden were spread out in early summer flowers. "When the first of Cormallon disappears from the planet to go after a young lady—leaving House affairs in the hands of two barely adequate cousins—it may be assumed that his intentions are serious. When he returns again with said young lady, it may be assumed he was successful." She was silent for a moment as she curved in to land; Ky took risks, but she was actually a magnificent flyer. We touched ground like thistle, and she powered down. "So unless you've got a more plausible story for me to spread—"

"What about my being here to finish my doctoral research?"

She snorted again. No Ivoran took a story like that seri-

ously, which was a pity, because it only showed how far off Athenan Outer Security was when they thought it was believable. I did try to straighten them out—well, you'll hear more about that later.

"Look," I said, pointing to the great entranceway as we got out. The door that would open only for a Cormallon was standing wide, and Herel the cook was on the top step supporting Shez, who stood very shakily. She wore a crimson robe with black borders and her big dark eyes were shining. "Mama," she called. She kicked out one leg and would have gone over if Herel hadn't been holding both her arms. "Mama" and two or three other words were about all Shez said that anyone could translate, although she talked a lot.

We went up the steps to greet them, and Herel gave Shez to her mother, and I gave Herel my hatful of cherries.

Five hours later Kylla dropped me off in front of the Athenan embassy. I went up the steps under the white statue of Pallas Athene, armored and with an owl on her breastplate. Her face was clear and expressionless in a mode that was meant to suggest rationalism but always reminded me of insipidity. This is not meant as some symbolic comment on Athenan society; it's just a statue.

I knew the front lobby very well by now—indeed, I'd known it on a more continuous basis during my first, involuntary containment on Ivory. I walked over the floor's eight-sectored wheel of colored marble, each sector representing one of the great branches of knowledge, and showed my pass to the duty guard.

He compared it to a list. "Room 805," he said. At least in the Athenan embassy there was never any surprise at my height and coloring. I took the stairs—a little exercise being welcome after my long flight in with Kylla from Cormallon—and knocked on a door at the end of a quiet corridor.

This is going to be hard to explain to anyone who is not as socially detached as I am. I have no great loyalty to Pyrene, the place where I was born and escaped from. I have no great loyalty to Athena. I have no great loyalty to Ivory, either, although when my marriage to Ran became

official my citizenship would be Ivoran. Still I suppose, if pinned down, the place whose ideals were closest to my own was Athena. As far as I am concerned, any society that glorifies the scientific method is worthy of respect, regardless of its parochial views in other matters.

Nevertheless, the rules and procedures of Athena often seemed incredibly childish to me.

What I did from time to time, therefore, was to visit this certain gentleman whose name had been given to me back at the university, and tell him what was going on on Ivory. For a long time I told myself that I wasn't a spy. Eventually I realized that this was pretty much what spies did. They related moderately uninteresting facts, most of which were not classified.

I wasn't even completely honest with the Athenans, because they had no idea that Ran was well aware of my trips to the embassy and what they entailed. He was mildly interested, but no more. Like most of his countrymen he had no conception of what Athena or Pyrene thinks of as "patriotism." In terms of identity, Ivorans feel a sense of natural superiority over outworlders; but they have no particular attachment to the government in the capital, which they consider an endurable nuisance, put there to collect taxes and make their lives difficult. Some of the higher ranges of the aristocracy, the ones eligible for the throne, saw things differently; but they were an exception. I hadn't felt equal to trying to make this understood to the Athenan officials—I suspected they would look at it as a security breach. As though Ran ever gave anyone information that wasn't wrung from him at virtual gunpoint—well, all married people have qualities that irritate their partners.

You see, it was this outworld understanding of Ivory that I was working to improve. I didn't know any great military secrets—I'm by no means sure that there were any to know—but I was in a unique position to make Ivoran thought processes more clear to Athenan ones. There was a lot the two worlds could have done, if only they weren't always stumbling and offending each other. Studying magic was only the beginning.

Not that it wasn't an uphill job. * * *

I pushed open the door of 805 and found a small room with a desk, three chairs, and two men—neither of whom I knew.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "I must have the wrong place."

"Who are you looking for?" asked the one behind the desk. He was relatively young, dark-haired, and well-dressed in the current Athenan mode I'd left behind a few months ago. The other man had a gray beard and slightly more conservative clothes; although he sat in a visitor's chair his posture was relaxed, even a touch lordly. I had the sense at once that his rank was superior to the other man's.

The question gave me pause. The person I reported to was the officer of Athenan Outer Security. I wasn't at all sure he wanted to have somebody wandering the halls looking for him under that title. As for his listed official title, I didn't know what it was. His first name was Samuel; possibly not that helpful, but the best I could do.

"Is Samuel around here?" I asked.

They glanced at each other. "Samuel's been recalled," said the man at the desk. "May I ask your name?"

Well, it was no great secret. "Theodora of Pyrene."

"Then you're in the right place," he said. "Come in."

I came in, not very happily, and took the third seat. The man at the desk smiled. "I'm Thomas Cashin. I'll be taking Samuel's place here."

"I hope he's well?" I asked.

"Illness in the family," said Thomas Cashin. Every single person who leaves the embassy before his time does so because of illness in the family.

"I see," I said.

Thomas Cashin opened a folder and, looking down at it, said, "I've been bringing myself up to date on your career. You've gotten around a bit, haven't you? Left Pyrene at first opportunity, changed citizenship to Athenan, left Athena at first opportunity…"

"That was an accident. You must have that in your records. And my citizenship's still Athenan."

"For the moment, yes. Tell me, does your husband have any idea you report back to another government?"

"No," I lied firmly. If I couldn't explain that one to Samuel, I wasn't even going to attempt it with this one. As for

my in-between state, partway from engaged to married, it was even more complicated and none of his business.

"He doesn't ask you where you go when you come here?"

"I'm a free individual. I go where I want. He doesn't check on me."

"And yet you stated, in an interview dated 8.923 standard, that women on Ivory are not given equal opportunity with men. You stated then that you considered Ivory 'primitive' in this regard." His head dipped over the folder at the appropriate spots; "8.923," and "primitive." Nothing like getting your facts straight while missing the main point.

"That's true," I said, "but it's not the whole story. Women in the lower classes scramble for a living right with the men, out of necessity. At the higher levels they're usually kept out of any profession that requires public access. After all, in a society where murder is a game, the producers of the next generation have to be kept out of the line of fire. And when the families tend to be businesses, that's a hard business decision."

I used the same tone I used to use in class discussions. It goes over better with my fellow Athenans, who look contemptuous when you raise your voice.

"But your husband is of the nobility—"

"Gentry, maybe," I corrected. "Or high bourgeois. We're not one of the Six Families. His grandmother was noble," I added helpfully.

"Whatever he is, he's not 'scrambling for a living,' as you put it—"

"Oh, he's not?"

"—and yet you say you wander around freely."

"My case is different."

"Yes," he said, and now the slightest tinge of contempt edged into his voice. "The cards." His head dipped over the folder again.

I decided to wait until he asked a question before I responded. I was tempted to get up and leave, but why disrupt my plans because of one thick-headed official?

The cards used to be a big secret, but now that I'm not the only one who can use them it's just another chapter of history.

He said with stronger contempt, "Tarot cards," and I

controlled the reflex to correct him. "You assisted your husband in his family business by reading Tarot cards."

I still waited. We were getting close to the sore point.

"Sorcery," he said. "Magic. Apparently you want the Athenan government, the most rational, reasonable body of people in the universe,"—arguable—"to believe in this con game put forth by the citizens of Ivory, that they can work magic."

Not all of them, I thought, but still didn't correct him. "Well?" he said.

"Well what?"

"What do you have to say?"

"I'm sorry, did you have a question?"

He closed the folder with a slam. "I have a question. You're damned right I have a question. How can you expect to sell us this mass of nonsense without a shred of evidence to support—"

"There's evidence. There's plenty of evidence. What we don't have is a theory."

"Oh? I thought you presented this story of alien gene-tampering—" He reopened the folder and started flipping through papers, not finding what he was looking for.

"That was just the favorite theory of a friend of mine. Nobody really knows. / don't know, all right?" This particular line of questioning rubbed me a little raw, for reasons that went beyond lack of courtesy.

I was irritated, if the truth be known, not only by his obtuseness (his barbarian obtuseness, my reflexes kept saying) but by my own personal neurosis. The fact was that the magic of Ivory had been a thorn in my side ever since I'd learned it was real. Oh, it didn't bother the Cormallons— as far as Ran was concerned, you did this and this and you got electricity; you did that and that and you got magic; what was the fuss about? But it went against my entire understanding of the universe. Of course, the more the years went by, the more I had to admit my understanding of the universe was probably pretty flawed. But it had served me well in other times and places, and besides, the scientific method (and I will stick by this ship no matter how it rocks) has been the greatest step in human freedom and clear-thinking ever made. That results can be replicated by experimentation has made all the difference between

truth and a good colorful myth. —I like myths, mind you, but they should know their place.

And then came Ran. I could deal with his disruption of my personal code (stealing is always wrong, sex is essentially boring) but none of that bothered me as much as his casual use of magic. The most irritating thing is that eventually—and I have to believe this—the magic of Ivory will be incorporated into the "scientific" view of the universe as we know it on Athena. It will probably take a battery of scientists and several cooperative sorcerers both on- and off-planet to determine under what conditions this thing we call magic works. But it will happen eventually.

The hardest part will be the cooperative sorcerer. Knowing Ivory as I do, I will be long dead by the time this happens. You see why I'm annoyed? Other people will know the answer. I just happen to be living at the wrong time. Oh, yes, I'm grateful that I got free of charge things past philosophers would've given years off their lives to know; I understand the composition of the stars. But it's not fair!

Could I make any of this clear to the successor to the post of officer of Outer Security? No.

I did try.

"Look—people don't always understand the forces they use. In fact, it's the usual pattern to use things that work before you know how they work. Maybe in another generation or two we'll know, but we don't now and we'll just have to live with it. That's what reality is about. Do you believe that only the things you personally understand can exist? Do you think if it doesn't have the seal of approval of the University council that it has to be imaginary?"

And on and on. Not a dent, I swear to you.

He was pretty condescending about it, too. I will spare you the details of the three solid hours I spent in room 805.

The thing that annoyed me most about him was that he registered his disbelief in his voice every time he found an inconsistency. Since life is made up of inconsistencies, that was most of the time. Take this business of the status of women on Ivory, which we returned to not once but twice—I tried to make him see that people confound their roles all the time; that doesn't mean the roles aren't there. Kanz, he was living here now, why didn't he just go out

and talk to people? Cashin probably went through his entire day without ever speaking to the natives on a personal basis. Surrounded himself with Athenans wherever he went—the old ambassador had been like that.

"Take Queen Elizabeth the First," I said. It was early evening by then, and I wished the room had windows. Kylla must be getting impatient. The gray-haired man, who hadn't said a word, was close to dozing. He came a bit awake then, looking puzzled.

"Queen Elizabeth the First?" asked Cashin.

"Queen of an island nation on Earth at a time when female submission to the male was considered as handed down by God—who was a man. But she wasn't only head of state, she was a very popular head of state. Did I make her up?"

Cashin cleared his throat uncomfortably. Clearly it had crossed his mind that I had.

"To return to the issue at hand," he said (kanz, he was the one who kept changing the subject), "isn't it a bit convenient that this Ran Cormallon chose you to assist in his business? How can you be sure that he wasn't sent by the Imperial Secret Service to get close to a foreign national?"

The thought of Ran, Kylla, or any other Cormallon letting themselves be maneuvered by the Imperial Secret Service was laughable. The Secret Service wouldn't have a chance. However, my face wasn't getting warm because of that, or because Cashin had apparently taken a course in how to insult one's allies. It was because Ran had initially offered me a job out of typical Ivoran expediency—I had no family network and could be conveniently murdered later on if I didn't work out.

Every family has its quirks, though, and I saw no reason to share them with Thomas Cashin.

"It's getting late," I said. "I'll be expected home for dinner—"

"Hit a soft spot, have we?" said this annoying man. "What if the whole relationship were a setup? These locals convince you that they're sorcerers, that you're some kind of magician—"

"I have no magical talent, sir. Nor do most people on Ivory. Even here it's comparatively rare—"

"Then what about this whole fabrication of your being hired to read cards?"

I bit my lip. This had all been gone into with Samuel, and a few other people, but saying it to Cashin…

"Well?"

"It was a special circumstance," I said finally. "I used a cursed deck of playing cards."

He closed the folder again with a final and triumphant snap. "I think it's pretty clear, Theodora of Pyrene. You're a constitutional troublemaker. An attention-seeker. A misfit in your birthplace, you try to make up for it by stirring things up everywhere you go. Well, a professional therapist is doubtless called for—I note you did see a few of them while on Athena—but it is hardly the province of this embassy to handle that for you."

I felt my face turning red again. Nobody likes to hear personal insults, but if this kanz knew how carefully I went through life trying not to be noticed—

I stood up. "Good-bye, officer," I said, hoping my voice sounded steady. "Please let me know when someone takes over your job who can actually perform it." I was at the door when the gray-bearded man finally spoke.

"Wait." I looked at him.

"Please wait," he said. He glanced at Cashin. "Thomas, I'll see you in the conference room in ten minutes."

Cashin hesitated. The older man said, "That will be all for now."

Cashin got up and left his own office. Gray Beard gestured me back to the seat. "Please?" he said.

I sat down. "I don't think we've been introduced."

"Merril Zarmovi. Sorry I didn't mention it earlier." He was absolutely cool and comfortable in his manner. It was no problem for him to say "please" and "sorry" and probably no problem for him to say anything else he ever had to say. I should have been delighted after the session with Thomas Personality-Plus Cashin, but instead I found myself thinking: This man is dangerous.

"You must excuse Thomas," he said. "He learned interrogation, not interviewing. It's the way they teach them nowadays. Just a fad, I'm sure; it will pass in a few years."

That had crossed my mind; after all, the man had been so consistently argumentative. "So this is just some psych

game you fellows like to play?" That was even more insulting in its way—there were things I was seriously trying to accomplish, and if I wanted to improvise I'd join an acting troupe.

"Well, not entirely. Thomas was sincere, it was his manners I must apologize for. However, his views are not those of Athenan Outer Security."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that we'd like you to continue to drop by, Theodora of Pyrene. Please don't concern yourself as to how much we believe and how much we don't believe. That's not the sort of thing a person can spend time worrying over in this life. Just come by and talk. We'll serve you coffee if you like; you must miss it on this planet."

I considered it. "I doubt if Officer Cashin wants to have coffee and cookies with me."

He smiled. "No." He took out a thin gold rectangle with embossed lettering and handed it to me. "This is my card. Ask for me directly when you come; I'm the Undersecretary for Extraplanetary Affairs."

I took it. "Did you know Carl Spitav?"

"The old ambassador? I wouldn't have accepted a posting here if he were still around. He was a bit of an ass."

I smiled and pocketed the card. "Well, I guess there's no harm in visiting."

"No harm in the world," said the undersecretary, and he held open the door to show me out.

Kylla had a few words to say when she came by to pick me up.

"You missed an entire afternoon of shopping," she said.

"You can show me everything you bought back at the house," I said. "Do you and Shez want to stay with us or at the Shikron place? Is Lysander in the capital with you?"

"Thanks, sweetheart, I was counting on your asking. I told them to deliver my parcels to Ran's security station at your house. No, Lysander's back at the main estate—it drives him out of his mind when I take him shopping. I think that's why he gave me the extra hundred in gold, really—he told me to take a week off and get it out of my system."

"I don't understand why you're not running the finances, Kylla. I thought that was customary in Ivoran houses."

"The Shikrons are ass-backward that way. But I didn't put up a fuss when they told me—you know how boring it is to keep the House books, Theo."

"I know that, all right."

"And this way I spend more money than I ever spent when I had to be responsible. —Even you would loosen up and throw some cash around, darling, if Ran were giving you an allowance instead of the other way around."

"That may be so," I admitted, for I felt the weight of being trusted with Cormallon's finances.

"You better give him a temporary increase, though," she added, as our aircar neared the roof of the Cormallon house in the capital. "He'll need it to get ready for the wedding party—"

"Kylla, please—"

"Here we are," she said, making a perfect landing in the empty cistern. We climbed out, our voices echoing on the walls, and took the steps to the roof entrance.

"It's been a long day for me," I said, and it had been. A long hike in the early morning, a ride into the capital, and a long interrogation at the embassy. "Could we just have a quiet evening?"

Her eyes went wide. "Of course, Theo." She patted my hand reassuringly. "You know we only want to please you."

Chapter Two

There was a message from Ran on the Net for me. His voice came on, deep and casual, as usual. "Theodora, I've got a possible client. I'll bring him to the house for you to meet at the third hour. Don't do surveillance on this one— I told him I'd give him dinner and introduce him to my wife. I'm taking it slow here, so we won't bring up business until I signal you, all right? Treat it as a social-occasion with a House ally… For the moment."

He signed off there. I called to Kylla, who was in the next room, "Did you hear that, Ky?"

"I heard it."

"That's kind of unusual, isn't it? Ran doesn't socialize with clients."

"Most of them are scum," said Kylla.

"Well, yes. But a lot of them are socially respectable. And anyway, introducing your wife to one… that's pretty radical, isn't it? If I have to meet them, I'm usually introduced as an assistant in the business."

"Theo," she called, "I swore I wouldn't bother you again, but is Ran saying you're his wife to make a respectable impression on this client, or, well, how far along are you on the ritual?"

"Oh, look," I said. "There's another message." I hit the accept.

"Greetings to the gracious lady Theodora of Pyrene. This is Vathcar Timoris, liaison to the Pyrenese trade delegation. Octavia of Pyrene has expressed an interest in meeting you during her stay on-planet. It is not our wish to intrude on the privacy of any member of the House of Cormallon, but if this is agreeable to you, please contact my office via return message. Thank you for your consideration."

I stood there, completely disoriented. Octavia? Here on Ivory?

A moment later I realized Kylla was standing in front of me. "Theo? What's the matter? I called and you didn't hear me."

I focused on her face, its lines bent with concern. "Kylla!" I grinned. "I think I have a friend in town."

You have to have bounced around from one place to another as much as I have to appreciate the feeling that sentence gave me.

"Someone from the university on Athena?" she asked.

"From Pyrene." I found one of the chairs that Ran had had made especially for me, and sank into it. It was a thousand times more comfortable than the usual Ivoran standard of scattered pillows on the floor.

"Pyrene? You've never talked about Pyrene much, you know. I always had the impression that you didn't have any friends there." She paused. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"No, it's okay, I didn't have much in the way of friends. I mean, from my earliest memories, the rest of the creche seemed to go one way, and I went another. But Octavia—"

Octavia was a tall, blonde, plain-faced girl who liked games (which I hated) and sang in the chorus (I couldn't carry a note) and was in many ways just another member of our creche-group. But she had a soul of deviltry and wicked eyes, and— "Kylla, if you'd ever seen her swinging on the bathroom doors while imitating an ape, you'd never have forgotten it either." Octavia and I had been inseparable for about six years; I remember that when she was assigned to a different study-class than I was, people actually came up to me and offered their sympathy. It was Octavia who joined me in putting wads of wet paper in the creche study machine on that glorious night before graduation.

Then she'd gone to another city to follow her assigned track of career internship, and I'd eventually gotten the scholarship to Athena.

"Great gods of scholars," I said. "Octavia. Oh, Ky, I've got to call her."

She was smiling. "Well, call away, sweetheart; it's nice to see you enthusiastic. You're always so damned controlled."

I was already on the Net. The liaison's office was closed, but there was a standing order to put me through to the inn where the Pyrenese delegation was staying. A few minutes later I heard:

"Octavia of Pyrene here, machinery export specialist. May I help you?"

"Tavia? It's Teddy. I just got your message!"

"Oh, hello, Teddy. I heard you were on Ivory." Her voice was calm.

"Tavia, I can't get you on-screen. Don't you have your visuals open?"

There was a pause. "I didn't think they used visuals here."

"Well, not as a rule, but there's no law against it. No reason we can't."

My screen shimmered and I saw Octavia, a decade older but still nine-tenths the same, still more than recognizable. I felt myself grinning.

"Tav, you look wonderful."

She blinked at the screen. "You've changed, Teddy. You look completely different."

Well, I'd lost some weight, and the Ivoran clothes can be a little flashy if you're not accustomed to them. She didn't say it as though it were a compliment, though.

"Well, the years have been eventful. I heard you got married."

"Yes. Two kids."

"Are they with you?" I asked, and then shut up. My reflexes were all screwed up from the time on Athena and Ivory; of course they weren't with her. They'd be in a creche. I said quickly. "We must get together. How long will you be on-planet?"

"Six local months in the capital, and six in the provinces. I just arrived last week."

"I can't get over it! Talk about luck, I never thought I'd see you again. What about dinner tomorrow? We can go to the Lantern Gardens and drink tah and wine until they throw us out."

She smiled, a little amused at my enthusiasm. "Tomorrow's fine. Can I bring someone from the delegation?"

"Well, if you want." I'd been hoping for a chance to talk

about old times, and new ones too, I guess. Still, Kylla might want to come, and I didn't want her to feel left out.

"I might bring someone myself. I'll see you at the third hour."

"Off, then, Teddy."

"Off, Tavia."

I cut the connection. I'd ask Ran as a matter of form when he showed up, but I doubted he had any interest in meeting someone from my past. Ran's view of the world was what you might call Ran-o-centric; in spite of having stayed on Athena, I don't think he really believed that I'd had a past before I met him.

Maybe it was a reaction to all that self-sacrifice they'd tried to instill on Pyrene, but I found his blatant ego refreshing.

Kylla said, "Hadn't you better change, if you want to be the respectable wife by the time Ran brings this person home?"

I looked down at the robe and wide trousers I'd hiked in this morning, sat in for the trip, and sweated into during my interrogation this afternoon. "Oops."

Kylla grabbed my elbow and steered me toward the closet. "I'll help you get ready, and then I suppose I'd better get going myself. You know how nervous these clients can be; I don't guess he'll want a Shikron hanging around while he explains his illegal activities."

Ky's instincts for clothing and cosmetics are impeccable. I washed up quickly and put on everything she laid out for me, and then ran down to the door while still hooking a gold hoop in one ear.

Ran was showing his guest in. I darted a look out to the street before the door closed and saw a closed carriage pulled by two implanted driving beasts. Closed carriages are unusual in summer, when rain was rare. So this client preferred discretion, did he?

"My wife and House associate," said Ran, as he pulled off his blue outer robe. "And my sister," he added, gesturing to Kylla. "May I present Tarkal Vellorin?"

The client bowed. He was in late middle age, balding, strong and stocky-looking—he looked like a man whose life was just at the point where he was most in control of it. His bow was graceful, and while his head was down Kylla

met my eyes and made a face, and I knew that she recognized him and his name wasn't Tarkal Vellorin.

"My sister's of the family of Shikron these days," said Ran. He smiled. "I didn't expect to see you here, Ky. Where's the most beautiful girl in all Shikron?" he asked, looking around for Shez.

"Right here," said Kylla, as she gave him a peck on the cheek.

"No, the other most beautiful girl."

"Ah. She's at the house with her nurse right now—" meaning the house the Shikrons kept in the capital, a big place by the canal, "—and that's where I should be going, too. I'm in town for a week of shopping, so you'll see plenty of me yet, brother. 'Bye, Theo." And I got a peck, too.

" 'Bye, Kylla."

As she left I caught Tarkal Whoever Vellorin glancing in my direction. I smiled impassively. His thoughts were plain: Why had the first of Cormallon married a barbarian? I dress in the most irreproachable Ivoran clothes, but nothing can hide the fact that I tend to be the shortest and lightest skinned person in any room, and that my hair, instead of being black, is a red-brown color that always takes them by surprise. Ran and Kylla were both perfect Ivoran products: Tall, dark-eyed, vibrantly beautiful. Standing next to them, I tended to wonder what I was doing there myself.

Fortunately Ran's tastes were exotic. One might even say perverse.

Not that I'm complaining.

"I've ordered supper from the Golden Oven," Ran said then. "I thought we might eat on the balcony over the courtyard. How does that sound?"

"Excellent," I said, and took our client's outer robe like a dutiful wife, pretending not to notice the dagger in his belt, nor the more bulky lump by his lower leg. Actually I was fairly drooling by that time, as I hadn't had time for lunch.

He must have called in his order early; the Net signaled someone at the door before we could show our guest upstairs. "We'll need a fork for the messenger," said Ran, making a quick detour through our tiny kitchen before joining me at the door. We opened it to find a boy in the livery of The Golden Oven, with a carton in his arms. A wagon

out on the street was full of similar cartons; another boy stood guard over it.

"Come in," said Ran.

Tarkel Whomever was watching us, as was only normal. Ran took the buckets from the messenger's box and set them on the low table nearest the door. They both began methodically opening the containers, and delightful smells filled the room. Ran handed the fork to the messenger, who took a small bit from each bucket, put them on a plate, and ate them. Most messengers get all their meals this way; they tend to be healthy and well-fed, and only a small percentage come up unlucky.

Ran was peering into the food speculatively. He pointed at a container of diced groundhermit and chicory; there was a piece there slightly darker than the others. "Try that one," he said, and the messenger dutifully ate it.

While we gave the boy a few minutes to see if he would fall down dead, I moved in to spoon the food onto our good plates. As I bent over the sweetcakes I whispered to Ran, "Gentleman's wearing more than a knife." My eyes went to our client, and I tapped my lower left leg against the table.

Ran nodded. So that our guest wouldn't think we were plotting, I called over, "Would you like brown rice or white?"

"Brown, please, lady Theodora."

He was certainly polite.

By the time I'd finished laying out the meal, Ran had thanked the messenger and given him a tip. I motioned toward the street and Ran gave him an extra coin. "For the boy on the wagon," he said.

"Thank you, gracious sir." He ducked his head and ran out.

We picked up what we could and Ran said, "This way, noble sir—"

Noble sir? Still, he might just be extra-polite.

"We'll have to come back for the rest," I said.

"Allow me," said our client, and he lifted one of the plates and followed us upstairs to the balcony.

In Ivoran houses the courtyards are off the street, protected. Our house in the capital had only a tiny interior

space with a dry fountain and two lonely coyu trees. Still, they were showing their leaves now, and the cobbles around the center were in good condition. And the grass around that was lush and cool in the late evening breeze.

There's no taboo about discussing business over a meal, but our client didn't seem forthcoming; so we talked about horses (Ran's contribution), tinaje healing (mine), and even skirted the monotonous topic of Ivory's balance of trade with Tellys.

"I suppose the barbarians are not fond of Tellys either," he said, near the end of supper. He'd emptied three of our painted winebowls.

Ran raised an eyebrow.

"No, I suppose they're not," I said. There are four habitable planets in this sector, and I'd habited three of them. Tellys was not popular with any of the others, but if you ask me it was sour grapes. Anyway, they couldn't hold on to their technological lead forever, and if they wanted to charge us all through the nose meanwhile, Ivory could hardly pretend that moneymaking went against their own way of life.

Our client put down his last sweetcake finally and brushed crumbs from his hands. "An excellent meal, sir and lady, and only what I would expect from your distinguished house."

"Thank you," I said, and Ran nodded his head politely.

"Now, sir Cormallon, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private, on a matter of business?"

Ran had been half-reclining on a pillow with a cover of purple silk thrown over it. Now he sat up. He said, "Theodora is my assistant, noble sir. She's a complete professional."

"That may be so," said the noble sir, "and I mean no offense. But when you hear my story you'll see that it's rather sensitive."

Ran considered, then nodded. "Theodora, wait downstairs. I'll call you when we're finished."

I rose at once, bowed to Tarkel Possibly Vellorin, and left the room. The egalitarians back on Athena would've had a fit, but Ran outranked me and in front of a client like this one it was important to maintain the illusion, at least, of discipline. His opinion of our abilities would de-

pend in part on how well he thought Ran had control of his House.

Anyway, I went straight to the downstairs study and turned on the monitor.

"… several weeks ago. We didn't take it seriously at first, but our House has been going through a lot of changes lately, and when we'd had time to think it over it didn't seem a bad idea. My daughter says the boy is pretty enough, if that matters, and the Atvalids have always been good, solid members of the Empire."

Ran refilled Tarkel's bowl. "Why consult me then, noble sir? You favor the marriage, and the alliance seems sound. What services can you want from a sorcerer in this instance?"

Our client looked down at the wine, troubled. "This is in strictest confidence, my friend." He had just moved on to a term that was still formal, but more intimate than "gracious sir." Apparently we were getting to the good stuff. "The Atvalids are quite beneath us socially, however sound they may be. You might wonder why we even consider the alliance, when we could link with almost any family on Ivory."

Ran said nothing, but looked open.

Tarkal pursed his lips. "The fact of the matter is that our family does not enjoy quite the favor of the Emperor at this time, may he have long life. I don't want to go into the details, but we would prefer not to irritate him with an… ill-considered… match."

I noted that our visitor appeared uncomfortable, and I didn't blame him. Politics can be lethal on Ivory, and politics, business, and marriage were all part of the same piece as far as the nobility was concerned.

"Ill-considered?" prompted Ran.

"I have had reports lately from Tuvin Province, reports of the boy's father. From what I hear he may soon be as unlucky in the Emperor's regard as we are, in which case…"

"Yes," said Ran. "That would be unfortunate."

"I need more information," said Tarkal. "There is still time to call off the deal—that is, the wedding—without a scandal. But we must know where we stand."

"No doubt you've sent spies into Tuvin," said Ran.

"We have. And they've come back with a lot of rumor, that's all. I'm not saying that rumor can't be as damaging as fact, but right now I very much need to know what the facts are. They say he's gotten involved with some unsavory elements in local politics—" here Tarkal lowered his voice, "—and he is the Governor, you know."

I smiled. Being the governor of an Ivoran province would put you well above ninety percent of the population; but still far below the Six Families.

"They even say he's been making a fool of himself over some of the Northwest Sector outlaws. Really, can't he just hang them when he can, pay ransom when he needs to, and leave them alone? My people tell me he sees himself as the savior of the local farmers and ranchers."

Ran made a sympathetic noise.

Tarkal bent closer. "Your own estate, my friend, is very near the Sector; though on the southwest side rather than the east. No doubt you've had to deal with scoundrels fleeing through your lands."

"Well, from time to time," said Ran. The Cormallon method of dealing with the "scoundrels" is to recruit them; but since that was a prison offense, it would hardly be wise to mention it.

"Go to Tuvin," said Tarkal the noble sir. "I would be most beholden to you if you would. Find out what you can to keep my unlucky House from embarrassing itself further. Really, sir, we would be terribly grateful." He brought out a bag and laid it on the table; the bag jingled. He placed a rolled piece of paper over it, probably a money order.

Ran put his hand on the bag, but more as though he would push it back to Tarkal. "I don't see why you need a sorcerer for this, my friend. Why not do it the old-fashioned way, with informers?"

"Because," he said, "I've heard that sorcerers have tricks that can lead them to finding out things they need to know. Is that true?"

"Possibly," said Ran.

"Sending a few spies into Tuvin to ask questions about the family of the girl engaged to one's son is understandable. Having done this—having been seen to do it—well, to take the time now to set up informers within Tuvin would be perceived as… rude."

"Whereas one or two sorcerers are a lot less noticeable."

"You drill right to the center, my friend."

"Thank you." Ran drummed his fingers on the table. "Saving the reputation of a distinguished House like yours would seem to call for a high compensation."

"You haven't looked at the money order yet," said Tar-kal, leaning back.

Ran unrolled it and read it. The expression on his face didn't change. He put the paper back on the table.

"How long would I have?" he asked.

Tarkal sat up again. "You must understand in full what it is we require. First, yes, a complete report on the provincial governor. But we could go to any sorcerer if simple information was all we needed, true? I want your expertise as a House leader, one who's spent time in the capital—I want you to include in your report not only the obvious, but what you think we should know. I mean that in the broadest possible sense. And I want your recommendation at the end, as to whether you believe an alliance with this family will be a good idea. I'm not saying we would follow such a recommendation, but we want it. You see why we come to you? We're contracting for not only the data, but your analysis of the data."

This was unadulterated flattery, but it was based on truth, and Ran knew it.

"How long?" he said again.

"The earliest possible date for the wedding is next spring. We would need to settle firmly with the Atvalids well before then—before winter at the latest. We can argue over the monetary arrangements, of course, but probably the Feast of Enlightenment is the latest we could keep them waiting."

The Feast of Enlightenment is in early fall. That gave us several months for this project—longer than some assignments, shorter than others. I was glad the Ivoran year was as lengthy as it was.

Ran drummed some more. "I'd want a contingency fee if the matter wasn't settled to your satisfaction. Considering the time I'd have to devote to it, and that I'd have to be away from my practice in the capital."

"Of course," said Tarkal, smooth as sugar icing now that he saw things going his way. "This amount here is for you

to keep in any case. The rest will be paid on receipt of the information."

For a moment Ran really did look startled. That money order must have listed a massive figure. I couldn't help grinning, but I hoped for his own self-respect he didn't realize how badly his facade had cracked.

The crack only showed for a moment, though. Then he was showing Tarkal down the stairs. I hurriedly shut off the monitor, and before they left I heard him say, "I'll leave for Tuvin tomorrow, and give you a preliminary report from there. Nothing indiscreet. I'll hold onto the main things until we meet again."

"I look forward to it, sir Cormallon."

"My pleasure, noble sir Sakri."

Sakri? Great gods, the Sakris owned half the planet. I heard the door close and Ran came into the study.

"Did you get all that?" he asked.

I nodded. "Sakri, huh? I guess the concealed weapons are understandable. He's probably used to a platoon of bodyguards."

He took one of the few chairs in the house, and the only one with wheels, and twirled in it unhappily.

I could tell you what he was thinking, and as a matter of fact I will: Ran wanted to bring more money into the House of Cormallon because he'd neglected his practice for the last Ivoran year. He'd spent that time on another world in our sector trying to convince an unreasonable barbarian— me—to be reasonable. That meant almost no revenue was coming into the House treasury from the capital. Oh, Cormallon was in no danger of bankruptcy; the other branches were all sending in their regular shares. But he, personally, wanted to bring things at least up to normal. He'd once been accused of stealing from the treasury and I think the whole topic would always be a sensitive one with him.

On the other hand— "The money annoys you, doesn't it?" I asked.

He looked even more annoyed. "I don't know what you mean."

"An amount that big. It kind of gives you the feeling you don't have any option but to take it, and you don't like not having options."

"You haven't even seen the amount."

I was quiet. I wasn't going to tell him that his jaw had practically dropped to the floor on the monitor.

He moved about forty-five degrees in the chair, and swung back again slowly. I said, "I wish you hadn't told him we'd leave tomorrow. I had an appointment for dinner with an old friend."

His eyes gradually focused on me. "What old friend?"

"Octavia ~ of Pyrene. She's here with the trade delegation."

"Oh. Pyrene." He dismissed it. I told you he didn't have a lot of interest in my past. Then he said, "You want to run the cards on this?"

"It's a little late, isn't it? You've already accepted."

"All right, don't run them," he said. And he got up and went upstairs.

I pictured my partner and quarter-husband as he'd just looked, sitting in his "thinking chair," considering his latest sorcerous commission. With his berry-and-white robe pulled back, his dark eyes weighing the pros and cons, his feet tapping with suppressed energy. Brought up in the paranoid splendor of Ivory's upper classes, Ran found it difficult to share his thoughts even with his allies.

What was I doing on this planet, with a people so long divorced from the main river of humanity that they might be literally another species? "When I look at Ran, sometimes I see an alien," I once confessed to Kylla.

"All married people feel that way," she responded, casually flicking soot from the gold silk collar that hung in folds around her shoulders.

Two weeks ago, on the night of the moon-and-a-half, we'd baked cakes of sugar and flour and vanilla and cinnamon, and given them to each other in a room facing the raising moons. When we ate the cakes, it meant that we were one-quarter married. Then we'd made love for the rest of the night, though it wasn't required for the ceremony.

Four consecutive months make a marriage. Witnesses aren't even necessary, though it's good to have them if you ever plan on going through the confusing system of Ivoran divorce. When people talk about attending weddings on Ivory they mean the wedding celebration, which is after the

fact and pretty much a good excuse to gather together a large group and cut loose.

Four months make a marriage. And two people. Maybe love wasn't enough, or maybe I did have cold feet. Anyway, there was still time to pull out.

Chapter Three

"He didn't ask us to kill or sabotage anybody," I pointed out.

"Yes, a refreshing change."

Ran likes to go fast. I can stand it in an aircar, but we were on the ground, heading north on the Tuvin Road. There are sand swamps for about two hours of the journey between Avernith and the beginning of the Iron Hills—I kept trying to blank out this mental picture of the car zooming off the road into the swamp, leaving nothing behind but a burp.

Aircars aren't a great lot of use in the part of Tuvin we were going, or in the Northwest Sector in general, as the winds over the High Plateau are treacherous and highly variable. Anyway, I bit my tongue until we reached the section that runs by the river, a green and pleasant stretch of land, and I said, "If you don't like the project when we get to Shaskala, you can always return the money and call it off."

This was my way of saying I could run the cards for us when we got there. I was beginning to regret not having done so back in the capital—though Ran could always have run them himself now, since the deck was no longer cursed.

"I'm going through with it," said Ran, not looking at me.

This was his way of saying he was going through with it.

Fine. After a minute he said, "I think Grandmother left the deck bonded to you when she removed the curse. You're better at running them than anybody else."

Implying that it was my duty to read them, then, not his. I let that one lie as well, and watched the scenery for a while.

Those of you who have been following my little adventures may be wondering just what I was doing back on Ivory, anyway. I wondered myself, a lot.

When I took the outbound liner away, I had every intention of never coming back. But fate, as always, had a few more custard pies up its sleeve. I suppose that considering how badly my life had derailed from my well-laid plans before, I should not have been surprised.

Custard pie number one was Ran showing up on the ship. But I was strong, I was firm… actually I was in a continual state of confusion, but I did manage to get off the ship when we grounded. I figured Ran was gambling on my taking the round trip back with him—he was first of Cormallon, he couldn't afford to be away from home for long periods.

Ran got off at Athena with me. Pie number two. I heard him ask the customs official if he could arrange a student visa from this end. I'd been through a lot by then, and went out to the transport tube in a daze. It would've been more courteous to have stopped and given Ran my address, but somehow I had no doubt he would find me.

Listen carefully—the next sound you hear is the collective release of an artillery of pies. Strange things happened to me on Athena. Oh, I knew returning would bring some discomfort, that I'd made necessary adjustments to life on Ivory; I just hadn't counted on a sense of disorientation that persisted for months. The very day I got back I took a cab to my cluster to get some sleep, and I remember walking in the door and staring at the floors. The floors, for heaven's sake. They looked different. "Were they always this way?" I asked a clustermate, who brought in my bag. He looked at me blankly.

"The floors," I said.

"Of course." The floors were long, polished wooden planks; of course they were the same, the whole house would've had to have been ripped open to change them. But—

"How would they be different?" he asked.

"I don't know."

The buildings were plain and boring; the money was strange; the clothing was comfortable, but the fashionable designs were aesthetically unpleasant. People stood farther away when they spoke to me than I was accustomed to, and they touched a lot less. Once I had found this distance granted a dignified and comfortable sense of reserve; now

it seemed stiff and priggish. But more than that, I found that I didn't have a lot to say to anybody.

The only person on this whole damned planet who knew how I felt was Ran. He took the temporary student visa that outplanet scholars took, and was placed in a cluster in the same city I was in. He turned in his weapons and didn't say a word; he wore Athenan clothing and ate Athenan food and except for the occasional flash of controlled contempt in his black eyes he made no resistance at all to the barbarians.

I opened my eyes from a nap and saw the High Plateau filling the window. It had been visible for hours as a distant landmark, but now the top was too far above us to see— instead I had a clearer view of the rocky cliff that faced us. Somewhere along the way the road we were on would join with the Winding Road that led, after a long and (please gods) careful drive, to the city of Shaskala, halfway up.

We were still traveling at a furious rate. We overtook a wagon being pulled by a bored-looking freight beast, with a farmer just as bored sitting on top. Ran gave them no opportunity to move to one side. Without slackening in the slightest, he zoomed around the wagon and back to his

favored spot in the road. The driver glared at us from his position and waved a whip toward our car.

Ran looked over, saw I was awake, and said, "Sorry."

"I had no idea a single money order would make you this eager."

"Theodora. Will you look at the sun? I wanted to get us to Shaskala before nightfall, but we're not going to make it. I don't think we'll get in before midnight."

"What of it? We'll sleep late."

"We'll have to drive up the Winding Road in the dark, tymon."

My gaze went to that sheer cliff and its inhuman height.

"Don't they have lights on that road?"

"No."

I cleared my throat. "Ah," I said.

I found myself tracking how long it took the sun to reach the top of the plateau. It was difficult to fall back asleep.

When I said Ran put up no resistance to the barbarians, I meant it—he performed all the duties of a temporary Athenan citizen. He honored all the rules and customs, outwardly. But as the drudgery of the academic year progressed I started to hear rumors about certain outlandish events that seemed to gather around Ran's vicinity. And I wasn't the only one who suspected him of being a disruptive force. Why, the dean of students actually asked me to—but that's not what I'm telling you about right now. My point is that Ran did everything he was supposed to do by his visa—a contract is a contract—and made it nearly impossible for anyone to expel him. I was amazed, in fact, at how tractable he was. This unnatural docility was brought home to me forcibly about half a year after our arrival.

Ran was putting in his six weeks of compulsory labor, and I was on my way back from a long trip to Varengist Point (where he was cleaning out recycling tubes that couldn't be cleared automatically—I came out to visit him, sure he would say that this was the final straw. But he didn't) and I had a wait between connections. I sat up in the terminal for five hours until the dawn bullet for my cluster was due to leave.

There was one other passenger waiting with me, a plain-

looking, stocky, rather severe woman about thirty years my senior, her brown hair pulled back in a bun. After an hour without speaking she took out a flask of whiskey and offered me a drink. I accepted. Then I sat down on the hard bench beside her, trying to examine her without being obvious. She wore the circle-and-arrow pin of a full scholar; for her to carry a flask of alcohol was eccentric, and to offer it to a stranger was brave. We're rather puritanical on Athena.

But I soon learned her reputation was beyond being harmed by this friendly gesture. I won't give her name here, it wouldn't be fair; but she was one of the greats of my field, close to a legend for the younger generation. She told me that she'd read my collection of Ivoran folktales and been impressed by it. (For all I know she may have been courteous enough to say something similar to every young scholar she met. Nevertheless, it was good to hear. She had some pleasant things to add about my Standard translation, which I will not bore you with here, but which I'll admit I've never forgotten.)

We emptied the flask between us. And in the course of the next four hours she pinned me down, question after question, until not only had I revealed much of my research methods, but an enormous amount about Ran and me.

"Do you think I'm crazy for believing in sorcery?" I asked.

"I wouldn't presume to say so, dear," she replied, tilting back the flask for the last drops. Her view of reality was more flexible than mine—I don't think she really cared about the verifiability of sorcery from a scientific point of view. She was more interested in whether I was going back with Ran. I sidestepped that particular question as far as I was able.

Finally, as the sun appeared over the Voltaire Dome Irrigation Fields, and we stood in the wind by the bullet, she reached out for my sleeve and pulled me closer. A bullet conductor was walking by, and she lowered her voice.

"Honey," she said, "you're a top-drawer scholar. I can say that because I'm one myself, and I can tell you how important, and unimportant, it is." She watched until the conductor was out of earshot, the morning wind whipping her coat back. Her face was flushed from the whiskey.

"They've misled you, though, sweetheart, and I'm going to tell you the truth. Doctorates are a dime a dozen, Theodora, but a good sexual partner is hard to find. If he makes your toes curl—" she used a more earthy expression here, "—then it's probably as good as it's going to get, and better than most people ever have."

I was shocked at this coming from a conservative scholar, and one of her age. We were taught to put our work before anything. I said, "Surely you can't recommend marriage based on sexual attraction alone."

"What do you mean, 'alone'? Didn't you tell me the man is cleaning out sewers for you right now? What more do you want? If you're waiting for a revelation from the gods—" The bullet's windows and doors shuttered open, signaling readiness for boarding. She kissed me hastily on the cheek. " 'Bye, honey. When you're not sure what to do, think about me. I'm living alone in two rooms over the cultural museum. Oh, I'm not crying, I've got a good life. But if I'd known what I know now, I'd've done a lot of things differently." She clicked off in her sensible bootheels for the express capsule, and I entered the third-class student compartment. I never saw the woman again.

"Hang on, tymon," said Ran, as he made the first hairpin turn onto the Winding Road. His visual attention was wholly on the road, but he smiled and said, "If you want to close your eyes, or move to the emergency door, I won't take it as an insult."

"Why would I do that?" I asked, keeping my gaze staunchly from the drop that fell away on my right.

He scared me by withdrawing a hand from the controls long enough to pat mine. "We'll go together, anyway, and Kylla will give us a hell of a funeral."

"Will they let her do that now that she's a Shikron?"

"I'd like to see them try and stop her."

After a minute he said, "It's not that bad. The cliff wall is reflective. I think we can go on."

"You were planning on turning the car around on this little road if we couldn't?"

He seemed surprised. "I had no idea you were so nervous about this, tymon. After all the aircars you've crashed in your time—"

"One! Only one."

His smile widened. I said, "Close shaves don't count."

Have you ever heard some of the old legends of Earth? There was a people who lived in the ice and snow, on the edge of subsistence, and sometimes they would hunt for seals under the ice. A hunter would find a hole in the ice, and lie down with spear at the ready and wait until a seal came up for air. The hunter had to be inhumanly patient; he couldn't move or make a sound for hours, for fear of warning away the seal. And maybe one would never come up.

Ran didn't make a single complaint about Athena. He listened to mine, though. After a while it began to seem petty of me to keep him waiting around when he'd much rather be on Ivory—never mind that I hadn't asked him to come. I was well aware of that, but it began to seem petty anyway.

So, you may think, Ran waited until my guard was down and then suggested that we book passage for Ivory. No, he was better than that. I had to finally suggest it myself.

I won't say that the woman with the rooms over the cultural museum didn't enter my mind. Mostly, though, I felt like a damned seal.

And since I couldn't think of anything to do about it, I found myself on the Queen Julia with a one-way ticket.

When I spoke of my memories of Tuvin Province a while earlier I spoke, as most visitors do, of Shaskala, the only city there. Shaskala is a romantic name for an Ivoran city, but then it was settled mostly by Andulsines who came over the equator from the north, bringing their silly but delightful habit of drinking chocolate in the morning. They were either coming up or going down the Winding Road from the High Plateau (who knows which) when they decided to settle in the cleft by Don't-Look-Down Waterfall, and build there their Andulsine houses with real balconies (that looked out toward the street, as though oblivious of enemies). Some of the back balconies in the eastern quarter jut over the cliff. Children play on them as though the heights mean nothing, rolling painted balls and sticking their legs through the shaky iron railings. I don't know

what shocked me more, those balconies or the ones facing the street.

They tell me Shaskala is a beautiful city from a distance. I never saw it from a distance, since it was pitch-black by the time we turned off the Winding Road into the cut that leads to the main street of town. In the silence of night I could hear the waterfall muttering loudly somewhere to our left.

"I just want to sleep," I said. Ran grunted and rubbed his eyes; he'd been peering out at the edges of the narrow road for the last few hours.

Three candles in a window marked an inn, and we stopped the car in front of it.

"Give me money," said Ran, and I counted him out some gold pieces from our purse and followed him inside.

It ran on electricity, like most of Shaskala; the candles in the window were for tradition. The entrance hall was a bright and welcoming yellow. Sometimes I think I like etec-tricity better than the power packs that light the houses of the wealthy back in the capital; I know it's carcinogenic, but it's a different kind of light, very human-made. Power packs mimic sunlight too well. You never know if it's day or night.

Ran hit the carved attention-stick against the block on the front desk and a minute later a clerk came out, looking sleepy.

"I hope you have a room available," said Ran, putting a coin down on the counter.

The clerk was young, short, and sandy-haired, unusual for an Ivoran; he ran a hand through his hair, shook his head as though to clear it, and focused on us. Then he stopped dead in his tracks and stared.

I looked down at my robes; nothing wrong as far as I could tell. And he was staring at Ran, too, and Ran looked tired but normal. Now the clerk turned back to me, as though refreshing his memory.

"Gracious sir?" said Ran.

The gaze swung dumbly to my quarter-husband. Really, I suppose there can't be many travelers coming off the Winding Road in the middle of the night, but wasn't this a bit much?

"A room for the night, and possibly longer," said Ran. "And we have a car outside."

"You have a car?" asked the clerk. His voice was young and uncertain.

"Why shouldn't we have a car?"

The clerk swallowed. "No reason. Would you care to sign… uh, to sign in?"

"Can we do it tomorrow?" asked Ran.

"Uh, certainly. Of course. If the gracious, I mean the noble sir would come this way…"

He started off toward the stairs and Ran followed. I picked up the carved attention-stick and examined it. It was brightly colored, and sculpted to resemble a caricature—of somebody real, I would bet. The figure was male and middle-aged and wore the mixed colors of a certain brand of hero from the Ivoran traveling theaters, a hero as much a butt of the gods as a force for good, and a bulbous nose seemed to be the main feature of the face. Putting someone on an attention-stick is not exactly an act of respect, when you think about what people do with that stick all day. The nose looked a lot more battered than it must have been when it was new.

"Are you coming?" Ran's voice called.

I put the stick back and went up to bed.

An hour later I rolled off the mattress, quietly, so as not to disturb my bedmate. I was too overtired to sleep.

"Where are you going?" asked Ran. His voice was wide awake.

I was about to tell him I was going to pee, if he was so damned interested, but on impulse I decided to tell him the truth.

"I feel like running the cards."

He sat up. "I'll come with you."

He padded after me into the sitting room. We had a two-room suite, thanks to Ran's standards and Tarkal's budget. I sat down cross-legged on the thick, multicolored carpet, and brought out the deck.

Ran sat opposite and was silent. He never pushed at this stage.

I started dealing out the cards. The first was a handsome young man in blue and crimson, carrying a sword: The

Hero. I watched the card and waited till it changed, the handsome features melting into an older and uglier face with a bulbous nose… perhaps I was generating that from the figure on the attention-stick downstairs? I frowned at the card and the visage changed again, this time to a man with gray in his hair and the face of an accountant. Or anyway, to do that group justice, the face one expects of an accountant. I could see more of his body now; he was sitting on an embroidered cushion, looking thoughtfully at a piece of paper.

I looked up and met Ran's eyes. "Nothing meaningful as yet."

I set out the second card. "The Wheel," I said. "A change of fortune."

"We just had a change of fortune with Tarkal's purse."

"Umm." Maybe. Nothing specific from this card, so I drew another.

The Fall, or The Height: A lone figure, too far away to tell its gender, standing on a precipice. Just the thing for Shaskala, I thought sourly, and as I watched the figure became Ran. He was wearing the clothes he'd worn today, but they were somehow more faded, or dirtier, or maybe it was the light; it was nighttime and his robes were blown back by the wind. He was going to fall, I knew it—

I pushed away the card. "Nothing meaningful."

"What was it?"

"Stay away from heights." I let out a shaky breath.

He waited, then said, "Are you going to do another?"

"Not tonight. Gods, I'm tired all of a sudden."

Ran started gathering the cards for me. He stood up and went to the cushion where I'd tossed my belt and wallet earlier, and bent over to retrieve them to replace the deck. I don't think I've mentioned it, but he was naked as the day he was born. I was wearing an underrobe. Unlike me, Ran was totally unself-conscious about being nude.

It was a pity, I thought, as I watched him, that Ivoran clothing showed so little of the body's outline. I'd loved it when he wore Athenan shirts and tight pants.

"What are you smiling about?" he asked.

"I was remembering that black outfit you wore when you took me to the party on Athena."

"Oh?" He smiled. "I seem to remember getting a very positive reaction to those clothes."

"Certainly from me."

He helped me to my feet and kissed me. He was showing a rather positive reaction himself, I noticed. We headed back to the other room, and Ran convinced me that I wasn't as tired as I'd thought. It was a question he was unusually good at debating.

I woke early the next morning and couldn't get back to sleep, so I got up quietly and padded out to the sitting room. Its two windows faced east, and broad bands of sunlight cut across the Andulsine carpet. I went to look out, and found myself looking down—and down—and down. I stepped back. Our inn was on the very edge of the cliff side. Maybe we even overhung, and had boards of wood propped against our underside to keep the whole inn from tumbling down to oblivion.

I would rather not know. I pulled my gaze resolutely from the window and did some preliminary sa'ret stretches.

There was a knock on the door. "Who is it?" I asked, keeping my tone low so as not to wake Ran.

"Chambermaid, gracious lady," said a girl's voice.

It was a little early in the game for anybody here to want to kill us, so I let her in; and I was rewarded for my trust with my first cup of hot Tuvin chocolate. The chambermaid was about seventeen, with curly dark hair, and she carried two cups on a lacquer tray.

"My husband's asleep," I said.

She lowered her voice to match mine. "Will you be wanting a fresh cup for him later?" she asked.

"Please. And, tell me, would it be possible for someone here to run out and get us some breakfast? We're both rather tired this morning."

"Of course, gracious lady," she said, and held out her hand for the money. Ivorans are very obliging people, and never hold you to house rules if you're willing to pay extra. "If you like, this one can go to the stalls down the street and bring you back some fruit." (Pay no attention to the excessive honorifics; they mean little on Ivory, where they'll call you "gracious sir" while slitting open your purse. Or your throat.)

"Thanks, I'd like that. And a slice of fresh bread, too." I gave her some coin and went to wash at the basin in the washroom.

A short time later she returned with the fruit and bread on a plate, and another cup of chocolate. She inquired very courteously which I wanted her to taste, but I told her not to bother. I gave her more money—always correct behavior I'd learned—and she bowed and went away.

I saved some of the fruit for Ran and put the plate down several feet from the window. I like a view on a nice morning, but this particular one was a bit overwhelming for my taste. This way I could glance at it from time to time as I ate, whenever I felt up to the experience. I sat sipping the cup of chocolate and let it drain down into my toes. It was, after all, a beautiful day; I had a new city to play tourist in; nobody was trying to kill us; and I was one-quarter married and in a mood to be pleased by that fact.

I heard bare feet behind me.

" 'Ware heights," said Ran, as he padded in. His hair was wet.

"That was meant for you, not me."

"How do you know?"

That was a good question; how did I know? There was no real reason I couldn't have been standing just outside the frame of the picture I'd read last night, ready to take a good long fall. I had a feeling, that was all, which could be from the cards or could be wholly self-manufactured. I shrugged. "Maybe I'm wrong. There's fruit on the sideboard for you, and chocolate. I put the saucer over the cup to keep it warm."

He went to collect them. "We'll need tah," he said, for we were both addicted.

"They serve it later in the morning up here. About an hour or so before lunch. I asked the girl."

Now, that had worried me badly for a moment, when I first saw the chocolate. What if they didn't have tah in this city? I'd have brought a supply if I'd thought we would be cut off. But fortunately the citizens here were firmly addicted. The tah price in Shaskala, I learned later, is set by municipal law.

Ran ate and drank thoughtfully. Then he put down his cup of chocolate—half drunk, the man had no appreciation—and

said, "Theodora, have you given any thought as to how we should proceed on this information-gathering spree?"

Something in the way he said it made me cautious. "Only the merest, vaguest outline," I said.

"And how are you feeling this morning? Hardy and healthy?"

I looked at him. "You want something."

He grinned that Cormallon grin, a variety of smile that should be treated as a controlled substance. "I have an idea," he said.

Chapter Four

Ran's ideas always partake of a form of logic, however warped; the safety of following them, however, is something I will not speak for. Twenty minutes of arguing later found me lying on the sideboard, arms outspread, candles at each point, like the human sacrifice in some ancient folk thriller.

"Your sorcery usually isn't so dramatic," I said.

"Drama helps you to concentrate. It's a well-known fact. You can hear a pin drop during a good theater performance, and why? Complete concentration by the audience."

"Let's skip the candles, then. I'm afraid I'll knock one over and burn down the house. I promise to concentrate without them."

"Shush," said Ran. "We have to have props for this. The equations I got off the Net all use props. I can't change that variable now, I don't have Net access in this town." His voice was reasonable but distant, his focus elsewhere. He was rifling through a collection of notes he'd printed out back in the capital and taken along. "Not this one, not this one… ah. Here we are. We can use this with minor modifications. It's meant for an inanimate object, but there's no reason we can't attach it to a human being."

"Oh, really?" I said.

"You should be thinking of your definition. Are you thinking of your definition?"

I muttered and tried to think about it. After a minute I turned my head and saw him with a pencil in his mouth, frowning at a piece of paper. "It's no use, Ran, what I'm really thinking is these candles feel pretty warm so close to my body, and what would happen if I kicked one—"

"All right, all right." He got up and moved them away.

"Here." He took the dregs of our breakfast and scattered some pieces of pellfruit at my head and my feet. "Better

substitution anyway; a living object to assist in placing a spell on a living object."

"I don't see why you can't place this spell on something like a piece of jewelry, anyway."

"Tymon, we've been through that. We want a spell that will let us identify by touch the people who are most likely to give us information. If I went around touching everybody with my ring until we stumbled on the right informant, it would make people nervous. They're sure to think I'm poisoning them or laying a curse, or at best out of my mind."

I turned over, knocking down some pellfruit, and lay on my stomach. In the morning sunlight I could see that the carpet beneath us showed an elaborate series of scenes from the life of Annurian the Rebel. I opened my mouth to point it out to Ran, since we had both known Annurian, but then I closed it again. He already thought I wasn't concentrating on business. I said, "Well, why not put this spell on yourself? I don't see why you have to drag me around touching people."

"My dear sweetheart and quarter-wife. If I went about shaking hands with everybody in Shaskala, they would lock me up. But from a barbarian, they'll accept it. Now turn back over and concentrate on your definition."

My definition. "Want to hear it?"

"Please."

"We want to identify anyone willing to speak to us about the governor and not tell anyone they spoke to us."

From the corner of my eye I saw him shake his head. "Not good."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Anybody in town might be willing to speak to us. But not all those people will have relevant information."

"Kanz," I said. "All right, wait, let me think."

When it comes to sorcery, you have to formulate very carefully what you're trying to do. Magic, at its very best and most tame, as every good sorcerer wants it, is also at its most dumb. It does what you tell it. It does exactly what you tell it. And it does only what you tell it. I understand a lot of people have died accidental deaths down through the years because of this.

"How about this? We don't need positive information,

since the Governor's PR will be broadcasting that anyway; so we require someone with negative information who is willing to share it."

"Closer."

"What do you mean, closer?"

"What if they have some juicy negative information they're not willing to share at this point, but we can talk them into it? We don't want to confine our subject pool too strongly."

Wizards had never gone on like this about their subject pools in any non-Ivoran books I'd ever read. I got up on one elbow. "You know, this isn't my idea of a honeymoon, Ran."

I'd used the Standard word. He was taking out one of his little packets of colored dust and holding it up to the light. "What's a honeymoon?"

I told him.

"Ah. A seravan… We don't follow that custom here with principal wives."

Principal wives, eh? "Ran, you don't ever plan on taking on any official concubines someday, do you?"

"Of course not, sweetheart," he said, not meeting my eyes. "The thought never entered my head." Ran knew he was dealing with a Pyrenese-Athenan prude, and was scrupulous about not offending my sensibilities. Openly.

"Because on Pyrene we were strictly monogamous."

"So I understand."

"And back on Athena, a group marriage means multiple husbands as well as wives. Just a warning."

"You want to lie down and run the spell, Theodora?"

I lay back down and waited. Ran said after a moment, "What about your definition?"

"Cast it, Ran, and don't press your luck."

It was late morning, leaning toward noon, when we got outside. Oh, by the way, I was primed to meet anybody who had negative information and negative feelings about the Governor. Negative feelings would give us a lever to work with, and somebody like that would be less likely to report us if we tried to buy him off.

So this was Shaskala, white-roofed and pure under the heavy blanket of sunlight. We were halfway up the plateau,

but the air didn't feel any different; it was still hot, for one thing. "You know much about this place, tymon?" asked Ran, ready to fill in his barbarian partner.

"I've heard stories about it."

As a hitchhiker planet, Ivory was settled slowly and haphazardly, and the far corners of the world bred oddities of custom. Thanks be to the gods, they'd stuck mostly to one language, but even there the dialect differences were extreme. Shaskala was stranger than most places for several reasons. First, it was near the Andulsine border, and mixed northern and southern ways of life. Next, for reasons that would take a separate volume to explain, the Shaskala elders had made an aborted attempt to go into the business of manufacturing items from Tellys. This happened about twelve years back, but the effects are still being felt. And last, it was the traditional trading place and dumping ground for those who dealt with the Northwest Sector.

Tuvin Province overlaps the Sector by a six-day march. There are no paved roads. Certainly, much of what comes into Shaskala for trade is respectable stuff: Meat from the herds of Northwest ranchers, grain from the wheat that grows on the high plateau. The banks of the river below the city are lined with mills and slaughterhouses. But what Shaskala is famous for in song and story is stolen goods.

Refugees from all over the southern continent have headed like lemmings for the Northwest Sector since the btime of the first Emperor, and any number of them have stopped in Shaskala, changed their names, and settled. Meanwhile, their brothers, sisters, and cousins have raided and thieved their way across the plateau, then come to the city to trade.

We made our way through the Shaskala streets. A bell began to strike, deep, tolling strokes; four of them. I looked around and spotted a clock tower in the cliff face to the west. A glimpse of midnight blue and gold caught my eye next, and I pulled Ran's arm. "Look at that carpet!" The city was full of Andulsine rugs and tapestries. Ran let me drag him over to the piles of carpet under a striped awning, where a man in a checkered robe had just turned away.

"Sir!" I called. "Gracious sir! Would you care to discuss the artistic merits of the blue-and-gold Voba pattern by the pole?"

He turned back, and I saw a small white cup in his hand.

"This one cannot speak with you now, I'm afraid." He lifted the cup.

"It would only take a moment, gracious sir."

He raised an eyebrow. "Don't you see that it's time for tah right now? The gracious lady had better come back later." He turned and disappeared through a door in the wall at the back of the shop.

He'd used the direct form of "you"—his way of telling the barbarian to straighten up. I made a face at Ran, and he shrugged.

We went back to the street, where the crowds had thinned. The balconies of the buildings on both sides were now full of people in patterned Shaskala robes, drinking from small white cups. Pots of tah steamed on little metal warmers beside them. A small collection of tables in the gutter to our left now had tah cups out on them, and the servers there seemed to be the only people working in the city… no, strike that; I saw that one of the waiters was leaning against a wall, sipping idly.

"We'd better wait a bit before we go to City Hall," said Ran. "Something tells me all the officials will be sitting around taking their tah fix."

"We haven't had ours yet today," I pointed out.

"True. Sir, may we?" he called to the waiter, then held out a chair for me.

We sat and took tah cups from the communal pot. While I sipped I glanced around, then touched Ran's arm.

"Look." I pointed to a torn poster on the wall nearby.

"REWARD for STERETH TAR'KRIM and ANY AND ALL members of his band. 2,000 tabals in gold for any information leading to capture. Report to the Governor's office, City Hall."

"What kind of name is that?" I asked. " 'Grain-Thief,' 'Rice-Thief?"

"One of the Northwest Sector outlaws. One of the governor's problems, maybe. We'll see."

"I guess we will." I sipped the tah and looked at my hand. My body didn't look any different now that a spell was on it. Sometimes I expected a glowing halo, or a troop of flying dragons, or some other explosive results.

Sometimes I got them.

* * *

"Honored by this meeting," I said to the Keeper of the City Records, extending my hand.

The Keeper of the City Records looked down at my hand as though wondering what to do with it. "The honor is mine," he said, and we finally shook.

A courteous gentleman. When our hands touched, I was alert for any feelings or perceptions that might arise from Ran's spell. Nothing.

I glanced at Ran and signaled with my eyes that this one wouldn't work out.

Ran sat back and smiled at the official.

"You said you had some courtesies you wished to observe?" said the Keeper.

"Yes," said Ran, "our group is associated with the House of Rivis. We'd like to set up a new branch in Shaskala, and of course before we purchased the land we thought it only polite to inquire into any formalities."

"Ah, if only all travelers were so considerate," said the Keeper. He smiled at me. "In terms of my department, our needs are small… perhaps three hundred tabals to accelerate the paperwork, and another two to handle any negative findings that might arise during the title search."

"The gracious sir is generosity itself."

The Keeper made a modest disclaiming motion with his hands.

"But I wonder if we might intrude further," said Ran.

"Please," said the Keeper, "let me know how I might serve you."

"We're strangers to your most excellent city. Could you be our guide in the confusions of municipal order? I would hate for us to pass over anyone else who needed… formalities observed."

"Sir, your wishes are so reasonable, it is a delight to grant them." The Keeper pulled out a piece of paper from his desk and began writing. "The first person you should see is the Director of Utilities. This is an estimate, mind you, but I doubt if he will ask for more than one hundred fifty. Then you'll want to speak to the Tax Assessor… that, I fear, will be more costly…"

We met and promised bribes to over a dozen officials in the Shaskala City Hall. We were a popular twosome.

Over half of them extended invitations to dinner, which we put off. Whatever their wishes were for possible alliance with our imaginary group, none of them harbored any meaningful ill-will against the Governor. "What's wrong with these people?" I asked Ran as we got back to our room and I flopped down on the cushions. "What's happened to politics when jealousy, spite, and hurt feelings are no longer part of the game?"

"It's a good spell. I refuse to believe there's a problem with the spell."

I considered the matter, staring at the ceiling. "Maybe we're targeting the wrong group."

"How do you figure that?"

"The folks at City Hall are old, entrenched politicos. They have their bribes set down to half a tabal. They know the good and the bad, they aren't shocked by anything… I don't think they really care one way or another who the governor is, or what his policies are, as long as they don't impact on their daily business."

"So whom do you want to target?"

"What about the women?"

"What?"

"The women. What if we accept some of these dinner invitations and get introduced to the women at home. I'll bet they know the inside gossip on everyone worth knowing in Shaskala, and they've probably got opinions on it, too."

"Good point. I don't know how much they'd be keyed into local politics, though."

"How much did your grandmother know? And she never even left Cormallon. And Kylla recognized your client."

"She did?" His voice was startled. "When did she tell you that?"

"She didn't have to tell me."

He pulled off his outer robe and stepped over to the breeze from the window. Blue sky and clouds showed beyond, and the first touches of twilight. "All right, tymon, we'll try it your way."

"Good." I rolled over on my belly. "And what about getting some evening tah around here, anyway?"

He came over to join me. "Shops close early in this town, sweetheart. We'll have to get a few bags tomorrow morning and brew it ourselves."

"Yeah? You know how to make your own?" He was pulling off my sandals. "Of course."

"Come on. A day never went by in your life that someone else didn't provide for you."

He removed my gray outer robe, folded it neatly, and dropped it on a cushion in the corner. "Where do you get these ideas about me?" he asked.

Ran was already gone by the time I got up. He left a note—in Ivoran, my reading skills had improved—saying he'd gone to buy a supply of tah. I washed and dressed, wondering what was keeping the chambermaid.

There was a knock on the door. "Gracious lady, it's me," she called. Her voice sounded different, as though she were upset. I opened the door.

She looked right and left in the hallway and said, "Gracious lady, you'd better leave this establishment quickly. Your husband has just been arrested, and I think there's a warrant out for you, too."

I stared. What could we possibly have done? Sorcery is illegal, of course, but nobody cares and, besides, who would know?

"There must be some mistake," I said.

"No doubt," she said politely, "but you'd best take what you can grab hold of swiftly and come with me. There's a side exit to a stableyard, and I can put you in the loft till dark."

None of it made any sense, but in case it was true I decided to be discreet. I pulled on my moneybelt and took an extra overcloak and hat and followed her warily down the back stairway.

At the entrance to the stableyard she said, "You'd better put on the hat, you're too conspicuous without it."

I held her back. "See here, what am I supposed to do at dark?"

Her large, brown eyes met mine. "I have a suitor in the police. He can get word to your friends if you'll tell me how."

"My friends? What friends?"

She took my hand. "The yard's empty now! Quick!"

We ran to the stable. Two drivebeasts went on placidly

munching, ignoring our entrance. She gestured to a ladder. "Come up with me," I said, "we need to talk."

She followed me up. There was a window where I could see across the yard to the inn; a face appeared in a window on our floor, and I drew back. The chambermaid scrambled over to sit beside me in the hay.

I asked, "You've no word on why he was arrested?"

"Not officially… but we all assumed it was the obvious reason."

We? "What obvious reason?"

"Gracious lady." She smiled. "Everyone knew, soon as you checked in, that you were Cantry and he was Stereth Tar'krim. Who else travels with a barbarian wife? And arriving in the middle of the night, and not signing any names—please, we're not stupid. Not that anyone would have dreamed of giving you away."

Stereth Tar'krim. The wanted poster I'd seen on the wall by the tah vendor's came back to me. The leader of one of the Northwest Sector outlaw bands, with an extraordinary amount of money on his head.

My eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't have dreamed of giving us away? With a reward like that?"

She smiled, immune to my suspicion. "I'm sure Stereth Tar'krim's people can pay a friend more handsomely than the Governor's agents can. And not expect to get half of it back in taxes, either."

Reasonable. "He's not Stereth Tar'krim," I said, "and I'm not this Cantry."

"Gracious lady—" she began, shaking her head.

"But we are wealthy, and we like making new friends. No harm in that, is there?"

"None at all," she agreed, gazing demurely downward. "You could make two new friends today, if you wished." I looked interested, and she said, "My fiance, Hilo. He's a lieutenant in the Shaskala police, and he has duty in the detention cells this season. He has to bring messages there two or three times a night, for the guard officer on duty."

I still had some antipathy toward Imperials, based mostly I suppose on my experiences with them during my first stay on Ivory. But local cops seemed to me to be neither more nor less corrupt and special-influence seeking than the rest

of the planet's organizations. I was willing to give Hilo the benefit of the doubt.

"He would know where my husband is being kept?"

"More. He could get a message to him… and if he can be of small service in getting him out… if my lady has any ideas… he would be happy to place himself at your disposal."

"You two talked about this before you came to get me."

She smiled again, as far as she would acknowledge it. "It's so difficult, gracious lady, waiting and waiting to get married. We're not even quarter-wed, because my father says Hilo has to have a furnished house before anything else. You have no idea, all the little things that have to be bought—towels and silverware and rugs—"

"Yes, yes, I got the point earlier."

"Hilo's an orphan, and has no family home to take me to."

I sighed and brought out my moneybelt. "No man is an orphan," I said, "who has good friends."

She practically clapped her hands at the sight of the gold. "My lady is only a barbarian on the outside," she said. "Inside, she has the heart of a true and civilized Ivoran."

Heaven forbid.

Hilo came to see me about an hour later. I spent that time remembering in despair how we'd paraded from one City Hall office to the next all through the day, displaying ourselves to every major official in the city. Stereth Tar'krim and his barbarian companion. It was a wonder we hadn't been arrested a lot earlier.

Hilo was more plainspoken than his fiancee. He was a tall, good-looking dark-haired man in the blue-gray uniform of a municipal cop, and he wasted no time in getting to the point, albeit in a friendly way.

"He's on a floor by himself," said the lieutenant. "The Governor's overjoyed, and doesn't want to take any chances on losing him. There are three men on duty outside."

"You understand, as I told your fiancee, that he's not Stereth Tar'krim."

"I understand your words." said Hilo agreeably, without committing himself as to any belief in their truth. "I might wonder why you don't both call witnesses in your behalf."

"We don't have any witnesses in this city. And anyway… look, Hilo, to be frank—we're not Northwest Sector outlaws, but we're not using our real names either. It's a complicated story."

"I see. Well, it's all one to me, my lady, to be equally frank. If you want my help, you've only to speak."

I considered. Ran, being a true child of Ivory, is against revealing any information until it is torn from him by violence. However, there are times when it has to be done. I hesitated, then said, "Excuse me, Hilo, but aren't you taking a chance by opposing the Governor's wishes in this?"

"I have no great love for the Governor," said Hilo simply. "Most of the department feels the same. He's a crazy man, my lady, he's trying to reform the city government. He's published rules about bribery and extortion, which wouldn't be so bad, but he's actually trying to enforce them. Now I ask you, how can a young man ever expect to marry and raise a family on the salary of a city policeman without accepting gifts from time to time? Is it reasonable, gracious lady? I put the case to you."

"Uh, it does seem to be asking a lot. I'm afraid I don't know much about municipal salaries…"

"Take my word for it, the man is out of his senses. If the department were made up only of people who expected to live on their pay, it would be empty."

"I see. Well, I suppose you could move to another city—"

"Shaskala is my home, gracious lady. I just hate to see what this kanz is doing to it."

I hid a smile. It had only just occurred to me, this late in the conversation, that my Athenan teachers would have seen the ethics of the matter quite differently. I put out my hand. "A barbarian custom," I explained, "to seal our bargain."

We shook on it. There was no sorcerous glow, no explosion, no doves and balloons in the air. But quite suddenly I knew. Bless honest Hilo's heart, he was every bit as corrupt as he claimed. My smile returned, and this time I made no attempt to hide it.

"My husband is a sorcerer," I said, committing myself, and finally my uniformed friend looked surprised. And wondering how they would all take it, I added, "I have sort of a plan."

Chapter Five

Stereth Tar'krim and his barbarian companion, eh? I'd met a few semi-legendary figures on Ivory but I really hadn't planned on stepping into any storybooks myself. When the first moon was high over the city to our east, I was waiting in Damask Lane with a slaughterhouse meatwagon and two drivebeasts. The wagon stank.

Have I mentioned that before coming to Ivory I'd only eaten artificial meats? No matter. I held onto the reins and wondered if the streetsingers would make up a new song about the daring escape of Stereth Tar'krim. I hoped that they would. Better than they should make up one about the double execution of the outlaw and the friend who tried to break him out of jail.

"Theodora?" said a low voice nearby. Only one person in the city would call me that. It was a sickle moon, and I peered through the darkness at the alley's mouth, still trying to make out some sort of figure when a hand touched. my arm.

I must have jumped a foot. Only the conflicting fear of notice kept me from yelping wildly. "Are you all right?" said Ran's voice.

I put my hand over my heart. It felt as though there were a pigeon trapped in there. "Fine, just fine," I hissed, resenting the question. I saw his outline dimly now; he was still wearing the good clothes he'd gone out with that morning, and looked none the worse for wear. Break the man out of prison, and he was in better shape than I was.

Hilo appeared on the other side of me. "You look surprised, my lady," he said. "Didn't you think it would work?"

Truthfully, I hadn't. I'd never planned a jailbreak before. I'd participated in them, but that's not the same thing.

"No problem at all, really," said Hilo, grinning. "I brought him his dinner, and the coins I'd taken from the guards were under the plate. I just said, 'Tymon sends you this, and I'll be back in an hour.' Didn't say a word to me, you know, I wondered if he'd heard."

Adrenaline made Hilo talkative. It does that to a lot of people. The first time I'd been in a similar situation I'd practically pulled Ran's clothes off afterward. Hilo went on, "So I come in an hour later, and all three of them are stretched out at their posts, dead to the world. I took the keys, and here we are."

By giving Ran things that belonged to the duty guards, Hilo had made them vulnerable to sorcery from a distance. I said, "The only iffy part was whether you could win the coins away from them."

Hilo smiled smugly. "That was never in doubt, gracious lady."

Ran had climbed in beside me in the wagon seat. "What now?"

"Down the Winding Road," said Hilo. "It'll look like any wagon on its way to the slaughterhouse distribution centers below. That's where they pack the meat in ice, or dry and salt it. Anyone asks, you say you're from a small butcher shop in town, looking to get a few coins from some excess carcasses."

Ran turned to me. "Have you paid this fine gentleman?"

"Partially," I said. "I believe we could do better for him."

He bowed to Hilo. "My House will be in touch."

"I have every faith in you," said Hilo. He threw us a salute as our wagon drew out of the lane and we headed toward the Winding Road.

The city was dark and silent. It was early in the night for a meatwagon to travel, but not unheard of. "I hate to lose another car," said Ran, referring to the one we would have to leave behind.

I turned to look at him in the dim moonlight. "Be glad you're alive."

He said, "Isn't that an employee lesson carved on the doors of the cheaper brothels?"

"Really? I'm surprised you know so much about the cheaper brothels."

I heard his low chuckle and felt him put one arm around me. "All right. Thank you very much, Theodora. I won't say I wasn't worried."

Long ago, the Shaskalans planted a grove of sutu trees at the edge of town. They whispered in the night breeze as we approached, their feathery tops swaying. The air should have been full of their heavy spice, but the stench of our cargo blocked it.

I pulled sharply on the reins. "What's that?"

I pointed down the incline of the road, half-hidden by the grove, where a necklace of small fires hung in the night. Ran leaned forward and put a hand on mine.

"They're too big for torches," he said.

I peered through the swaying trees. "Oil drums," I said finally.

"A roadblock."

"For us? How could they get ahead of us like that? They shouldn't even have missed you till morning, and even if somebody came in and saw, how could they move so quickly?"

"Who knows? But nobody matching my description with a barbarian friend sitting beside him is going to get through there tonight." He'd taken the reins and was turning the wagon around.

"Wait a minute here—where are we going?"

"I don't know. I don't know." He looked no more pleased than I did. "But you remember that road, Theodora, how narrow it is. There's no way we can get past without being seen."

So we clopped back into Shaskala. The sickle moon was high now. I looked at the faces of the buildings as we passed under the balconies. The whole city felt like a prison to me, one we couldn't get out of.

Halfway down the main street I said, "Keep going."

He turned tome. "What?"

"Keep going. Don't stop. We can't stay in this town anymore, and if we can't go down we'll have to go up."

Ran's face was blank, as it always became when his thoughts were especially turbulent. "But there's nothing up there but the High Plateau, and the Northwest Sector."

"Then we'll have to go to the Northwest Sector."

He continued to look at me. Then he turned back to the

reins, and the wagon rumbled on through the Shaskalan streets, and out to the outlaw road.

It was windy farther up the plateau, and the road became more narrow. We wouldn't have made it in a groundcar. But the night was clear and the drivebeast had been bred for this kind of climb.

I said, "You're all right, aren't you?"

"Sure, why wouldn't I be all right?"

"You're holding your right arm."

He shifted in the wagon seat. "I slept on it."

I thought about what we were riding into, and said, "I wish we had a map with us. I only have the vaguest memory of what this territory looks like. Still, one of the ranchers must have a Net connection—we can get through to Kylla or somebody in the family, and they can come and get us."

He said only, "A Net connection? In the Northwest Sector?"

Well, he was being a cheerful companion. "You sure you're all right?"

"Theodora, trust me, I'm fine." He took his hand away from his right arm. "Under the circumstances, a little worry is normal."

"Umm."

A few hours later we came out onto level ground: the top of the plateau. Ran shook himself to attention and said, "I think we should bear straight ahead. Most of the big ranches and farms are along the main track." He looked at me. "Are you getting tired, tymon? I can take over. I didn't mean to leave you on your own, I guess I was preoccupied."

"That's all right. Agonizing over our future has kept me pretty busy."

He took the reins and the drivebox. "I don't suppose we have anything in the way of supplies, or anything to build a fire with?"

"Nobody anticipated this part of the trip. We've got a ton of dead animal flesh, though. Hope you like it raw."

He nodded glumly at this information. "You know, the laws of magic say that some people are like lightning rods. I don't know what it is about you, tymon, but whenever you

come to this world I end up cut off from my family, traveling under an assumed name, and without any money."

"Are you trying to lay responsibility for this at my door?"

"No, no. Heavens, no."

Grotesque shapes loomed on either side of us in the darkness, the wind-twisted trees of the plateau. They seemed to crawl sideways on the ground, their branches frozen in spasm; some of them had managed to sprout and retain a few leaves, though, and they rustled as we passed.

Ran said, "I guess we should be thankful it's a clear night. I always heard the skies were misty up here."

"For a clear night you can't see very far. Do you think we should hole up till daylight?"

And a voice, not Ran's, said: "I wouldn't think so. Not with the distance we have to cover."

A speedy getaway is simply not an option with a freighthauler. I hit the STOP on the drivebox and reached for my weapons. Ran had already dived back over the seat, and I remembered that he was still unarmed.

"Please!" said the voice, reprovingly, and a large shape lumbered from the tree-shadows. It was a man seated on some kind of modified riding animal. The man was normal-sized but the mount, its white fur pale in the moonlight, came up past the wagon seat and could easily have carried two or three. "Let's not be unfriendly," said the man. His voice was a pleasant baritone, and what I could see of his face showed him to be relatively young, and not at all bad to look at.

"Since you're at our mercy anyway," said a new voice. I spun around and saw another man, shorter and stockier than the first, his hair shaved close to his head, standing at attention on the back of the wagon. His pistol was pointing directly at Ran.

Two more figures appeared on the roadside, both armed. "Kanz," I heard Ran mutter. He stood up.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" He looked around and said, "Gentlemen and lady, I mean."

That made me check again. It was dark, but one of the people standing on the side was either a woman or a crossdresser.

Moonlight was directly on the face of the mounted man, and he grinned. "Des Helani, honored by this meeting. May

I present Mora Sobien Ti—" the woman inclined her head, "—and Lex na'Valory, and Grateth Tar'briek standing behind you with the pistol. As you can tell from his name, Grateth was in the army and he knows how to shoot, so a word to the wise."

"I was in the army, too," said Lex na'Valory sullenly. He was a large man, solidly built, with short, wiry black hair.

"I didn't mean to imply you weren't," said Des Helani.

"And at least I had an honorable discharge," the man went on.

"He also lives up to his name," said Ran, and Lex na'Valory glared at him. "Road-names," Ran continued speculatively. "I take it that you're outlaws."

"And you're taking it well, too," said Des Helani. He dismounted and approached the wagon. "May I ask you both to get down?"

I held onto the grip and put one foot in the stirrup-step. A hand was on my arm; supporting me, and then Des Helani stepped away. Ran jumped down beside me, looking suspicious. This close, and with the moon on his face, I could see that the outlaw's eyes were cat-green, unusual but not unheard of for an Ivoran. His hair was brown, not black, and a lighter brown than usual. He saw me looking at him and he stepped forward and put a hand around each of my upper arms.

"Hey," said Ran. The stocky bandit with the pistol moved toward him.

But Des Helani merely swung me around so that I was facing the moon, now low in the west. "So it's true," he said happily, "suddenly the world is full of lovely barbarian women." And he bent and kissed my hand.

Ran looked disgusted. The moon was on his face, too, and I could see his lip curl. It's true, our bandit's manner was cliched, but it was a conscious cliched that he invited us to join him in. His tone so clearly said, "Please overlook my excesses, and play this game with me. I'm having too much fun to stop."

His energy was contagious, and I found myself smiling. I don't doubt that if I'd had a handkerchief to drop he would have bowed as he picked it up. In the constant dance of male and female, this was clearly a partner who always let you know where he was stepping next.

Mora Sobien Ti put a hand on the reins of our drivebeast, her brown skin bleached by the dim light. "If none of you minds," she said in a cool voice, "we do have a long way to go. And it'll be dawn in twenty minutes."

"Right," said Des Helani, suddenly all business. "The barbarian can ride with me, she's too small to be any problem for my mount. Lex and Mora, you can share the other mount, and Grateth can watch over our other new friend as he drives the cart."

So there was another of those tall animals tethered nearby. I said, "You really want me to climb all the way up there on that thing?" It came out more hollowly than I'd intended. The outlaw laughed. "It's modified, sweetheart, it wouldn't know how to be aggressive if it wanted to. And if you hold onto me tight enough, you won't fall off."

I had to climb up onto the wagon seat before I could maneuver onto the beast. Ran helped me. He said, "I think I should mention that we don't have any money. And I have doubts about anyone wanting to pay ransom for us."

"Ransom? The thought never entered our minds." Des Helani saw to it that I was settled and added, "You're the sorcerers who were staying in Shaskala. We've got work for you."

He touched his heels to the mount's side and we moved off. I turned briefly and saw Ran standing on the wagon, his face studiously blank.

So as it turned out, Hilo was on everybody's payroll. Not only were we paying him and this outlaw band as well, the City of Shaskala was still giving him his regular salary. It may not have been unrelated after all, that a roadblock had forced us in a direction most people avoided. And I really didn't think the chambermaid back at the inn would have anything to worry about when it came to buying those sheets and towels and things that are so important for a young couple just starting out in the world.

The sun comes up quickly on the plateau. I didn't know it then, but this was one of the rarest things there: a clear morning. I turned once and saw a sunrise of incredible beauty; turned again a few minutes later and it was over, the sky a simple shade of gray. There were fewer trees along the track. On all sides of us an ocean of short coarse

grass fanned away into eternity. There were plants here and there in it that I'd never seen before, and purple and white flowers with spiky leaves. Not that the ocean was entirely flat; there were hills and valleys all the way around us, and we forded three streams before noon.

"Hasn't anyone told you about the Northwest Sector?" Des splashed water on his face. "Three out of four water sources here are poisonous."

"Oh." I exchanged a glance with Ran, who'd pulled off his outer robe and shirt and was taking the opportunity to do a quick wash. Getting out of this territory was looking more and more difficult.

Ran gave a slight shrug and dried himself with his shirt. I said to Des, "How can you tell which are poisonous?"

"By asking someone who knows," said Des. He held the reins to his mount and motioned to me. "Up you go, sweetheart." He hauled me over; he was stronger than he looked.

"Des, are you the Stereth Tar'krim everybody is looking for?"

Lex na'Valory gave him a leg up and he climbed on in front of me. "Certainly not," he said. "We're just good friends."

Daylight showed Des Helani to be in his early thirties, with a long and easy grace that sat well on a mount. Lex na'Valory and Grateth Tar'briek looked about the same age, or perhaps Grateth was a little younger. Lex's face bore a constant expression of discontent. Grateth was stocky, even-tempered, competent, and never far from his weapons. He carried at least two knives that I could see and I noticed that whatever he was doing, Ran seemed to be in his line of sight. Both of them wore the army in their posture, but somehow what seemed like discipline in the way Grateth held himelf became resentment when you watched Lex na'Valory. Mora Sobien Ti was older, with streaks of gray in her black hair. Her outer robe was short,

more like a jacket, and her inner robe was cut like a riding skirt. I'd never seen a riding skirt on this planet. They all bore the air of people who were used to the life they lived; who washed and drank when they could and paid no attention when they couldn't.

As for me, I ached from riding and dreamed of stretching out in one of the professional baths back in the capital.

"You barbarians are such fragile creatures," marveled Des Helani when we stopped for a brief rest, and he saw me trying to contort my body into some position that would give it relief. "Cantry is the same way."

"Cantry?"

"You'll meet her. Another barbarian, you could be sisters."

We went on and the afternoon grew mistier and mistier. "This is more like it," said Des. Our mount picked its way along the trail and I heard the wagon behind us.

"You prefer this weather?"

"All outlaws prefer this weather, darling. You'll get to like it, too."

That did not strike me as encouragingly as he'd meant it to.

In late afternoon we came to the edge of a low valley, a wide, shallow saucer of land in the middle of nowhere. Two twisted plateau trees marked the start of a trampled pathway that led down through the long grass. Our wagon followed Des Helani's mount into the mist, and after a few minutes I said, "There's a building." I was still riding behind Des and I felt him take a deep breath.

"That's ours, darling," he said. "That's our home. A little wet on rainy nights, but serviceable."

Stone walls broke through the mist. As we drew nearer I could see the whole thing: An ancient wall of gray stone with taller, equally ruined buildings within. An old monastery? A fort? Physically, it would be hard to tell the difference between the two, at least on this world.

Des slid off his mount and helped me down. He said, "Mora, we'd better salvage what we can of the meat. Some of it smells a bit high."

"I'll take it to the cookhouse," she said, and stood by the wagon, her arms folded, waiting for Ran to get down.

Ran climbed down slowly. Mora took the drivebox from him and led our cart and beasts away.

He came over and stood beside me. "Well?" he said to Des Helani.

"Please," said Des. "Guests first." And he motioned us toward the entrance. Grateth and Lex na'Valory fell in behind us.

We entered what I later found was the main building of the fort. It had a large public hall and ten smaller rooms, five on each side. About half of them were lacking their fair share of the roof. A fire burned on the floor at one end of the hall, and at the other was a collection of mats, cushions, boulders, and a truly excellent large table of gleaming darkwood, with any number of candles on it. It was dark and smoky in the hall. And at the end we were headed for, it was crowded.

A good dozen outlaws were stretched out at their ease on the cushions. I couldn't take them all in then; there were men and women, young and middle-aged, dressed colorfully and drably, busy and idle. Most of them wore trousers, like the fishermen and outdoor-working provincials I'd seen in the past; but beside that, many wore jackets or short outer robes of intricate, patterned colors that reminded me of Andulsine carpets. These people certainly weren't trying to blend into the scenery—crimson and gold, midnight blue, swirls of deep purple—a treasure of color moved in the darkness, flicked into prominence here and there by the store of candles.

And as for the jewelry, my sister-in-law Kylla would have been considered downright conservative.

Des Helani's stride lengthened, and he stood straighter. "I was magnificent!" he called. "Shall I tell you how magnificent I was?"

"Can we stop you?" said a voice.

"Tell us, Des!" said a woman, laughing. "Tell us how magnificent you were."

"I was glorious," he said, and by then we'd reached the center of the group. A young man with a face beautiful even by the standards of Ivory sat there on a boulder, polishing an old short sword. "But first, introductions," Des continued. He passed by the young man and stood in front of another, older man holding a sheaf of papers. This one

was in his thirties and had the look of a scholar—or an accountant—with mild dark eyes and prematurely graying hair. He was wearing spectacles.

"Allow me to present the most sought-after prison-guest in the Northwest Sector," said Des, declaiming the words like an actor. "Stereth Tar'krim. Stereth—" suddenly his voice dropped into normality, "—these are the ones from the message."

Stereth Tar'krim blinked up at us from his cushion. He put down his papers, stood, and adjusted his spectacles as he frankly looked over Ran and me.

For your sake, imaginary reader, I will pause here and tell you what spectacles are. Picture a small circle of glass bordered by a rim of gold wire. Then picture a matching circle of glass, connected to the first by more wire. Now imagine someone looking through these circles of glass— each circle being directly in front of an eye, you see. Of course, they're not floating there in air before this person's face—they're held up by a bridge over the top of the nose, and anchored by extensions of the wire that reach back and over the tops of the ears.

You'll probably be wondering about the purpose of all this. It's not an adornment—anyway, not generally. It's an aid in vision. You see, the glasses are not just normal glass; they're actually lenses that compensate for eyesight problems. You can see versions of them in pictures of people from history. If you're wondering why Stereth Tar'krim didn't simply have his eyes fixed or replaced, you've failed to grasp the point that first as an Ivoran and then as an outlaw, he was in no position to have that done. Even if he knew about the option.

Anyway, the contraption may sound unstable, but it really does sit on your face without any difficulty—except, as now, when Stereth had to push it back up the bridge of his nose.

Excuse me for interrupting my history at such a dramatic meeting, but it was something you needed to know.

Now—as I said, Stereth pushed back his spectacles, peered at us, and said, "Honored by this meeting. Des, we got your relay. I see you took the initiative."

"You said I was in charge."

"I know. You were. You did a fine job."

"I was magnificent!… Wasn't I?'

"You did the right thing, and I'm glad you didn't wait to consult me. We might have lost them."

Des grinned and relaxed. Ran glanced at me and we exchanged careful looks at how wanted we apparently were.

"I hope you weren't alarmed at being invited here," Stereth said to us. "I hope Des made you as comfortable as possible."

"He was charming," I said.

"He always is," said Stereth. "And now, if I may ask, which of you is the sorcerer?"

I said nothing, and Ran stood there looking unhappy. Finally he said, "Gracious sir—"

Stereth Tar'krim interrupted him. "The rules here are different. You can call me Stereth to my face, and what you call me otherwise doesn't matter."

"Stereth," said Ran. "May I ask what makes you think that either of us is a sorcerer?"

Stereth smiled, a very mild smile. "We keep trained messenger-birds here. Later, when you have leisure, you might go and visit the coop over by the west wall. We share these birds with friends of ours who are too far away to visit."

"With a Shaskalan cop named Hilo?" I asked.

Stereth said, "It's good to have friends. A bird from Shaskala returned to one of our stations, near where Des' group was operating. He took it upon himself to arrange this meeting."

From the cushion where he'd deposited himself, Des looked up. "I was magnificent."

Stereth gave in gracefully. "Yes, Des, you were magnificent."

"He wasn't that good," said Lex na'Valory.

"We can use a sorcerer," said Stereth. "We need every edge we can get, just to survive. We can pay well."

"With stolen goods and tabals," put in Ran.

"Is a professional sorcerer in any position to make moral judgments? How many people have you ruined or killed? Is sorcery not still illegal in the empire, or have I missed something?" Stereth's voice was gentle, toneless, and made me shiver.

"People accept what I do as part of life," said Ran, mak-

ing no more vain pretense as to which of us was the one they wanted. "It's technically illegal, yes, but nobody cares. But you're—"

"An acknowledged outlaw? Liable to hang? Very likely. That's not a moral inferiority, though, it's just the reality of my greater relative risk." He said it reasonably, like one business person speaking to another about the ups and downs of the market.

"I was going to say, you're a bandit. You rob innocent travelers and raid people's homes."

Stereth took no offense. He smiled, touched the shoulder of the unnaturally handsome boy with the sword, and took over his seat on the boulder. "I hate to get into these morality contests. Won't you sit down?" He indicated the pillows and cushions scattered on the hall floor.

"Thank you, I prefer to stand."

Generally making someone look up at you is considered a psychological advantage. Stereth just looked relaxed. If anything, it made Ran seem like some schoolboy or employee called into the main office for a reprimand.

Stereth said, "Since your options have pretty much dwindled, why don't we talk about your salary?"

"I'm not working for you."

"I can start you with a retainer of two thousand ta-bals—"

"That's very kind of—"

"And both your lives." A silence descended upon us all. I heard someone in the group crack a nut. "Perhaps your wife should have some input into this," said Stereth.

I opened my mouth and Ran said, "She's not my wife."

Des Helani sat up straight, and Stereth's face showed very faint surprise. "Oh? Des—"

"That's not what I heard from Shaskala," said Des.

Ran said, "It makes life easier in inns and in our job if we just say that we're married. But she's my assistant—and a recent assistant at that. We only started working together a few weeks ago."

It's hard to keep people as hostages for one another when they barely know each other. But how believable this would be—

Des called, "Is that true, darling? If I'd know you were free, I'd've let you ride closer to me."

I met his look squarely and said, "If we'd ridden any closer, I'd be pregnant."

This brought whoops from Des' friends. Stereth turned to me and allowed a genuine smile to form, lifting his iron control by about ten percent—just enough to let pure, shared enjoyment show—and I realized this was another one who could turn on the charm. He said, "You're not as quiet as you look."

"I don't think you are either," I said slowly.

Our smiles held. Then Stereth pushed up his glasses again and turned back to my non-husband.

"So you're saying any threats I might make to your friend would be pointless."

"Ishin na' telleth," said Ran. "It's all one to me. A business decision—you should understand that."

"Oh, I do. —Cantry, put that jar down and join us." He was looking up and I followed his gaze to see a narrow balcony running the length of the hall. A young woman was carrying a large clay jar, about a third as large as she was tall, and now she set it on a place on the balcony with a lot of other jars. She had short, curly fair hair and was slightly built—the other barbarian. She wiped her forehead with one arm and called down to Stereth, "I'm not finished yet."

"You are for now," said Stereth. "We have guests. Des can finish for you later."

"Thanks," said Des. "It's not my turn to carry water till tomorrow."

"Claim the credit," said Stereth. "Tell her it was your idea."

Cantry had disappeared from the balcony, and a few seconds later she reappeared in an archway across the room. She walked over to stand by Stereth.

He said, "My wife, Cantry. —These two people say they aren't married, beloved. What do you think? Do they look married to you?"

Cantry slid one arm around his waist and evaluated us. Her eyes were light brown, her face was clear and childlike. This was the barbarian I'd been mistaken for in Shaskala, whom Des said might be my sister? She was my height, but that was about it. Her hair was blond, for heaven's sake.

All barbarians look alike to these people. Cantry said finally, "They feel married to me."

"Me, too. But people get that look just from being together, they say. You start to resemble your pet lizard after a few months."

Stereth was clearly enjoying playing with us. He couldn't have any proof, though. Ran said, "I'm not going to work for you, and neither of us would bring in much ransom. You may as well let us go."

"Let you go! —Des, did you tell these good people they would be held against their will? Forgive me. You can leave any time. Any time you feel up to traveling alone across the Sector. We've confiscated your wagon, but you can still go on foot. Try not to eat or drink anything, and if you meet anybody on the way, just say you're innocent travelers, and I'm sure they'll let you past."

Not to mention that directions had gotten a little confused in the mist on the way here.

Ran was silent, and Stereth said, "You see what I mean about options." He motioned to Cantry, who brought over a bottle of wine and some bowls. Stereth poured, drank some to show it was clean, and handed us each a bowl. "Still." He smiled. "The sun is sinking, the night is young, and I'm sure we have much to discuss. We don't ask each other our birth-names, here, but if you want to volunteer them it's all right. Otherwise, we'll just have to say 'hey, guest' until we come up with nicknames for you both."

"I already have a nickname," I said. The wine was red and incredibly strong. "Gods, don't you water this stuff? — Tymon, that's my nickname."

" 'Tymon.' And this doesn't offend you?"

"Not if it's said with respect and affection."

"I shall endeavor to meet your requirements. And your, um, business associate… ?"

Ran looked up from the bowl. "Call me Sokol," he said.

Sokol is a word frequently seen in Ivoran literature. I used it myself a great deal when I collected folktales all through the south. It means "anonymous."

Stereth gazed at him as a man will who has suffered a thing too long to take offence at further indignities. "Sokol," he repeated. He sighed. "I can see," he said, "that this will take some time."

Chapter Six

The Ivoran word for rice, krim, is also the generic term for grain, and covers wheat, corn, oats, rye, and barley as well. But you see the importance they place on rice in their culture.

Rice doesn't grow anywhere on the High Plateau, and it didn't grow much in Tammas District, where Stereth Tar'krim grew up—he was Davor Metonid then. There was an aborted revolution in Tammas District: Burned fields, food shortages, and an influx of unsympathetic soldiers from the Emperor's special forces. None of this had much to do with Davor Metonid, except that his wife and child were hungry and his job at the Imperial Records office went up in flames (literally) when the district capital was burned. He stole two loaves of bread from a black marketeer who was under the protection of the Imperial Guard Captain and after being hung from a pole for an afternoon he was cut down (quite without malice) and sent to the district prison. His nearsightedness would not allow him a berth in the army, where most convicted felons ended up.

His wife and child died, whether from sickness or starvation is hard to say. One may have advanced the other. In any case, Davor Metonid now had only himself to worry about, and a two-year stint in Tammas District Prison.

I don't pretend to know what was going through his head at that point. However, somewhere along the line, with fourteen Ivoran months still to serve, Davor Metonid engineered a group escape. He took four men with him. They killed six guards on the way out—nothing like burning your bridges, apparently. Hanging is the penalty for attempted escape from an Imperial prison. Killing a guard is considered worse. Once out, he suggested they make for the Northwest Sector, a good month away on foot. They disagreed. They all

had friends at home, they said, who would hide them while they figured out what to do. Davor made no attempt to argue; he said that he had no friends himself, wished them luck, and left them. They were all captured and crucified within the next few days. Davor came to the Northwest Sector, to the High Plateau, and began his career.

It started with two loaves of bread back in Tammas District. And that's why he was called Stereth Tar'krim. Rice thief.

Being in an outlaw fort in the Northwest Sector is a little like being in the army. You meet a lot of people from a lot of different places, and learn any number of personal histories. And somehow none of the personal histories, however different from your own, weighs as much as the fact as you are all stuck in the same present situation.

I woke up on the women's side of the sleeping quarters. If Ran hadn't come up with that story about our just being business associates, we could've slept together in one of the little rooms off the hall and it would have been comforting.

I sidled up to Ran while we were waiting on line to get access to the waterjars for our morning wash, and mentioned that fact to him.

"It was a good idea. Anyway, I didn't have a lot of time to think." Ran shivered in the early morning cold. His chest was bare. "Somehow I never anticipated standing in a ruin in the Northwest Sector, being offered a retainer by a killer with glasses."

"Pardon," said a voice nearby, and the gorgeous youngster who'd been cleaning his short sword last night walked past Ran, this time carrying one of the tall waterjars.

Ran turned to watch him. "Did you catch his accent?" he asked me.

"What accent? He didn't have one."

"That's what I mean. If he wasn't born out of the Six Families, he was damned close to it. He talks the way you and I do, Theodora."

People have claimed before that I've picked up Ran's high-toned accent. I have to take it with a grain of salt, because I've never been entirely clear that Ran had one. The boy came back past us empty-handed, on his way to get another jar. He paused and bowed to us both.

"I'm making up the water schedule," he said courteously, "and if you have any preferences, I would be happy to incorporate them."

"Preferences?" I asked.

"As to which days you would rather be on water-carrying duty. The well is out back. This bunch seems to require a great deal of washing, not to mention drinking."

Ran blinked. "Water-carrying? Me?"

The boy regarded him.

Ran said, "I thought I was a guest."

The boy said, "A long-term guest. You might say we're all long-term guests."

"I've never carried water in my life. Don't you have people to do that?"

"There are no servants here, Sokol. You'll find that we're all equals before the law, all liable to equal execution. I carry water twice a month, and they call me Sembet Triol."

Sembet Triol—nobly born. That put him one up on Ran. The Cormallons weren't one of the Six Families, they were one of a dozen or so that claimed to be the "seventh."

"You have a preference, Tymon?" he asked me.

"Any day is fine."

"Sokol? It means getting up before everyone else."

"Any day is equally vile."

"Very good, then. Glad to have you with us," he finished, bowing yet again, and then he went off to fetch more water.

When I got to the front of one of the lines, a woman who said her name was Carabinstereth, with an extraordinary heart-shaped face and slanted blue eyes, upended a jar over my head. She did it with enthusiasm and grinned when I yelped. "Cleanliness is one of the Eight Virtues of Private Life," she pronounced, mischief in those alien eyes. Her hair was cut like a round cap on her head—shorter than I'd ever seen a woman wear it on this planet.

"Discretion is one of the others," I said, when I could talk again.

She clapped me on the shoulder. "A scholar," she said happily. "We're going to get along fine, Tymon." She wiped my face and handed me the towel. "Run along and don't miss breakfast."

I used to really be a scholar, you know. No, dammit, I still was one, in spite of not quite making the doctoral

requirements. Wasn't my Riddles, Proverbs, and Folktales of Ivory being suggested for the Cross-Cultural Myths and Legends program?

Thoughts like this popped up from time to time like armed guerrillas in my path. Here on the High Plateau they seemed particularly alien and foolish. And pathetic.

Breakfast was outside in the damp grass, where a great slab of meat was roasting over an open cookfire. I thought I recognized the carcass from our wagonload. People were standing about talking, sitting on rocks or on one of the low, crumbling walls of gray stone that went all over the grounds. I spotted Ran eating alone and sat next to him.

"Maybe if we told these folk our House name they would offer us for ransom," I said.

He shook his head, his mouth full of breakfast meat. A minute later he said, "I don't want the Cormallon treasury losing any more money because of me. And think what it would do to my reputation."

"Still, living out our lives in the Northwest Sector has very little appeal for me."

"It's more serious than that. We were mistaken for Stereth Tar'krim and Cantry back in Shaskala. If I call attention to us now—well, I don't want the Cormallon name associated with treasonous activity in the Northwest Sector."

"Maybe we could turn this band in. You'd be a hero then, wouldn't you?"

"I don't want our name even to be in the same sentence as treason in people's minds. You don't know how nervous the Prime Minister can get. Entire Houses have been destroyed before this."

I looked around at the outlaws chatting over breakfast. "Do they consider this treason? I thought it was simple robbery and murder."

"When it comes to the Northwest Sector, there's a very fine line in people's minds. Armies have come out of here before. Annurian started quite a fine little revolt before he was captured."

"Well, and he went on to have a good career, didn't he?"

Ran dropped his bone on the ground. "Annurian was bought off with an army post because he was too successful. Nobody anticipated he'd go on to become Prime Minister." An argument broke out near the fire between Lex na'Valory

and a tall woman in violet trousers. Ran continued, "And I suppose his ex-comrades were less than pleased when he began arresting them. No, the whole issue is one we're well out of."

"Except that we're not."

"Not yet."

I ripped into a small leg bone, thinking that there was a time when that sort of thing had really disgusted me. I said, "When is Cormallon going to find us? Before Stereth gives up on us, I hope." Ran pursed his lips. I said, "What? Won't they be looking? Don't tell me the First of Cormallon can disappear and nobody will notice."

He said, "We might have gone anywhere from Shaskala. Even assuming we'd be traced to Shaskala to begin with— we did use assumed names there. The last time anybody from Cormallon heard from us we were in the capital."

"But they knew where we were going!"

He looked sour. "What did you tell them?"

"I told Herel not to expect us back for several weeks, and to have Spet handle the household accounts. And I told Kylla we were going away on a project… and a honeymoon."

"I told Jad to take care of local matters and consult my cousins in Mira-Stoden if anything difficult came up. I did give him a number to leave messages at in Shaskala—but Jad is good about these things. Shows proper initiative. Short of an armed revolt, I don't think he'd disturb me." Ran brightened. "There's a full family council meeting, all branch heads required, on the fourth of Dumare. If I don't show up for that, it'll definitely draw attention." Then his face fell again. "But that's double-edged. If I don't show up, the representatives will start to wonder about my reliability. Particularly in view of my jaunt to Athena. Not to mention the… trouble… I was in before."

"But when they see it wasn't your fault, that you were kidnapped—"

"Careless, then, as well as unreliable."

We pondered this in gloomy silence.

"Dumare is three months away," I pointed out.

"And we definitely have to escape by then."

"You don't think it can be sooner?"

I must have sounded ready to strike out over the hills

there and then, for he crooked a smile. "I'm only telling you what it can't be later than."

I pictured us out on the plateau, in the rain and wind, with a troop of bandits on our heels. And no sense of direction, no knowledge of safe streams or safe people, no money, leagues from anywhere… and with some angry police waiting at the end of the Shaskala Road. Assuming we could even find the Shaskala Road.

Carabinstereth appeared. She tossed her bone toward the fire in a perfect arc and said, "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

The dawn mist had mostly dissipated and the afternoon mist had not yet closed in. It was still fairly cloudy, though, and I'd become used to clear skies and straw sunhats on this planet. I said, "I can't wait to see what your bad weather is like."

She grinned. "Sokol, I had the honor of dousing your companion this morning in the wash line. If you'll both come with me now, I'll have the honor of showing you our mounts so they can get used to you. Stereth says you're to join us tonight."

Ran's eyes were wary. "Join you in what?"

I don't know if you—my imaginary average Standard reader of this—can tell, but if these don't sound like normal Ivoran names, it's because they're not. They're "road names," identifiers that all Sector outlaws pick up along the way. Using birth-names is considered bad manners, and sometimes grounds for being killed. Partly this is blind tradition, and partly it's due to the fact that the Imperial cops are not above threatening people's families when they feel it's appropriate. If Ran didn't want his real name coming to anybody's attention, you can imagine how people felt who had more to hide.

Here then are the outlaws I came to meet over the next few days—the names of the cantry tar 'meth, or "companions of the road."

The "Companions of the Road"

Stereth Tar'krim—grain thief or stealer of rice Cantry—sidekick or companion Des Helani—cheater at cards

Mora Sobien Ti—late-night woman (Prostitution is not a crime on Ivory, though—I found out later she'd been arrested on murder charges, but still don't know the story.)

Carabinstereth—hell on wheels (won't even try to translate this)

Grateth Tar'briek—escaped four times (from the army, now under death sentence)—literally, "four times of captivity"

Komo—bad breath

Lazarin—too clever for his own good

Paravit-Col—more lucky than smart (nickname from Ivoran traveling theaters, usually given to third son in plays)

Sembet Triol—nobly born

Clintris na'Fli—"too tight-assed to dance"—perhaps the worst of any of these nicknames. This was not used to Clintris' face. In the second person she was called "Natavrin," or "record-writer." She did have the neatest handwriting of any of the companions.

And last and least: Sokol—anonymous Tymon—foreign barbarian without manners

I suppose Cantry's name was the most generic, but it was also the most mysterious. She'd appeared with Stereth soon after he came to the Sector, and since they were always together, and nobody knew who she was—Cantry.

I'd wondered about translating these road-names into Standard in writing this—calling Stereth Tar'krim "Rice Thief" or Cantry "Sidekick"—but I'm afraid that would give you a more colorful idea of things than what really existed. Some of them may have had an anecdotal basis, but these were mostly just used as names, like Linda or Edward back home.

I did notice that there weren't any nicknames like "Killer"—nothing about murder. But then, Lex and Komo

and Grateth had apparently killed any number of people in their combined fifty years of service, and I suppose it wasn't really worth mentioning as far as they were concerned. Besides, Ivory tends to treat crimes against property more seriously than murder.

As it turned out, what Stereth had in mind for us was a cattle raid. Cattle raids are the bread-and-butter of outlawry, or so they explained it to me. The company had robbed any number of homes, towns, and travelers, but they weren't wealthy because money is only good in how far you can spend it. People who sold to outlaws inflated their prices hundreds of times. Somewhere someone was getting rich, but it wasn't in Stereth Tar'krim's company.

Ran's two-thousand tabal retainer would not have done him a lot of good—not on the plateau, anyway. Cattle, however, would bring an adequate price at one of the temporary market towns set up all through the Sector; and what you didn't sell you could eat.

It was all very practical, they explained to us, as they helped us up on those huge mounts and we rode out into the mist and moonlight. Lex na'Valory rode behind me, and the mount behind Ran carried Grateth Tar'briek. Ran turned to look at me just before his mount disappeared behind the two twisted trees at the head of the outlaw's valley. They're trying to get us too involved to get out, the look said.

They're doing a good job of it, too, my look replied.

Smell, and confusion, and trampled grass; mostly smell. Sector cattle are mods, like our drivebeast and like Stereth Tar'krim's mounts; designed for life on the plateau, able to live on the short, moist grasses; and docile, with every trait of aggression removed. Ready to be led, literally, to the slaughter.

Actually, the relationship to the mods I'd used as drivebeasts in the past went farther than I'd thought. We reached the edge of an isolated ranch where twenty or thirty head of cattle appeared and disappeared in the mist, impossible to count. Now and then I could see the lights of a house, very far away in the distance. I sat on my mount, uncomfortable and uncertain of what to do, as the other

outlaws moved forward into the herd. Deep, unhappy lowing came all around us. Lex na'Valory rode closer to me. In his hand was a length of rope whose other end was around my mount's neck. I supposed I should be grateful it wasn't around my own. When his head was near mine he yelled, "You're going to switch!"

"I'm going to what?"

He jerked his chin toward the herd. "We'll spot one of the leaders, and you'll ride it out."

The hell I would. "Why not kill me back at the fort?"

He looked disgusted. "They won't hurt you, they don't know how. You get on, you grab the horns—we've done it before. If it's one of the dominant bulls, they'll follow him out."

"You think I'm going to steer those horns like a groundcar? You're out of your—"

"We've done that, too. But you don't need to. When you're settled, I'll hand you this."

He held out a small drivebox in one hand.

Now I was really worried. Stereth had saddled me with an escort who was mad. "They're not implanted," I said, trying to state the obvious as forcefully as possible.

He nodded impatiently. "They were designed by the same company as your drivebeast. Most implants are only amplifiers. If you're on top of the animal, this works as well. I'm telling you, we've done it!"

I looked at the drivebox. It was very tiny for its type, able to be palmed in one hand, or even part of one hand. Simple directionals, and stop and go.

I looked back at Lex distrustfully. Of course, you could never tell what these Tellys imports were like; maybe the company had marketed all its mods on the same general design.

Three steermods came out of the mists toward us. Cara-binstereth was beside them on a mount. "Take the lead one, Tymon!" she called. Far behind her, in the distance, the mists parted and I saw the lights of the ranchhouse snap off. My eyes must have widened because she turned and looked. "And hurry!" she yelled. She dug in her heels and moved out past us.

Maybe the people in the ranchhouse were just going to bed.

Still, there was probably a price on everyone's head here, and no harm in hurrying.

Lex maneuvered close to me, and when he judged we were in sync with the lead steermod he lifted me out of my saddle and held me on his own mount. This was unexpected, and my involuntary kicking made my mount gallop ahead, apparently what he'd had in mind. Then he pulled in closer and dumped me on the steermod. "Grab the horns!" he yelled.

I flailed for them and just got hold, after winning a long scrape down my forearm from one tip. "Are you ready for the box?"

"No!"

I held on for dear life. The beast moved like an earthquake. I wailed, "If I let go my knees for a second, I'll fall off!"

"I know!"

"If I fall off, I'll get trampled!"

"So be careful!" He kept holding out the box, and eventually I reached out one hand and grabbed it.

I was up around the mod's shoulders, one hand on one horn, my bare legs wrapped compulsively around him and my robe flying behind. I maneuvered the tiny drivebox up into the top of my palm and first joint of my fingers so I could at least partly get hold of the other horn. I could reach the buttons, barely, and tested the directionals.

They worked! If I'd had the attention to spare, I would have let myself be more relieved than I was. I did waste a second glaring at Lex. Who cared how docile these cattle were if I got killed under their feet?

"Come on," he said.

Hadn't there been some ancient Earth queen who'd ridden home from a cattle raid on a bull or a pig or some other legendary animal? This alien raid was an hour's wild ride, under the mists and the moons, through sudden clear pockets of small valley, to the two bent trees that marked home territory. Eight head of cattle were on my heels the whole way. We did all the outlaw tricks, riding through the poison streams and leaving clues that pointed in other directions.

It may sound romantic, but some things are best experienced secondhand. My legs were crying with pain in the

first five minutes, but I didn't dare loosen my grip. My back joined in the general torture shortly thereafter. And of course, it's never pleasant to think you might die at any second. I paid no attention at all to those clever outlaw tricks; I just longed, wished, dreamed that I could be back at that damp fort, the site of my kidnapping.

At last we were there. I slid off into someone's arms— Lex na'Valory's, as it turned out—and my knees buckled as I tried to stand.

Ran reached my side at once. "I got in before you," he said.

"What were you doing?"

"I was on another dominant mod." He supported me halfway to the main hall of the fort, until I felt I could take a few steps on my own. "I brought in twelve head of cattle. How many did you bring in?"

"The hell with you, then," I said, and continued inside under my own power.

Stereth smiled an evil smile when I entered. He was pulling off his boots and his jewelry, dropping a long gold chain onto a crimson cloth beside his mat—Stereth liked to sleep in the main hall, though he and Cantry would disappear now and again for privacy. "Out courting tonight, Tymon? Did you have an interesting time?"

"You could have warned me about how I was getting home."

"I thought you and your sweetheart might enjoy a surprise."

"We barely know each other, Stereth."

"Yes, so he's said."

Cantry came out of one of the smaller rooms, stretching. She wore a mint green robe and bare feet. Apparently she'd been asleep.

I said, somewhat testily, "You missed an active night, Cantry." Subtext to Stereth: Do you play favorites with your lovers when it comes to handing out the unpleasant tasks?

Stereth got it at once. He said mildly, "My wife usually rides the chief steermod home. It takes a lot out of her, I thought she deserved one raid off."

Cantry herself was quiet, as usual. He said, "She's a tiny barbarian, like you. Suited to the job."

"You had Sokol ride one, too, and he's not a tiny barbarian."

He smiled again. "I thought it might help loosen him up. How about it, Tymon, do you think he'll start to be reasonable? —But I forgot. You hardly know him. How could you possibly judge."

I was going to start grinding my teeth if I stayed here much longer. "I'm going to bed," I stated, and walked, or rather staggered, toward the jumble of mats on the women's side.

"Good night," said Cantry.

"Pleasant dreams, cattle-thief," said Stereth. He didn't say it mockingly. He said it affectionately.

If I dreamed, I don't remember it.

Chapter Seven

A hand on my shoulder woke me around dawn. For a second I was completely disoriented, not even knowing what planet I was on, or which I should be on. Then memory flooded back in a wave of relief—there was the crumbling stone wall, the pile of blankets; this was where I'd been kidnapped to.

There was still order in the universe. My life since childhood had been defined by being in places where I had no intention of staying.

Ran was bending over me, a finger on his lips. I looked around the hall; everyone else seemed to be asleep. I'd bedded down a little away from the other women, probably a reflection of my psychological state, so I ought to be able to move without catching anyone's notice. The room was still dark. The fire was making that start-and-flicker that meant it was dying. I got up very quietly, leaving my sandals, and followed Ran out.

The valley was cold and dark, and the grass was damp against my feet. I noted that Ran was not carrying his pack, just a blanket rolled under one arm. I said, "You're not thinking of running away, I hope."

"A feasible opening has not yet arisen." I knew that tone of voice, and he had a pleased look on his face for someone who was admitting a lack of control over the situation.

"Then why are we out here?" He dropped the blanket and put his arms around me.

"Because we haven't had one minute of privacy for what seems like years."

Good heavens.

"Are you sure this is a good ide—"

Ran kicked the blanket open.

A while later I said, "Weren't we taking a chance?"

Ran said smugly, "Nobody's visible to the night lookout until they get at least a hundred meters from the main building. I checked."

"Not very efficient."

"It wouldn't be, in a prison, but the place was built for defense. You've got dirt on your cheek. Hold still."

He rubbed it off with his thumb. I said, "And after the hundred meters, the whole band would be after us. We'd have to leave without alerting the lookout."

"I know."

I waited for further comment, and when it didn't come I said, "There's not a lot of point in being kidnapped with a sorcerer unless he can use magic to get you away."

He sighed. "I have been thinking about it, Theodora. First, there's the lookout—"

"A seeded illusion. Non-grounded to our persons, aimed at just one target. Those don't take massive preparation."

"I'm glad to see your studies continue. All right, I've considered it, and there are risks… but if we know who'll be on duty on a particular night, it'll up the percentages in our favor."

"So—"

"Well, where do we go after we leave this valley? I hope you have some idea, because I don't."

I was afraid he'd say that. "I was hoping you had some trick I hadn't gotten to in the texts yet."

"I'm sorry, but you've had the full survey course. The rest is just detail."

How depressing. I spoke from my scholarly past: "We need to gather more data."

He checked them off on his fingers. "Nearest towns, roads, friendly and unfriendly areas. Or rather, this being the Northwest Sector, neutral and unfriendly areas. Maybe we can get to a farm and pay off one of the people there to travel to Shaskala and call for help."

"Huh. Let's hope they're willing to work on credit. Stereth's got all our cash."

"And he's a lot nearer. Easier to turn us over to him, if he's looking. And from what I hear, these Sector farmers stay pretty close to home. If there's a drivebeast, he's prob-

ably needed on the farm. So would everybody else in the family be, too. But at the moment, it's the only thing I can think of."

And we didn't even know where the good water was. But we were both aware of that, so I didn't say it. I turned my head and saw Ran looking thoughtfully past his toes at the beaten grass path that led to the lip of the valley. Gloomy though our conversation was, it was comforting to have him there. I hated to have us break up and deal with the outlaws on our own. "I suppose we'd better get back inside," 1 said, not very forcefully.

"It's barely dawn, you know. They won't start rattling the waterjars for another couple of hours."

I turned on my side and rested my head on one elbow. "Tell me about when you were young," I said, since he almost never talked about it. And I suppose I didn't want to think about the Northwest Sector for a while. "Tell me what it was like growing up in Cormallon."

Ran stirred underneath the blue outer robe he'd put over us. "You really want to hear about that?"

"You never talk about it."

"I didn't think you were interested."

We were lying in a niche between the side of the fort and the stone gutter that ran around the inside of the old defense wall. The valley was becoming gray in the distance, the hills visible. I felt guilty suddenly, because I'd always thought it was Ran who wasn't interested in that kind of thing.

I said at random, "Did you know this used to be a monastery of fighting monks?"

"Yes. The Torasticans. They're extinct now."

"Why are they extinct?"

"Monks shouldn't fight in obvious ways."

Whatever that meant. Sometimes Ivory felt as close and familiar to me as my first private bedroom; and then I would run up against these alien bricks.

He said, "This is the rectory wall we're lying against."

"Tell me about when you were young," I said.

"Well, for one thing, there were more people in Cormallon then. My parents were still alive and my mother's sisters were always coming to stay with us. I had a thousand aunts."

"You did? Where are your aunts now?"

He thought about it. "They stopped coming when my mother died. I could still visit some of them, I suppose."

I snuggled closer. "Tell me about your thousand aunts."

So he did. One story brought up ten others, and the valley turned greener. It was a clear morning, as the plateau went. We still had plenty of time before the others would be up. I listened to golden childhood days, days blessedly ignored by all the grownups but for a few of the servants. He told me about the afternoon in the midst of the spring rains, when the goldband Evina had stripped the covers off all the tables and cushions and bedding and hung them outside, because there was a story that spring rain was especially pure.

"She wasn't supposed to do it," he said. "But Kylla and I were thrilled. We wandered the halls all day, looking at this new country. Cormallon seemed totally different, all the rules suspended. We made noise everywhere and ignored the aunts who told us to stop because—after all— everything had changed. And the rain kept hitting the roof like an army of arrows."

He stopped suddenly and said, "I didn't mean to make it sound like an oasis of sanity. There were plenty of bad spots, even in Cormallon."

"I don't believe there are any islands of sanity for children. Each generation warps the next into something like those trees over there."

Ran looked at the pair of grotesques on the valley's horizon. "They're beautiful trees."

"They're not happy trees, though."

"No, they're not happy trees." A gust of wind made a violent dance around the corner of the rectory, and Ran pulled his cloak more tightly over me. "Considering the few things I've heard you drop about your childhood, I'm amazed you turned out as relatively normal as you have."

I looked at him with some surprise. I didn't remember mentioning anything at all about my childhood, certainly nothing significant, and in any case it never crossed my mind that he would remember it if I had. Ran's concerns were circumscribed by Cormallon, or so I had always believed.

I pulled the robe up around my neck. "Tell me more about your aunts."

"Umm. Did I ever tell you about the time my Aunt Se-gunda went to Veerey in disguise and fell in love with a jabith player? Well, she claimed she fell in love—" fell into madness, is the literal Ivoran term, "—but it turned out she just wanted to learn to play the jabith. You see, my father went crazy whenever there was music in the house—"

So far, all Ran's stories of his eccentric aunts and cousins tracked back to his father in the end. I wondered if he was aware of this, or if it was a pure coincidence. I'd seen a picture of Ran's father in a room in Cormallon: A stocky man with a white-gray beard, standing with a stiff grace beside one of the Cormallon horses. He wore an old-fashioned lace inset on his inner robe. The dark eyes looked out with formal reserve, giving nothing away.

It occurred to me suddenly that Ran never gave anything away either. This was a little alarming, but after all there was no need to read too much into it, Ivory being the place it was. How would Ran look with a beard? Facial hair was a rarity here, the Cormallons must be a throwback.

I realized with a start that Ran was still talking. "… the konoberry tree along the walkway in the courtyard. You've seen that tree, Theodora, remember it? Near the pool? Those dark purple berries would fall down onto the pavement and then they'd be ground under the heels of everyone passing by. Every year the walkway would be covered with purple stains—they'd fade little by little with every passing rain, and usually the last of them would be gone by Anniversary Day. My Aunt Sella was obsessed by it; she wanted the walk kept clean for some reason, I guess it offended her sense of order. She'd always be stooping down picking them up—I can still see her, she was a skinny little woman with a green outer robe, with her hair coming out from its pins—and she'd pick them up one by one and put them into a little bag and give them to the cook. Ko-noberries are poisonous, you know."

"So the cook had to throw them out."

"No, the cook had to boil them down and put the essence into the poison vials we keep in the basement preserve room. Stacks and stacks of konoberry poison we had, and whoever uses it?"

"Poor cook," I said, snuggling closer under his arm. "Was that Herel?"

"No, Herel came the next autumn. This was a regular cook we hired from the capital. We found Herel while she was running off to the Sector for strangling her landlord, didn't I ever mention that?"

"Great Paradox, no."

"I could have sworn. Anyway, one year my father caught Aunt Sella's obsession and said that this summer, by heaven, we would not have a purple walkway. We all had to tiptoe around the clumps of berries and we were forever sweeping them off into the flowerbed—surreptitiously, of course, as my father didn't believe in Cormallons handling brooms."

"Your father sounds a little unpleasant."

Ran seemed surprised. "Does he?"

"Every context you've ever mentioned him in was disagreeable."

"He was… difficult to live with. It's true we were all more comfortable when he was away, which was most of the time, come to think of it. Although, he was a very friendly man when he was drunk. That's why we loved holidays."

The earnest way he said it made me start laughing. He said, "What? Come on, tymon, what's so…" Not getting an answer, he rolled over on top of me and tried to change the subject.

A voice said, "Well, well. Talk about overactive!" We pulled apart hastily and sat up. Clintris na'Fli stood about three feet away, her hands on her hips, her usual look of faint condescension in her eyes. "Keep this up and you'll get my vote for Couple of the Sector."

You haven't really experienced all the ups and downs life has to offer until you've been caught in the act by Clintris na'Fli. Her solid body was planted there as though she were ready for attack, and now she folded her arms like an unhappy schoolteacher. Our local bluestocking raised her head and called, "Well?"

Gods of scholars protect us. Stereth was at the end of the rectory wall, and the others from the band were emerging from the fort, looking sleepy but highly interested.

Ran jumped up, taking the outer robe with him, and I quickly adjusted my clothing. Go on, Ran. Explain this.

"Ah… Stereth. I didn't know you took this interest in your band's private quirks."

"It's a small place," said Stereth, who was clearly starting to enjoy himself again at our expense. "We gossip." Damn, he wasn't even bothering to hide his smile. "No personal relationship, Sokol? Barely know each other, Tymon?"

The company gathered around us in a circle. I'd wondered occasionally what it was like to be the focus of attention of a whole group of people… now I knew. It makes you think about throwing up. Not that they appeared liable to violence; on the contrary, they were far too amused.

"It's the first time we've done anything like this," said Ran, although it would probably have come across better if he weren't fastening up his robe while he said it. "It must have been the stress of being kidnapped. We're really just casual lovers."

"Ha!" said Clintris. "I listened to you talking about an aunt. Casual lovers don't spend time discussing their relatives."

Ran's temper started to show. He said, annoyed, "How would you know what casual lovers do?"

Clintris' brown face went a shade darker, and somebody snickered. She lunged forward, slapped Ran in the face, and turned and walked very quickly out of the circle.

Ran's hand had gone up with automatic swiftness when she slapped him, but it hung there, frozen. He dropped it slowly. Then he turned to Stereth and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that as a reflection on her sexuality—just her spontaneity."

Stereth rested one booted foot on the side of the stone gutter. "I'll try to broach the subject with her delicately, should the opportunity arise." He gestured toward the low wall. "Care to sit?"

Ran spoke warily. "Are we going to be here long?"

Stereth just kept his hand out in the direction of the wall, and Ran sat. Cantry came around the corner of the rectory then, holding her green robe with one hand and something else in the other. She handed Stereth his spectacles. The bandit leader breathed on the glasses, rubbed them on the arm of his jacket, and placed them on the bridge of his

nose. "Now," he said, in his precise voice, "this is what we're going to do."

"I'm not—" said Ran.

"You'll have your chance to talk in a minute. Since neither of you seems willing to approach the pool of truth even at gunpoint, we'll skip the issue. Fine—you don't know each other."

A voice said, "Does this mean I can court the barbarian?"

"Shut up, Des." His glance didn't even waver. "Now we're going to come at this problem from the opposite angle. Tymon."

I looked away from Ran, startled. "What?"

"I'd like you to do a job for us."

"I'm not a sorcerer."

"You don't need to be. We've got twenty head of cattle in the outbuilding. If we keep ten to slaughter as needed, that leaves ten to dispose of. I want you to take them to Kynogin Market Town and sell them for us."

"You want me to sell stolen cattle? I wouldn't know how to go about it."

"Carabinstereth will fill you in. She did it last time."

I thought about all the reasons why this was a bad idea, and the pause lengthened. Apparently he was going to keep us all standing here until I gave the right answer. I said, "I wouldn't know how to control ten head of cattle to get them anywhere—"

"Carabinstereth will fill you in."

I didn't know whom to sell them to, or for how much, or whom not to approach, or what to say… I knew the reply to those objections, too. "Will somebody come with me to help?"

"No. You'll be alone." I opened my mouth and Stereth added, "Sokol will stay here."

Ah. Stereth's little way of letting us know that he understood the situation—that I'd have to come back if he kept Ran.

Still, that wasn't to say he would kill Ran if I tried to leave the Sector. He wanted a sorcerer, after all, and maybe I could get to a Net link and call for help… I looked at Stereth, standing there calmly. How many people had he killed already in his career? Then I looked at Ran, and

plain as anything I told him telepathically, "Come on. Let's just admit it and get it over with."

Ran's eyes were stubborn. I sighed and said, "So. Cara-binstereth will fill me in."

Later, when we were walking in to the wash line, Ran said, "Have you run the cards?"

"How could I? The only privacy I've had since we got here was just now. And we were occupied."

"Do it. Do it as soon as you can. And then come straight to me."

Half an hour beyond that, while I was toweling down, I went to Ran and said, "What happened to the cook before Herel?"

He looked blank. "I beg your pardon."

"You said you took Herel on as cook the next autumn. What happened to the first cook?"

"You do get caught up in side issues, tymon."

"I just like to know how the story comes out."

Ran is willing to humor lunatics as long as they're in the family. He said, "The first cook died. She opened a jar of konoberry poison instead of a jar of blackberry jam. They look just the same, you know. And organization is especially important when it comes to poison."

"I suppose it was a lesson to everyone in keeping labels straight."

"It was. The most annoying thing from my father's point of view—aside from having to find a new cook—was that we now knew that somewhere in the rows and rows of konoberry poison jars there was one that was actually blackberry jam. It made you think twice about using any of them."

Possibly there was a moral in there somewhere. I said, "So what did you do?"

"Do? We didn't do anything. I suppose they're all still down there in the basement, unless Herel threw them out."

Carabinstereth, it will not surprise you to learn, filled me in. She also accompanied me as far as the main road to Kynogin Market Town. We walked side by side through the cold, rough plateau grass, the strap of one lead in my

hand, the other, to another mod, in hers. Eight more steers plodded docilely behind us.

Her blue eyes were inlaid in her pure Ivoran face like mosaic chips, alien to the rest of her features. They sparkled with mischievous energy. "You don't look too downcast, Tymon. I guess your lover must be good in bed, for a man."

"I, uh, we barely know each oth—"

"I know that, my dear barbarian, you've made it very clear. Are you married? What's your real name?"

It's not the custom to ask anyone in the Sector what their real name is, but I should have known from Carabinster-eth's hair and clothing, not to mention her outlaw eyes, that she paid little attention to rules.

"What's your real name?" I returned.

She stopped and bowed with a dramatic expanse of arm, nearly causing a three-steer pile-up. "Lesrenic Beredar Chaniz, honored by this meeting. I used to be a captain in the Imperial Honor Guard."

I stared. "I didn't know they let women in the Imperial Honor Guard."

"Oh, they prefer it, Tymon, when it comes to escorting the young and innocent daughters of the Six Families. Guard and escort oftentimes become quite close, you know, and as far as the families are concerned, a bit of female intimacy is all to the good—preparation for life, you might say. Whereas a trip over the mattress with a strapping male guard would be a nasty thing. You see the subtle difference."

"Yes," I said. "They don't have good contraception on this planet."

"Got it in one, light-eyes."

"But your manners—" I stopped. Are so provincial, I'd been about to say. Country was written all over them.

"Yes?"

"Nothing." I felt my face turn warm. "Did they really expect you to bodyguard all alone? Without any backup?"

"What backup would you mean, Tymon? Not old-fashioned muscular male backup? Really, I would have expected a more forward-looking attitude from an outworlder—"

I had the feeling she was laughing at me, but I also had

the feeling I may have offended her. "I'm sorry, Carabin, I don't know much about that sort of thing."

"Never mind, light-eyes. Five years of dirty tricks in the Provincial Women's Auxiliary, and you'd never feel the need for backup again, trust me. That's where I used to— ah. Here we are." She stopped and pointed down the long gray slope to a dirt track that curved away through the mist and sunlight. "It'll take you straight to Kaytown. When you reach the track, I advise you to turn around and look at this hill. Fix it in your mind so you'll know where to leave the road on your way back." She patted her steermod com-panionably, slipped the lead up into its collar, and said, "You are coming back, aren't you, Tymon?"

"So far as I know," I agreed.

"Because Stereth can be a bit overly severe at times. I like him, but the truth is the truth."

"I'll make every effort to be back by dark."

She handed me a waterbag and said, "Best of luck. I'll stake out the hill after sunset, in case you get lost."

So the blue-eyed outlaw troublemaker went one way, and the barbarian using the assumed name went the other. I felt very funny walking down the slope, and I realized with some surprise that this was the first time I'd been left totally on my own since Athena.

Ninety minutes later I reached a grove of those objects that on the plateau pass for trees; I stopped and tied the leads of the two collared mods to some branches. "Keep this to yourselves, fellows," I said, and I knelt down and took my deck of cards from the pouch around my waist.

The grass was cool and not as wet as I'd feared. I shuffled the cards and thought about our present situation. Then I drew out the first, Ran's identity card.

A picture of one of the branches of the Silver River, far to the southwest. A dam holding back the natural force of the water, creating an artificial lake. Spear Dam: I'd heard of it before. Trees on either side, very pastoral. I touched it with my finger.

The dam groaned. The water pounded against it, the lake rose, and rain fell from the sky in sheets, worse than the spring outpours. The great blocks of stone moved slightly from the enormous pressure. So far no great devastation had struck, but it was only a matter of time.

I sat back and watched the picture become stationary again, the sky return to painted blue with fluffy cotton clouds. I'd never come up with an identity card like that before. In fact, I'd never turned up that particular card at all. Ran must be under a greater strain than I'd thought— unless this card was the future. The deck did not always pay attention to tenses.

I could always comfort myself by interpreting Spear Dam as simply representative of Ran's stubborn nature. It's not that he was always as immovable as those giant stone blocks, but there were five or six topics in the universe that it was pointless to argue with him on, and his family honor was one of them.

Let's see what else we had… I put down a second card.

The Hunter. A man in brown holding two bloody groundhermits by the neck, gazing out past the borders of the card as though in search of further prey.

Stereth, looking younger and more conservatively dressed in a leaf-colored robe and boots, was moving through the darkness of a southern town. The trees lining the streets were lush and green, not the orphan children of the plateau; you could almost smell their fragrance, the rich scent of Ivory summer. The sky was clear and full of stars.

He moved quickly from one shadow to another. At the city wall he was joined by two other shades. One of them limped; both carried bulges that suggested they were armed. Stereth pointed to the top of the wall and then to his left, and they all moved off that way. Was this his escape from Tammas? It was always a strange sensation, viewing the past… from what I'd heard, the men with him were doomed.

Suddenly the colors changed: Stereth was older. He wore the purple jacket with gold thread that I'd already seen. He was standing in a white stone room—not the fort—and Ran walked into the frame of the card. They were arguing. Stereth had hold of Ran's arm.

I bent over, as though that could let me hear better, moved my finger and lost the window. The card turned back into the Hunter with his catch.

And what did that mean? That scene had to be the future, and Ran was definitely alive—although Stereth was

not pleased—which meant either that I would make it back from Kynogin, or Stereth wouldn't kill Ran anyway.

This didn't really help me, I decided. I turned up a third card.

The damned cliff again. Beware of heights. Disgusted, I scooped up all three cards and replaced them in my pack. I untied the leads and brought my stolen cattle out again to the track. "Come on, friends," I told them. "You know as much as I do." The docile followers lined up right behind their misled leaders, all trudging to the butcher together. Misled was the right word, I decided. And we all went off to Kynogin Market Town.

Chapter Eight

In the Sector, even the most permanent of market towns are temporary. Kynogin was the dowager of these, being all of fifteen years old, at the juncture of three main roads, and with structures of actual wood and stone.

I saw it first from the hillside—a carpet of colored roofs and tents, ropes of lanterns, and tall decorated pillars signifying two clean wells. It was just as much a patchwork maze once you got down into it. Aside from the three roads that cut through, there were no streets to speak of; just clusters of tents and small buildings that sat where their owners had decided, on the spur of some moment ten years back, to put them.

Cattle were a normal, even boring, sight in a market town. I passed a farmboy with three mods for sale, and notices on the walls about auctions to come. Stereth's contact was supposed to be in the blue-roofed cabin at the edge of town, where a small tacked paper said, "Ocel For-mix, dealer and auctioneer/' I hit the flat of my hand against the door.

A plump man wearing the beaded cap of a na' telleth organization poked his head out. "May I be of service, gracious visitor?" Then he peered down at me and said, "Cantry!"

Let me repeat: Cantry and I look nothing alike.

He frowned. "You're not Cantry."

Now he seemed wary. I said, "Ocel Formix?"

"He's away at the auction in Dace."

Oh, splendid. How is it that plans always work out this way? No one had told me what to do if Formix wasn't there.

I said, "I have ten steermods here." A bare statement of fact couldn't get me into too much trouble.

"Yes, so I see." Apparently he was going to confine himself to pure observation also.

I sighed. "How much?"

"Uh, do you have statements of ownership?"

I was tired, I had had a bad week, and I refused to bring these damned animals back with me again. So I looked him in the eye and said, "Cantry has the statements of ownership. She must have forgotten to give them to me."

He licked his lips nervously. I waited. Then he said, "Well, I suppose I could give you twenty tabals apiece. As long as this Cantry can get the statements to me in the next few days."

"Terrific. Let's do that."

So he counted out two hundred tabals, and I re-counted them, because anybody who belongs to a na' telleth organization is a little funny in the head to begin with. Then he said, "Will you be staying for the Governor's speech?"

"I hadn't planned on… what speech? Is there a Net link in this town?"

A Net link! I could call Kylla. If anybody could get us out of this mess discreetly, it was Ran's remarkable sister.

The dealer chuckled. "A Net link on the plateau? Who would ever spend the money?"

"But you said the Governor—"

"The Governor is here. Surely you didn't miss the platform they set up at the crossroads for his speech."

I was glad I'd gone no farther into town. The Governor had never actually seen me; still, I'm a great believer in keeping a low profile. "I'm not sure I can stay, gracious sir," I said, throwing in the honorific a little belatedly. There was no point in forgetting our manners just because we both seemed to be criminals.

"Ah, that may be so… gracious lady." He appeared a little hesitant to award the title to a barbarian. "But I think you'll find the Governor's speech of interest, if I might recommend it."

"I'll see if I can fit it into my schedule," I said, and we both bowed. Then I left, still not entirely sure I'd done the right thing.

I came out of the dealer's house facing the rust-colored stone wall of the building opposite, and stopped short.

A poster of Ran's face hung there. Not even a sketch,

but a full 2-D repro, and I could see the top of the robe he was wearing when he was arrested in Shaskala.

"Great gods of scholars and fools, protect and preserve us." I said it out loud, and stepped toward the poster. The words STERETH TAR'KRIM were big enough to see from here. Also the amount, ten thousand tabals.

"It's sort of ironic, isn't it?" asked a voice by my ear.

I started and saw Des Helani standing there in a somewhat less flashy tunic than was his usual wont. He smiled his slow, dry smile and said, "Considering how hard he's trying to disassociate himself from our little group."

"This isn't funny, Des."

"I didn't say it was funny. I said ironic."

I looked him up and down and said, "Aren't you ruining this little loyalty test by your presence?"

"Oh, piffle—" said Des.

Piffle?

"Everyone knows you're in love with that sorcerer boy. Although all things considered, you might prefer a man." He leered in a friendly way. Des was probably all of three years older than Ran.

"Does Stereth know you're here?"

"What our glorious leader does not know need not concern him. Tell me, Tymon-of-mine, as long as we're alone… have you ever attended the races in the capital?"

And here I'd thought he was working up to a sexual proposition. "Which ones? —Not that I've attended any."

"The flyer races, of course, in Goldenweed Fields. Half the city goes there, sweetheart. Are you telling me you're not a follower of the Silver Stripe or the Jade Bar?"

The Stripe and the Bar are the "two sets of flyer teams. He was right about half the city going there, especially when the rainy season was past, but I'd always felt that I'd lost enough money in my time.

"Gambling doesn't appeal to me, Des."

"What a waste. So I take it your friend Sokol doesn't go either? You spend your time together instead, tripping through fields of flowers, enjoying the fruits of innocent love?"

"We spend our time working, mostly." This was the truth. "You have a point here, Des?"

"I was wondering—in an abstact way, I mean—about the effect of sorcery on a flyer race."

I stiffened. "The people in the capital are dead serious about their flyer races. They live and die for them."

"So I assume, from the amount of cash that changes hands."

"Great gods. I have no idea what the penalty for fixing a race is, but I would bet—"

"Decapitation, after being given to the flyer pilots. The decapitation is merely a formality at that point."

"Gods. And you bring this up like it's a trip to market—"

"Trips to market are dangerous, too, Tymon. That's why I'm here."

"I can see why you're here. And you can forget it. Ran has no intention of—"

"Ran?"

Kanz. Kanz. Kanz. Born idiot, got stupider as you got older.

At least I hadn't said any last names.

"See here, Cheater-at-Cards," I said, scrambling his road name to bring out the meaning, "do you want to be friends or enemies?"

"Friends," he said at once. "I never want to be enemies."

"Then I think a little understanding, from one friend to another, would be in order here. All right?"

He smiled. "You only have to ask, Tymon. And I'm sure I can count on you to be understanding, too—"

"Pay him no mind, whatever he says," called a new voice. I turned and saw Sembet Triol walking toward us, holding a stripped sapling branch as though it were a weapon of noble antiquity. In his case, that meant he held it comfortably and tapped it against the wall of the dealer's house. He wore a dark blue-green hood and must have left his sword at home.

"Did the whole crew come?" I asked Des.

"I asked Sembet to keep me company," he answered reasonably. "I don't like to travel alone." Des didn't like to do anything alone; he got nervous without an audience.

"Boys—" I began. This is the outlaw version of "noble companions" and can be used to both men and women. "Have you heard anything about the provincial governor being here today?"

They looked at each other. Sembet pulled his hood down low. "No," he said.

"When I was walking toward the winehouse I noticed the center of town was pretty busy," said Des.

"The dealer told me there's a platform up at the crossroads, and there's to be a speech. He thought I should hear it."

Sembet asked, "Did he say why?"

"No."

Des said slowly, "I think we ought to go."

Sembet's eyes widened. "Isn't it enough that we took off without telling Stereth? You want to parade around in a crowd of potential informers, not to mention any number of provincial guardsmen? With a barbarian in tow? —No offense, Tymon."

Des said, "I've seen two or three barbarians here already. This part of the Sector is full of them, because of that deal Shaskala tried to make with Tellys way back when. Where do you think Cantry came from?"

"Cantry's description is in half the guard offices across the Sector!"

I said, "Then why the hell do people always think I'm her? We don't look anything alike."

They stared at me. "Is that a joke?" asked Des. "You could be twins."

"She has blonde hair!" I yelled.

"So she does," agreed Des, "but—" He stopped and looked at Sembet. "She does, doesn't she." He frowned.

And I suddenly realized neither of them had taken this into account before. It wasn't that they didn't know. But they were both Ivoran born and bred, and ninety-nine percent of the people they'd ever met had dark hair and dark eyes. Whatever that gestalt of visual cues may be that lets you look at a face and remember who a person is, coloring had never entered into it for them. They hadn't meant to belittle my sense of identity. They'd just been trained differently.

And I'd been trained differently, brought up in a heter-ogenous society. Pyrenese who didn't think nature had made them flashy enough would dye their hair and skin. It hadn't occurred to me that anybody else would use a different system to identify people.

My anger had left by the back door while I was working this out. "Sorry to be so touchy," I said.

"It's all right," said Des kindly.

"When the rains fall, the groundmarks vanish," agreed Sembet. "But I still don't believe attending the speech is a good idea."

Des said, "You can give her your hood."

Sembet's hand went to his hood as though he were protecting himself. "I wore it today for a reason," he said.

"A crowd of small-time provincials," said Des. "Come on. Whoever knew you before, they're not likely to be in this bunch."

Sembet looked at him. Des was treading very near the line here. Still, there was no point in pretending that he wasn't nobly born; he couldn't hide it any more than I could hide that I was a barbarian. He began untying his hood. "The Governor might recognize me," he muttered.

"We'll stay near the back of the crowd." Des took the hood from Sembet and arranged it over my head. "Allow me." He tied it just right, not too tight or too loose, and then gave the whole thing a slight tilt to the left. "Green is your color, Tymon."

"Don't I get a vote in any of this?" I inquired.

Des grinned. "Come on, friend, be a sport. You wouldn't let two of your best companions-of-the-road go off on an adventure by themselves."

"Be a sport," agreed Sembet. "Why should Des talk one person into doing something stupid when he can talk two?"

What an invitation. I said, "Des, Stereth should keep you behind bars when he doesn't need you." Des smiled, because he knew that meant I was coming with them. I pulled the hood farther around my face.

It took a while for the crowd to gather sufficiently. We were near the back, as Des promised, up against a records office just off the crossroads. "We should be in the road, where we can retreat if we have to," I said.

"Women," said Des. "You take them out, you give them clothing accessories, they're never satisfied."

This was addressed to Sembet, who was not amused by it. He was constantly scanning the crowd and a permanent frown seemed to have settled over his features. I said, "Is this really dangerous for you? Do you want to leave?"

"No," he said abstractedly. "As long as I pay attention, I think it'll be… Kanz." His eyes widened.

"What?"

Three men in official regalia were mounting the platform. Two of them wore the high blue felt hats of Imperial Favor, and one had the white silk sash of "honored public guest" tied around his outer robe. His hair was platinum-colored, tied in a very un-Ivoran ponytail, and his skin was fair.

"See," said Des, "no need to worry. There's even a barbarian on the speakers' platform."

Sembet continued to stare. At last he said, apparently to himself, "Why? Why come here now? I refuse to believe…"

"Who are they?" I asked, tugging on his sleeve.

"What? Governor Atvalid, of course, just as you said." He paused and looked confused. "And his son Vere."

"Well, what's wrong with that?"

Four men in dress-gold militia uniforms took their places at the four corners of the platform. Two of them raised slim horns that should have been gold as well, but were a dull bronze under the cloudy sky.

Sembet said, "Vere wearing the blue hat? And why isn't he at school? He was two years behind me, and I wasn't finished myself when—" He stopped, suddenly aware he was discussing his personal life. Just then the horns sounded, beautiful and clear in the cool air, more like the heralds of an evening of music than a call for attention.

So this was Vere Atvalid, the Governor's oldest son; engaged to the daughter of one of the Six Families and making them nervous thereby. And Nor Atvalid, the target of the investigation we'd been asked to run a short while ago in another lifetime. I stared openly at them.

Of course, Nor was responsible for putting Ran's face up all over the Sector, so he got no marks from me. Other than that, I had to admit he had a good, strong look about him, an air of honesty and competence. He looked as though he could do government paperwork and put his shoulder to the wheel of a stuck wagon with equal willingness, and equal success. Probably all a front, I told myself. For one thing, nobody gets to be a full provincial governor without kissing bottoms all the way up to the prime minister. Some people can get away with minimizing that aspect

of Ivoran officialdom more than others, but even so… Actually, he looked very familiar. Something about that bulbous nose, and those lines around the mouth…

Good heavens. I'd seen him caricatured on an attention-stick only a few days ago in Shaskala. A stick that was pounded against a hard wood block several times a day in the best inn of the city, just in the nature of things.

Governor Atvalid was not a popular man. Hilo hadn't liked him either, now that I recalled. And yet he looked so honest and reliable.

As for Vere, he was… average. Tall and well-featured, but so are most Ivorans; black-haired, ditto; he did seem very young, though. Not necessarily in himself, just too young to be standing on a platform beside older men, with all this pomp and circumstance. The hat did not favor him.

"Is he a friend of yours?" I asked Sembet. He didn't answer.

Governor Atvalid stepped forward, touched the band at his throat, and his voice boomed out over the crowd. "Friends," he began, "and fellow subjects of our most glorious Emperor. I am happy to find Kynogin Market Town as busy and prosperous as when I left it last. May it endure as long as any city in the Empire!" There was some polite applause and foot-stamping at that. "The graciousness of your reception honors me…"

I'll skip over that part. Floweriness and flattery are normal modes on Ivory, and in speeches they can go on and on. Somewhere in all the sugar and honey, Atvalid managed to convey that he and his entourage were making a circuit of all the major towns in the Tuvin part of the Sector (of which Kynogin was the jewel and cornerstone) in order to speak personally with the farmers, ranchers, and traders (who in Kynogin were the backbone of the entire Sector) so that he could present them with the principal gift of his House.

"Kanz," Sembet muttered when we heard that.

I flicked a glance at him and then turned back to the Governor, who was leading forward the barbarian. The platinum-haired guest, that is. The Governor said, "But first, allow me the happiness of making you acquainted with one who will be our ally, both yours and mine, in prosper-

ity. Gracious sir Hippolitus, Pyrenese Trade Representative to the Northwest Sector."

To the Northwest Sector?

My jaw was hanging open. This made no sense. How could Pyrene be sending out representatives to minor areas of planets? And assuming Atvalid got the title wrong, or adapted it deliberately to please his audience—what the hell was a Pyrene trade rep doing out here in the back-end of nowhere? And what was he doing on a platform being introduced to the locals? And why—

Atvalid was going on. I made an effort to cut short a mental picture of Hippolitus leading a string of steermods into a cargo ship. That would be the most expensive meal anyone on Pyrene ever ate.

"I never asked you," said Des, "are you Pyrenese?"

"Shut up," I said.

"My friends," intoned the Governor, "Gracious sir Hippolitus, as representative of the Pyrene Minerals and Resources Board, would like to speak to you."

Hippolitus smiled. "I hope that I, too, may address you as 'my friends.' "

He spoke with a flat, affectless accent, the kind that comes from an implant, the same kind I used to have. If he left Ivory within the year, his memory of the language would start to fade.

My usual inclination is not to call attention to myself, but I wondered if he knew my friend Octavia, also a trade delegate. If I could get a message to her, and she could get a message to Kylla…

"Carium," he was saying. "It is our hope to set up carium extraction pits, developed in partnership with you, the local citizens. We will be in sore need of people to fill the jobs that will have to be done, and I can promise a share in the profits to anyone who joins up."

Sembet said to Des, "Have you ever heard of carium deposits in the plateau?"

"No," said Des. "But then, I can't say I ever paid much attention."

The Governor took back control of the platform, after prolonged applause for Hippolitus. No doubt the word "profit" had done it. "But my friends," he said, "before this new era of prosperity begins, we must stamp out the

ways of the past, the customs that shackle us to poverty and spiritual darkness."

Des, Sembet, and I looked at each other. Spiritual darkness?

"In other words, my friends, we must put a stop to the outlaw bands that prey on innocent citizens and bleed our province dry. Gracious sir Hippolitus has assured me that as soon as we can guarantee the safety of his people, the carium project will begin. I hope you agree with me that that day should be soon!"

A mixed response to this. Some enthusiastic supporters, I noted uneasily, and others holding back. There were plenty of people in the Sector who made a second living by fencing outlaw booty.

"In line with this," said Atvalid, "a bounty of one thousand tabals will be placed automatically on the head of any outlaw, whether specifically known to us or not. More importantly—" he paused for a sip of water from a glass that suddenly appeared in an underling's hand, "—I hereby make the capture of Stereth Tar'krim our first priority. And I promise a free pardon for any outlaw who performs his citizen's duty by turning in this thief and murderer to the Emperor's justice."

As of one mind, Des, Sembet, and I began edging backward through the crowd.

"To demonstrate the seriousness of my commitment," Atvalid went on, "I have named my own son, Vere Atvalid, as District Steward, with the express purpose of dealing with the outlaw bands. The success or failure of this noble enterprise will be on the Atvalid House alone. The results of success, naturally, we will all share in, as will our Py-renese friends; the results of failure, the displeasure of the Emperor—" had there been a slight pause there? "—will be on my House only."

"The man is suicidal," I heard Sembet mutter, as we neared the corner of a winehouse. "And to drag Vere into this—"

"Heralds!" ordered the Governor, and a giant poster was unrolled down the front of the platform.

It was a new color poster of Ran, his head about six meters high.

"Great Collective Spirit of all Mankind," I breathed. It

was an oath from my childhood that I had forgotten entirely till that moment.

"Tymon, come on," said Sembet, pulling at me.

The crowd was thinning here. I walked quickly after them, keeping my head down.

Chapter Nine

I was in a mood to walk: I was in a mood to walk for several hours, in fact, without company to distract me, but unfortunately Des and Sembet had brought a wagon that they'd left behind at the dealer's.

Out on the lonesome road, the fairy-tale mist coming down yet again, they began to converse worriedly.

"Stereth will have a fit," said Des.

"He won't have a fit, that's the awful thing," said Sembet. "He'll take it absolutely coldly. And then tomorrow he'll have some new plan we'll all have to follow."

"That's what I mean by a fit," said Des.

I sat in the back of the wagon. "Will he be worried about somebody in the band turning him in?"

"Nobody will turn him in," said Des shortly, without looking around. "Nobody's that crazy. Stereth would kill them."

"If he's in the Governor's jail, I don't see how he can kill anybody."

Sembet shook his head. "He'd find a way." He spoke as one who dismisses an obvious truth, the better to concentrate on those things that really needed attention. "You know what this is going to do to our contacts?"

"I don't want to think about it," said Des.

"You see," said Sembet to me, "the band's all right. It's our town contacts we have to worry about."

"A thousand for each of us," said Des gloomily. "Every time we say hello."

"Our payments are never going to match that."

"What's wrong with Atvalid, anyhow? He's going to bankrupt his trelid treasury."

"Des!" said Sembet. "There's a lady present."

Des looked at him in disbelief from the security of his lower social class. "Harmless alliteration," he said.

"It's all right, Sembet," I told him. "I've heard worse in the capital marketplace every day before breakfast."

"The world is going to chaos when women can wander through the market before breakfast. I don't know what your family was thinking of. Do you want to ride up front, Tymon? The seat's probably more comfortable."

"If it's all right with Des."

Des grunted. I squeezed in between them and tapped his shoulder. "Are you mad at me?" He made another dissatisfied sound, but did not elucidate. "What's the matter?" I asked.

If he weren't a grown man, I would call it a pout. "You told me to shut up. Back at the crossroads."

I blinked; had I? "I'm sorry, Des," I said, patting him on the arm. "I was so involved with the speech. It must have just come out without my thinking."

He perked up. "That's all right, Tymon. You were distracted."

"Why don't you tell me about your racing scheme," I suggested, and he launched into it without further encouragement. Des is one of those people who blossoms under constant positive reinforcement. I don't mind that, actually; I prefer treating people well to treating them badly. There are enough confused individuals in the universe who don't seem to respect you unless you cut them up from time to time.

He told a good story, too. He would start to inch his arm around my waist now and again, but I removed it in a nice way. I never had a brother, but there was something brotherly about Des, for all his virility; now that I knew him I was about as attracted to him as I would be to a large, friendly dog. I didn't say that, though.

"Cut the nonsense," said Sembet from the back the third time Des tried to get physical. "Tymon's spoken for, anyway."

I let it pass. Unsuccessful deceit is just depressing.

We pulled onto the fort's grounds and I could see Ran standing at the end of the rectory wall. "Hey, Sokol!" Des yelled, grinning. "Did you know how popular you—"

I put my hand over his mouth. "If you don't mind," I said, "I'd like to break it to him gently."

He considered, then shrugged. "I wouldn't do this for anyone else."

"Yeah, Des, you tell that to all the barbarians. Thanks." I poked him on the arm and jumped down.

Ran was walking warily toward us. "What? What is it?"

My eyes went to the hillside and he turned to meet me there.

When I was sure we were out of earshot I said, "New problems." I told him about Atvalid's speech and the growing notoriety of his own facial features. He took it more calmly than I'd expected.

"If they're cracking down on the bands, that's all to the good. There'll be fewer outlaws between us and the edge of the Sector when we leave, and these people will be too busy with problems of their own to follow us."

"Ran, your face is all over Kynogin Market Town, and I'll bet it's in every major market town in the district. You're famous. You're the star outlaw of the Northwest Sector. You're the House of Atvalid's number-one priority. Maybe I haven't been expressing myself clearly—"

He got that faint look of smugness that meant he wasn't quite ready to share what he was thinking. "Tymon—"

"Wipe that look off your face, Ran. You can't take two steps in public without everybody rushing off to claim Stereth Tar'krim's reward. You'd better have a reason for being cheerful—"

"I do," he said. "It's eleven days till we'll be half-married."

Just when I was ready to yell at him.

He went on, "If we weren't in full view of the fort, I'd kiss you." He said it as though his mind were on that subject even now.

"Why do you do this?" I asked, hearing my voice go low. "Do you like to drive me crazy?"

"I checked in the cookhouse, behind the main building. They've got flour and sugar for the cakes."

"Do you think this is quite the time, when we're being held prisoner by a band of outlaws and you're wanted by everybody in the Sector?"

"Why postpone it? We'll only have to do the whole four

months again later. And you might come up with some tymon-reason why not. You might need to run off to Athena for three academic credits or something."

"I'm trying to talk to you about matters relevant to our survival." It was good to know the stuff for the marriage-cakes was there, though. "Did you check the vanilla?… Never mind. You're changing the subject. Three academic credits, my maiden aunt—you're planning something and you're in that I'm-keeping-it-to-myself mood. Keep up with that attitude, Ran, and you can forget the damned marriage-cakes.''

"They've got vanilla."

"What about eggs?"

"Iffy. Some days yes, some days no."

A voice called from the main building. "Sokol! Tymon! Come in for the meeting!"

I recognized the voice as my guide of the morning. As we started down the hill, I said, "Carabinstereth says you must be good in bed."

"Really? And I haven't even demonstrated for her yet."

Ran had a streak of cool humor, but he rarely gave into it in front of anybody. It was just another of the things he usually kept to himself. I said, "Gods, you're cocky today. What are you planning?"

He smiled. At the doorway to the fort I stopped and said in a low voice, "I forgot. I ran the cards on the way to town."

"And?"

"Not much. You live for a while longer. Nothing about me."

"Well," he said, "what information you have is nice to know."

We stepped inside, and in a normal tone of voice I said, "Yes. Thank heaven I'm not the sort of person who keeps things to herself."

I'd thought the meeting would be a discussion of the news from Kynogin Market Town. This was not outlaw style. Instead I found people settling the details of tonight's party: Wine and bredesmoke pipes were brought out, and lots were drawn for lookout duty. Stereth did not approve

of everybody getting drunk at the same time, apparently, and this rule was iron.

Carabinstereth handed me a stack of priceless painted winebowls. I laid them out beside a pile of battered wooden spoons and some cracked stewplates. "I don't get it," I said to her. "Can't the party be postponed, given the state of emergency?"

"It's the emergency that brought on the party, Tymon. This is the way we decide things. More efficient than a provinicial city council."

I looked at the growing pile of winebottles, bredesmoke bags, and general unidentified drugs. "Whoever's still on their feet at the end of the evening gets to vote?"

She laughed. "What a delightful thought. This sort of thing is too important to vote over—though I'd be interested in seeing the results of that kind of poll, Tymon. Zero votes, if I know my brothers and sisters."

"Then why the blow-out? A final kick of the heels before we all get arrested?"

"Keep your voice down when you say things like that. There are those who'd be mad at you for bringing bad luck."

Grateth Tar'briek joined us and gave me a quiet smile. "Though I wouldn't be one of them, little Tymon." His strong soldier's hands pulled the corks of three winebottles in succession, and he began pouring into the bowls.

"Supper's not ready," said Carabinstereth.

"So much the better," he replied. He ran a hand through his cropped hair, took a few swallows of wine, and said, "Ah." He pushed one of the bowls toward me.

"Thank you, but if you knew my pathetic tolerance you'd ask me to wait for supper."

"As you wish. But this is the way we settle problems, Tymon. Everyone who can, gets drunk. We talk about the problem… if we feel like it. Maybe we talk about the best vintage of Ducort red, or our past sexual histories—"

Carabinstereth made an exaggerated yawn.

"—or anything else we feel like. Sometimes very late at night a couple of people will start talking about how long it's been since they've seen their families, and we have to throw them out. We just talk. And then we all pass out."

Carabinstereth grinned. "And then, in the morning—"

"—when we're all feeling like kanz that's been left out in the sun—7"

"—and we really don't even want to know—"

"—Stereth will get us together and say he's got an answer."

I looked at them both. "You're not joking with me?"

"It never fails," said Grateth Tar'briek.

"He's a genius," explained Carabinstereth.

"I see," I said a little blankly. Then I considered my two informants and said, "You both get along extraordinarily well."

"Old army grunts," said Carabinstereth fondly, linking her arm through Grateth's.

I said, "Lex na'Valory's from the army, too, and nobody seems to like him."

"Nobody ever liked Lex," said Grateth. "Not even his old outfit, from what Komo says."

"Not even his mother, from what Komo says."

"I believe Komo," said Grateth earnestly. Carabinstereth laughed, and he raised his winebowl to her lips and tilted some into her mouth. Clearly they were very, very old friends.

Suddenly I imagined what would happen if Ran and I got away, and Stereth's troop was captured by the provincial militia. I'd heard of flashbacks, but this was flash forward: A picture sharp as noonday sun on the capital streets, of Carabinstereth with the rope around her neck; then the pull, the changing color of her face, the uselessly kicking heels. Grateth watching, next on line.

I put my hands on the makeshift table. "What's the matter, Tymon?" I heard her say. "You look like a ghost. Grateth, help her to sit down."

I felt his arms around my waist guiding me over to the cushions. I let him help me down. Carabinstereth was at my side a minute later with a new bowl. "Water's in this one," she said. "You've had a long day, sweetheart. Somebody should have said what a fine job you did with the cattle. Drink up, now."

I drank. It was good water, from the well outside. On Ivory when you bring up well water you make a sign to propitiate the ghost of the well. That's not some kind of nature spirit, they don't believe in that sort of thing; it's

the ghost of the person who will one day foul the well by committing suicide there, or being murdered. It's a future ghost, and the propitiation is to keep it farther in the future.

Besides, any ghost born of suicide or murder would be dangerously far from na' telleth, the proper spiritual state of not-caring. As I was myself.

Besides the people on guard duty, Ran was the only person who did not get drunk that night. Clintris na'Fli took a guard post voluntarily; she enjoyed disapproving of her fellows far more than she would have enjoyed drinking with them. Grateth and Komo played flute and tigis-drum. Halfway through the night, Cantry got up and began a slow dance with Paravit-Col while Stereth watched. Paravit-Col was the youngest in the band, and his movements were awkward but enthusiastic. The dance got pretty close in places. I was sitting in a corner trying to be an impartial observer, or as much as I can be on unmixed wine, and I was just a little bit shocked. This was not the custom anyplace I'd been outside the Sector. I kept glancing at Stereth, but he didn't seem anything but mildly interested— although I was beginning to realize that with Stereth it was hard to tell.

The fiutesong and drumming finished and Cantry pushed herself back from Paravit-Col, sweating and bright-eyed. She'd already had several bowls of wine. I saw Stereth raise his own empty bowl and Cantry walked over, hooked up a bottle from the table as she passed, and poured him some more. She hadn't even been looking in his direction when he gestured. Then she gave him a kiss as strong as the unmixed stuff we were drinking, bending down to do it as though it were a continuation of the dance.

This was a relationship I was not going to figure out. Not that I was in any position to pass judgment.

When Cantry's head went up, Stereth said, "Tymon."

I was startled. "What?"

"Come here and sit next to me."

I went warily. He patted the pile of brocade cushions beside him. He said, "How many bowls have you had?"

"One."

"Have another." He handed me the bowl Can try had just brought over.

"Uh, thank you." I took a sip.

My eyes found Ran across the room, sitting with his arms across his knees on his bedding. He was watching us.

Stereth said, "What did you think of the speech today? I've heard from Des and Sembet."

I wondered how much he'd heard from Des. If Des had reported on Ran's first name, Stereth would already be working on finding out his last. I said, "The Governor seems pretty serious about this."

"It's been festering for a while," he said. "What about the new Steward?"

"He looked young and uncomfortable."

Stereth gave a distant smile. At the other end of the hall the fire crackled. The air was full of bredesmoke, making it hard to think. He said, "Your Sokol isn't the most friendly and outgoing of men."

My gaze went to Ran, and on its return I looked with some fondness to where Des lay sprawled on his back contemplating the roof. Apparently he was still conscious, just noncommunicative. He'd already brawled with three male outlaws, propositioned every female member of the band he'd run into, including Cantry, and defended Clintris na'Fli to his disbelieving friends, saying that she would be quite attractive if she'd only take her hair down from that net and wear some decent clothes. One of the men he'd punched earlier stepped carefully around his outflung arm. "He's no Des Helani," I agreed. "But I think he'll stay the course longer than Des would."

"If I may be forgiven the question, what is it you see in him, anyway?" A heavy cloud of bredesmoke lazed by, and Stereth coughed. Behind the spectacles his eyes were red.

I smiled. "Well, he's considerate, when it occurs to him to be… are you all right, there, gracious sir?" He was coughing again. "You've already gone through a whole pipebag. Maybe you've reached saturation point."

"Go on," he choked out.

"He's a true partner. When times get hard, he doesn't whine or blame it all on somebody else. He takes me for granted."

"You consider this a positive trait?"

"He takes for granted that I'll be as competent and as loyal as he is. He's got a nicely honed sense of irony, though you have to watch for it. And he never forgets an obligation."

"Ah." Stereth picked up a discarded pipe, drew in the smoke meditatively, and this time he didn't cough. Then he said, "That's it? That's everything?"

"Well, not quite." I hoped my pale barbarian skin wasn't flushing, though it probably was. "What does Cantry see in you?"

His lips quirked. "I don't have to guess, I've been told. Cantry fell in love with me the moment I bashed my head on the underside of a table in the county records office in Shaskala."

A few hundred questions came to mind, such as what were you doing under a table in the county records office? But what I asked was, "You mean you were injured and she felt sorry for you?"

"No, no. I was hiding from a contingent of Shaskalan cops, and when they'd left the room I miscalculated and put my head up—and bam. Just a little bump due to my own clumsiness. Cantry was watching, I felt like an idiot. She told me later that her heart left her body and flew straight to me at that moment."

"Because you bumped your head."

"Apparently. She said she'd liked me before, but this was the thing that pushed her over the edge."

He held out his pipe and I took it. "Relationships are strange things."

"You have the right of it there."

"One of the old storytellers—the lady Murasaki—says there are those moments, moments that aren't visible to other people, when 'a person whom you at all times admire suddenly seems ten times more beautiful than they were before.' "

"Of course. You haven't felt that? —Just breathe in the smoke and hold it in your lungs. Don't work at it."

I exploded in a series of coughs. "No, I've never—never felt—damn—" There didn't seem to be any oxygen left in my body. Stereth took the pipe away.

"Never mind," he said kindly, and I didn't know if he was referring to my failure with bredesmoke or my emo-

tional life. "Some other time you'll have more luck." He slipped the pipe into a pocket. "Was the Governor's son wearing the blue hat when you saw him?"

I blinked, disoriented. My own eyes must be turning red by now. "Yes."

"Then he's already entered officially into his post. Surprising we haven't felt the repercussions before this."

"Maybe you have. Maybe the provincial militia are lining up outside even now."

He smiled. "That much I would have heard about."

Ran had stretched out on his pallet and was pretending to sleep. He still faced in our direction.

Stereth said, "So let me have the tymon's opinion on how we should proceed."

I was surprised. "I don't know anything about the Sector. Only the folk stories."

"The story of Annurian and the Purple Band? Annurian and the Dragon Rumor? It's good to know at least one person escaped his sentence, even if he's a legend."

"He used to say those stories were exaggerated."

There was silence, and I looked up from my empty winebowl and realized that I hadn't meant to say that.

"You know Annurian?"

It's not that it's a secret, but there's no point in bringing it up. I still wear Annurian's bluestone pendant. On the whole I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind.

"I knew him in retirement. He's dead now."

"He talked to you about the Sector."

"A little. I had questions about what I'd heard. I always need to know how stories come out."

I was surprised that Stereth believed me, and impressed. It wasn't a claim you would necessarily believe, based on the facts, and given Stereth's position he must be used to lies in all forms. This thief and murderer must have an extraordinary degree of sensitivity to know who was telling him the truth.

He was quiet. After a moment he said softly, "So, then, did he tell you how the stories came out?"

"Some. The ones I asked him about."

"I can tell you how this one will come out." I looked at him. His face was blank behind the glasses. "We're the most successful band in the Sector. We've stolen more cat-

tie, more tabals, more transportable wealth than… anyone now living. But we're not working toward a goal, a pardon, some kind of imagined prosperity. We're postponing death. No one here will see their families again."

The wine was making me feel sick. Stereth's voice was low and none of the others heard him; there was laughter and singing in the room. I felt as though I were trapped in some bubble of silence with a condemned man. With a condemned prophet. It was too heavy to bear, but following this path of logic would lead to Ran lending his talents to the band, our only exit closed.

I said, "Other people have escaped the Sector. It happens every now and then."

"It's happened three times, not counting Annurian."

Students of history are rare on Ivory. His voice went on, inexorably clear. "Three revolutions have started in the Sector. They all started with outlaw bands who grew into small armies. After they took everything they could take on the plateau, they marched on Shaskala and on the towns in Tuvin Province, and started down the coast. Three times in nine hundred years."

Down the coast means toward the capital. In each case the Emperor panicked, or did the expedient thing, depending on your point of view. On Ivory, revolutions never topple governments and institute democracies; when they become a threat they're bought off by the Imperial Government. Nobody ever celebrates the date some army liberated its first city… because the armies have always turned around happily and gone home as soon as the money and favors were heaped on them. And nobody has ever started a revolt yet on this planet that was based on an actual conception of the rights of humanity; it was always their particular rights that held their attention.

Venn the Pirate was the last before Annurian, and he was six hundred years ago. He was more immediately successful than Annurian, too. He didn't bother negotiating for his men and stepped right into a ministership.

I laughed. "Maybe Ivory has the right idea. Anywhere else there'd be fighting in the streets and general massacres. You know you've won on this planet when the Emperor sends the Prime Minister to ask what it is you want."

"I don't think he's on the way to ask us, Tymon."

"But it can be done. Annurian got a pardon and the prime ministership, in the end."

"Annurian was a martial sort of man. A general. I'm no Annurian."

"Battle isn't the only means of waging war. I mean, there's politics. Public opinion. The point is really to annoy the Emperor anyway, not kill people. Look at the Water-Margin Heroes. The smugglers of Tarlton."

"I've never heard—"

"And of course, Robin Hood."

"Robin Hood?"

"Talk about a public relations triumph. He robbed all the time, and people loved him. He didn't even have to pay them to help. They wanted to because he was a hero. And even if it didn't happen just the way the stories tell, the fact that the legend has had such a hold on people's minds—"

"Wait, wait." He poured me more wine. "Start at the beginning."

I looked down at the bowl. "I shouldn't. Everybody here has more body mass than I do."

"Never mind about that. I want to hear about Robin Hood."

I took another sip. "Oh, you like folk stories, too?"

"I can't hear enough of them," he said, in a tone of absolute seriousness.

But my mind went back to the alcohol. "You're doing so much better than I am. Although you did give your last bowl to me. How much wine have you had?"

"None."

I considered that. "But you went through a bag of bredesmoke."

"Other than making my eyes red, bredesmoke has no effect on me. It's some kind of biochemical eccentricity."

"Wait a minute. You're the only one at the party who isn't drunk." I said it accusingly.

"Sokol isn't drunk."

"No," I said slowly. "That's true. And do you know what? Sometimes I think you and Sokol are alike. I'm not sure how you're alike, but I don't think… I don't think it's in a good way."

"Robin Hood."

"What?"

"You started to tell me about Robin Hood."

"Oh, yes. Well, it starts in a beautiful greenwood called Sherwood Forest, where it never seems to get wet or snowy… which considering the geographical location, I consider most improbable." And I told him about Robin Hood. I'd done three papers on Robin Hood back on Athena, and I had him down cold, regardless of how much wine I'd put away.

I don't remember passing out. In justification, I must say that I think the bredesmoke clogging the air had something to do with it. And I slept the sleep of the stoned and the innocent, having no idea what Stereth would do with this harmless little story.

This is what happens when an outlaw kidnaps a scholar of myths and legends.

Chapter Ten

They did try to wake me at some point in (I think) the morning; but I resisted, and after some distant discussion I was permitted to enjoy unconsciousness for a few hours more. When I finally got up, I found the fort busy, without the aimless conversation and cardplaying that were the usual custom between robberies. I stopped Carabinstereth, who was hauling a large sheet of glass with colored lines on it, and said, "What's going on?"

"Can't talk now, Tymon," she said. "Got to get this up."

Ran was nowhere to be seen. I washed and wandered outside to see if there was any food to be had. The day was gray and cloudy, with pockets of mist hiding the trail that led to the hilltop. As I stepped outside, a wagon drew up from the mist, with Clintris na'Fli in the driver's seat. It was an open wagon, a canvas cloth covering a mass of objects in the back; Clintris dropped to the ground with a thud, nearly skidding on the wet grass. She saw me and followed my glance to the wagon. "Where's Stereth?"

"I don't know. I just got up."

A raised eyebrow expressed her opinion of my lack of discipline. I said, "You were on guard duty. You didn't drink as much as I did."

"If I had, I could handle it better than a tymon."

Clintris didn't say the word with respect and affection.

She went on, "Call Stereth and tell him I'm back."

"Find him yourself, Clintris."

Her face darkened. I might be the only person who'd ever called her by her nickname to her face, but she'd heard it before. I don't know what would have happened next, but fortunately Stereth appeared at the door. "Good," he said, putting on his glasses. "And right on time. Did you get everything?"

"Nearly. There weren't enough hammers."

He was pulling the dropcloth off the back of the wagon. There were bags and bags of some unidentified material, about the size of large sacks of flour. There were shovels, picks, hammers, and other hardware; a militia light-rifle; and… was that a bathtub?

It was. A huge metal country bathtub, big enough for three people. Five, if they knew each other well.

Behind me, Des' voice called happily. "Just what we need!"

Stereth turned. "No doubt you mean the shovels and hammers."

Des made a face and dismissed these references to physical labor with a wave of his hand. "We can heat the water that goes in here!"

"Enjoy it while we have it," said Stereth. He was counting the bags.

Ran appeared at the doorway, looking a little pale. Stereth glanced up from the bags and met his eyes. Ran turned and went back inside.

I followed him in, hearing footsteps just behind mine. I touched Ran's arm, realizing only when he whirled around that Stereth was right on top of me. Ran said, "Now that you're acquiring all these things, you won't need any assistance."

It had the rhythm of a conversation only lately interrupted. I stepped out of the line of fire and watched them both.

"All the more," said Stereth. "Now that the wheels are turning, your contribution will be even more valuable. Now it won't be wasted on some two-bit thievery."

"Am I supposed to feel flattered that my talents will be used on something more seriously harmful?"

"Yes, you should. You'll be making history. Look around you; nobody here wants to be your enemy. We know that powerful and complex sorceries require preparation. We'll provide you with any material you need. We don't have Net access here, but I think we can fill any other order you make."

Ran's temper was rising. "Do you know the penalties for using sorcery as a weapon? For using it in any manner deemed treasonous by the Emperor?"

"Decapitation. What of it?"

"Decapitation for the entire family! Not just the guilty party!"

• "But nobody knows your family, Sokol." Stereth smiled. "So you have nothing to worry about, do you?"

Ran didn't answer. Stereth said, "Unless you think we'll figure out who you are. But we'd never share the name of a member of the band with anyone, not even if we were all standing on the collective scaffold."

"No?"

"No. Not if they were a member in good standing."

Ran's eyes narrowed. "Has it occurred to you that I could agree to your terms and then sabotage your project? Only a fool would try to blackmail a sorcerer."

"When you come up with something that hasn't occurred to me, I'll let you know." His voice was like an icepick. Des had joined us; now he put his hand on Stereth's arm.

Stereth let out a breath and spoke calmly. "Well, the day is young. You can join the others working on the roof, for now."

Des said, "1 beg your pardon? The roof?"

"There are thirty bags of quick-set in the wagon outside. Let's see if we can do something about these leaks, shall we?"

Des spoke hesitantly. "You mean, climb up on the roof and do things to it?"

"Repair it, Des. Times are changing. We need to be able to do other things besides steal." After a moment Stereth added, "Not that I have anything against stealing."

Des said, "Couldn't we kidnap a carpenter?"

Stereth patted him on the shoulder, walked over to the fire, and clapped his hands. "Everybody! Friends, we need to talk."

Des whispered to me, "Means we need to listen." His hands disappeared into his jacket and he sauntered over toward the fire.

I looked at Ran. "You know what this is about?"

"I'm not sure^" he said. We joined the group at the fire.

Grateth, Lex, Komo, Carabinstereth—the ex-soldiers were standing in a knot with that easy physical confidence I was learning to associate with them. Carabinstereth's foot rested on somebody's pack. Clintris na'Fli waS by the door-

way, standing awkwardly, as she always did. I suddenly recalled a voice saying, "You don't live enough in your body." Advice I'd gotten a few years ago, on my first trip to Ivory; I think I've gotten past that point now, but although Clintris was older than me, her mind and body were clearly not even on speaking terms.

Cantry, Paravit-Col, Mora Sobien Ti. Juvindeth and La-zarin, from last night's guard-duty. Des and Sembet Triol, on the other side of the fire. Everybody I'd met so far was here.

Stereth said, "Don't worry, this will only take a few minutes, then Komo and Paravit-Col can go back to look-out. You need to know that I'm making some changes."

Some uneasy looks in his audience. He grinned. "Voluntary changes. Anybody who doesn't like them is free to leave; and this time, I'll even provide transport to Tarniss Cord's group up at Deathwell. No bitching about being tossed out on your own."

Now the looks were more wary; what could possibly be coming? He said, "First, consider what we have here. We're a bunch of small-time outlaws, living from run to run. Oh, sure, we're the best around; but what does that mean? As sure as I'm standing here, each of us is going to end up with a neck snapped by the Imperial collar; that's assuming we don't die during a run."

Somebody muttered, "Gods, Stereth." Several people turned away. This was not the kind of talk his audience wanted to hear, and the logical way he was presenting it was clearly only horrifying them more.

He asked, "Has anyone here ever met an old outlaw? I haven't." He waited a minute then said, in a more gentle voice. "I'm not waiting for that to happen. I've made other plans. You can come along with me, or not; it's entirely up to you."

I wondered if that was how he presented his case to the men he'd escaped with from Tammas District Prison.

Des said, "What plans?"

Stereth took off his glasses, polished them, and replaced them. It took at least thirty seconds. Nobody moved a muscle.

Stereth said, "I'm not going to go into detail now, particularly since I don't know who's staying. But what I propose

to do is to follow in the footsteps of Annurian. I'm going to annoy the powers-that-be until they offer me a pardon— me, and anybody who's with me." He smiled. "I'm going to start a little bit of a revolution."

A dozen people started to talk at once.

"—only a handful of us!"

"We're no army!"

"—no weapons, no training—"

Stereth waited, then raised a hand. They quieted and he said, "I wouldn't even try this if I didn't have a plan. You'll have to take my word for that; have I been wrong so far?"

Silence. Stereth said, "But what I'm going to be doing will be more dangerous than any run we've ever been on. That's why I'm giving you a chance to back out now. —That doesn't include you, Sokol. You stay."

Grateth spoke up. "If they declare us a rebellion, they'll torture us before execution."

Des always supported Stereth publicly, but I saw him nodding, a horrified look on his face. Apparently Grateth was speaking for Des' innermost soul with that point.

"You can leave if you choose," said Stereth. "But anybody who stays is in for the long run—all the way to a free pardon. Or the scaffold. Whichever way it goes." He paused, then said, "Speaking for myself, I have no intention of dying. At any time."

Carabinstereth laughed. She said, "I'm in."

"You don't have to decide immediately," he said.

"Kanz, why not? You're not an altruist, Stereth; you wouldn't be doing this if you didn't have the odds already figured. I'll hitch up to your wagon, sweetheart, and let you find that pardon for us both. Gods know, the ride will be interesting."

"I'm in, too." It was Sembet Triol. "She's right. What have we got to lose?"

They all started to declare in. I decided it was a tribute to Stereth in a way; they must have a very high opinion of his abilities. Either that, or they weren't sure he meant it about transporting any backers-out to another group. Komo was one of the last to commit himself. He stepped forward, and with a roar of bad breath he cried, "Let's do it! What can they inflict on us that we don't already face?"

Des was standing next to me by then. "Intense physical pain," I heard him mutter.

Stereth turned and said, "Des? You're the last. Are you in?"

"You know me, Stereth."

"Yes. I do." His lips quirked. "All right… brothers and sisters. From this moment on, we have a mission."

I hadn't been asked to declare myself. This was a relief in one way—I'd been worrying about it, but Stereth evidently recognized that if Ran was going to hold back it would be a good idea not to push me—yet at the same time it meant we were staying more in the category of "hostages." More in the expendable category, that is to say.

"This does not reassure me somehow," I said to Ran later, as twilight rolled down the side of the valley. "But maybe it's a good sign. They'll be too busy to care about us."

"Are you joking? It's a hundred times more dangerous for us to be here now, if he's serious." No need to ask who he was.

"How do you mean?" I asked, with more than a trace of edginess. How much worse could things be, after all? And did I really want to know?

"If anybody finds out that two Cormallons were here, involved in out-and-out sedition—"

"Oh, the damned Cormallons! The family, the family, the family! The Cormallons can look out for themselves, they have for a thousand years! What about us? We're the ones in danger!"

Ran looked at me, surprised. "The Cormallons are us," he said.

I had a feeling I'd horrified him deeply. But I was sick of all this care and tenderness expended on his House—I wanted some of it expended on me. Or, at the very least, on us. When we died of foul-water poisoning on the plateau, I suspected that the Cormalions would not be in the forefront of my mind.

He said, "We'll have to leave at once."

"What do you mean, at once?"

"You know the route to Kynogin now—"

"That's all I know! Aside from the fact that your face is

plastered across every market town in the Sector. What were you planning, cosmetic surgery?"

"A planted illusion—"

"A planted illusion has to be cast individually for each recipient. As soon as we meet more than two other people, you won't be able to hold it. Do you think I've forgotten what you taught me?"

He kicked a stone out of his way with more force than necessary. "I know it's dangerous, but we have no alternative. Look, tymon, we have to separate ourselves from these people! Great bumbling gods, a deliberate rebellion against the Emperor? The more distance between us and them, the better!"

"I thought we'd agreed that we needed more information before we could try an escape. Nothing's happened to change that, and something may have happened to get us to stay longer."

"For what possible reason would we stay?"

"Well, what if Stereth gets his pardon? Then we'd be free without any trouble."

He repeated, dangerously, "What if Stereth gets his pardon—" The words came out with a kind of rumbling rhythm, like some sort of force building up to something very loud and messy.

Just then a voice called, "Tymon! Sokol! Mora'd like you to give her a hand, Tymon, and Carabin's wanting you in the stables, Sokol." It was Sembet Triol, walking out into the twilit valley like an illustration from a story, the ambient light glowing from his face.

I looked at Ran's face and saw the portcullis come down. How did he do that so quickly? Ran was rarely angry, and never in front of outsiders. A cold politeness was the most they ever saw. I touched his arm and said, "We'll talk about this later."

He started to follow Sembet back to the stables. "There's nothing to talk about," he said to me.

Politely.

Eight days passed. Ran, Des, and Sembet stripped to the waist and sweated up on the roof, even in the cool air of the plateau. Toiling side by side with someone of even higher birth than he was seemed to silence Ran on the

subject of appropriate employment. Mora Sobien Ti and Paravit-Col knocked apart some of the stone from the fort outbuildings and carried it to the roof for them to use in the repair work. After the main roof was secure, they went on to do the cookhouse and the stable.

Our "discussion" concerning methods of escape was not continued. For the time being we both avoided the topic, sticking to day-to-day essentials of life in the monastery-fort.

I was helping Mora one morning, carrying some of the stone we'd cannibalized from an unidentified shed, when I looked up toward the cookhouse roof. The sun had come out for an hour, the way it does in the Sector, without any warning; the constant breeze was ruffling the long grass. Des, the tallest of the three, was bending over the crest of the roof, scooping sealant from a bucket. Sembet was kneeling there with a trowel, evening it out around the stones. Ran stood on the edge of the roof where a pulley had been rigged to take up the stones we were bringing. I sent up the new pile and he hauled it in, waved, and carried it to Sembet.

They were all young, competent, and absolutely alive; and I found myself thinking that it was almost worth being kidnapped by a bunch of outlaws to enjoy the sight of three men I liked with their shirts off. Then I chastised myself at once. Frivolous thoughts like that were not going to get us anywhere. Nevertheless, I turned to Mora and heard myself saying, "It's good to be alive, isn't it?"

She looked up roofward, grinned, and trudged off to get some more stones.

"We should have saved the main roof for last," said Des that afternoon. "Now that we're practically professional builders, we could've done a better job."

"You think you've got the hang of it?" asked Stereth. He was stretched out, his head in Cantry's lap, for all the world like a respectable and worriless citizen on his day off.

Des said, "Sembet and I can mix the quick-set in about five seconds a bucket, and set it for any damn hardening time we want. And he's an artist with the trowel—in two years, I don't think you'll be able to spot where we did the repairs."

"What about Sokol?"

"Sokol's not bad either," said Sembet Triol from where he sat, exhausted, by the doorway. "And he knows it, although I don't think he'd admit it."

"He'd make a good apprentice," said Des wickedly.

Tired though he was, Sembet was polishing his ceremonial sword again. He said, "Are we going to be hiring ourselves out as a troupe of itinerant house-builders?"

"No, Stereth, no," said Des, in honest warning. "I couldn't do this for a living. You're a friend of the heart, but that would be asking too much."

"Des, believe me, I will never ask more from you than you can perform."

"You're always telling me I can do anything."

"And you always agree."

Granted that these were dangerous people, I was going to miss them when they were all executed. The odds against Stereth's getting a pardon for any of them were wildly remote.

Stereth sat up, kissed Cantry's hand, and said, "Des, come and join me for a while. I want to draw you some pictures."

He'd done this with several members of the band already. I watched as Des went and stood over a large pane of glass which Stereth drew colored lines on in washable marker. He dropped the sheet of glass over what looked like a map.

Then Ran entered the fort, heading straight for the waterjars to clean the sweat and sealant off his hands. He paused near Des and Stereth and watched them quietly for a moment before continuing on his way.

I joined him. "Know what's going on?" I asked in a low voice, nodding toward the pair.

"Not a clue."

"Didn't Stereth give you some idea when he was pressuring you to join up?"

"He spoke in generalities." Ran wiped his neck with a washcloth. He glanced over at the bathtub, where Paravit-Col and Mora were splashing happily. Ran didn't bathe with strangers.

"Why were you late? Des and Sembet have been in for an hour."

"Clintris na'Fli made a pest of herself until I agreed to work on the roof of the coop."

This was cause for surprise in more than one direction. Ran performing voluntary manual labor for a member of the band? Not to mention the fact that he didn't even like Clintris. My surprise must have showed, because he smiled. "No point in the birds being miserable. They hate wet."

"I didn't know it was Clintris who took care of the messenger-birds.''

"She likes them better than people, I think." He threw the washcloth down and strode over to his pallet.

He stretched out and I sat next to him. I hesitated, then said, "Know what three days from now is?"

"The moon-and-a-half," he said. Bless his heart. "I've been thinking about it. I don't know how we're going to cook the cakes, or get any privacy either."

"Maybe we should postpone it."

He sat up. "No, no, no. Put that right out of your mind, tymon."

Everybody has plans, and nobody wants to let me off the hook. Not Stereth, not Ran, not Kylla when it suited her, not the Athenan embassy officer. Some of these people are quite fond of me, but they all have no hesitation about disposing of my life. In fact, the closer they are, the more willing they are to do it.

We sat there and I watched the two bathers in the tub. Paravit-Col was young, everyone's kid brother, with a charming lack of confidence and a taste in clothing that was even more flashy than the band's usual. Mora Sobien Ti was one of the oldest there, maybe in her fifties by standard reckoning; gray-haired, but with a good face and figure. They might have come from almost any part of Ivory, from any family, from opposite ends of the continent and social structure. You couldn't tell by their accents. They'd been in the Sector too long and their language had followed the evolution to "road speech." But they sprawled in the hot water with the ease of old family members, violating more than one Ivory taboo. I supposed that, eventually, being cantry tar'meth broke down a lot of barriers.

Ran sat stiffly on the pallet. I could feel the warmth of his body, and also the tension. Whatever being cantry

tar'meth did, I could tell he wasn't going to let it happen to him.

"Wake up, Tymon," said Stereth's voice. "We're going on an adventure."

I opened my eyes to see his boots near my hand. "It's the middle of the night," I said.

"No better time."

People were starting to move about softly, pulling on their clothes, splashing water on their faces. Des, Lex, and Carabinstereth—the three people who'd been invited up to the glass sheet the longest—were already dressed. Stereth nodded to Lex and he went out, no doubt to open the stables.

"I don't want to go on another cattle raid." My voice sounded like a three-year-old refusing to eat her porridge, but just the same I meant it.

"Fine, Tymon," said Stereth, humoring me.

"I mean it!"

"We're not going on a cattle raid. Satisfied? Now get up."

Even Ran was pulling on a short outer robe, but I sat there. "If we're not going on a cattle raid, where are we going?"

"Wherever we're going," said Des, "you'll be the only one not dressed for it."

"The hell with you," I said, without anger, and began feeling around for my socks.

"You're mean when you wake up," said Des.

A short time later, booted, jacketed, and semi-aware, we were lined up by Stereth for inspection. He shook his head. "What a group. You know, I didn't get these gray hairs back in Tammas District.'

"So you've told us," said Mora.

"It's true. It wasn't until I met you lot that I learned what worrying is. Being Stereth Tar'krim's taken years off my life."

Mora made a rude noise. Although I didn't analyze it at the time, standing there with the band I felt a sense of closeness, the sort of thing Ivorans tell you you're supposed to feel with a family. I didn't know this either, but that kind of warmth was common among outlaws just before a

run. We were all aware that something dangerous was coming, but I wasn't frightened. Well, I was somewhat frightened, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle; my situation seemed humorous rather than desperate. People laugh a lot more before a run, and I didn't know that either.

"Everybody breathe," said Stereth, and there was laughter. I was surprised to realize I hadn't been breathing.

"And don't get too excited," he went on, "because this isn't the main event. It's only a rehearsal."

Gods, I was almost disappointed. What was wrong with me, anyway?

He said, "It's time to fill you in on what we're going to be doing. In ten minutes we're going to ride north to where the Mid-Plateau Road leads into the Shaskala Road. At some future time, two groundcars are going to come down that road from the west. Each car will be carrying anywhere from seven hundred to eight hundred thousand tabals." Seeing the looks of shock on his listeners, he said, "It's the quarterly tax money from the northern farms and ranches."

"Gods, Stereth, are we going to steal that?" The surprise on Paravit-Col's face made him seem about twelve years old.

"Yes."

"But a groundcar—we can't attack a groundcar. We've only got mounts and wagons—and knives—"

Stereth smiled coolly. "And the cars will be armored, too."

"Gods!"

Des spoke up. "Stereth's got this all planned out. It'll work. Would I be going if I didn't think it would work?"

Stereth said, "You all declared yourselves in. I told you it would be more dangerous than the usual run."

Lazarin said, "But groundcars—"

"I anticipate zero casualties from this," said Stereth, in his accountant's tone. "If I'm wrong, if anybody gets hurt, I'll re-open my offer of safe passage to the Deathwell band. Nobody has to go along with it who isn't comfortable." They glanced at each other. "But if I'm right, and we're successful—I don't want to ever hear any opposition from anyone again. We're going to be busy, and I don't have time to spend fighting my own people."

They began to nod. "All right," said Paravit-Col.

"I want your road-oaths on this," said Stereth.

There was silence. Then Carabinstereth said, "You have mine."

"And mine," said Komo.

The other ex-soldiers followed suit, and then the rest of the band.

Nobody asked for mine. I was relieved. My feelings were also hurt.

Outside, the mounts were waiting in the gathering mist. A wagon was ready as well; Clintris climbed to the driver's seat. I heard Grateth's voice say, "What about prisoners? There'll be two men in each car, that's militia procedure."

Stereth's voice came back: "If one or two are quick enough to surrender, we'll hold them for ransom. Otherwise, it's too dangerous. We'll kill them as swiftly as possible."

I dropped hold of my mount's lead and it stepped back, startled. Somehow I'd only been anticipating danger to myself.

No, I thought. No. I can't take any more responsibility like that. I just can't.

I was halfway back to the fort when Des caught up to me. "Sweetheart, what's the matter?"

"I can't go."

Some of the others were joining us. Carabinstereth and Mora, Lex and Lazarin appeared out of the mist. I could just make out Stereth behind them. Ran was nowhere to be seen, and I found myself hoping he hadn't chosen this minute to try an escape, because it would really be just too much for me to deal with right now. Of course, Ran would never have ridden off and left me there, but I was too keyed up to be thinking properly.

"I can't go," I said again. "I'm sorry."

"What's the problem?" asked Des.

"I'm an Athenan scholar," I declared, reverting to the only classification from my past that I'd ever consciously chosen. "I don't kidnap people for money, and I don't kill them."

Nobody told me I was being an idiot. They all just looked at me, and several of them turned to go about their business. As he was attaching a knife sheath to his belt, Des

clapped me on the shoulder. "Everybody has these minutes, Tymon. But don't live in the past. It won't get you very far." And he went back to his mount, as though the matter were ended.

Ran was here by now. Stereth waved to the others and they went away, but he stayed. Stereth came over to me and said, "Have you ever killed anyone?"

I suppose I could have lied, but I nodded.

"A stranger? Or someone you knew?"

"A friend."

Ran glanced at me, but said nothing. Stereth grinned and rested one gloved hand heavily on my shoulder. "You were born to the Sector," he said. He pulled me back toward the riders. "Come on, I'll help you up."

And then I was riding numbly out into the damp night mist.

It rained twice on the way there, which seemed odd to me for the time of year; but then, the plateau is an odd place. Southward, in Cormallon, we would be coming on high summer. Blue flowers called herox came out around now, and the fields would be full of them. Or so I'd been told. I'd never seen Cormallon at that particular time; I'd planned to see it this year. In the capital, Trade Square would be slowing down during the noon hours, and anybody who could create some kind of shade with cloth and sticks and the sides of carts would be doing it. And Shaskala would only be saved from complete incineration by its altitude.

But on the top of the plateau, protected by layers of cloud, we could still wear jackets most of the day. A lot of the others managed to get sunburned anyway; Des had, working on the roof. Deceitfully, though, it still felt cool, and the constant wind blew through us all, and the rain fell. Twice.

I didn't want to be here any more. I didn't want to be at Cormallon, either. I wanted to be by myself somewhere, in a little house with a comfortable outlander-style chair on a porch, and no commitments for as far ahead as I could see. Not on Athena; the gods knew not on Pyrene. Was there anyplace I did want to be?

"Right here," called Stereth, pulling us all up short.

There was a grove of twisted trees on a hillside, dense bushes all around; practically a jungle, for the plateau. I slid down carefully and tied my mount at a tree trunk. I don't dislike large animals, but they make me nervous. I prefer the predictability of mods to native creatures—it's a pity humans don't come in the modified variety. And thank the gods I wasn't required to deal with horses, the old-fashioned kind that Ran's family liked. I would have disgraced myself long since.

The mist was lifting somewhat. Stereth's glance went around the band in a quick circuit; everyone accounted for. I didn't doubt he'd know at once if we came up short. Then he took us to the hilltop under the two moons and gestured, as though offering the kingdoms of the world.

What we saw was a dingy little road, suitable for sturdy groundcars if they weren't too large. Probably the most traffic it ever saw was the occasional mount or wagon, or a half-dozen steermods being led to market. For someone with my background, it was hard to accept the huge people-less expanses of space on this world. "Rehearsal time," said Stereth. "The cars will be coming from that direction. Tymon, Komo, and Cantry will be here with me in this grove. Most of the rest of you will be in that stand of trees on the far hill—Carabinstereth will be in charge. Walk over there, get used to what you can see and where you'll be. Des, you'll supervise the road crew. Pick whomever you want to help. If Lex has a suggestion to make, you'd better listen to him. Your life will be in his hands."

Des spoke in a businesslike manner, far from his usual fooling around. "Grateth, Komo, Sembet, Sokol—give me a hand. Get shovels from the wagon." I turned to look at the wagon, now fully visible in the clearing air. Good heavens, was that the bathtub loaded on back?

It was. Des' crew gathered their shovels and he led them down to the road. They started to dig.

Several hours later the following things had been accomplished: People had been moved back and forth all over the hills and the road; Lex na'Valory had had three major arguments with Des and any number of minor ones; and a large hole about one meter deep had been dug across the

middle of the road. There were also a dozen individual and collective briefings that I hadn't been included in.

A blanket supported by skinny branches was stretched over the hole and dirt and pebbles were layered on top of it. A side hole had also been dug out from the north wall of the pit, more or less grave size. It wasn't level with the bottom, but about two hand-widths above it. There was a separate access from above. Des, I saw, took a keen interest in everything relating to this pit. He even laid himself out in the side grave for a moment.

I didn't know what was going on in the grove across the road. The wagon and its contents had disappeared, and a gulley that led down the hillside had been widened. Sembet walked up and down this gulley a few dozen times before disappearing back into the trees.

Lex na'Valory had been given custody of the single light-rifle. I questioned the wisdom of that, but I questioned it silently, to myself. I was always polite to Lex—you never knew what would set him off.

Stereth saw me watching the most temperamental member of the band as he walked from one spot to another on the hill across the way, and he must have read my expression. "Lex is the best marksman in the Sector," he said.

"Lex?" I'd never thought about his past. I'd rather imagined him springing full-grown and borderline psychotic from the army stockade.

"You're a worrier, aren't you?" said Stereth kindly. "Lex will do his part. Relax."

I would have been a lot more relaxed honeymooning in Shaskala while on a routine case, and whom did we have to blame for that? I didn't say it, though. After all, Stereth had been trying to reassure me.

We broke at dawn for breakfast: Bread, cold meat, and beans from last night's supper, washed down with clean water from the canteens. Afterward, Des said, "Are we finished? Have we practiced everything?"

"We've practiced everything," agreed Stereth.

"Does this mean we can go home and sleep now?" I inquired.

"This means we should all go and position ourselves," said Stereth. "The cars will be coming through in about an hour."

The urge to sleep vanished totally. Stereth certainly knew what to say to get the adrenaline pumping.

I said, "I thought this was a rehearsal."

"We've rehearsed," he said. "Now we need an audience."

Des grinned, and I looked at him resentfully. Under pressure his physical cowardice seemed to disappear. Not mine, frankly. I try not to make a pest of myself about it, but I may as well be honest in these pages.

Cantry joined Stereth and me on our hilltop, and the others vanished into the grove across the way—except for Des, who lowered himself into the grave.

"What is he doing?" I asked Stereth.

Sembet came down the gulley and was now obligingly pouring more dirt over the access to Des' hole. He stamped on the dirt when he was through. Now the only way out for Des was through the main pit.

I said, "Stereth?"

"He'll be all right."

So we sat there and waited. Cantry was her usual silent self. For all I know she may have been a chatterbox when alone with Stereth, but she said nothing while I was there. As I found out later, she must have had a lot on her mind then.

Three-quarters of an hour later I heard the sound of the groundcars. Stereth took Cantry's hand. He said, "Ready?"

I glanced over at them. He wasn't addressing me. Can-try's eyes were shut and she was pale even for a fellow barbarian.

"Stereth—" she said.

"You can do it." He moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, as though he could physically transmit his own certainty.

Another minute. I could see the cars now: Dull metallic gray, with the gold insignia of the provincial militia.

Stereth spoke in his usual cool voice. "They're half a mile away, at the bend in the road. Gray with gold markings."

Cantry's face was clenched like a fist. The cars came closer. I didn't understand how the pit could help; the first car might go in, but the second would just stop and two men with light-rifles would get out. And that was only if the pit had any effect at all—a sturdy groundcar designed for this terrain would probably just climb up on its own.

Then the other car would circle the hole and they'd continue on their way, leaving us behind like a pack of fools… please the gods. At least nobody would fire on us then.

I'd heard Stereth tell Des earlier that no one had ever attacked a tax shipment before. He'd said it as though it were to our advantage, but I took it as evidence of good sense on the part of the rest of the world.

"Almost," said Stereth. "Almost… now. Now."

I saw the lead car swerve abruptly, half up onto the grass. Then the driver brought it back to the center of the road— beyond the pit. So much for Stereth's strategy, whatever it was.

"Good," said Stereth. "Perfect, sweetheart, you were perfect."

Cantry's eyes opened and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Stereth kissed her cheek without taking his attention from the road.

The second car, seeing no obstacle, continued down the center. When it hit the pit it dropped suddenly, as though a lift had miraculously appeared in the earth. Simultaneously, I saw that the color of the gulley on the other hill had changed from brown to gray.

"What the hell—" I said.

"Quick-set," explained Stereth, not looking at me either. His eyes were bright behind the spectacles.

Mixed and released from the giant bathtub, I realized, finally making the connection. My mind clicked on a bright image of the outlaws straining as they tipped it over at the head of the gulley. It would be timed to harden within seconds, no doubt… if they did it correctly.

The car in the pit roared and butted against the side. Quick-set now covered the bottom of the hole. The lead car, seeing what was happening, had stopped and was backing up. The car in the pit tried to exit a second time, but didn't have quite enough momentum. It moved farther back for a third try.

The doors on the lead car opened and a man in the gold vest of a part-time militia officer got out. He began walking toward the pit. Probably he intended to offer a tow if the other car couldn't get out on its own. Nobody had ever tried to attack a tax shipment before; he must have thought

this was just some huge pothole left by the recent rains in a road that was poorly placed between two hills.

His chest exploded. I jumped. Lex, I realized. On the other hill, with our sole light-rifle. A warning shot hit the open door of the car at almost the same instant.

The door slammed shut and the first car began to leave the scene. Grateth told me later that the drivers are responsible for what money they carry; this one was speeding off to cover his ass and protect his life at the same time. His superiors would be angry at a militia officer being killed, but they wouldn't blame the other driver for that. They'd only blame him for losing the money.

The car in the pit had stopped moving. So this was why Stereth had arranged whatever he'd arranged to let the first car past: His opposition was now halved. So was the money, but no doubt he'd taken all that into account in his businesslike way.

But where did this get anybody? What could we do to that elephant-hide vehicle anyway? Stand around outside it like the beseigers of an ancient city, with our pitiful knives and light-rifle, waiting for the occupants to get hungry? All the drivers had to do was stay inside and wait for help.

"Fifteen seconds," said Stereth under his breath.

Grateth also told me that the one overwhelming paranoid fear everyone who drives an armored vehicle has is of fire. Of being trapped in that thick metal tomb while burning to an agonized crisp. It's an understandable fear, since every armored driver who died within a car has died of extreme heat—it's about the only thing that will get through the skin. The car survives, but the people don't; the doors fuse shut.

Des waited a full fifteen seconds in his grave. Then, hoping very strongly that the quick-set had indeed hardened, he rolled out into it. The wheels of the groundcar were firmly stuck, but there was enough room to crawl under the carriage to the two bottom sensors. Bits of quick-set clung to him as he wriggled through. He kept flicking them off. At the left and right front corners of the undercarriage were two red lights, both glowing in operational mode. Des pulled out the hotpencil I'd seen him take on back at the fort, screwed the bottom, and watched as the top turned white with heat. He took a match out in his other hand

and activated it. Then he reached as far apart as he could with those lanky arms of his and held the pencil to one sensor and the match to the other.

I couldn't see any of this at the time, but it must have shown up on the board as though the underside of the car were on fire. What I did see were the doors of the car slide open and two men with rifles jump out and run. They took off in opposite directions. The one on our side of the road must have had a second of enlightenment, abruptly grasping his situation; he threw his rifle as far away as he could and fell to his knees, hands behind his head, screaming something unintelligible. The other man kept running.

They were both killed nearly simultaneously by Lex na'Valory, the best marksman in the Sector.

Euphoria and repulsion make for a sickening mix. I was the only one suffering from it, though. Everybody else was on top of the world.

Except Ran, and not for moral reasons—or anyway, not for morality of the kind I'd been taught. Once the attack was over he came straight down from the grove, marched up our hill, and grabbed hold of Stereth with both arms. "She's a witch," he said, meaning Cantry. She still looked shocked by what she'd done.

"Is she?" said Stereth.

"There was a steermod in the road. I saw it. It was an illusion, targeted to the people in the car."

"Is that why it swerved?" asked Carabinstereth, following her problem child up the hill. She'd been in charge of Ran, as part of her group, and didn't want to see him do anything stupid now. "Go, Cantry!"

"I don't know what a witch is," said Stereth. "Take your hands off me."

Ran put down his hands. "A native talent. One of the old women who live in the hills and con people out of their money with a few minor tricks."

"Well," said Stereth, "she's not old."

"She's a barbarian! How can she have any talent?"

"Are you accusing her of something, or not?"

Ran was silent for a moment, having so many complaints to file he was clearly unsure where to begin. "If she has talent," he said finally, "she should apply to one of the

Houses that handle that sort of thing. But she shouldn't be free-lancing, she shouldn't be out in the Sector causing trouble, and she shouldn't be doing things that I'll get blamed for when people figure them out! —And she shouldn't have any talent, anyway! She's a barbarian!"

This was touching on Family and House honor, and as I've said, Ran made no compromises where they were concerned.

Below us, on the road, three corpses sprawled messily. I wanted to leave.

"She's doing the job you refused," pointed out Stereth. "Do you expect to retain a monopoly on sorcery when you won't even perform?"

I said, "Do we have to debate this now?"

They turned and looked at me, both surprised. Des' voice, behind me, said, "She's right, Stereth. We've got a whole mess of money down there. Shouldn't we get it loaded?"

Des was filthy and bits of quick-set clung to his clothing. He was glowing with energy, though, and unable to stand still long enough for a discussion. I know the effect. If we didn't give him something to do quickly, he would probably throw one of the women down on the ground and start to get passionate.

Stereth must have seen it, too. "All right, Des, let's start loading. Sokol can finish criticizing me later."

The bathtub and the mired car were left behind. The wagon was stacked with boxes of gold tabals. The mounts were watered.

When we left, Ran helped me up on my mount. I never did master the ability to climb on by myself. He must have been involved in the quick-set mixing; bits of it clung to his cloak as well. "Are you all right?" I asked him.

He shook his head. Then he went to his own mount and climbed on. I dug in with my heels a little and caught up to Stereth, just ahead. "Why did I even have to come?" I asked, still seeing in my mind the scene we were leaving behind. "You didn't give me a job. I could have stayed at the fort."

He seemed faintly surprised. "I thought you would want to come, Tymon. You're the one who told me Robin Hood used to steal from tax collectors."

For a moment I was disoriented. I'd completely forgotten mentioning it to him.

What in the gods' name had I said? "I was drunk," I protested.

"You tell good stories when you're drunk," said Stereth, in a friendly way.

Ran met my eyes. I put my head down and followed the rest of the band over the hills.

Chapter Eleven

If you want to know the truth, I believed then (and still do) that Ran's so-called moral objections to helping Stereth were less based on morality as I had learned it than on pride and status. It was not as though my quarter-husband's hands were free of blood.

Even granting the circumstantial nature of morality—that something which is acknowledged wrong, like killing, becomes right when it takes place in war or in the defense of a child—Ran was Ivoran-born, and should have no difficulty in jettisoning his qualms when the chips were down. "Enemies" are another category here, and dealing with them is a matter of what one can get away with. And surely the members of the provincial militia were rapidly becoming our enemies. There were posters of Ran all over the market towns to prove the point.

There were two things that held him back, and I don't know which was stronger: First, that he was a Cormallon, and these were Northwest Sector outlaws, one step below servants on the social scale; and second, when everything smashed up it would be essential to keep the Cormallon name completely uninvolved. A whiff of sorcery, and who knew what the prosecutors might pick up on?

And here was Cantry, blowing in sorcery on a high wind. That, and Ran's posters, and I knew why he was looking as sick as he did on the ride home. It surely wasn't because he was picturing the remains of the three tax collection guards back on the Mid-Plateau Road.

I applied some pressure with my lower leg and my mount obediently moved in closer to Ran's.

"There is a positive view to all this," I said.

He looked over toward me with the face of one who has given up on positive views.

I said, "If Cantry's a developing sorcerer, Stereth won't need to hang on so tightly to you and me."

"She's not a developing sorcerer. You can't be a developing sorcerer any more than a savage can be a developing engineer. A little native ability means nothing without years of training."

"She did pretty well on the road."

"A two-second illusion. She probably wasn't even sure herself she could do it. Theo— Tymon, can't you see the difference between that and fireballing a ship, making the blood-temperature of an army rise to 200 degrees… giving temporary hemophilia to the front line of an enemy battalion? How can you even begin to do any of those things unless you know what you're doing?"

"Gods, Ran, war here must be horrible."

"I wouldn't know. We haven't had one in a long time."

That was true… centuries, wasn't it? Back when the invisible dome was first placed over Cormallon. And I didn't know when the last Pyrenese war had been.

"What about defensive things?" I asked. "If you won't help Stereth by giving him a weapon, what about putting a force-field around the fort, like the Cormallon barrier?"

Ran glanced back and forth, checking for the proximity of the other riders.

I said, "I wouldn't have said it if anyone could hear."

"I know that. There's no harm in checking. First of all, the Cormallon barrier took generations of work to get to its final strength. And what good would it do the band to put a shield over the fort?"

"If we're attacked—"

"They can wait till the food runs out and pick us off as we come out. It isn't a self-sufficient little nation, like Cormallon is. The end result is the same: Death for everyone. And for that you suggest I advertise a sorcery similar to my family's most well-known defense?"

Ran doesn't need sorcery; he can use logic as a weapon. "Excuse me while I check for cuts," I said. "I was only trying to cheer you up."

"Don't try. Let me sulk luxuriously in the blackness of the situation."

It began raining again.

* * *

They had the fire started by the time I got inside the fort. I borrowed somebody's outer robe and pulled off my wet things and tried to make myself, if not comfortable, less miserable.

Stereth was handing out shares—small shares, apparently.

"We need a larger treasury," he was saying. "We're expanding. We need capital."

"Expanding into what?" asked Paravit-Col bewilderedly. "We're not a business. We're outlaws."

Stereth regarded him with friendly interest. The expression, and his glasses, made him seem like a large, intelligent rabbit. "Didn't you swear not to give me a hard time before you rode out last night? I hope we have no word-breakers here. We all know the penalty for forswearing an oath given on a road-name."

Paravit-Col backpedaled quickly. "I was only expressing an interest," he said.

I didn't know the penalty. I didn't ask, though. I thought it best not to be seen to inquire into the subject too closely.

Lex na'Valory said, "I was to get a bonus."

"You got one," said Stereth, "for good planning and excellent shooting. Then you got a cut, for not following orders. They canceled out."

Carabinstereth grinned as she took her own bonus.

"You can't match my shooting," said Lex.

"I can't match your ego either," Stereth replied. "I told you to accept a surrender where it was practical. Your pay cut will help make up for the ransom we could have gotten from the guard you killed."

Lex muttered, but took his share and went to the fire to count it. He only put up with that sort of talk from Stereth; everyone else had to tiptoe around him.

"I didn't know the militia paid ransom for its members," said Ran coolly.

Stereth said, "His family would have paid. Here, Sokol, take your share; I hear you mixed the quick-set perfectly. Lucky for our Des."

Ran stepped up to the box where Stereth was counting out tabals and looked down at the pile of gold. Stereth smiled and said, "You did earn it, and not by sorcery. Why hesitate?"

"No reason at all," said Ran, and he pulled off the mud-splattered silk scarf from around his neck, opened it, and held it out for Stereth to drop the coins into.

I could read Ran's mind on this one, and no doubt so could the rest of the room, for Stereth said, "Besides, it'll get you farther when you decide to escape."

"Good point," agreed Ran.

He tied up the scarf and glanced over toward me. "Doesn't Tymon get a share?" Two bags of gold went farther than one.

"Our Tymon was there as an observer," said Stereth, "and observers don't get paid."

I'm glad he saw me that way. I prefer to go through life as a neutral. I hate to make decisions.

"And now," said Stereth, "we start spending our money. Des—"

"I'm going to sleep!… Aren't I?" said Des.

"When you feel entirely equal to it, Des, sometime within the next day and a half, I want you to put on your best clothes and ride over to the Hock-Tyan Farm. Grateth and Komo will go with you."

Des, who had been lying against some cushions in a half-doze, snapped up straight. "Are you crazy? We've stolen four mounts from them in the last two months alone. We'll be shot."

"They might hang you," said Lex.

"It's doubtful they'll do either," said Stereth. "It wouldn't be in their interests. —Oh, and I think you should take Tymon." He smiled. "It'll be educational for her."

"You were the one who told him about Robin Hood," reminded Ran, when he kissed me good-bye. It did not escape our notice that Stereth was still sending us out separately.

It was a first in the band's history, no doubt: Four of us wearing clean clothes at the same time. I followed along behind Des, ahead of Grateth and Komo, wearing an outer robe borrowed from Juvindeth that was swirled in red and white patterns, Shaskala-fashion. The others wore outlaw-style jackets, but not their gaudiest. "Leave the jewelry behind," Stereth had said, and Des made a face but complied.

I'd wondered about Stereth's wisdom in giving Des such

a major role in the tax-collection robbery, but upon hearing the details I decided that they'd probably needed to go with the tallest person with the farthest reach—to get to the undercarriage sensors. Des was clever and charming, no doubt about it; but he'd never struck me as overly responsible. Yet here we were, on the opening salvo of Stereth's grand campaign, with Des leading the way.

I was beginning to get a vague idea of direction on the Plateau. We were going north and west, which should mean that we'd cross the Shaskala Road some time; though not near the Mid-Plateau connection, I assumed. There were likely to be patrols around that spot by now. I pictured the three bodies again, and shivered.

"You cold, Tymon?" called Des. He'd peered around to check on me, not having any high regard for my abilities to steer my mount. "Want my jacket?"

Really, there was no defense against Des. He was probably the only person in the band who would have pulled off his jacket and tossed it to me; Ran would have offered, but he would have felt compelled to comment on my lack of forethought in dressing, first.

"No, thanks, I'm all right."

"You shivered," he pointed out.

"I was thinking back to the militia guards."

He looked at me blankly, not getting it. I said, "If I get colder, I'll let you know."

"All right." He turned back ahead.

Grateth and Komo followed silently behind. We topped a hill and suddenly a vista opened: Hills, fields, and pockets of mist, going on forever. Brown patches on a distant green backdrop that must be steermods. And no people anywhere but us four.

It was beautiful enough to hurt, but it was part of the package that came with danger and loss of freedom. I never thought I'd be nostalgic for the burning summer of the capital, the noise and glare, the jostle in the marketplace.

We came to some stone fences, unusual for farms in this part of the world, with rows of green stalks on the other side. Generally the farmers just sprayed a pheromone around their boundaries that steermods have been bred to recognize as "out of their territory." The pheromone has to be periodically reapplied, but then, as any farmer can

tell you, fences have to be periodically rebuilt. And the pheremone is cheaper and easier.

Des said, "The Hock-Tyan Farm's been in the same family for generations. Can you imagine generations of people willingly choosing to live in the Northwest Sector?"

"It's a very beautiful place," I said.

"It's pretty. But it's dead, Tymon, there are no people here."

"Except outlaws," said Grateth, drawing up. "And would you want to meet us?"

"Humans have always chosen to live in funny places," I said. "Besides, they have other farmers and ranchers for company."

Des peered eloquently north, south, east, and west at the lonely expanse.

I said, "All right, so they have to travel a little to visit them. Maybe they like the quiet."

Des made a gesture of repellence at the idea of anybody liking quiet.

"It's not all that private," said Grateth. "Look."

Far down the rows of stalks, somebody moved.

Grateth said, "If he gets to the house before we do, they'll kill us as we approach."

"Go," said Des.

Grateth's mount went flying, and Komo's followed. They were over the crumbling wall in a second, and trampling down the stalks while the farmer fled.

I bit my lip to keep from being a pest. I hate to see anybody that scared. I don't even like to startle the birds that feed on marketplace garbage when I walk by—I make wide detours so I don't have to see their wings beat an alarmed mass take-off and their chests pound—

Grateth and Komo brought him down in the dirt within minutes. I watched as they dismounted and hauled him to his feet, and let out my breath. It would be easier for the fellow from this point on; anything is better than terror. Maybe it's because I'm a coward myself that I can empathize so well with fear.

They brought him back to us with his hands tied behind. He was young, maybe sixteen, with a torn shirt and the trousers of a provincial worker. He wore a wide-brimmed

green felt hat. too—his family understood the effects of sunburn on the Plateau better than expatriate outlaws did.

Des said, "Hello, friend. Honored by this meeting. Are you of the Hock-Tyan family?"

The boy glared up at him from beneath the crooked brim of his hat. One eye squinted as though Des were framed by sunlight; but he wasn't. A squint like that is the lower-class way of saying "I don't choose to trust you."

Des laughed. "Ishin na' telleth. You're welcome to ray name, though—Des Helani, gracious sir. And the lovely lady beside me is Tymon. And Grateth Tar'briek and Komo had the honor of meeting you just before me."

The boy glanced briefly at the two men on either side of him, apparently not surprised at hearing road-names. Then he folded his arms and stared back at Des, waiting.

Des said, "Help him up, you two. He can sit in front of me when we ride in."

The boy's eyes widened. Grateth and Komo boosted him up on Des' mount. Once on top his head turned right and left, confused by this new perspective on his world. He made an effort and twisted back to look at Des.

"What are you doing?"

"Visiting," said Des. "Being neighborly. A little late, but that's better than not at all."

The boy said, "My uncle Tades will kill you. For stealing our mounts." When there was no immediate answer, he pursued it: "What'll you do about that?"

I wondered myself. We followed the stone wall until we reached a gate, and Komo opened the lock for us, making the ancient metal hinges scream. A dirt path led far ahead, cutting through the tall stalks until it disappeared around a corner somewhere near the vanishing point.

We rode down the path, spiky green leaves rustling in long, oceanic waves around us. It was eerie. Komo spoke at last, in a loud whisper—it had to be loud to be heard over the crop—"Should I ride out first?"

"No," said Des, "we want them to see the boy."

Something in his diction reminded me a little of Stereth, but I decided it was imagination. The mobile green curtain around us encouraged bizarre ideas. You wondered what you would ride into when the stalks ended.

"I'm not a boy," said our hostage, several minutes of green silence later.

"Sorry," muttered Des. The breeze ruffled the pale fur on his mount. The animals at least were immune to the general spookiness; nervousness was bred out of them.

And then a curve, and between one footfall and the next we were out of the alien country and in a clearing on a shallow hillside, near a stone house with two chimneys and a covered well. Laundry flapped in the wind. Normality.

A pistol shot singed the ground in front of Des' mount. It took a few steps backward.

"It's all right, baby, it's all right," he said. His grip tightened on the boy. "Hello!" he called. "I've come with a message for the Hock-Tyans."

Silence, the stalks and the wind. He called, "I'm not here to cause any trouble. I have good news, news to the advantage of your House."

"What news does a can try tar'meth have? Let the boy down and say it." The voice was older and male.

"Tades Hock-Tyan? I'd rather speak face-to-face, gracious sir." He kept hold of the boy, who had started to wriggle. "I mean no harm, sir, I'm just sort of nervous."

A man appeared from a corner of the house. He was stocky, short for an Ivoran and with a fine, fuzzy beard. Funny-looking by the standards of his people, but the expression on his face would have cut short any laughter. "Your road-friends are nervous, too," he said, "or they wouldn't be holding weapons."

I realized for the first time that Komo had a knife and Grateth a pistol. Des said, "Put them away." They did so. I admired their discipline, and hoped Des wasn't crazy.

The man said, "You come holding our boy and riding one of our mounts. Is this polite?"

Stereth had specifically asked that the mounts we took not be ones stolen from this farm, but Des showed no annoyance at the slip-up. He slid down at once. "Do you want it back? It's yours. Or would you prefer compensation?"

The boy, left to himself, slid down the other side and ran into the house.

We all regarded each other. The man said at last, "Tades Hock-Tyan, honored by this meeting."

"Des Helani, likewise. This is Grateth Tar'briek, Komo, and the lady is Tymon."

"Honored, gracious sir," I added, feeling there was no need to waste my capital accent if it would impress anybody.

He inclined his head. "You said you had a message."

"And a gift," said Des. He unbuckled a pack from his mount's gear and held it out to the farmer. "You can open it, or I can open it. Whichever you prefer."

"You open it."

Des reached into the pack and removed two bags. He hefted them and let their jingle be heard; and said, "Eight hundred gold tabals."

He extended the first bag toward the farmer, who made no move to take it. He stared at us. Des placed the bags in the dirt by his feet and moved back to stand with his companions.

"What are you doing?" asked the farmer, at last.

Grateth and Komo were in the dark as well. Something came over me, and before Des could reply I spoke with the certainty of inspiration: "It's from the quarterly tax shipment," I said. The farmer turned to me. "It's your share."

"It's my what?" he said.

Des smiled and whispered, "Very good, Tymon."

Tades Hock-Tyan blinked and stared down at the bags. He still made no move to pick them up. Then he looked up at us and said, "Would you care to come inside for some tah?"

"They say that when your tax money is gone, it's like a funeral. You're never going to see it again, no matter what anybody says." Tades Hock-Tyan poured us new bowls of wine to go with the new cups of tah.

There had been no need for Des to point out the justice of our mutual position on taxes. It is the deeply held belief of all people on Ivory that' the government exists for the sole purpose of extorting money from them. Nor are they far from the mark.

Komo reached for another seed-cake, stuffed it in his mouth, belched, and said, "Excellent cake, my friend. My compliments to your wife."

There was a moment of silence at this faux pas. Tades was part of the outer life of the Hock-Tyans, like the facade of an Ivoran building; the inner life, the women and children, were only shared with trusted associates. Komo should not have even hinted at their existence. He'd spent all his life with his army mates and outlaw bands, and was oblivious to the glance that passed among the other four of us.

Des leapt in to cover the gap. "If I might bring up the subject of business prematurely," he began—we'd only been there twenty minutes—"I'd like to discuss that matter of advantage to your House."

The farmer smiled, his fringe of beard making him look like some woodland nature spirit. "The tax money and the return of our mount are of advantage already."

"But we'd like to be of further service, if you'll permit."

"So?" He took a long draught of the impossibly strong Sector wine. "Say on, then, and I listen with a favorable ear."

Des leaned over. "Our leader regrets the troubles that cantry tar'meth such as ourselves have caused you over the years. He's sent us to offer apologies and recompense."

Our host's eyebrows raised. "Kind of him," he said non-committally, "and you've done so."

"He'd like us to go further, though. Now that we're convinced of the error of our ways."

"I listen."

"He'd like to make a treaty between our band and your House."

Tades Hock-Tyan began to laugh. "A treaty? Like what the Emperor has with Tellys?"

"Why not?" asked Des. "Who rules the Sector, the Emperor or you and me? Why can't we make treaties if we want to? What's the empire done for you lately?"

Hock-Tyan set down his cup of tah and said seriously, "What has it ever done in the Sector since the beginning of time?"

"Exactly," said Des. "Except take your money. But we're remedying that."

Our host stroked the fine hair of his chin. Then he said, "No. I say this meaning no offense. I won't have our House

involved in treasonous activity, and that's what they'll call it when they find their pockets empty."

He and Ran must have gone to the same school. Des said, "We're not suggesting that you support us openly. If anyone asks if you've heard from us, deny it. We will. Keep your money in a secure place. As time goes by, we may be able to add to it."

"What would you want of me, then?"

"Your friendship. We promise, no more mounts stolen, no more fields trampled. You just… keep us in mind. Don't join the militia if it asks for volunteers to hunt us down. Tell us if you hear anything of interest. Is that too much to ask?"

"You're asking to be a House ally, and I don't even know you. Our allies go back ten generations."

"It's a new age," said Des.

Hock-Tyan sat there silently, thinking. Then he said, "What's the name of your leader?"

At that moment a small whirlwind burst in from the lit doorway that led toward the kitchen: A boy of about five, plump and messy-haired, with fiery dark eyes. He wore a torn red jacket, and must have just come in from outside. He snapped a carved wooden pistol from his belt, pointed it at Grateth and yelled, "Zip!" Grateth blinked mildly. The boy shot Komo, too, but he was too busy swallowing more wine to react. Then the child shot Des. "Zip!"

Des took it in the chest, tottered, reached for the side of the table, groped, fell sideways over the cushion, and gave out an alarming death rattle. Then he lay there in total stillness. Des was a ham.

The child was both shocked and thrilled. He walked over to Des' corpse and poked it experimentally with the snout of his pistol. Des' shoulder moved with the pressure and then fell back when the pistol was taken away. "I killed him," the boy announced, with great pride. He looked over at Hock-Tyan, his eyes brighter than ever. Then, with a child's instinctive understanding of the parallel roads of fantasy and reality, he slapped Des softly on the arm to get his attention. "Who are you?"

Des opened his eyes. "Who are you?"

"Bedis Jer Hock-Tyan."

"If I get up, will you kill me again?"

"Maybe."

Tades Hock-Tyan spoke up. "Leave our guest alone, Bedis, you've troubled him enough. Take off your jacket in the house. And go in the kitchen." The boy moved away from Des disappointedly. Tades watched him go with a thoughtful look. He said, "And tell your mother and sister to come in and say hello."

Des sat up. "You honor me," he began.

"I know I do, but I think you deserve it. Let's not speak of it further."

Treaty or no treaty, it was going to be socially impossible for Stereth's band to steal from this farm again. I was glad. They seemed to be good people, even if they did try to kill us first.

A minute later a fat gray-haired woman entered, followed by a teen-aged girl with a silk bow in her hair. The nephew—our ex-hostage—peered around from the edge of the door. "Welcome, sir Helani," said the wife, who had clearly been listening behind the door. I would have done the same.

We all rose and exchanged bows. The girl with the silk bow smiled at Des. I could understand it—he was the picture of a storybook hero—but hoped he wouldn't rise to the bait. We were just starting to get along with these people.

"You were telling us your leader's name," said the girl. I pictured the whole family pressed up against the door.

Des turned to Tades and said, "Our leader is Stereth Tar'krim."

The girl clapped her hands. The farmwife cried, "I knew it! What did I tell you, Tades, our mounts were stolen by Stereth Tar'krim himself." She turned to Des. "He's a fine-looking man, sir Helani. I've seen the pictures."

Everybody on the blasted plateau must have seen the pictures. I felt my heart sink.

"He's young," said Tades, "for so successful an outlaw leader."

"He's a genius," said Des simply, only saying what I knew he believed of Stereth.

Tades bit his lip. "A treaty with cantry tar'meth is a big step. I don't know what my ancestors would say."

"I know a face," said the wife, "I'm never wrong. And

when I looked at the poster of Stereth Tar'krim I said, 'That man has eyes you can trust.' This is someone who understands debt and obligation, Tades. He'll honor a contract."

"Please, father," said the girl, whose motivations were so clearly suspect her mother bundled her out of the room before she could ruin the situation.

Tades drew himself up and bowed. "If you'll stay to dinner, sirs and lady—if you have room for it—I'll consider the matter, and give you my answer with the sweet after-meal wine."

The woman's face broke into a victory smile.

It was full dark on the plateau when we left the farm. The unmixed wine of the Northwest Sector was bringing me to a whole new understanding of my lack of capacity. Back in the capital, I'd thought I'd been doing rather well.

The Hock-Tyans had signed up as allies. I think Stereth's reputation had had as much to do with it as Des' hand with women and children. It's true that the people of Ivory are ruthlessly practical, and money often seems to be their chief love; but anyone who thinks they are not moonstruck romantics as well has never seen them at the theater. They cheer on the heroes, laugh at the fools, hiss the villains, and cry openly at parted lovers—in short, they are as easily manipulated as seven-year-olds, and the price of a ticket is the only thing I've never heard them grudge. They love a good story; a good story has a hero; and heroes fall into a lot of categories on Ivory. Stereth was on his way to writing his own story, and there were doubtless many who felt a bit part in it was worth risking their lives.

When you've been a collector of myths and legends as long as I have, you become aware of the distinction between glamour and reality. I would as soon be back at Cormallon, picking cherries for dessert. Still, I understood the pull for Stereth's followers and was not so presumptuous as to try and stop them.

"Comfortable, Tymon?" Des inquired. I was sitting on the bow of his saddle, where Hock-Tyan's nephew had sat on the way in. Tades had suggested we take their mount back again, but I don't think he expected anyone to agree.

As the small barbarian of the group, it was clear who was going to have to share.

Past the mysteries of the crop— "What is this stuff, Des?"

"No idea, Tymon, I'm a city boy myself. I don't think it's wheat. Maybe it's rice." Grateth's voice rumbled behind us: "Are you crazy? It's nothing like rice." Komo's voice, thick with drink: "It's wine."—and I still don't know. Even I've heard that wine comes from grapes, but Komo made a good case for some sort of local variant distilled from these plants. We were still arguing about it leagues later, at the Mid-Plateau Road.

And far down the road in the blackness, there came a shout. It was just any shout to me, but Grateth said, "Militia."

"Kanz," said Komo. "What're they doing at this end of the road?"

"Break up and ride," said Grateth, and Des said, "Go!"

I'd thought the night of the cattle raid had been a wild ride. I dug into the soft neck fur of Des' mount, clamped my legs like a vise, and held on. We scrabbled straight up and over the first available hill. All I could hear was the wind and the muffed sound of hooves in the dirt. Ten minutes later Des brought us to a stop and said, "Shh."

We listened. Nothing but night and the edge of a moon on the horizon: We might have been alone in the world. Then, far away, a soft pounding.

"Kanz," he said in my ear. "They're following us."

With all affection to Grateth and Komo, I, too, would have preferred it differently. We flew down the other side of the hill and headed… south, I think, though I was losing track.

"Here." Des slowed us down.

"Why are we stopping?"

"Get down." He slid off and helped me dismount. I lost my footing and nearly went head over heels down an incline that appeared out of nowhere. Des kept hold of my hand and jerked me back to my feet.

The mount picked its way down the slope behind us, calm as ever. Bless his engineers. At the bottom of the ravine we stepped into a shallow run of water.

"It's too dark to see a thing," said Des. "We'll wait down here for them to pass."

The water was cold. "Is this stream poisonous?"

"Yes."

"Will it hurt us to stand in it?"

"I don't know. I never tried it before."

"Kanz."

We both shut up then and waited.

Two hours later we rode into the grounds of the fort. Grateth and Komo were already back, and people were waiting for us. Ran was prominent among them.

Des dismounted and swung me down. He grinned at Ran and said, "She's safe and sound. No problem at all, in fact—" as he opened his arms to include the others,"—you people worry too much."

Ran gave him one of his unreadable looks: I left Des to enjoy his boasting and took Ran to one side. We went around the corner, out of the wind and out of earshot. "You're smiling," he said to me.

"Am I? We were nearly caught by the provincial militia. They were six meters away from us at one point, I could hear their gear jingle."

"Then why are you so happy? Your eyes are shining."

"I don't know," I said, and pushing him a little farther against the wall I started to pull off his outer robe.

"And what are you doing?"

"I don't know that either." Having gotten rid of the outer robe, I unbuttoned the top of his tunic.

"Heavens," he said, and his voice had lost its moodiness, "you're usually not this aggressive."

"No?"

"I'd forgotten the effect adrenaline has on you."

The clothes pile was growing. "Shut up," I said, and although Ran outranked me in House hierarchy he did not appear offended.

In fact, the next morning he ran a hand through his hair and said, "If only we could reproduce that chemically."

I was rinsing my mouth with a dipper of water from one of the jars. "I thought you preferred being the aggressor."

"A little change never hurts. A person doesn't like it to be always their idea, it makes you wonder.'

"You know I'm generally inhibited."

"Oh, I know. In all sorts of ways."

I looked at him. "What does that mean?" I'd once had a similar diagnosis from an itinerant monk. That had irritated me, too.

"Nothing," he said, like one who's opened a door he meant to pass by. He got up, came around behind me, and kissed me on the neck. "You've come a long way for a barbarian."

"No, wait a minute, for once I'd like to knoW just what people mean when they tell me—"

"Did you know tonight's the moon-and-a-half?"

My thoughts transferred at once to the more immediate highway. "Are you sure?"

"The second of our four nights. We'll be half-wed, my tymon, if nothing goes wrong."

Getting married by degrees isn't as frightening as doing it all at once. I'm not sure I could have handled it the other way. Aloud, I said, "And I don't know if we're going to manage the cakes."

"You mean you don't know how we're going to manage the cakes. It's a question of strategy, not of choice."

"You know, you and Stereth really do have a lot in common."

He gave me a hurt look and said, "There's a larder in the cookhouse. Steal from it when you get the chance."

Which leads logically to that awful moment in the afternoon when I found myself on trial. Ran came running into the cookhouse when he heard about it, along with half a dozen of the band.

Juvindeth and Clintris had me standing against the wall, both their knives out, looking very unfriendly. Carabinster-eth came in just behind Ran, still puffing, and gasped out, "What happened?"

Juvindeth's eyes narrowed in my direction, but before she could speak Clintris said, "She was stealing from the stores. She's running out on us."

Juvindeth added, "And you know she'd never make it out of the Sector without turning us in."

Carabinstereth looked at me reproachfully. I was beginning to grasp how Ran must have felt that time he was

accused of stealing from the family treasury. I said, "I just wanted some food. Is that a capital crime?"

I immediately wished I hadn't phrased it that way.

Juvindeth said, "Where's Stereth?"

Lex na'Valory answered her. "He's gone with Grateth and Des on an errand."

"What of it?" asked Clintris. "Why wait?"

"Good point," agreed Lex.

Why did I have to draw this group? Clintris and Lex would've been at home in the arena, thumbing-down every passing gladiator. I said, "I want to see Stereth."

"I don't give a pile of kanz what you want," began Lex, but Ran interrupted.

"When did you get put in charge? This isn't your decision."

Carabinstereth jumped in before Lex could have one of his fits. "It's true, it's her right. We'll wait for Stereth."

You have appealed to Stereth. Unto Stereth… But why should he look any more kindly on the situation? This was a postponement, not a commutation.

Lex muttered, "Sokol's her damned boyfriend. If she's dead, he won't have anybody to put it to. Why should we listen to him?"

"He probably put her up to it," said Juvindeth.

"Yeah, would she be cutting out alone? Turn out his pockets, too." Lex saw the look on Ran's face and broke into a wide grin.

Enough. I yelled, "All right! I was stealing from the damned stores. Gods, haven't I put up with enough? Do we have to drag my personal life into this?"

Their faces turned to me, taken aback by the outburst. I'm not given to outbursts generally, and I've found that when I do succumb they seem to have twice the effect. I could see them wondering, What does she have to be angry at us for?

"Tonight's the moon-and-a-half! Sokol and I were going to be half-married! First you kidnap us, and then when we try to have the ceremony anyway you threaten to kill me! This was supposed to be our honeymoon!"

Ran must have agreed it was a little late to deny it. He didn't say anything. There was total silence among the

group, and then Carabinstereth asked in a small voice, "What was she stealing?"

Juvindeth said uncertainly, "Eggs. And flour."

"Flour?" Carabinstereth glared at her. "Are you out of your mind? What would she be doing with flour on the road? She might as well bring along mud!"

Juvindeth looked down at the floor, humiliated.

"What a group!" Carabinstereth cast a general hard look around at everyone. "May the gods witness what I put up with. I see where Stereth gets his gray hairs."

Lex began, "I don't see how I was supposed to know—"

"Shut up," said Carabinstereth. "Go back to the main hall and get some cloaks and pillows. Clintris, fire up the oven. Juvie, you're going to come with me over to Barine Hill. —Lex, what are you waiting for? Unless you want Stereth to hear every stupid thing that went on here today—"

Lex vanished. She turned to me. "Please overlook this unfortunate incident. Would you mind waiting in the main hall? I'll be with you shortly."

I'd had no idea Carabinstereth could call up a courtly accent like that. It must be from her bodyguard days. Ran seemed even more eager to leave than I was; he took hold of my sleeve and drew me out into the dull plateau sunlight.

I glanced back at the stone dome of the cookhouse. The clanging sound of the ancient oven starting up came from within. I found I was weaker than I'd thought, and took hold of Ran's arm.

"You know, I wasn't sure I was going to get out of that room."

"I kept looking at the cleavers," he confessed. "I'm not sure I'll ever feel the same way about kitchens again."

"We're really in serious trouble here, aren't we? I don't mean today. I mean, being with the band."

He put an arm around my shoulders. "Come on, tymon. It's the moon-and-a-half. Even if we can't do the ritual."

We stayed in the main hall, lying on the cushions like invalids, while Lex gathered things up around us and muttered to himself.

* * *

A hand on my shoulder woke me from a light doze. It was Carabinstereth. I sat up and looked around at the dim hall; it must be dark outside already.

"Come on, Tymon, into your things." She held out a colored robe and I got into it sleepily. Outlaws were always sharing clothing; you took what was clean and didn't make a fuss.

"It's silk," I said in surprise, when I felt it on my skin.

"Cobatree silk," she said. "Best in the world. Better than that stuff that comes out of worms."

She was leading me across the hall to the door. "What's going on?" I asked. "Where's R—… Sokol?"

"He's just excellent, little barbarian. Shake the sleep out of your head. Rub those funny-looking eyes."

"You're a fine one to talk about eyes." Her own jeweled irises glowed in the dark like a satisfied cat's.

We crossed the rough grass, cold against my feet. "You didn't give me time to put on my boots."

"We're not going far." We came to one of the monastery's smaller buildings and she kicked the doorstep with the edge of her boot. The door was opened by Mora So-bien Ti.

"Did she finally wake up?" asked Mora, the edges of her mouth curved in a gentle smile.

"This slug?" inquired Carabinstereth. "I poured icewater on her."

Mora drew me in, kissed me, and went out the door. They closed it behind them. I turned and saw a single stone room, a half-missing ceiling open to moonlight, and a wealth of cushions, cloaks, and silken bolts of color. A small oil lamp was set in one wall. Bits of crumbled green were scattered on the floor, releasing an earthy scent: Night-gathered herbs from Barine Hill. An old wooden shutter, carefully cleaned, had been set in the middle of the room as a tray, and two round cakes were on it. The symbol for "tymon" was painted on the wood by one cake, and the symbol for "anonymous" was by the other.

"They said they were careful to make them from the ingredients each of us stole."

A bundle of shadows by the far wall moved, and Ran stood up. He spread his hands to indicate the pirate para-

dise* around us. "Well," he said, "this is a little embarrassing."

I think I've already mentioned the sudden veers into sentiment true Ivorans will make. There is nothing more typical than their practical bloodthirstiness of this afternoon and their advancement of love's cause tonight. Ran told me, with a trace of discomfort, how Lex and Carabinstereth had supervised his washing and choice of clothing, and how Lex had doused him in perfume.

"It's an awful brand," he said, "but I couldn't tell them no. They were absolutely fixed on it."

"I like the smell."

He shook his head. "Barbaric taste. But what can we expect?"

We snuggled down onto a pile of cloaks. "Like nesting waterbirds," I said. Moonlight poured over the room.

"Um. I only hope it doesn't rain."

Late the next morning Ran and I walked over the grounds toward the main building. I still needed some sandals or boots; the grass was cold. Not the crew, though— Grateth passed us on a silver-furred mount, heading toward the track that led out of the valley, and he ducked his head in salute, smiling shyly. There was friendly chatter from a group clearing up the remains of the breakfast fire. Some of them waved to us.

Clintris and Mora smiled as they went by, and Clintris called, "We've saved you breakfast."

"We didn't want to interrupt you," said Mora. "Tab. and fried bread, in the cookhouse, whenever you want it."

They went on. Ran was quiet, even unhappy-looking this morning.

"They're embarrassed about yesterday," I said, with some surprise. "They like us."

"Wonderful," he said, seeming, if anything, more depressed than ever.

"Take a walk with me," Ran said, about an hour later.

I'd been taking a nap in the dimness of the main building. I got up, puzzled, and followed him out to the grounds, past the spot where Clintris na'Fli had drawn such spectacular

attention to us. I assumed he wanted to speak to me privately, but when we crossed the wall and kept going, a good sixty meters past the stones, I stopped abruptly. Ran still hadn't spoken. I said, "What are you doing? The lookout will have them all after us! I'd rather not have to defend myself again, you know—yesterday was bad enough."

He pulled me on. "Lazarin's the lookout today, and with Stereth away he decided to join Des in a card game on the roof. Neither of them are paying more than occasional attention to the view."

I snatched my arm away. "Are you crazy? This is supposed to be it? Our great escape, in broad daylight? Where's your waterbag—"

He was forced to stop. "Stereth will be back this afternoon, we won't get another chance. We'll have to do what we can for water in Kynogin—"

"Where everybody will recognize you as Stereth Tar'krim!"

I swiveled my head back as I argued; the fort was lazy today, without Stereth to push it along—people were indoors napping, playing games, doing a lick or two of work in desultory fashion. Ran was right, there would probably never be less attention paid to us than now. But what difference did that make, if we couldn't get off the Plateau?

He said, "I'll stay hidden in Kynogin while you bargain for transport."

"Hidden where? Bargain with what? Did you pack up your gold tabals on the way out of the fort?"

"We don't have a choice! So come on."

He made the mistake of reaching for my arm again, and I stepped back. "Why are you so determined to clear out today? Why don't we have a choice? Ran, what have you done?"

"What have I done? What have you done!"

We faced each other. "Want to tell me what you mean by that?"

He waited stubbornly, not answering, then looked back toward the fort. Time was not on his side. He said, "Theodora, you're losing your edge."

"What the hell does that mean! When did I become a piece of cutlery?"

"This is what I'm talking about. You're not seeing these people in the proper light at all any more. Stereth sends

you riding off with Des on missions, and you come back lit up like the fountains on the Imperial grounds. You're enjoying yourself, Theodora."

It might have made a better argument if we didn't each have to keep whipping our heads around to make sure we weren't being watched. "I eat cold, greasy animal-corpse meat for breakfast, I sleep on a blanket on hard stone, there isn't anything to read for kilometers, and you tell me I'm enjoying myself. Well, I'm glad you let me know. Next time tell me sooner!"

"You like these adrenaline rushes, Theodora, I've noticed that before."

"Look who's criticizing! The man who patented the adrenaline rush and introduced it to the masses! I didn't know what physical danger was till I met you—" I was starting to sputter, so I took a deep breath. "Anyway, this has nothing to do with choosing a logical time to escape."

He bit his lip. "It does if I'm losing my partner."

"What?"

"You like these people."

I stared at him. "You say it like an accusation."

"What else?" His eyes looked back at me with hopelessness and rare anger. "You're not an outworlder anymore, you're a Cormallon!"

"Look, if you tell me what I am one more time—"

Suddenly he put his hand on my arm, in an entirely different way than before. I glanced around quickly. Cara-binstereth was walking toward us, through the damp grass.

We waited till she reached us. She looked from my face to Ran's, then said, "This is why I never got married." She scuffed a boot in the dirt, and without any blame in her tone whatsoever, she said, "In the heat of battle you probably didn't notice, but you've come a little far from the wall. People are edgy with Stereth away, so I wonder if—as a favor to me—you'd come back in closer."

"Battle" was a strong word. Or maybe it wasn't. We accompanied her in, past the crumbling stone wall, an uncomfortable silence among the three of us. I'm not one of those people who enjoy a full-blown argument. I hate them. I felt as though I'd eaten too much and then done too many push-ups. As though I'd been squeezed dry. As though I

had to move slowly and carefully, or something awful would happen, to my body or my life.

"And what did I miss?" asked Stereth the next day, as he handed his mount over to Lex.

"Uhh…" said Lex, looking toward Carabinstereth.

"Nothing of interest," she said. "How was your errand?"

"Let me tell you," he began, and they walked together into the main fort.

Lex shrugged in the direction of Ran and me, and took the mount away.

Stereth's errand had taken him and his two most valuable lieutenants to almost every farm and ranch in the surrounding area. Between Stereth's reputation, Des' charm, and Grateth's solid, competent presence—not to mention the gold Stereth freely handed out—the success of his treaty project was complete. Or nearly complete, anyway; the Pemhostil Ranch, the largest of all, refused to even talk with them.

Stereth wasn't put out. "Good," he said simply. "We're parasites. We need to live off somebody."

That night he added, "But we're going to be busy in future. We'd better stock up now—cattle, mounts, whatever we need. And it'll be a good object lesson for the other respectable citizens; they'll be glad they signed with us."

"You want to raid Pemhostil," said Carabinstereth.

"Tonight," he agreed.

Pemhostil covered a wide range of territory—enough so that outbuildings were scattered here and there, housing employees paid to protect the stock. Cormallon covered twice as much ground, but it was so safe there that a similar outbuilding had been designated for Kylla to use as a retreat, when she wanted to be alone. Lacking the Cormallon barrier, the Pemhostils provided their people with weapons, and sent them out in numbers.

By now, however, Stereth's band had left off any vestiges of democracy, or even anarchy, that it might have pretended to. If Stereth thought it was a good idea to invade Pemhostil, they were willing to oblige.

A night of nerves, hard riding, and confusion; shouted

orders under the full and half-moons. Stereth had everyone turned out, knived, booted, with dark jackets to make us harder to see—we were going to survive for a long time on what we took from this raid, he said. Fires were set in Pemhostil, to draw out the people and to drive the steer-mods where we wanted them to go. I've forgotten many of the details of those chaotic few hours, but I remember being aware at one point of Ran on a gray and black-furred mount, just over my left shoulder. Cattle swirled in a torrent around us. I pointed back to where the nearest outbuilding stood on a hill, its windows lit with yellow lights, its open doorway a square of yellow-against the blackness.

"What happened to the people that lived here?" I yelled.

"What do you think happened to them?" Ran called back, annoyed with me, himself, and the world. He turned the mount around with difficulty and spurred it toward the knot of companions on the burning horizon.

What did I think happened to them? I echoed. The ranch was alive with the lowing of cattle and the crackle of fire. This was Ivory, not Sherwood Forest.

Chapter Twelve

I know. I was the one who told him about Robin Hood.

The Pemhostils were maddened, naturally, but they got no sympathy from their neighbors, which was perhaps one of the points Stereth wanted to make. There was always the danger that one of our new allies would prefer the exorbitant profit of turning in Stereth Tar'krim to being a silent partner of his band; but as Des pointed out, they would have to locate him first, and then balance the promise of more money to come from the band's Sector activity versus the amount of the bounty—and the certainty of outlaw retribution.

It was all very civilized. We'd been sweeping out the hall and laying the table for hours. Napkins and tah cups were at hand, sparkling clean, and Lex and Komo were discreetly placed at corners with a view of the yard, holding a rifle and pistol respectively. Finally, ten mounts rode onto the fort grounds, led by a dried-up little man with an intense expression and a young woman in a black jacket, her hair pinned up like a lady of the capital.

"Marainis Cho," Des told me, nodding toward the woman. Never-Too-Late. "I wouldn't mind making her close acquaintance. Dramonta's a pig, though."

"Why?" I watched as the pair dismounted and returned

Stereth's bows. No pretense here that the official posters of Ran were anything but a joke; outlaws knew too much about each other.

"He chooses a new second-in-command every couple of years. Picks the best-looking female in the band and disposes of the last one."

"Gods!" Marainis Cho undid the top button of her jacket, showing a gold choker necklace. She followed Stereth and Dramonta inside, her eyes down. "Does she know what's in store? Or do you mean something harmless by 'disposes'?"

"Harmless? With Dramonta involved? Hell, Tymon, I don't know if she knows. It's a sin, though. Look at the way she walks. You can see light between her legs. Know what that means, when a woman—"

"Spare me the male folklore, Des. I can't believe Dramonta gets away with that in his own band! We wouldn't stand for it here."

Six of the riders Dramonta had brought along were milling in the yard, talking with Grateth, Mora, and Paravit-Col. The other two riders had gone inside.

"Makes for bad feelings in the band," agreed Des. "People give Marainis a hard time about it, from what I hear."

"They give her a hard time—" I shut my mouth, took a breath, and said, "Carabinstereth's right. It's an insanity gene, tied to the Y chromosome."

"You can't expect them to be glad when somebody sleeps her way to second-in-command—"

"I'm going inside now. Clintris could use help with the serving." I turned and started for the main building.

"Come on, Tymon, I didn't say / felt that way—I'm only quoting what other people say—Tymon!"

I went in through the main hall, past the fire, and up to the low table Stereth had had installed two days ago. He glanced at me as I came in; the place was almost empty. I stayed anyway. I was nosy.

I joined Clintris in the back, where she was struggling to carry the kettle and a plate of cakes. "Take it," she said at once, holding out the kettle. I took it, and she straightened out the good robe she'd put on for the occasion. "Good. Tah's already in the strainer. The warmer's been

charged. Just pour the water in, and for heaven's sake don't spill any."

Clintris was not fond of me, but then she was not fond of anyone, and when she needed help she didn't debate over where it came from. I carried the kettle to the table, removed the painted ceramic top from the pot, and released the aroma of black tah into the room. I poured slowly, the way I'd seen other people do it, and then I put the kettle on the stone floor and stood against the wall, as though waiting to be of further service.

Stereth glanced my way again, but didn't ask me to leave. From a quirk in the corner of his mouth I suspected I was amusing him. Good.

Clintris returned to the cookhouse for more pastries. Dramonta took a sip of his tah cup, but left the cake he'd been given untouched on his plate. No wonder he was such a dried-up little man, I thought. Probably his only pleasure came from killing his hostages and lovers.

"Kind of you to invite us," he said, pursing his lips austerely as he replaced the tah cup. He had a capital accent, and an upper-class one to boot.

"Gracious of you to come," said Stereth. "Marainis, I hope the cake meets with your approval. Please don't be polite if it doesn't; there'll be more coming at any moment."

I wondered if that were a swipe at Dramonta. He really should have taken a bite; to show he didn't think it was poisoned. Marainis spoke in a husky voice, "Thank you, it's delightful. I haven't had berry dressing since I was a child."

"Umm, and it's a very nice headquarters you have here," added Dramonta, in an effort at courtesy I had not expected of him. From the things I'd heard, I suppose I'd started to picture him as drooling and throwing cutlery.

"Thanks, but it's nothing compared to your own organization, I understand—"

And they tossed flowers at each other until my feet started to hurt. It's the way of Ivory. Finally Stereth allowed himself to be coaxed into detailing his ambition of winning a collective pardon from the Emperor. He didn't mention Robin Hood. I didn't think this would be a good audience for that, myself. He discussed the history (the folklore, really) of outlaw pardons, while Dramonta shifted

in his seat, and finished, "If we can be enough of an irritant long enough, without getting caught, they'll offer us a buy-off."

"Enough of an irritant and they'll send in the provincial militia—or worse, Imperial troops."

"Well, I did say 'without getting caught.' "

Dramonta put down his tah. "You're young. It's to be expected that you run off half-cocked, getting yourself into trouble before looking—"

"May I ask the flaw in my plan?"

"We're not an army." Dramonta handed his cup to Mar-ainis, seemingly forgetting that he wasn't at home. She glanced down at the cup in her hand, raised an eyebrow, and set it on the table. "There are simply not enough of us to be an irritant, from the Imperial point of view. And only the Emperor has the authority to buy off acknowledged outlaws. Not the Governor. Who will be the one you really irritate."

Stereth smiled. "Enjoying your tah?"

"Yes, thank you."

"It's black tah, from one of the Ordalake plantations."

"It's very nice," said Dramonta, a little impatiently.

"Did you know that all the tah from the plantations around the western lakes comes across the Northwest Sector? That's about ninety percent of the black tah used on this continent."

"Well, that's fascinating."

"And since it comes across the Sector, they can't use airtrucks. It all moves on the ground."

"Thank you, I'm aware of the tah shipments. I've robbed enough of them in my life."

"Of their money. Not their tah."

Dramonta frowned. "What would I do with a hundred sacks of tah? We take a sack occasionally, for personal consumption—"

"Of course."

"But I fail to see who would profit from stockpiling tah sacks to rot in the Sector. And in this climate? It'd start to go bad in a few weeks."

Marainis, who'd been listening bright-eyed, turned to him. She opened her mouth as though to explain some-

thing, then shut it again and picked up her tah cup. She regarded Stereth from over the rim.

Stereth said, "Imagine what would happen along the coast—and in the capital—if the tah shipments stopped coming through the Sector. There are a few green tah plantations in the south, and I assume the red would still come from overseas, but that would never be sufficient to meet the demand. And by far the tah used most is black."

Dramonta was silent. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

Stereth went on. "Maybe the Palace and the noble Houses would arrange to get hold of what little tah there would be available—which of course would only add to the friction."

"What friction?" Dramonta burst out finally. "They can drink chocolate in the morning! Or tea."

Stereth seemed disappointed in him. "Have you tried going without tah for a few days? Have you been through withdrawal symptoms?"

"No, but what of it? It won't kill them."

"No." Stereth grinned. "It will only irritate the hell out of them."

It didn't work. Dramonta wasn't going to play, and after another cup or two of tah to satisfy honor, he and Marainis mounted up and took their team home. Several of our band looked depressed, but Stereth put a hand on Des' shoulder and said, loud enough to be heard, "Never mind. He's only one man. The others will be interested."

And as it turned out, he was right.

By the red quarter-moon, High Summer Night, there were three other bands bedding down with us in the fort. Ran was appalled at the numbers he had to share space with. He didn't even get a break in the water-carrying, because now three times as many jars had to be hauled. I knew all this from observation, because we hadn't spoken to any great degree since our argument on the day after our half-wedding night.

I considered the even tenor of the scholarly life that I had once anticipated. Then I considered the ideal that had replaced it, of working with Ran in the capital and at Cor-mallon. As I walked beside him into the hall one morning,

while he grunted under the weight of a waterjar, I said, "I suppose normal life will start sometime in the future."

"Huh. Since meeting you, I've forgotten what a normal life is."

This was an old joke. "You're not going to descend to blaming me again—"

"It's a luckspell. Somebody's saddled us with seven years of bad luck. Five more to go—think you're up to it?"

He set the waterjar down in the washing line, straightened, and pushed a fist into the small of his back. I said, "You'd know if there were a luckspell on you."

"Very cleverly applied, tymon—they put it on you, and now it's spilling over onto me."

At least he was still talking to me, even after I'd appalled all his notions of House honor. And I will say this for Ran: If he'd really believed there was an ill-luck spell on me, he would have stuck with me for the five years. And he wouldn't have expected any special praise for it, either, he would expect me to take it for granted. This sort of knowledge made him a lot easier to live with when he became difficult.

I was about to make some sort of comment when I saw Carabinstereth climbing up onto the sideboard table. "What in the world is she doing?"

"Everybody!" yelled Carabinstereth. "Could I have your attention? Everybody—I mean, brothers and sisters, ho, listen!"

Stereth had started the "brothers and sisters" form of address. People weren't sure of names, what with all the strangers coming and going now, hut he wanted to engender a feeling of intimacy; an idea that we were all one band. Anyway, I assume that's what he wanted. His reputation was growing by leaps and bounds, though, and one band or not, the newcomers seemed to put Stereth's original group on a pedestal. ("Did you really rob a tax shipment?" asked one man curiously, to me—with a look in his eyes as though I were a pirate queen. I teetered between feeling uncomfortable and a temptation to swagger.)

"Brothers and sisters? Thank you." Carabinstereth stood precariously near the tah service. She grinned her outlaw grin. "I have some announcements. —Hi, Paravit, just put the jar down and come and join us. First, in an effort to improve the efficiency and safety of every member of this

band, physical training will begin this afternoon in the hall. By physical training I do not refer to calisthenics, sa'ret, spot-dancing, body building, or some other… recreational activity. I refer to methods of disabling, maiming, and killing people, with and without weapons. Don't worry if you don't consider yourself in good physical shape." She grinned again, looking at our faces. "You won't need to be for the tricks I'm going to teach you. I'll be taking the women shortly after lunch—don't eat too much, sisters— and Komo will take the men tomorrow morning. Every female not on duty will report to the hall—"

There was a babble of disagreeing voices. Carabinstereth raised a hand. "Ladies! I know that none of you will want to pass by an educational opportunity like this. Gentlemen, you will not be in the hall while my class is going on; you will report to the hall after wash-up tomorrow morning. Any man seen here after class begins will be used as a demonstration model." She paused, then said more seriously, "Come on, boys and girls, it's not optional. It's the word according to Stereth, so make the best of it. Or argue with him, not with me."

She got down from the sideboard and was immediately surrounded by people all talking to her at once. I turned to Ran. "What do you make of that?"

He was thoughtful. "When it comes to conducting robberies, outlaws have never placed a high premium on physical training. I suppose it would be useful. Or do you think he's anticipating a pitched battle?"

That was a frightening thought. "We'd be crushed."

"He must know that. Of course, it would depend on the aims of the other side. If they wanted to take prisoners, to make a good show on the execution block—political mileage, you know—and they came in close enough for some real hand-to-hand… then we might keep them occupied. Long enough for Stereth to escape, anyway."

"Ugh. I don't even want to think about it. I'll be over the hills and down the hermit-hole long before the first charge—and you'd better be with me, half-husband."

"No fear."

We went back to finish washing up. I said, "I suppose I should go find a hermit-hole this afternoon, too. No point in my showing up for training."

"Why not?"

I was surprised. "Look at my size! I'm a barbarian. I'm smaller than most women I meet, let alone most men. Come on, now—whatever Carabinstereth's 'tricks' are, don't tell me some big fellow couldn't knock me out with one hand. And if he's got a knife or a pistol—I mean, physical facts are physical facts. I avoid trouble, Ran, that's how I survive. Fortunately, most people don't take me seriously."

He smiled and kissed my forehead. "I take you seriously, half-wife."

Ran will do things like that just when you're trying to make a point. Talk about knocking the weapons out of your hands. Clearly he didn't need to bother with training, either.

"I mean, people who could hurt me. Remember when I first learned who Annurian was? He would have killed me if he thought I was a threat."

"So, and if you were this hypothetical giant armed male, would you have been a threat to him?"

"No. I couldn't have turned him in, he was a friend."

"Maybe that's why he knew you weren't a threat. Go on, tymon, take the class. Learn a few dirty tricks. I won't worry as much about you when we're not together."

I frowned up at him. "You never told me you worried."

"What would have been the point? But now that you can alleviate the worry… keep me from getting gray hairs like Stereth…"

"All right, all right. You win. I'll change into those provincial trousers you hate and go to class."

He smiled and hugged me in one of his rare public displays of affection. Like most Ivoran men I'd met, Ran was a poor loser but generous in victory. With women it seemed usually the opposite. Maybe it depends on which you've had more experience with.

One man was in the class after all—Lex, Carabinstereth's partner, decked out in shin protectors and a padded helmet. After they ran a half dozen or so attack demonstrations and went over the twists and kicks with us, Carabinstereth announced, "And now you will all line up, and Lex will attack you."

We all looked at each other. Lex was psychotic.

"Children," said Carabin, with reproachful affection. "We won't do anything you haven't seen today. This afternoon only, Lex will hold back. Take advantage of the situation. Tymon, you go first. Lex will jump you from behind."

"Me?"

"Somebody has to go first."

"I don't remember anything we did." I didn't, either. I had a vague memory of snap-kicking a cushion that Lex had held… and then there was something about the arms, wasn't there? Really, I had no idea.

Her lips twitched. "No one ever does. Walk out to the middle of the mat, Tymon. Don't turn around, you'll know when he reaches you."

I walked out slowly. Everybody in the hall, all twenty-eight women, were watching me. My heart was jackham-mering in a sick and wild rhythm and my brain seemed to be nonfunctional.

I was grabbed from behind. I turned into the grab, bringing my elbow around as I went, smashing into Lex's padded helmet. Then I kneed him in the groin (a lot of Carabinster-eth's lessons centered on this area, and Lex was careful to have padding there as well), and when he doubled over I smashed the other knee into his skull. The whole thing took about a second and a half, and then I was staring at Lex on the mat.

"My gods," I said. "It worked."

"All right, Tymon," called Carabinstereth. "Move off the mat now, so you don't make Lex nervous. While you're both on the mat, you're enemies."

I walked over to the side and watched Lex pull himself up slowly, with a grunt. He moved unsteadily toward Carabinstereth and whispered to her. She bit her lips, and I couldn't tell if she were upset or laughing. Then Lex returned to the head of the mat.

Carabin said, "Sisters, Lex has decided that since this is your first lesson, he'll go slowly with this particular attack drill. Everyone can, uh, take it easy… All right, next— Selene—take the mat…"

Several days later:

Carabinstereth clouted Berwin on the ear, though not

d

hard. "You're thinking" she said, as though it were a dirty word. "Stop it this instant."

It was Carabinstereth's professed ambition to get us to stop thinking. "This is conditioning," she announced to us all, early in the game; "you know how scared you are on the mat? Good! We want you to be scared! By the time you get out of here your reaction to a spurt of adrenaline will be to go into a drill."

Heavens, was that really the way Carabin lived her life? I made a mental note never to irritate her. But our instructor really had nothing to worry about in terms of the nervous line of women waiting by the mat, for as soon as we got into live drills, thinking was no longer an option. The watchfulness for an opening and the reaction to it when it came was about all there was space for in one's head. When an attack came this way, we did this. When it came another way, we did that. Often you couldn't remember what had happened when it was over.

Sometimes there were bits and pieces. I remember one drill near the beginning, when my opponent had just been doubled over with pain into the perfect position for a head-crack. But I blanked out on my training; stood there for an eternal portion of a second, reflecting that the only blow I could think of could only be administered from a ground position, and here we were on our feet. What in heaven's name was I supposed to do?

A minute later he was on the ground and I'd returned to the practice line, and Juvindeth, just ahead of me, said, "Good work, Tymon!" and a woman I didn't know shook her head happily and said, "Wonderful!" And you know what? To this day I have no idea what I did.

Apparently this was a common phenomenon. There were other common points, too, points that took me by surprise because they went far beyond physical combat.

There are things you learn in this life as you get older, if you will forgive my saying something so obvious. But many of those things you'll have been warned about in advance—you would think all of them, wouldn't you? And yet some come out of nowhere and yank you off your feet, and there you are, ass-down on the ground with a look as shocked as if you were the first human in all of history to face this particular blow. I had never suspected, for in-

stance, when I was younger, that my state of mind could be so at the mercy of certain outside things. I had had no idea that something like "being in love" could change my entire point of view, making a spring of ridiculous satisfaction that lay just under the surface of everything I did. It was a totally nonsituational happiness, or situational only in that it related to proximity to Ran. Kidnappings and other such things were irrelevant to it. I'd been an Athenan rationalist and scholar; I'd felt pride in work that was well done, the pleasure of learning, of completing things I'd set out to finish. But this was something scarier, something clear outside of myself; I might as well be injected with a happiness drug.

I will tell you now that I was not pleased with it, or as not-pleased as I was capable of being while humming every morning and smiling at odd moments. But at least I learned that I was not alone in this mental vulnerability, it was part of the way we humans were wired. I labeled it an exception to normal life, and put it aside. Now under Carabinstereth's tutelage I learned new exceptions (and how many exceptions could there be, I worried, as my mental lists grew).

For one thing, there was the rollercoaster I went through at drill. Dread, dread, dread, as I waited in line, mixed with some anticipation. Then the fight itself began, and the fear was gone; there was no room for anything but an intense concentration. Then Lex or Grateth would be down and I would return to my place, feeling emotion start to seep back—in this case a blind euphoria that lasted for hours, sometimes for days. In talking with the other women afterward I found they were going through exactly the same cycle. It had never crossed my mind that humans were so predictable, that we could be turned on and off so easily. The very concept was anti-Athenan. And it bothered me a great deal.

But there was more. At supper on the third day we were waiting in line by the cookhouse for some stew when two men from another band walked past the line and went straight to the bowl. They didn't necessarily mean anything by it; there were only three of us on line, and we were behind the rope that marked off the serving table so they may not have seen us. Line jumping happened every now and then because when the supper rush was over there was

no line at all, and people got used to just walking by and taking what they wanted. When it did happen everybody waiting would look at each other, wondering if they should give up and rush for whatever was left in the bowl.

Without thinking I called, "Friends, the line's over here. If you're wanting supper." They turned, looked confused, then dissatisfied, then joined the line. When I reached the bowl, the server that night said, "I'm glad you did that, sister. I hate it when they jump the line." But as I ate I found myself thinking, why in the world did you do that? You've never done it before, you always let them past.

Understand, I spent my childhood on Pyrene, where I learned early never to volunteer, never to complain about unfair rules, and never to call attention to myself. These attributes, developed into fine talent, have stood me in good stead in my life. It's thanks to them that I could move from one culture to another and particularly that I blended in as well as I did on Ivory, where my physical characteristics were so different.

So what in heaven's name had come over me now?

I talked with the other women before the next session and many of them had done similar things. The aggression level in our class was clearly rising. One of them had picked a verbal fight with someone who'd tried to criticize her choice of tah. One had given an ultimatum to her lover about where they were living when Stereth got us pardons. I was shocked. Somehow I'd associated aggressive behavior with "the silly things men do." Clearly I'd been kidding myself—here we were, as vulnerable as anybody to it. This was frightening; were we all going to end up as Carabin-stereths?

I put the question to the other women and we looked at each other in horror. We liked Carabinstereth, but being her was another question entirely. Good god, when would you ever rest?

It was Carabinstereth who set us straight. "It'll wear off, my friends," she said, when several women told her, wide-eyed, what they'd done. She laughed. "It doesn't last very long, really it doesn't."

She was right. The pendulum swung back, although it didn't stop in exactly the same space it was in when we began. It still troubles me.. What else will I learn that can change me even if I don't want to be changed?

Chapter Thirteen

"Children," called Carabinstereth. "Mora tells us that she held back in this drill because she thought Lex's eye protectors might not be strong enough. This is not your concern! Kindly bear in mind that when he's on that mat, Lex is not our beloved instructor, he is an enemy. Our aim is to push those eyeballs right back into his squidgy little brain! If permanent damage and death occur, then joy be to us all. Anyone I catch holding back—"

I was halfway down the line that afternoon. Juvindeth, standing just behind me, pulled off a boot and shook it. A pebble dropped. She said to me, "So, you and Sokol have another wife."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your senior wife. She must be upset about not knowing where you are."

"We don't have a senior wife."

Now it was Juvindeth who looked confused. "That day in the cookhouse, when you said it was your honeymoon—"

Oh. The custom that was not followed here with principal wives. I said, "Well, I'm a foreigner, and since I'm going to be the only wife he ever has, I wanted a honeymoon."

"Oh, I'm sorry. He doesn't look that poor. I guess the sorcery business has its ups and downs."

"Poor?"

"Not to be able to afford another wife. It'll be lonely, just the two of you." She put a hand on my wrist in comfort. "You should move in with his family, if he has any. They'll be some company for you, anyway."

The Ivoran view of things was sometimes disconcerting. I said, "I don't think you quite—"

"Our time's up for today," called Carabinstereth. "You're all doing excellent work. Now gather 'round, because there

are a few things I need to tell you. —Don't worry, Sel, we'll start with you first tomorrow." She gave Selene a wicked look. "Now, I'm going to warn you about something. You've all got friends or lovers in the band, and you all talk a lot. That's fine as far as it goes—but you'll be better off not bringing up your training around the men, even if you've done something you're particularly proud of and want to share it. This is because—and I'm telling you, it's going to happen—some of them are going to want to fool around with you. They'll say, 'Show me what you've learned, sweetie,' or they'll creep up behind you, or some damn thing." She took a swallow from the waterjug. "Now, I'm not going to say that isn't from some deep-seated male urge to sabotage any woman who might be a threat, because it probably is."

Nicely done, Carabinstereth. You know how to win friends and influence people. I looked toward Lex, whose face showed no expression. Our instructor continued.

"But to be honest, that's not all it is. For one thing, they'll think it's cute as the dickens that you're learning this stuff, and they won't believe for a second you could hurt them. And well, for another—it's the way they deal with each other, too. Horseplay. You know how they throw fake punches at each other for the hell of it."

Nods from the other women, although I could not imagine Ran throwing fake punches at anybody.

"Well, we're not teaching you horseplay. We're teaching you to maim and kill. And we're teaching you not to think about it. So what happens when some guy tries to have fun with you? Either you hold back, which ruins your conditioning, or you damage him."

"So what do we do?" asked Mora.

"Try to avoid the situation," said Carabinstereth. "But if you can't, it's more important that you maintain your training. Don't ever stop and think, friends, or you'll answer to me. Strike, that's all."

We all looked at each other. Maim or kill one of our guys?

"I know," said Carabinstereth. "But don't think. Anyway," she added, "men who've been through serious training themselves—deserters and whatnot—usually won't give you trouble. They understand how it works, you can talk

to them. It's the green apples you have to worry about, and they're less valuable as fighters."

We didn't have to wait long. That very night Paravit-Col crept up behind Juvindeth while she was doing the dishes and grabbed her. She whirled, smashing her elbow bone into his face, and managed to stop herself before she followed up with a knee to the groin. "Oh, Parry," she cried. "I'm so sorry."

Paravit-Col had his hands over his face. Blood was spurting freely from his nose, which we later learned was broken. He hadn't taken more than two steps back, however, before Komo clouted him on the ear.

"Good for her," said Komo, who'd been eating a pell-fruit nearby. "I warned you not to do that."

I was glad Komo wasn't our instructor.

Later, I wasn't sure. Carabinstereth had no criticism about not following up with the groin blow—there had been time enough after the initial reaction to register the data that it was an idiot ally instead of an enemy. But she made Juvindeth run three drills in a row with multiple attackers, as punishment for having told Paravit-Col she was sorry.

Tarniss Cord, also known as the Only Outlaw Who Uses His Birthname, had a headquarters over a day's ride north of us, and west of Dramonta's territory. Tarniss Cord had started out in Dramonta's company and eventually paid a fee to be allowed to set up on his own. Rumor had it that he still paid tribute to his old leader for the right to continue as an independent.

"Why do I have to go?" I asked Stereth. "Who am I? I'm not anybody."

"You're company for Des," he replied. "Besides, Cord has a soft spot for barbarian women, and I'm not sending Cantry."

Ran was out at that moment with a crew in the cookhouse, trying to clean it up from the major singeing it had taken when the ancient oven backed up at dinner the previous night. I wished he were there. It was reassuring to at least look at each other's helpless expressions as we were carted off on another mission for Stereth.

Des walked over and joined us. "Hey, Tymon, I hear we're running off together."

"We'll see," I said noncommittally.

Stereth smiled. "All right, children—as our Carabin would say—I'm about to tell you everything I know about Tarniss Cord's group, and what I want you to say to him."

Des sat down and crossed his legs, looking attentive. I sighed and leaned against the wall. He began, "There are thirty-two people in Cord's band. He has three lieutenants; their names are Ishal, Cabrico, and Daramin…"

Half an hour later I passed Mora Sobien Ti in the courtyard on the way to the mounts. I said, "Will you tell Sokol I've been sent off for a couple of days? I don't think it's anything dangerous." Probably. So far as I knew.

She said, "Of course, Tymon. Road-luck to you, and to Des, too, I guess. Are you going with her, Des?"

He paused near the mounting block. "Sure. Tymon and I are running off to start a new life in the territories."

She smiled. "Then road-luck to you, too, Des. Bring me back a present."

Des grinned, bent over and put one arm around Mora's back. He kissed her good-bye. I've never forgotten that picture: Des was young and tall and brimming with confidence; Mora was graying and marked by a life of endurance. For a moment there they both looked like gods, or anyway something other than human, something that transcended; something that would last. Then Des let go. He took the halter of his mount from Lex and swung into the seat. "I'll see what I can find for you," he promised Mora.

For a quarter of a second I had one of my flashes of the way all this had to end; Des and Mora's bodies thrown down from the execution block like offal.

Des pointed his mount toward the two blasted trees at the entrance to the valley. He twisted his neck around. "You coming, Tymon?"

"Right behind you, Des."

Ran emerged from the cookhouse, wiping soot and sweat from his face. He looked toward me and stopped dead.

"Ask Stereth," I called helplessly, and followed Des away.

From the look on my half-husband's face, this was going to be very difficult to explain.

* * *

There's an old Imperial fort on the Plateau called Death-well. It's a real fort, not a monastery like Stereth's hideout; a big, sprawling place, not used for the last eight or nine centuries because it was said to be a seat of bad magic and ill luck. Too many executions had taken place there, too many treacherous blows had been struck—within the ranks of the military hierarchy and without—and too many of them had left a bad sorcerous smell behind. It was a place to be avoided by any sensible person.

Tarniss Cord was a rulebreaker. Deathwell was his headquarters. I saw it first from the top of a hill, the clouds heavy above us and the cool plateau wind ruffling the fur of my mount.

"Gods, it's enormous," I said to Des.

It loomed over that part of the land like a giant black fist.

"The Imperials don't do things by halves," he said.

"This isn't my idea of a hideout. Surely everybody for leagues around must know about this place."

"They don't think anybody would be crazy enough to live there," he said, signaling his mount to go down the hill toward the trail that led up to the fort. "And if it does cross anybody's mind, they keep it to themselves. Nobody wants to have to go there in person to see."

"But Stereth thought it would be good if we went."

He grinned. "Cheer up, Tymon. If we die at Deathwell, we'll die like heroes in a play."

I lagged behind. "How dangerous is this, anyway?"

"I'm joking, Tymon, I'm joking. We have diplomatic immunity. Come on, you wouldn't let your companion-of-the-road go on alone, would you?" For Des, this was the unre-fusable question. Someday I should use it on him, I thought as I caught up to him and we started up the hill.

At closer quarters I could see the disrepair; the lost stones sitting by themselves in the grass near the wall, the place where a diverted stream had dried up long ago without Imperial engineers to maintain it. There were characters cut into the stone of the wall, graffiti left by soldiers who'd been dust for centuries. "An early death to Captain Nayle," said one. "I want to go home," said another, simply. A five-line poem was scratched at what was eye-level for me on my mount; somebody must have stood on some-

thing to do it. Not all the characters were still legible. "The breezes are warm in the capital. The [?] of my first [?] home are sweet. But my soul longs for the scouring wind of autumn and the evenings of cold rain."

We were near the main gate. A voice floated down from somewhere above us: "All right, my friends, you can wait there." We halted. Des didn't move, so I didn't either.

The voice called, "Are you the messengers?"

"We are!" yelled back Des. We searched the top of the wall, but there was no sign of life.

"Then you can give me your names."

"Des Helani and Tymon. And the acceptance was relayed by Ishal of your band."

There was silence again. We waited, and five minutes later the massive gate swung open. I looked up as we rode inside. The clouds above us were heavy and filled with the promise of cold rain.

"We've been watching you for twenty minutes," said Daramin cheerfully. Her long black braid bounced against her fanny as she preceded us into the heart of the fort, and I could see Des trying to tear his gaze away from it. "You're not fast riders, are you?"

He cleared his throat. "Uh, no. That is, we like to be careful."

"Us, too," she said.

Twisting passageways and unexpected sets of stairs went on for quite a while, and we didn't see another soul. I was beginning to consider that Tarniss Cord's thirty-odd people could live here pretty successfully even if the occasional riding party did come by and look through the fort. They seemed to disappear very well when they wanted to.

A stone fish blew a plume of water into a font at the entrance to one stairway, and Des paused to wipe his face. "Don't drink that water," said Daramin sharply.

He looked up, puzzled.

"Our supply's been fouled," she explained. "That's what Cord's working on."

We passed three other fonts as we descended the staircases, all beneath each other vertically, all presumably useless. There were no windows now, not even tiny ones. Daramin took a torch from the wall. "We have a genera-

tor," she explained, "but they never bothered to lay wire down here. I guess they didn't come down too often."

We were deep inside the hill that Deathwell was built on by now. Perhaps this was where they buried the bodies of strangers who came bothering them. I glanced at Des. He walked with such confidence; thoughts like this never crossed his mind. And in any case, his attention still seemed focused on Daramin's braid as it bounced hypnotically from one buttock to the other. I wondered again about Stereth's wisdom in sending Des as an emissary.

We came out at last into a great pillared cellar. Rows of kegs covered the far wall and racks for weapons—some even with weapons in them—were stacked against another. A dozen lamps swung from the ceiling. In the corner the stones of the flooring had been broken up and a pit dug; picks and shovels were scattered nearby and some kind of pulley system rigged above the hole. A man stood there straddling the entrance. He took up a bucket and dumped a load of earth onto a growing pile near the kegs. His shirt was off, his brown skin was sweating, and he looked like a prizefighter. His hair was longer than any Ivoran male's I'd seen. He wore it in a ponytail that was plastered now to his back. He returned to the pit and called down: "How does it look?"

The reply was muffled.

Daramin brought us over, bowed, and said, "Tarniss Cord… our visitors from Stereth Tar'krim."

"Honored by this meeting," said Des formally. I bowed.

The Only Outlaw Who Used His Birthname wiped his brow. "I, too, am honored." He glanced down at the pit again, then back at us. In a less formal tone he said, "I don't suppose either of you is an engineer."

"I'm afraid not," said Des.

Cord said, "The dowser told us this was the best spot to try. And really, we ought to be able to go down at any point here and hit the same water supply. So we're just digging down, shoring up the hole, and hoping for the best. I suppose if we're going about it wrong we'll find out soon enough."

"Ah," said Des.

I said, "From what Daramin told us, I thought your

supply was fouled. Why do you want to dig another way into it?"

Daramin and Tarniss Cord looked at each other. A taboo topic? Cord said, "Daramin, why don't you go check on Ishal's inventory? I don't want any more arguing over shares." His lieutenant nodded, smiled at us, and left.

Cord said to me, "It's not something we dwell on here. We took some hostages from a lumber convoy recently, and three nights ago one of them committed suicide. He threw himself down our well. The body's still jammed halfway between the second and third stories, we're working on getting it out. But we can't use that accessway any more."

"I take it you took steps to propitiate the well," said Des.

"Naturally. But the way things are, we'll need a new one dug. It's our first priority at the moment." He smiled. "But I can talk to you as I work. Care to take a bucket?"

Des unhitched a heavy bucket of earth from the pulley. Then he handed it to me.

Shortly we all smelled as bad as Tarniss Cord did. He promised us real baths before we returned to Stereth. "Rows of tubs," he said. "For the soldiers, you know. We won't be able to get the water level as high as you'd like, though. We're hauling it all in by the wagonload until this crisis is over."

We talked as we moved dirt. If Tarniss Cord had a soft spot for barbarian women, you couldn't prove it by me. He certainly seemed more than willing to let me share in the labor, and if he did any flirting it must have gone over my head. On the other hand, Des surprised me. He remembered every detail Stereth had briefed us on, and used it all. He was reasonable, he was persuasive, and in fact he reminded me a lot of Stereth while he was talking.

But Cord held back. "Dramonta hasn't agreed to join you," he said.

"Dramonta is wrong. But you don't need to follow him down the wrong path."

"Easy for you to say, my friend. Have you heard I pay a tribute to Dramonta?"

"The whole Sector has heard," said Des coolly. "They say your nickname ought to be The Only Outlaw Who Still Pays Taxes."

That hit home, I saw. Cord practically flinched. It wasn't like Des to make a dig like that, but it was like Stereth.

Cord said, "I've heard of your band's reputation. Who hasn't? But I have a life to live, and people I'm responsible for right here. I don't want to make any more enemies than I've got, and if a share of booty will appease Dramonta he can have it."

"A pardon would reduce your number of enemies considerably," Des pointed out.

"Pardons don't help dead people. Look, we all know the Emperor could crush us to pulp if he cared to make the effort. And spend the money. So why give him a reason?"

"Look, uh, gracious sir. What we all know is that when it comes to money the Emperor is so tight he squeaks when he walks. He doesn't want to send an army here. Pardons are cheap. —And as for friends, as opposed to enemies? Stereth has a lot more friends than you do right now. And that's not accidental. They believe he can succeed. / believe he can succeed. What have you heard about the tah blockade?"

He was puzzled. "The what?"

Des explained. Finally Tarniss Cord said, "It may be possible. But I'm a cautious bastard, that's why I'm here and in charge. I tell you what, gracious sir. If Stereth can take every tah shipment between now and the beginning of Fire Moon, I'll accept his offer. He'll need a long reach, though, my friend. And plenty of luck. Tell him Deathwell will be watching."

"And if he has reach and luck? Will you give a road-oath?"

Cord laughed. "You won't leave without an assurance, will you?"

"No, sir."

"You ask a great deal of a stranger, you know. If Dramonta finds out even this much of our conversation, he'll kill me."

"I'm not asking you to swear with your hand over your heart," said Des coolly. "Someplace lower down would do better for me."

Cord's smile vanished. "If you think I don't have what it takes to run a band of outlaws, you're mistaken. Whatever direction I choose to take them in."

Having gotten his effect, it was time for Des to step back and be conciliatory. "I don't question the courage of anyone who would willingly live in Deathwell. I'm just asking you to shine a little of it in my direction."

"I've said that I'll accept if he can begin the blockade. I swear it on my life as a cantry tar'meth and on the lives of every man I'm responsible for." He spat. It just missed the pit. "Satisfied?"

"Yes. Thank you, sir." Des took hold of my arm. "Come along, Tymon, let's see if we can find one of those baths. Unless you'd like us to continue helping, sir?"

"Get along, both of you. And remember, I'll be watching."

We stayed that night at Deathwell, through a thunderstorm that howled like a three-year-old, with no pause for the nerves of its listeners. Daramin took care of us; I never saw any others of the band the whole time I was there. Tarniss Cord really was cautious.

Sometime toward morning, when the blackness had changed to gray through the windowslit and the after-storm hours held an unnatural stillness, I heard a skittering sound in my room. I was sleeping on a cot in one of the tiny officer's rooms on the fourth story; Des was next door, and Daramin was somewhere within shouting distance on the floor. The generator was off for the night and there were no candles, but the lightening sky brought the objects in my room into dim relief.

Something moved over by the bureau. I sat bolt upright. Behind the bar of soap I'd brought from the fort, behind the hairbrush—

Kanz. It was a frangi.

Pyrene is responsible for the frangis. They are indigenous to that planet and we (I say "we" as a native-born) have to take the blame for carelessly transporting the vermin around to our neighbors.

Fortunately, they're only slightly poisonous to most people. However, that was not why I froze. I don't know whether it's their blindness, or the silence when they move on some surfaces or the rustle when they move on others. Or the way their radar causes them to dart at you unexpectedly. Or their repulsive, repellent, gods-cursed, sickening

appearance, or the way they rub their—never mind. But they scare the beejeebers out of me.

If I could make it out the door before it got anywhere near me… it skittered toward the edge of the bureau, and suddenly I was standing outside the room. I slammed the door and looked around the corridor, sweating. Dara-min was around somewhere, but I wanted to avoid letting Tarniss Cord's group know what a coward Stereth had sent them. I walked over to Des' door and pounded on it.

"Wha, what—" Des is difficult to wake up. I went inside and closed the door behind me, just in case the frangi got out of my room.

"It's me, Des."

"Tymon… I'm sleeping."

"Des, there's a frangi in my room."

He peered dimly up at me from the bed. "What?"

"There's a frangi in my room!"

He continued to stare at me disorientedly. "Yeah?"

Didn't he realize this was a crisis? "If you can't do something about it, I'll have to stay here for the night."

"Ty, I'm always happy to share a bed with you, but . . you say there's a frangi in your room."

"You've grasped it, Des."

He ran a hand over his face, sighed, and stood up. "All right, come show me where it is."

"It was on the bureau last time I saw," I said, making no move to follow him.

"Double and triple kanz," he said, and left. He was gone for several minutes.

Finally he returned. "All taken care of," he said. "It's dead."

"You swear?" Sometimes Des was a little loose with the truth when it came to his personal exploits.

"I swear on my continued hope of existence. On my road-name. On my mother's sainted head—"

"Where's the body?"

He lowered himself into the bed. "You don't want to know. Good night, Tymon."

I started for the door. He called, "Tymon—" and I turned.

"Uh… sweetheart, I'm sorry if I was a little difficult. I'm… not good at killing."

For Des to admit there was anything he wasn't good at was uncharacteristic, and generous. I said, "That's all right. I appreciate your understanding of my little quirks."

"Well, we all have them." He settled into the bed.

The next morning had the momentary clarity on the Plateau that follows a particularly vicious bout of weather. You could see for leagues. "Not a good day to travel," said Des. "Unless you're a respectable citizen."

We were riding through a section even more desolate than usual, with only the wind-twisted trees for company. The sky was incredibly beautiful. Not far from here, I knew, was a homemade gibbet on a hill that we had passed on the way to Deathwell. It was the sort of place where disgruntled farmers and ranchers took outlaws they'd captured, when they didn't feel like traveling to the authorities. No doubt it was less popular now that the Governor's reward was in effect. A skeleton still swung from it, though. ("Tev! Good to see you!" Des had called as we passed it. "How are you doing these days?" Des' sense of humor sometimes left something to be desired.)

Remembering his handling of Tarniss Cord, though, I had to admit I had done our Des an injustice. He was more letter-perfect than I ever could have been. And he hadn't rushed off afterward into the gathering rain-clouds, either, but waited out the night like a sensible boy. He knew quite well what he could do and what he couldn't, regardless of his boasting.

I told him of my admiration. This was the sort of topic he never minded hearing about. "It was nothing, Tymon," he said casually. "It was just important that Cord take us seriously, so I keyed in a little personality change."

"Gods in assembly, Des, you should be in the theater!"

"I was. Three years in the Sotar Touring Company. Didn't I ever mention it? I was Copalis in Death of an Emperor. 'This night, my friends, this night when the lighted boats of Anemee will never reach their slips on the lake of noble souls; this night—' " In typical Des fashion he'd veered not into Copalis, but Petev, the character who'd killed him and had the better lines. It's one of the most famous soliloquies in all of Ivoran literature, the speech Lord Petev practices to himself on the tower by the Impe-

rial Palace the night the dynasty went through a name change. Des declaimed it to the vast emptiness around us, charging his voice with a rolling melodrama suitable to the infinity of grass and sky.

I let him finish, then took my hands from my mount long enough to clap.

"Thank you," he said. "Tarniss Cord is nothing compared to a provincial audience. And besides, I had plenty of practice for yesterday—by now, I can do Stereth better than Stereth can do Stereth. I can do him so that everybody recognizes him."

"They recognize him now."

"No, I mean really recognize." He touched his hand to the bridge of his nose as though adjusting a pair of glasses. "I hope, Tymon, you're not going to make a fuss about a simple request." The voice was an echo of Stereth's, and the words were from his briefing for the trip to Deathwell.

The cool jade eyes turned to me, and I marveled at their precision. You could almost see a beam of white light marking the track of his attention. I said, "All right, you've made your point."

He ignored me. "Because one recalcitrant in the band is enough. Our goal is going to take a full commitment from every person here—"

He went on, doing a play-by-play, only slightly improvised variation on Stereth's speech. It was more shocking to hear it from Des, though. There was a quality in it that I'd never fully realized before. It was like looking at a portrait and becoming aware of a facial feature whose prominence one had never grasped in the original. Stereth's manner was softened physically by the spectacles and be-haviorally by his closeness to the band; but this quality was there in him. It was the thing that made us careful around him, even when we didn't consciously recognize why—and Des had located this chip of ice and pried it out.

It was still three kilometers to the gibbet, and the ride was spooky enough. I snapped, "For the gods' sake, Des, break character or I'll go out of my mind!"

He must have known from my voice that I was serious. His head tipped forward and he raised one hand. What in the world? Oh. Removing imaginary glasses.

"Sorry," said Des' regular voice.

We rode in silence for a minute. Then I said, "Do you ever do Stereth for Stereth?"

"Ha, ha," he answered briefly.

"And what in heaven's name are you doing in the Northwest Sector?"

"Ah, well, Tymon, when I left the troupe I got into a bit of trouble in Mira-Stoden. A friend of mine had an idea for making money quickly, but it didn't work out."

"But you're so good, why didn't you stick with it?"

He knew at once I meant "stick with acting," yet seemed surprised by the question. "There's no money in it, Tymon," he said reasonably.

I absorbed that. "Of course. My mistake, Des."

About five minutes later he said, "You get to meet a lot of women, though."

A guard whom we didn't know stopped us at the entrance to Stereth's valley. "Des Helani," said Des, in response to his challenge. "And who the hell are you?"

"I'm the lookout," said the guard. He was practically a boy, younger than Paravit-Col by several years. Then he said, "Des Helani! And Tymon? You two are from the original band, aren't you?"

Des softened under the influence of the obvious hero-worship in the boy's voice. "Yeah, we are. I hope the original band is still here."

"Oh, yes, sir! Things haven't changed that much."

We'd only been gone a couple of days, but things seemed different enough to me. More new bands had come in, and though I found out later that Stereth had mixed them and sent over half out again under the leadership of Komo and Sembet Triol, there were a good two dozen people in the yard as we entered. Mostly women. I found out why as we walked through the hall; it was afternoon, and the men's practice class was going on. That was a bit unreal, too—it was not a mirror image of our own by any means. Many of the moves were the same and many of the moves were different, but what was most different were the epithets Lex and Grateth yelled at the recruits. "Kanz! Worm! Boneless sloth! What do you think you're doing! You're thinking again, aren't you, you shell-less turtle, you tax-collector's asshole!" I walked on, startled, and mentioned

it to Carabinstereth at the next practice session. She just nodded. "The men get torn down, and the women get built up. Don't ask me why, it's just that it seems to work."

Stereth took our reports on the Deathwell trip. Des said, "Things have been happening here, too, haven't they?"

"We've been busy. I heard there was a tah shipment from Ordralake coming on the Shaskala Road so I decided to have Komo intercept it. We're not taking hostages right now, though—we don't have space for them."

Des said, "I'm glad you decided to make a move, or we might've lost Tarniss Cord before you even knew he was available." Stereth had merely nodded, unsurprised, when Des reported that part of our conversation in Deathwell.

"It seemed a good time." He turned his attention to me. "Well, Tymon, what was your impression of Cord?"

I said, "Stereth, when you say you're not taking hostages, does that mean you confiscate their weapons and let them go?"

"No. What did you think of Cord?"

"I think he's a cautious man, like he says he is. I think he's honest… as honest as you can be and still run a bunch of cantry tar'meth."

He smiled briefly. "Speaking of weapons, we now have six light-rifles. I'm issuing one to each group that goes out. Not everyone who joins us now can stay here; we can't turn the place into an army camp. So we're training, processing, and releasing them into newly formed guerrilla bands. If you want to go out with one, Tymon, let me know. Obviously I'm not going to send Sokol away, but since you two seem to be having trouble—"

I was startled. "What do you mean, having trouble?"

"Maybe not trouble. A strained relationship."

"Who says our relationship is strained?"

"Perhaps I misunderstood. It was an impression I got from my conversation with him on the day you left for Deathwell. I apologize for my misconception. Des, could you go through the roster with me over here—"

I was dismissed. Of course I went straight to Ran. He was just out of practice class, walking toward the waterjars to cool down.

"Ran, Stereth thinks our relationship is strained."

"Stereth's views are of no concern to me."

Uh-oh. That was not a good answer. "Does that mean it's not strained?"

He stopped, wet a rag in the water, and wiped his neck. "It may be pulled a little thin, Theodora. I wouldn't say it's strained. But it's not exactly robust, either, when I don't even know where you've been for the last few days."

"Stereth didn't tell you? I went to Deathwell with Des Helani to meet their leader."

"Really? Did you have a nice trip?"

I was getting a little annoyed myself. "Tolerable. Look, you seem to be forgetting we're not here voluntarily. I can't choose where I go and what I do."

"No." He was silent. "Were you successful? Did the Deathwell leader agree to come in on this craziness of Stereth's?"

"Conditionally. Des got him to swear a road-oath. It was great to watch, I had no idea he was that good at protecting Stereth's interests. I mean, you know I think the world of Des, but—"

"I know."

Suddenly a lot of things became clear. I put a hand on his wrist to halt his washing. "Des is one of the sweetest people I've ever met. And his entertainment value is priceless. But I'm about as attracted to him as I am to that furry thing with the teeth that he rides."

He said, "I didn't ask, did I?" and he bent over to clean his face. But the edge was gone from his voice.

One hurdle surmounted and several dozen more to go. I sat out on the broken wall that evening by myself, and thought gloomy thoughts. He'd probably walk out of the fort tonight if I agreed to go along with it—a suicide walk, as far I was concerned, and I'd always considered him a model of enlightened self-interest. Ran and I had never had such major differences over strategy as we'd had this summer in the Northwest Sector. And a close analysis could not help but reveal that the difference in strategy were based on deeper differences as to what was important and what was not.

I had to accept the fact that being kidnapped by outlaws was not having a good effect on our engagement. * * *

Ten days later was graduation day for my practice group. Just to up the ante, Carabinstereth was allowing the men in to watch, and any of the new women who were interested. If we made it to the end of class, we wouldn't be novices anymore. Standing between each of us and the end of class were Lex, Komo, and Grateth, who would be attacking us with hands, feet, knives, clubs, and pistols. And anything else that entered their perverted heads in the course of the event. Needless to say, every student was a wreck for at least a full day ahead of time.

I'd told Ran not to come. I was afraid of messing up and looking like a fool in front of him. For some reason he had a high opinion of my abilities, and I didn't want to destroy it. He told me he was on water-duty anyway, and would be busy hauling jars all morning.

I waited on the line that day, watching the blunted knives being laid out on the floor, feeling sorry for myself. / didn't ask to be here. The knives, by the way, though blunted, could still do serious harm if we weren't careful. The clubs were regular clubs. And the pistols were supposed to be discharged, but one never knew when an extra store was being held. If Ran really cared, he'd have shown up anyway. Oh, terrific. Now you'd like him to read your mind. No, but I'd like him here… in case I don't screw up. But if I do screw up, I want him far away.

The lead woman on line was called out on the mat, and the fun began. It went with sickening quickness. Our attackers were quick, clean, and dedicated to their work, but our class was trained to meet them anywhere they were taken. Then, about halfway through, all the rules went out the window. They started pulling people out of line at random, changing single attacks to multiples, throwing in moves we'd never seen. Mora was beside me in line; she turned and whispered, eyes wide. "It isn't safe here anymore." We looked at each other, both well aware that that was the conditioning message for tonight.

Well, if they wanted us to be able to operate in a state of fear they were doing a good job of provoking it.

And then Carabinstereth was gesturing to me. "Your turn, Tymon."

And I was out in the middle, alone. Then something was around my throat, and I stomped on someone's feet and

turned and saw a knife in Lex's hand, and grabbed his wrist—and more things happened, and suddenly I was getting up and Lex was down on the mat. Something was dangling from my neck and I pulled it down dumbly and looked at it: A rope. Lex had tried for a garrotte first.

It was the only time anyone had tried that move, but that hardly accounted for the applause. I walked slowly toward Carabinstereth and the end of the line.

"Nice work on that other knife," she said.

I said, "What other knife?" and she pointed and grinned.

As it turned out, Lex had had a second knife. I hadn't realized it at the time, I'd just hit his other wrist as I came around and didn't even see it go skidding off across the floor. My friends on the sidelines had been horrified when they saw it first come out, but since I'd never seen it myself I felt as if I were accepting their acclaim under false pretenses. I probably would have been much more scared watching the scene than living it.

"I ought to kill you, Carabin," I said, knowing full well I should be very angry with her. Lex and Komo were as careful as they could be, but I might have gotten seriously hurt.

The grin was unimpaired, however, because Carabinstereth knew perfectly that I couldn't be angry at this point. I was just getting hit by the euphoria that washes over you after a win.

She bowed and waved me back in line, where two women hugged me. Lennisa was on my left in a brown leather vest; she was from the latest band we'd taken on. "Your fighting was so exciting," said Lennisa. "Even the fellow carrying the waterjars put them down and started yelling 'Go, Tymon, go!' "

Startled, my gaze snapped to the balcony. But it was empty.

Chapter Fourteen

While I was being conditioned in the many ways and means of killing and disabling, Stereth was busy. Not a tah shipment on the plateau escaped the watchful eyes of our band or the network of allies surveying every eastern and southern road. The system of messenger birds was expanded and Des was sent from one market town to another, from one outlaw rendezvous to the next, spreading charm and good fellowship and arranging for supplies.

Sembet Triol handled the messages, and acted as courier when needed. One afternoon I saw him striding hurriedly across the grounds from the coop to the main hall, with an air of urgency impossible to mistake. I followed him.

He went straight to Stereth, pulling off the blue cap he wore on the roof where the coops were set up, and began talking before he was halfway down the hall. "You know that shipment you told me to keep an eye on? The Ordra-lake being brought west for air freight?"

Stereth put down the paper he was holding and stood up. "Yes."

"They got it through the Waste and hauled it down to the low country all right. Then they were going to load it onto an airtruck at Jessul and fly the long way around the plateau to get it to the capital."

"Well?"

"The airtruck blew up as soon as it took off."

Stereth was silent. Then he said, "Was the tah on board at the time?"

Sembet Triol nodded. "Eighty thousand tabals worth. They were trying to make up for the regular shipments that didn't get through. It was a superfreighter."

Stereth looked up suddenly and met my eyes. "What are you doing here?"

I said, "I didn't know you had friends as far away as Jessul."

He bit his lip. "No."

"How many people were on board?" I asked.

He shrugged. Sembet answered, "Three."

"Don't pin this one on me," said Stereth. He picked up the paper he'd been reading. "Thanks, Sembet."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

Stereth ignored me. I turned on my heel and left the hall. "Don't take it personally," said Sembet, out in the filtered light of a cloudy afternoon.

It had been six weeks since the last tah had gone south. By now every canister and jar in every village and town would be turned upside down and packets that were years old would be ripped open and rationed out. I knew what the results of this would be from having gone through withdrawal myself. Soon the citizens of Shaskala and points south would get headachy, and some would have stomach cramps. Then they'd become short-tempered. The day would seem longer and harder to get through, they would feel less alert. The headaches would get worse… and then they'd get better. Going off tah was easier than going off a lot of drugs. Nobody ever died from it, but it was annoying as hell. And then there was the habit of ritual that surrounded tah… for Shaskala, what would happen at the midmorning hour, when the merchants would all slow down and look involuntarily for the tah bowl to be brought forth? As for those farther south, breakfast for most of the population meant tah and not much else.

I really started to wonder when the next truckload of tah they tried to ship by air to the capital had a mechanical problem and dumped six hundred tons of cargo into Lake Kasheral.

"I suppose they could boil the lake," Sembet said to me, a few days later. We were talking in the coop loft when one of Stereth's feathered messengers flew in. Clintris deftly detached the paper and handed it to Sembet, who read it and laughed. You can fit a lot of message onto a little paper on Ivory, where one character equals a word, sometimes even a phrase.

"What is it?"

Sembeth said, "We'll have to send a reply messenger to Vergis Market Town. Des wants to be reminded why he's stopping there."

I started to laugh. "Tell him never to change."

Sembet, who was already scrawling a reply to go out with the rider, wrote at the bottom, "Tymon says don't ever change."

A voice spoke from the entrance to the coop. "And that should be no problem. Stereth says that Des takes direction well." Ran stood framed in the neverending cloudy twilight. "Can I talk to you for a minute, Tymon?"

That was not his happy tone of voice. As I followed him outside, past the main building to the stone wall, I noticed for the first time that he'd lost some weight since Shaskala. The grounds were more crowded these days, and I didn't even know half the people around us. We had to speak in low voices.

"Theodora, how can you be doing this?"

"Doing what? What have I done?"

He hitched himself up to the top of the wall and sat there. "The way you joke with Sembet. The way you talk to the women in your class, even to Stereth—you fit in here like a glass of water poured into the Silver River. What do you think's going to happen to these people when the government catches them?"

"Well, I know the odds aren't good, but with a little luck Stereth will get us—"

" 'Them.' 'Them,' not us. You've got a problem, Theodora— maybe you're a little too close to see it. You're just too adaptable."

"Look, I may not be a real cantry tar'meth, but I like the company. And they've been good to us, they treat us the same way they treat themselves."

"May I remind you that these people kidnapped us? We are not in their debt. How they can casually assume we owe them any loyalty—"

I glanced at him in disbelief. "Are you serious? You shanghaied me when I first came to this world, and then expected me to be a loyal Cormallon member."

"One situation has nothing to do with the other! I hired you honorably—"

"Without exactly spelling out the job requirements."

He put up his arms. "Let's not dredge up minor details from the past."

Suddenly all our circling struck me as funny, and I started to chuckle. He was taken aback. I suppressed the laughter, took his hand, and said, "I hope you don't ever change, either." On impulse, I kissed him on the cheek. "Your ego is a great comfort to me."

There were a few whistles and catcalls from witnesses to the kiss. Actual physical affection was usually reserved for the shadows here in outlaw country. The more people showed up in the bands, the more the couples would disappear into the back rooms and stablelofts. "Yeah, yeah," I called back. "Don't you have some work to do?"

"Tymon!" came Sembet's voice. "Can you give me a hand with this?"

I ignored the call. Ran said, "Why do you do these things?" But he said it, shaking his head, the way a farmer will talk about the weather: Familiar, and not likely to be changed by any human agency.

I said, "You know, before this summer, I used to only yell at you when you kept things to yourself. You've been good about that, anyway."

"Thank you. I suppose in a little place like this it's harder to collect secrets anyway."

"Or keep them once you have them."

"That, too."

Sembet's voice sounded again. "Tymon! Where are you, anyway?"

"I'd better go," I told Ran.

He sighed. "Go."

"You're not still upset?"

"As is my habit, I have resigned myself to the fact your attitude will never improve."

"Good enough," I said, and left.

I should have seen then that things were coming to a head. Ran was betraying more edginess than he generally allowed anyone to see, the fort was reaching bursting point in terms of population, militia sweeps had increased on the roads. And on the sixteenth of Kace, Fire Moon came, and Tarniss Cord issued an invitation to a joint council feast to Dramonta Sol and Stereth Tar'krim.

Stereth left the monastery fort under the command of Komo and Mora Sobien Ti, and brought most of the original band with him to Deathwell. Eight of the most promising candidates from the new bands formed a guard of honor.

We rode up the hill to Deathwell two days before the feast. Stereth halted his mount by the poem on the wall near the gate. He sat there for a long time. I was near Cantry, and I heard him turn and say to her, "Do you ever think that your best friend died before you were born?"

There was something hollow in his voice that went beyond his usual flat tones, and Cantry's reply in turn held a trace of nerves. "You're under a lot of stress, Stereth. You're feeling pressure, that's all."

He hesitated beside the poem. Cantry said, "Come in with us, love, everybody's waiting."

His mount moved on, and we all passed under the gates: I hoped that Tarniss Cord meant us well.

As a courtesy to Tarniss Cord, Carabinstereth agreed to teach one or two practice sessions for the women of Death-well while we were there. The rest of us were assigned duties preparing for the feast—not only food, but decorations to impress Dramonta Sol and his band. Cord was the nominal host_r but he was more of an arbiter, bringing two potential allies together. Our band, as the supplicants, had to put up the wine and meat for Dramonta. "We have to make everything nice before he gets here," said Des to me, as he hammered garlands into the wood molding around the arches in the great dining hall. "We have a word for this where I come from, Tymon. We call it brownnosing."

I handed him some nails. "We have a similar term on Athena."

He grunted and motioned to a pile of garlands on the floor. "Why don't you help out a companion of the road," —Des' way of getting what he wanted— "and put some of those up along the arches by the other rooms?"

So I found myself stringing garlands around the entrance to Carabinstereth's practice session. The women were already lined up for their first routine. I saw the white, strained faces verging on nausea, and thought, heavens, it's

just another drill. Don't take it so hard. But I remembered how nervous I'd been in their place.

Clintris came over to where I stood on a table. "But you can't work out here," she said. "It'll distract the students."

I said, "Are you joking? They wouldn't notice a marching band at this particular moment. Have you forgotten what it's like on that line?"

A faint smile appeared on her face. "You have a point." She picked up a garland. "Do you need any help?"

Oceans would part, and fish would dance on dry land. "Uh, well, thank you. I just need to finish this section here—"

"No trouble," she said, and she climbed up beside me. As she stretched for the nail at the far end, and I held the garland and looked uncomfortably toward my feet, she said, "I've been wanting to apologize for giving you such a hard time when you first appeared. I don't know what I expected from a barbarian, but you've been very… normal, Tymon."

"Oh. Well, thank you."

"Not at all," she said, and deftly hooked the rest of the string. "There. Any other places we need to cover?"

"The front entrance."

"Fine." She stopped and came up with an armful of white and yellow flowers. Her face was buried to the chin. "Coming, Tymon?"

That night, Stereth took me aside. He motioned for me to follow him out past the officers' cells to an aisle bordering a parapet on Deathwell's northern side. Slit windows let in blackness and stars. I saw a lookout pass along the outside of one of those windows. We waited till he'd gone, and Stereth said, "This time you won't be an observer."

My stomach turned over. I waited.

He said, "You're going to be seated next to Tarniss Cord at the feast. One of his lieutenants will be on the other side. Des will be on your right."

I was still silent. He said, "Nothing to say yet?"

"Fine, I can draw a map of the table. Thanks for bringing me up to speed—"

"Jumpy little tymon, aren't you? Here, this is for you."

He put a knife into my palm. It felt slippery. "Stereth, I think you have me confused with somebody else."

"Calm down, little one. You don't even know what I'm asking yet. All I want you to do is keep an eye on our host and make sure he behaves normally. Which I'm sure he will do. I've spoken with Cord at length and I'm impressed with his reliability."

"If you're so impressed, why do I have to keep an eye on him?"

"No harm in being careful, Tymon."

"And why at the feast? Do you have other people watching him the rest of the time?" When he didn't answer, I said, "And why don't you have Lex or Grateth do this?"

I was still holding the knife. Stereth lifted it from my palm and slipped it, sheathed, into the pocket of my outer-robe. "First," he said, "because I told you Cord has a soft spot for barbarian women. He'll like being seated next to you, and won't think anything of it. Everybody knows barbarians are as innocent as newborn puppies. Second, Lex and Grateth have the army in their bones, everyone who looks at them knows it. If I asked Cord to sit between them, it would make him nervous." I just stood there, and finally he said, with a trace of impatience, "Come on, Fymon, surely Carabinstereth has shown you how to kill with a knife."

"She has." And anyway, I've done it.

"The chances of your being called on to do anything are exceedingly remote. Otherwise I wouldn't ask it of you. This is soft work, for a soft outlander. That's all it is."

I was silent. Stereth said, gently, "If you can't behave ike an Ivoran, maybe you should have stayed home."

I turned and went back along the passage and down the iteps to the hall below, feeling the shape of the knife igainst my thigh through the cotton of the inside pocket.

Ran, of course, felt that Stereth's request was perfectly inderstandable. He had no great liking for Stereth, but irming me, he said, was "simple self-defense."

"Anyway," ;aid Ran, "if he thinks nothing will happen, then most ikely nothing will happen. He seems pretty good at this iort of thing."

Cheery. All very cheery.

* * *

By the evening of the banquet I was in a bad state of nerves. Dramonta and his entourage had ridden in that afternoon. Dramonta accepted the overly courteous solicitude of Cord and Stereth as his due, and dispatched Marainis Cho to assist with the preparations—or more likely, to keep an eye out for poison and relevant gossip. It was to be a traditional feast, totally communal, so gossip was all she was likely to get.

The tables were covered with stolen Andulsine silk. Ran was on a ladder, putting up the last of Des' cursed garlands. Stereth's people rushed in and out, laying the dishes and putting more flowers from Deathwell plain in the center of the tables. Cord was making Dramonta comfortable in the commander's suite. I thought Stereth was with them, but he appeared suddenly in the archway at the dining hall entrance.

I was laying silverware on the table, or trying to. Somewhere around the third dish I found that my hand was shaking. A minute later I heard Stereth's voice saying, "Sit down, Tymon. The bench by the wall."

I found it and sat. Stereth seated himself beside me and took my hand. "You can handle this. It's easy. All you have to do is not be afraid."

"Oh, that does sound easy."

"It is. Look at me. I was nobody back when I was afraid. Now I'm Stereth Tar'krim."

"Don't be afraid of several thousand militia? Don't be afraid of the Atvalids?"

"Don't be afraid of dying. Of hurting other people. Of hurting yourself. Of pain. Of the dark."

"Of anything."

"Of anything. When you're not afraid, nothing can hurt you."

Stereth's hand held mine with all the physical certainty of a falling boulder. His voice matched. I thought: That's all right for you; they took your family away from you, you didn't have anybody left to keep you human. Then I said, "What about Cantry? What if she dies today, or tomorrow? What if we lose and she ends up on a scaffold in some market town?"

Cantry was setting the table with stacks of bowls. She

wiped her brow with one arm and bent to straighten the shimmering tablecloth. Stereth turned and watched her, his face unreadable. "If it happens, it happens," he said.

Gods.

He gave me back my hand and stood up. "Will you need help with the silverware?"

"No."

"Good." He went off to supervise the decorating.

Ran left his hammer at the top of the ladder and came over to me. "You'll be all right, Theodora. You're a Cor-mallon, you can do anything you have to." He kissed me and went back to work.

My friends and allies, concerned for my welfare. Eager to share their alien views of life.

I didn't think they would work for me. I would have to stumble through this the best I could and hope to scrape some method or meaning from it later.

Cantry had somehow gotten missids, the little fishes from the southern rivers, brought in still fresh for the banquet. You almost never saw fish on the Plateau; it was always steermod beef—fried, ground, grilled, broiled. Cut up in chunks in soup and stew. In thin strips with eggs for breakfast. Across the table I saw Dramonta cast a pleased look on his dish of missids.

Tarniss Cord said to me, from the fringed and embroidered cushion by my left, "Your band has outdone itself."

"They're a resourceful bunch," I said.

Cantry was supervising the service. She stopped by my cup and poured tah from a four-legged, blue-and-white porcelain tah pot. She gave me a reassuring smile before she passed on to Des.

Jacik sat on Des' right. He was a tall, very dark-skinned man, whom rumor had was Dramonta's food taster. I could hear him and Des talking about the latest news of flyer races in the capital. Des said something low, and they both laughed. Across the table, I noted that Dramonta didn't take any particular item from the communal bowls until Jacik had consumed it first.

Ran was seated further down the row on my side; I couldn't see him. I was very aware of the knife inside my robe.

"Were you born on Ivory?" asked Tarniss Cord. "If I don't trespass on your privacy."

"No. I was born a long way away from here."

"You've adapted excellently. Your accent is perfect."

"Thank you."

"Our well actually worked out, by the way. That's Death-well water in the tah."

"Oh, really."

It was hard to concentrate on the conversation. I let it peter out naturally and he turned to his friend on his other side. Meanwhile Des, free of responsibility, chatted to the food-taster on his right with his usual ease.

Somewhere around the fourth course, I saw Jacik looking restlessly around the table. Des, alert, said, "What is it?"

"The wine bottle. I'm dry, and the little white-haired barbarian seems to have vanished."

Des put out his hand to block Jacik from rising. "Don't move, I'll get it. You're our guest."

He retrieved the bottle from the other end of the table and poured for Jacik.

Jacik sipped the unmixed wine and said, "You're a sporting gentleman, Des."

"Least I could do for a fellow player. Here's to the Jade Bar."

They drank to the Jade Bar racers. A little while later, Jacik's winebowl slipped from his hands and fell to the table. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's not cracked, is it?"

Des examined the bowl and sopped up the red dregs that had spilled over onto the table. "Nah, it's fine. They can take a lot of hard living, these bowls."

"Like us," said Jacik, and Des laughed. He poured more wine. Jacik picked up the bowl again and raised it to his lips, then watched in blank puzzlement as it slipped from his fingers again. This time the spilled wine ran onto his robe.

Des interrupted. "You fellows from the Deathwell plain aren't used to the pure spirits, are you? You can't just tilt it back like you're drinking the mixed kind and expect nothing to happen."

"Look, I'm not some kid. I've been drinking this stuff for…" He looked suddenly unhappy. "I don't feel too well."

"Sit back, take a few breaths. Want me to help you with your collar?"

"No, I…" He tried to stand. "Kanz—" His eyes went across the table to Dramonta Sol's.

Dramonta put his palms on the tabletop. He tried to push himself to his feet. He fell back again. He reached inside his jacket; when his hand came out I saw the glint of a small pistol.

I blinked. A dagger had sprouted from his neck. I looked down the table; most of the guests were unaware that anything had happened yet. Des was doing something underneath the tablecloth, and Jacik's mouth was gulping open and closed like a fish. His head slumped. Des pushed out a hand to keep him upright, and I saw it was red.

Somebody screamed. Other people were yelling, and still other people were telling them to be quiet. Dramonta's six lieutenants were sprawling on the table. Of our own band, Lazarin, sitting beside Stereth, was also dead. Dramonta's aim had probably been off. Finally I turned to Tarniss Cord. His eyes were fixed and intense, his fist was clenched around a fork, he was breathing hard; but he wasn't moving.

Thank the gods. I'd forgotten about him entirely.

Stereth's voice came tersely from the other end of the table. "Cord, you'd better send somebody out to make sure Marainis Cho doesn't come in."

"Right," said Tarniss Cord. He tapped the man to his left on his shoulder and stood up. They both left the room.

I started to get up myself, but my legs wouldn't support me. I thought vaguely: It could be poison, but it feels like nerves. I was aware of Des getting up, moving away somewhere, then coming back and standing behind me. "Little tymon, you're shaking like a leaf in a high wind."

"Speak for yourself, Des."

Des held out a hand and observed it as it trembled. "Yeah." He swung down onto the pillow beside me. "Considering how excitable I get normally, you may have to pull me down from the walls soon. I feel like my heart is about to jump right out of my chest and do calisthenics on the table." His feet, I noticed, were tapping to a staccato rhythm of their own. For all his brawling, Des was not naturally violent in any final sense. He was a card-cheat, a

liar, a boaster, and a heavy drinker; but when it came to cold applied violence it went against all his instincts, and the effort involved showed in his body.

I said to him, "It was poison, wasn't it? Where was it? We shared everything, didn't we?"

"The tah pot. It's a special pot, the kind the nobility uses—pours from a second compartment when you touch it right. They use it for their games. Sembet told us about it."

"Nobody warned me."

"Sweetheart, only the people involved knew. Although you were kind of involved. You knew your own role." He took a deep breath and added, "It was konoberry juice. Sembet recommended it. He said hardly anybody uses it anymore. That's because it doesn't kill at once, it paralyzes the legs first and then the hands… that's why I couldn't let Jacik try to get up—" Des was on a talking jag.

I said, "Konoberry juice is purple."

"Not when you take the skin off the fruit and distill it, it isn't. It's clear."

Stereth was walking down the center aisle. "I want this place cleaned up, now. I don't want any of the other bands seeing what happened, it'll affect their judgment." Stereth's voice was the same one he used for assigning water duty; no trembling there that I could see.

Des looked up wearily. "They'll know—"

"Knowing and seeing are two different things. Help Tymon with Dramonta's body. Sokol, start washing down the floor. We don't want the blood to set."

Ran rose to his feet and started for the waterjugs, an expression of revulsion on his face. Stereth caught it. He put out his hand and took hold of Ran's arm as he passed. Ran waited.

"If you'd given us the benefit of your sorcery, this day would have been less bloody." For the first time a hint of intensity had crept into Stereth's voice.

I had a strong, disorienting sense of deja vu, then realized why: This was the scene I'd witnessed in the cards. Only now I could hear it as well as see it.

Stereth still had hold of Ran's arm. He said, "Satisfied?"

"This has nothing to do with me."

"No? Dabbler… dilettante… here on the Plateau for a holiday. I gave you a chance to help us avoid this."

"This?" Ran glanced around the dining hall, at the bloody silken cushions, at the overturned winebowls and scattered fruit, and a look of contempt came over his face. "This would have happened in any case. You were set on killing these people. If I'd helped, it would only have been… neater."

"Lazarin might still be alive."

Ran made no reply to that unanswerable sentence. They glared at each other, frozen, Stereth's hand still clamped around Ran's arm. I could feel the tension from where I sat. Just then Lex appeared at the other end of the hall. As he strode forward he called, "Stereth?"

"What?" Stereth didn't move a muscle.

"Cord's outside. What do you want me to do to him?"

"With him, Lex. With him, not to him. I seem to be having trouble getting you to understand that we're allies."

"Well, how long do you think we'll be allies?"

"Until one of us decides that we aren't." Stereth let go of Ran's arm. He turned to face Lex.

"You didn't say what you want me to do with him."

"Ask him what he wants."

"He wants to see you."

"Then send him in."

Lex turned and started walking back down the hall. Then he said, "Oh! What about Marainis Cho?"

"I'll need to see her, too, when we're ready. She speaks for Dramonta's band now."

"She's outside right this minute. She knows what happened."

"Well?"

Ran spoke. "No doubt the lady is reluctant to come in."

Lex's glance went to Ran, then back to Stereth. He said, "She said to tell you she thinks an alliance would be a fine idea. She wants to be sure you understand that before we go any further."

The corner of Stereth's mouth turned up. "Tell her I understand," he said. "And that we would be honored by her presence. And that I hope she'll come in."

Lex went back outside. Ran said, "I have things to do." He walked away from Stereth and went to help drag the bodies off the cushions. Stereth watched him.

I'd thought that I'd forgotten that run of the cards, find-

ing the deck's visions, as they could sometimes be, less than helpful in our personal lives. But I must have been more aware of that card than I'd realized, because now I felt its lack. Life in the Sector had been easier than it should have been for me. I'd believed that Ran, at least, was safe. But he was no longer protected by the future, he was as vulnerable as everybody else, and a glance around the killing floor was enough to see that that was very vulnerable indeed. And seeing the look on Stereth's face, I knew it was even worse than that.

Chapter Fifteen

I was awakened two nights later at the monastery fort by a hand over my mouth. I realized almost at once it was Ran.

I sat up, looked at him kneeling in the shadows by my pallet, and realized as well that this was serious. He stood. I followed him to the door, knowing that any sprawled bodies I stepped over—if they had any awareness of me at all—would assume I was heading for the privy. Or if they saw two figures, they'd assume we were looking for privacy; it happened often enough.

Outside the door, Fire Moon cast a ruddy tinge on the landscape. I'd only been asleep a couple of hours; the second moon was still below the horizon. It was quiet. I could hear some of the mounts moving about in their stalls.

Ran's hand emerged into a sliver of moonlight, then vanished again, as he rubbed his head tiredly. "There isn't time for us to talk," he said. "I have some things I need to do. Give me twenty minutes and meet me by the trees at the entrance to the valley."

"What is it? This is it, isn't it? Do you think Stereth's going to—"

"Twenty minutes. I'll explain everything."

I glanced up toward the roof and said, "If I get that far from the fort, the lookouts will spot me."

"No, they won't." He said it with finality.

There is a tone people get in their voices when they are very serious. Once, when I was six, my crechemates and I were on holiday at Gold Sands, on Pyrene, and there was a coromine leak at a plant next door. One of our supervisors came to the edge of the pool where I was swimming, put out her hand, and said, "Theodora, come out." It was customary for us kids to wait until the grownups' thirtieth or fortieth call until we left the pool. And the supervisor

didn't yell or seem upset; but I went straight to the pool-steps and climbed out and took her hand, and we headed upwind for Medical.

I said to Ran, "Twenty minutes." As easy as that.

And he disappeared, satisfied, into the shadows.

I sat near the door, listening to the mounts, the wind in the grass, and the fullness of silence on the Plateau. I was looking oft in the direction of the twisted trees. It was time, there was no denying that; it was plain in Stereth's eyes that Ran's deferment was at an end. Maps and waterbags notwithstanding, the deadline was upon us. After a while I got up and peered into the dimness of the main hall: Clusters of sleeping bodies in the worn and dirty clothes of Sector outlaws, their flashy colors and jewelry invisible under the cover of night. If this was really our bid for freedom, I could approve it intellectually, but for a second I was close to tears. They looked so vulnerable lying there.

Then I turned around and started walking up the track toward the trees.

I was not alone when I got there. A Plateau farmer, late-middle-aged, wearing a navy jacket and cap, sat smoking a pipe. His back was against one of the trees. I knew his jacket was navy because I could see it in the light of the cinders from his pipe. He smiled a smile of pleased innocence when he saw me.

"Honored by this meeting," he said in a rusty voice. He blew some smoke out slowly and patted the grass beside him. "Care to join me, gracious lady?"

"Thanks, I'm waiting for someone." Had Ran arranged for transportation with this man? "Uh, is there a reason why you're here? Not that I mean to criticize."

"I always get restless at Fire Moon. Sometimes I go nightherb gathering."

"This isn't a very wise place to gather herbs, gracious sir."

He smiled, this time slyly. "How can you say that, my lady? I see three types of jevetleaf within a few steps of where we sit."

I bit my lips, wondering how to warn him off. What the hell was he doing here, anyway? There wasn't a farm in miles.

"I appreciate your concern, though, Theodora," he added.

I met his eyes. Amusement, pleasure in success, delight in his own ability… I wouldn't mistake that ego anywhere. "Ran," I said, with certainty. His lips started to turn up, and I punched him in the arm.

"Hey! What's that for?"

"For being a royal pain."

"That's not fair, Theodora. I had to know the illusion worked, and I couldn't very well ask one of the outlaws, could I? It was a necessary test."

I considered punching him again. "Sherlock Holmes used to give the same excuse to Doctor Watson, and I always thought he deserved a good thrashing for it, too."

He rubbed his upper arm and said, "I have no idea what you're talking about. I never heard of a sorcerer named Sherlock in my life." He gave me an aggrieved look. "We've got a long way to go tonight, and since we'd never get away with taking mounts from the stable, we'll have to travel on foot. Do you think you're up to it?"

"You ask me now? Would you like to share with me where we'll be going?"

"Kynogin. You know the way, and it's the closest place for us to get some transport. It's also the first place Stereth would have us looked for, but we won't get away fast enough by walking."

"Glad you've got this worked out. What about the pas-sersby in Kynogin? How are you going to maintain an illusion in several dozen minds at once?"

His farmer's features were proud. "It's not a planted illusion, Tymon, it's projected—attached to me personally. It'll hold for anybody who looks at me. Remember that assignment we had a couple of years back for the Gold Coin House, attaching illusions to the bed-performers?"

"Wait a minute. It can't be done." I did remember the commission from the Gold Coin house, and it had taken weeks of Net work, calculations, measurements—we'd brought in extra staff—"I don't believe that even you could hold all those calculations in your head."

"Theodora, darling, how do you think sorcerers worked before the Net was brought in? I used paper. Stolen from Stereth's supply, chucked in several holes in the wall as I

went along. Lucky nobody used those particular rocks when we were mending the roof."

"I haven't seen you scribbling on any papers."

"The suspicion in your tone is ill-deserved, sweetheart. I had to do a lot of the initial calculating in my head, and transferred it to writing whenever the opportunity arose."

He had been looking rather abstracted. And he'd spent a lot of evenings sitting around the fire like a silent lump, but I'd thought he was meditating. I mean, with Ran, how can you tell?

Still, it was an amazing achievement. A projected illusion— sometimes called a grounded illusion—is grounded in actuality, with any number of measurements taken of the person's body, and the differences between those measurements and that of the completed product figured down to the last decimal point. You have to short-cut a lot with formulae, of course, or you'd be measuring forever, but even those take incredible time and attention. It's a thousand times harder than a planted illusion, because the work is all done by the sorcerer. With the planted kind, the work is done by the viewer, who fills in the blanks.

There was no reason he should lie about it, but it was just so unexpected. Not to mention bordering on superhuman. I said warily, "How did you do the measuring?"

"Stereth has a tape he uses to work out map distances. I borrowed it and cut a long piece of paper and marked it to scale. Then I just had to compensate for the unit/ centimeter differences. Simple."

Simple. Any minute now he would tell me he'd also taught the mounts to talk in his spare time and got directions to Shaskala from them.

I felt like an idiot. A lonely idiot. How could he do this to me?

"You didn't think to mention you were working on this?"

"Well, what would be the point? You're still a novice, you couldn't help that much with the calcs, and you had a higher profile with the band. If you'd kept going off somewhere to scribble figures, you'd've been missed—"

"That's not the point!"

Something in my voice must have made an impression on him. "Uh, well, I…"

The full enormity of the task was still sinking in. "Great gods, it must have taken you weeks. And without a Net terminal!"

"Months," he said smugly. "I could only work on it a few minutes at a time. It was hell trying to hold it together mentally."

"You must have started almost as soon as we got here."

"Well, of course—hey, stop it! That arm's still sore! What's the matter with you tonight?"

"You've been working on this for months and you didn't tell me? Why do you always have to be this way? What is this terminal, paranoid, keep-it-to-yourself silence—"

I was standing there ranting when I saw that Ran (an appalled look on his face) had gone to his knees, and from that supplicant's position he took my hands and spoke. "Theodora, my dearest love and, uh, most trusted companion. Please yell at me later. I will try to improve my habits. But I feel compelled to point out that we need to be as far away as possible by dawn."

Of course, we both knew he was squirming out of it, but it's still very difficult to yell at somebody who's on his knees calling you his dearest love and most trusted companion. "Oh, get up. Your pants must be a mess from all this wet grass."

He got up, cautiously. "So we're going to Kynogin?"

"Well, apparently. You're the first in Cormallon, you outrank me. I'm just here to follow orders."

"Right," he said, rubbing his arm, "of course. You're not going to hit me again, are you?"

"Probably not tonight."

It was still night when we reached the market town. Sabba-moon was halfway up the sky, and Jekka was low. Most of the tents and cabins were quiet, but noise came from the larger stone and wood building in the center of town.

"The wineshops here never really close," said Ran. "There'll be food, shelter, and with any luck, information."

We entered a warm, yellow-lit room with a stone hearth and a crackling fire. I looked at Ran and we both grinned. It had been a long walk. There were benches and tables,

as well as a surprisingly ornate bar, but the place was two-thirds empty.

We headed for the bar. There was a very old, very tiny woman in blue trousers leaning against it, with an enormous mug of ale in front of her. The bartender stood at the other end, wiping clean some winebowls. He wore a white apron with bloodstains on it; being a Sector establishment, there was probably an abattoir in the back. He glanced our way.

"A jug of Fortune Red, if you've got it," said Ran.

I murmured, "I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd ever heard of anything but Ducort vintages."

Ran smiled at the bartender as he approached, ignoring my remark. A jug and two earthenware bowls were put in front of us, the seal broken and the stopper removed.

Suddenly the very old woman down the bar spoke. "To what do I attribute my longevity," she said.

"I beg your pardon?" said Ran.

"Ask me," she said, "to what I attribute my longevity."

Ran blinked. I said, "Gracious lady, to what do you attribute your longevity?"

"A mug of ale every day at noon, and another every evening. Nothing like it to keep the system functioning. And never, never, never drinking jugged red wine." She met my eyes suddenly. "You wouldn't believe the things they put in the vats to get it that color."

I saw Ran peering down at his bowl.

I said, "A lot of people drink it."

"A lot of people die like rats," she announced, tilting back her mug. She wiped her lips with her spotted hands. "Ask me how old I am."

"I really don't think," began Ran.

"Ask me how old I am!"

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Ninety-eight," she said firmly. She added, "I haven't had my own teeth in three decades."

Clearly this was more information than Ran needed to know, but I was fascinated. When somebody like this says "ninety-eight," they mean in Ivoran years, which made it even more impressive. In fact, considering the lack of high-level medical care in the provinces, it was a downright sta-

tistical anomaly. I said, "Are the rest of your family so long-lived?"

"My father died at fifty. Wouldn't drink the ale. My mother refused to pass on, though—still sitting round the table when she was a hundred. Like somebody who won't take a hint that the party's over."

"Really. Did you—"

Ran took hold of my elbow. "Theodora, is this the time?"

I said, "Gracious lady, I don't suppose you'd know the best way of getting some transportation. We'd prefer a groundcar, but we'll take mounts if that's all that's available."

She snorted. "Won't find neither one, I'll save you the trouble of looking. People who have 'em want to keep 'em."

"We can pay—"

"Not enough to take a person's livelihood away. Where are you from, anyway?"

When I hesitated she added, "Why not take a job with a convoy to get where you're going? From your accent, I'd say you're meaning to aim south. Convoys through here all the time, heading for Shaskala mostly. Ask Grandin."

She nodded toward the bartender. He looked up, hearing his name.

Ran said, "You'd know about convoys?"

"If you'd read the notices on the walls you'd know about them, too," said Grandin. I followed his glance to the poster over one of the tables; it seemed to be a hiring notice. "Convoy-master's upstairs," he said. "I know he's a few people short. If you line up with the others in the morning, he'll probably take you on."

Ran looked wary. "It's not a tah convoy, is it?"

"Wine, stranger—Fortune Red, from above Ordralake. Just your speed. Although you're a little old for them, uncle, they like workers who can move heavy crates. And your friend's a little small."

"Old?" came the disbelieving protest from the ale-woman. "He's fresh as a new-minted coin, a sweetrose still budding. If I were a century younger, I'd wed him myself. By the Wheel, Grandin, you don't only serve the most overpriced drinks on the Plateau, you're blind as a ground-hermit's chick."

"Wheel of illusion yourself, grandmother," muttered the bartender, as he turned away.

She muttered right back, addressing her empty mug. "I haven't deceived myself since I was twenty-two and married my second cousin. I ought to know a good-looking youngster when I see one. And his face is all over town, even if I can't read what it says."

The bartender, who'd only caught about half of that, yelled from the other end, "Anyone not yet on his funeral pyre looks young to you!"

Ran interrupted. I saw that he was wiping his palms on the side of his trousers. "Could we take a room for the night, and have you call us when the convoy-master rises?"

The old woman made a nasty-funny face, like a schoolgirl, and walked out of the winehouse.

"This isn't the city, uncle, we've only got about three rooms up there altogether, and two of them are occupied. You'll have to take mine."

Ran said, "We'll take what we can get. My niece here is tired."

"Your niece looks about as much like you as I look like my left boot. But if you want to pay for a room, who am I to complain? Just leave the furniture intact." He felt around under the bar, and I heard a jingle of keys. "You want to bring any food or drink up?"

"Our thanks, but we just want to sleep for a couple of hours."

He led us up the stairs. There was a clatter on the landing above, and a young man appeared. His legs were bare and he looked chilly, with only a long white dress shirt with a stiff collar, and a belt and holster he was buckling as he spoke. "What goes on here, Grandin? The Steward just sent me out to get hold of you. Who the hell is that crone in the street outside? She just threw a stone at our window, and when we looked out she pulled back her lips and waggled her tongue."

"I'm very sorry, sir."

"One of your many relatives? I'll tell you right now, it's not the kind of thing the Atvalids are used to. The Steward was taken aback, to say the least."

The bartender had gone all cold and formal. "I regret that my establishment is the best that Kynogin can offer—"

"I know, I know. It wasn't my idea to come, Grandin. I'd as soon be in bed in Shaskala, on a finer mattress than it will ever be your privilege to know, from what I've seen of your offerings tonight."

"I would have thought you'd prefer to be encamped with your regiment over the hill, noble sir."

"That isn't funny, Grandin." He finished working his belt buckle and sighed. "Well, I suppose the excitement's over. Just try to keep the less sane elements out of the way, could you?" He peered down the steps at Ran and me in a polite, nearsighted way. It was rather dark on the stairway. "Not more of your relatives."

"Guests for the night, sir, like your own party."

"Oh? Well, no offense meant, gracious sir and lady. —She won't come back and throw more rocks, will she, Grandin?"

"It's unlikely, sir."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'll see you in the morning." He bowed to us and started unbuckling the belt all over again as he walked away. His gold militia officer's collar was crooked.

Now we knew who was in the third room.

Ran had had two shocks one after the other. It was bad enough that an old provincial woman in shabby trousers could see right through his projected illusion, but now we were lying on a cot just a wall's thickness away from Vere Atvalid, Steward of the Province, the man whose professional aim was the destruction of Stereth Tar'krim.

We talked in whispers. "I can't believe this had to happen to us," I said. "I've only been to Kynogin twice in my life, and each time I run into the Atvalids."

"It's not that strange. This is the biggest market town in the Sector, and this building is the most likely place to put up the Steward." It was an odd sensation, lying there in the arms of my middle-aged farmer, my cheek against his scratchy wool jacket.

"Maybe I really am bad luck for you, Ran."

"No," he said distantly, "luck doesn't work that way. I'm a sorcerer and I know." He kissed my forehead, his mind elsewhere. I wondered for a moment what it was like to have a father. "And if it did, it wouldn't matter."

"You're not even thinking about the Steward."

"No. I'm thinking about the old woman."

I can't say I got any rest. Cloudy dawn light crept into the room an hour or so later. Ran was asleep, damn him. I shook him gently. His eyes opened and met mine, and it was one of those moments when you feel closer to another soul than you ever expected to be. I said, uncomfortably, "We want to get hold of this convoy-master early."

"Yes." He got up and pulled the door handle very quietly. He was still wearing his boots. I'd taken mine off to avoid dirtying the innkeeper's bedsheets; but months of servitude in the wilderness or not, I don't think the idea ever entered Ran's head. If it had, he would have removed them as well. You see, it wasn't that he was inconsiderate.

The hall was empty. Blessed, blue-ribbon snoring came from the room next door. We padded downstairs to find a barroom that was dingy and used-looking under the burden of daylight. Grandin was still awake. He ignored us. A tired drunk lay against a table, the sole patron present. Ran turned to me. "You may as well get a little more sleep. I'll wait down here for the convoy-master and sign us both up as soon as he comes down."

"I'm not tired. Well, yes, I'm tired, but I don't think I could sleep."

"Then lay and rest. Who knows when you'll next get the chance." His voice was cynical, depressed, the voice of a man who was not expecting a happy ending. The voice, in fact, of a man without any expectations at all. I didn't know how much of that came from an evaluation of our plight and how much from the surroundings.

"You'll wake me, if I fall asleep."

"I'll wake you. Relax, Theodora, look around you. You won't miss anything."

So I went back to our room and stripped off my boots again.

Suddenly the room was lighter; I must have fallen asleep after all. Ran wasn't back yet. My head was fuzzy and it took me a moment to become aware of the sounds out in the hall. The people next door were coming out—that must have been what woke me.

I saw my ghost in a small pane of window-glass across

the room: Small-looking, washed out, face puffy from sleep; a half-familiar, half-alien reflection. Just right for a half-familiar, half-alien planet. Such a lot of trouble it is to be an organic consciousness—you have to feed your body and dole out hours of unconsciousness to it and cater to its tiredness and crankiness, all to support the few seconds of friendship and courage and beauty that can be pulled from the fabric of horror known as daily life. Really, I should just sit here and dive into some meditative pool of inertia—

Footsteps quickened in the hallway. I ran my fingers through my hair and jabbed my feet into the boots and got myself to the door. I pulled out a scarf and tied it around my head to hide my barbarian hair.

"But Guardian sir, I had no idea you knew the woman," came the voice of the young officer from last night. It was clear whom he was addressing. The Steward is the "Guardian of the Province"; if he'd been nobly born, it would have been "lord Guardian," instead.

"I met her once," returned a young, sour voice. "That doesn't mean I want her tossing stones against my window all night. I didn't want her irritated, though, either—she's clearly unstable."

"She's a crazy old lady, is what she is, with all respect—do you want me to bring down the waterbags now, sir, or should we wait? I don't trust that landlord to do a proper job."

There was a sound of belongings being moved. The door was shut and there was a jangle of keys. The innkeeper hadn't offered us any keys. I supposed we were lucky not to have been put in the back with the slabs of meat and the kegs of plateau beer—

"No good ever comes of hiring civilians, sir. Especially not crazy provincial civilians who say they're past a century old—" The voice grunted and shifted some bags. Evidently these two were on familiar terms, in spite of their differences of rank. But then, the Atvalid boy was new to his position, wasn't he? Probably new to public life entirely, from what Sembet Triol let drop.

"She's a kyrif," said the Steward peevishly, "from a family of kyrifs. What do you expect, normalcy?"

I froze.

He went on, "If she says she'll strip the place at two

hours after dawn… well, we'll have to hope she'll strip it

between sun-up and mid-afternoon. What more can we

do?"

"We could send some more bands out to the farms."

"To do what, take tah with them? We've hit every farm

between here and Shaskala, and half the western ones, too.

Face it, they like Stereth Tar'krim. They don't like us." The voices faded as they went down the stairs. "I guess

we'll have time for breakfast, anyway," I heard the officer

say. I stepped out into the hall, closed my door and leaned

against it. Kyrifs?

Back when I was collecting Ivoran legends for that doctorate I never quite got, I heard about kyrifs. The story ends:

"Face west and fading sun. Close your eyes. Strip away the people from the hills and the roads. When the world is empty, strip away the buildings, the farms, the wells, the domestic animals. When they are gone, strip away the groundhermits, the hawks, the nighthunters, the insects, all life but the sound of your own heart. When you know the world is empty but for the sound of the wind running over the grass, open your eyes."

The farmboy, who was the first kyrif followed the advice of the dragon. When he opened his eyes, he saw the farm, the hills, and the village beyond, as busy as ever; but there was no sorcery left anywhere. Thus did he strike back at his enemy, the sorcerer, who was now defenseless against his victims.

There was no sorcery in the world until that kyrif died.

When I first heard the story, I thought, they probably killed him young. There were a lot of people around who depended on magic, and Ivoran tales are full of revenge at a high price. Did kyrifs really exist? The Steward thought so. Still, history is rife with people in high office who fell for superstition. But then, the Steward and his officer were both so matter-of-fact about it, and that jaded take-it-for-granted attitude was the hallmark of real Ivoran sorcery.

She was going to "strip the place" at two hours after

dawn. Ran had been right, Cantry's illusion in the crossroads had come back to haunt him: The powers-that-be knew that a sorcerer was involved. Did the Steward imagine that the market towns were full of bandits, coming and going freely under a cloud of illusion? How far had his paranoia gone? Not fair to the Atvalids, I suppose; it was a reasonable assumption that people with prices on their heads would make use of illusory identities if they could. But we weren't the great force in the villages that they seemed to think. Hell, we only came in by ones and twos, just long enough to trade and leave. In fact—

In fact, the only false identity down there right now was Ran.

I hit the stairs.

Below it was a peaceful sight: A few people at the tables downing some fine-looking eggs and foul-looking chocolate; an immense decorated tah pot on the bar; Ran in his farmer guise, standing with a knot of hopefuls by the far wall, where a notice said to wait for the convoy-master… and eight militiamen, eight—I counted—standing about looking awkward, attending on the pleasure of their superiors. The Steward and his personal officer took seats at a table and ordered breakfast. Ran threw me a helpless glance and stayed where he was.

Should I go and join him? What was happening? Was anything happening?

The danger of acting warred with the danger of not acting. I wouldn't attract special notice with this scarf round my head, but I was still clearly a barbarian to anybody who cared to look closely. Maybe I shouldn't call attention to Ran by going over and whispering to him, badly though I wanted his technical expertise.

The old woman from last night walked in. She spotted the Steward at his table, spooning a bowl of lumpy meal, and sauntered over with the walk of a promiscuous eighteen-year-old. "Well-met, Sonny," she said as she straddled the bench and lowered herself down to join him. The Steward winced very slightly.

Was she really a kyrif? But even if kyrifs existed, would anyone be so foolish as to ask one to remove sorcery from the world? Or even from one place, if they could somehow

confine the request? According to legend, the magic went away forever when a kyrif sucked it out.

The Steward's officer was having beer with his eggs and porridge. He didn't look up from his plate as he said, "Honored by a personal meeting, granny. I've only seen you by moonlight, throwing rocks."

"It must have been someone else, youngster. I'm too old to throw rocks. Ask me how old I am."

Oh, lord. The Steward said, "Venerable lady, forgive my presumption, but time presses. Will you join us for our meal? Or would you prefer to make good your claim immediately?" The man had a baby face, and he ate soggy meal for breakfast, but he knew how to talk. He and Ran and Sembet Triol could make a threesome on the Imperial bowling grounds.

"I've already started, love," she said.

The Steward looked alarmed. "I wanted to talk with you first. It's really not my intention to drain the sorcery permanently from this area. My family has enough enemies of the usual kind without creating several thousand new ones from our own citizens—"

Atvalid Junior wasn't even pausing for breath. Granny put a bony hand on his arm. "Relax, love, for one thing, there's not enough sorcery out here in the Sector for anybody to miss."

"That's not the—"

"And as I told you, I'll only be stripping a small area— this bar as the center point, and a radius of a couple of kilometers. Nearly to the end of Kynogin, but not quite."

"I did want to discuss it with you first—"

"And it's not like it's permanent, sonny, it'll come back in a few hours. I've done it before. All I've got to do is funnel the magic down into an object. It'll leak back out to its proper place soon enough, don't you worry your head."

The Steward pushed away his foul breakfast bowl, giving it a queasy look I'd have understood even without his current pressures. "You really guarantee you can confine the process."

"We've been doing it for years, my dove; there've always been kyrifs in this part of the Sector."

The Atvalids were taking a hell of a chance. So far the old woman hadn't impressed anybody with her mental acu-

ity. The Governor's family was tying itself up with the outlaw question like a bunch of obsessives. Well, I'd heard enough to know what was going on; was there time to get Ran out of the neighborhood?

"Tod?" asked the Steward, looking at his aide.

"We've got twenty men stationed around town," the officer answered obligingly. "That's in addition to the ones in here. It's unlikely that outlaws would be present here in numbers to give us any trouble. I'm by no means convinced there are any here at all, sir."

"Then we'll go on to the next market town, and take the venerable lady with us." The Steward spoke firmly.

The convoy-master had appeared across the room, and was listening to appeals from the knot of men waiting for employment. He was very fair about it, taking them one by one. Ran was third on line.

If he could just settle the job and get sent out—

"How long will it take?" asked the Steward.

"Who knows?" said Granny.

The Steward played with his empty chocolate cup. "An object," he said meditatively. "What object did you set to hold the magic? A talisman? A knife, a jewel, a dog, a pet, a person?"

"Well," she drawled, "I wouldn't drink the beer."

Officer Tod set down his mug abruptly. "What happens if you drink the beer?" he demanded.

"Unpredictable," she said.

"Do I swell up and die?"

"Unpredictable," she repeated. "Could be good, could be bad. Or big or little. Can't tell." She peered at him with interest. "Feel any different?"

The officer looked at the Atvalid. "If I turn into a large brown field mouse—"

"I'll retire you on half-pay. It would only be temporary, anyway, wouldn't it, venerable lady?"

"Maybe." She stuck out a tongue and touched her nose. "I had a beer myself before I came in, and I seem to be all right."

Tod looked queasy. He couldn't stop himself from looking over his chest, legs, arms. His eyes widened. "Guardian sir, I'm glowing!" He held out his right arm to the Steward,

as though expecting the authority of his office to put an immediate end to this nonsense.

The arm was illuminated with a pinkish light that deepened to lavender, then dark purple. I turned to Ran. He was starting to glow, too. Very faintly, not yet noticeable. The old woman looked at Tod's arm and whistled. "Lot of heavy sorcery in the neighborhood, sirs. Must be more tricky outlaws about than I'd believed, to tell you true. Hope your men are ready for them."

"Sir!" said Tod.

His Steward looked helpless, and I felt the same way. I took six steps away from where I was standing, made some noise, and approached the table like a woman with a mission. "Guardian sir, I claim the sanctuary of your office."

"What?" He glanced at me for a moment, then looked distractedly back to Officer Tod, whose face had turned violet. "What? I'm sorry, not now—"

"Guardian sir, on the word of your family! I need your protection!"

"What?" he said again, though I had more of his attention now.

I pulled off my scarf and let my unwashed-in-two-days red-brown hair show. He blinked. "I've trusted the word of the Atvalids on my safety and my reward, sir. My life is in your hands."

He started to pull himself together, raised an arm and gestured one of the militiamen over toward us. "Sergeant, watch over this woman until I have time—"

That would never do. "Guardian sir, there is no time! My name is Cantry—"

The militiaman, who'd been reaching for my arm, paused. Atvalid's face turned fully toward me for the first time. I went on quickly, "And I'm here to denounce Stereth Tar'krim!" The Steward hesitated. I pressed, "He's in this building right now—there, Guardian sir!"

And I pointed at Ran.

Chapter Sixteen

The Kynogin Bank and Exchange is the best-built structure in that market town, aside from the wineshop; it actually has a basement dug under it, and a foundation of stone. The walls are stone, too, and the basement is divided into several rooms: The money room, the guardroom, the special storage room… probably one or two more that I never saw. What I did see I remember very well. I spent one of the longest days of my life at the Kynogin Bank and Exchange.

Yes, I made quite a sensation at the wineshop. It upset me to see the look on Ran's face, but I plunged ahead ruthlessly. Of course, he realized almost immediately that something was happening, but I had no way of telling him what.

"I swear by all bright things," I said, "that he's Stereth Tar'krim. Look at him! He's glowing. His illusion is wearing off!"

The Steward bit his lip. "He could be an innocent man suffering a side-effect from drinking this cursed beer." But he didn't say it with conviction. I was a barbarian; I could so plausibly be Cantry.

I said, "You'll see his true face in a minute, Guardian sir. You'll see I'm telling you the truth."

The Steward looked at Ran, standing there with every false appearance of calm. He said, "Who are you, sir? Give us your name, your farm and family."

Ran was a Cormallon. He did not contradict anything I'd said. From his point of view, we were House-mates, family, and half-wed; that meant he would take advantage of me in all sorts of ways without even thinking to ask permission; it also meant he would turn over the fragile ship of his life

and safety to me and hope for the best. And the waves on this ocean did not look good.

"Answer me, sir, if you've nothing to hide," said the Steward.

Ran was silent. A second later his farmer's cap disappeared. His hair became thicker, his neck less square, and his eyes somehow emerged into prominence, no longer hidden by folds of wrinkles from a farmer's lifetime of squinting at the plateau sun. There wasn't a sound in the bar. They could have been watching a scene from a play.

"Stereth Tar'krim," breathed someone. It was one of the civilians.

Ran looked down at his hands, the hands of a young man who had only a passing acquaintance with manual labor. He wiped his palms against the side of his trousers and glanced at me.

"I told you," I said to nobody in particular, and sat down at the Steward's table before I collapsed.

He was flanked by militiamen within seconds. Within minutes, the gossip had magically spread through to the nearest passersby, and the bar was filling up with a crowd of farmers, fences, and ranch agents. The militia officers had to keep yelling at newcomers to quit blocking the door.

Poor Officer Tod. He was sitting on a bench, half-delirious, and a farmer's cap kept winking in and out above his head. Nobody wanted to touch him.

As for the Steward, his attention was on me and Ran. Atvalid kept trying to speak to me, but the noise from the crowd made it hard to hear. "Come on," he yelled finally to an officer. "We'll take them out."

"Out where, sir?" the officer yelled back, looking helpless.

Atvalid paused. "The bank," he said. "They've got to have some security there."

"What about him?" The officer gestured to Tod.

"Oh. Put him to bed upstairs. Have somebody stay with him."

A voice said, "You'd best get him out of the area, if you want him to revert." Atvalid looked around, and so did I. It was the old woman kyrith who'd gotten us all into this; we'd forgotten about her.

The Steward looked as though he'd like to say something

to her, if he weren't so distracted. He took hold of me by one arm and called back to the officer, "Take him over the hill and leave him with the regiment. If that's not far enough away, take him farther. Don't bring more than one soldier with you; I want them here." And he pulled me toward the door. Ran was being nudged that way, too, by a man with a rifle.

There was a lot of crowd to get through. "Is she really Cantry?" somebody said, through a thick Sector accent.

" 'Course she is. Who else would she be?"

"It's true. All those tymons look alike."

"Are you gon' pay her?"

"Yeah, are you going to give her the reward, sir Guardian."

The Steward hesitated. "If he's Stereth Tar'krim, she'll get the reward."

A man snorted. "Who else would he be? Who else have we been staring at on the sides of walls all summer?"

The Steward said, "We'll pay her. Now make way."

We were standing on the threshold, half in daylight, and I could see the imposing form of the Kynogin Bank and Exchange across the way. It was easy to imagine going in there and never coming out. Staying in character, I called, "Check on me, friends! I've earned the reward, make sure they pay up! See if "the House of Atvalid honors its promises, or if I get permanently lost in the vaults across the way."

The Steward's grip on me tightened. "I said we would pay! You'll see her go free, with every tabal we promised." He added, in a hiss, "And may any bandit who's taken a dislike to you be waiting on the way out of town." I'd annoyed him by what I'd implied about his family.

"Nothing personal," I muttered, and I was bundled across the way and up the two steps to the bank. Some wit had painted in red on the gray stone of the side: Interest Kills.

I gave a pretty good story, I think. I'd seen enough of Stereth and Cantry to be able to give operational details of Sector outlawry. They wanted a location, of course, for all they'd advertised about pardons and rewards. I mentioned a couple of places on the Deathwell Plain, far enough from Tarniss Cord's territory to be safe; we moved around, I said, Stereth felt it was safer.

Looking back, I'm amazed that it didn't occur to me to declare our identities, or even just my identity as an Athe-nan citizen. I could prove I'd been off-planet during Can-try's early career. But it never crossed my mind, not even to be discarded.

Why did I turn him in, they asked. The money, I said, and besides, we'd had a lover's quarrel.

Money and vengeance, always acceptable. They let me alone for a while and concentrated on their captured outlaw leader in the other room. I got to keep my possessions, although they searched me for weapons; after all, I wasn't technically under arrest. They even took me upstairs at one point and gave me a bagful of money, while a couple of Kynogin witnesses stood by and they took a picture for the record.

But they didn't release me. I was in the special storage room, surrounded by boxes. To my left was the fortified door that led to the money room, where Ran was being held; to my right, the fortified door that led to the guardroom, and beyond that, to the stairs. I didn't know what they were doing to Ran. I couldn't go into his part of the basement and I couldn't go outside. I couldn't do anything except pace. I'd hated talking to them, but now I wished the Steward and his friends would come back and question me some more. I badly needed something to do.

Hours went by. Hours.

Finally the Steward came back. Young Vere Atvalid, his eyes tired but determined, holding the blue felt hat of Imperial Favor crumpled unnoticed in his hands. If I weren't at his mercy I might have felt sorry for him; he didn't look like a man who'd just made his greatest success and saved the honor of his House. He looked exhausted. And young.

Shift the perspective a little. Who was the hero and who the villain? The would-be Robin Hood, who commanded what was after all a band of criminals, who'd expanded his power in ruthless gangster fashion, who was, let's be clear, destroying the livelihood of a lot of innocent tah-growers west of the Plateau? Or the Atvalids, under all that pressure, who tried so hard to do right.

Just at that moment I didn't care how hard they tried. With Stereth, I could have made a deal.

Vere Atvalid sat down at the table they'd put in the

storage room and regarded me. "We know he's Stereth Tar'krim," he said.

I waited.

He said, "We checked him against the record from his arrest in Shaskala. The types match."

He seemed to want me to speak, so I said, "I'm surprised you could do that so quickly."

"I carry a Net link," he said.

How exceptionally efficient of you. I was tired myself, and fresh out of conversation.

"Do you want to talk to him?" he asked.

I looked up in surprise.

"We don't mind," he said. "I'll be happy to arrange it. This may be your last time to see him alone, before we transport him to Shaskala for public execution. I thought you might have things to say to each other."

"Thank you," I said warily.

"Not at all. It's dark, you'll want to be going, we'd best do it now if you're ready."

Dark? The whole day must have gone by. No wonder we were all so exhausted. You'll want to be going. That sounded hopeful.

But of course he would have some way of eavesdropping. My mind was grinding away in panic. If there was no guard left with us, the method would be mechanical, which was difficult to manage in the Sector. And yet I could hardly walk in saying, "By the way, Stereth, the Steward has a Net link somewhere. He's bound to have us bugged."

But Ran was so paranoid about strangers, no doubt the thought had occurred to him.

"Ready?" said the Steward. He stood up.

I nodded and followed him to the left door.

Ran won the town prize for looking exhausted, but he didn't seem otherwise harmed. My heart quieted down a little bit. Vere Atvalid bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

The money room was just the way it sounded: Full of money. Bags, boxes, cartons, steel drawers, all packed with tabals and bakras. A few of the penny kembits were lying around, too, but mainly they meant business in here. The steel drawers were locked with the kind of seal that can only be broken once, and on each seal was a character

with a certain amount in words, and a numeral underneath. Probably anybody coming in here was searched within an inch of his life when he came out. Not that the stuff was going anywhere; the only way out was the one I'd just come in.

Ran was sitting on a bench behind a table. It was a gambling table borrowed from the wineshop, stained with red. Of course, he had other things on his mind, but I hoped being surrounded by all this money wasn't getting on his nerves. He looked up at me, not giving away anything. "You had something to say?" he inquired.

In character. He was no Des Helani, but I could hear Stereth's even tones somewhere in that sentence. Ran was playing the hand he was dealt. I felt relief and pride.

"I didn't have any choice," I said, speaking for Cantry and Theodora both.

He grunted. I said, "They paid me already." Maybe I have a chance of getting out of here and getting help.

"I doubt if you'll be going anywhere until after the execution."

Kanz. Was it all for nothing? "Maybe you can trade something." Like Stereth's hiding place, although that was a sickening thought. But once the others were picked up, Stereth's identity would come out eventually.

He met my eyes. "I can't think of anything." / don't even want Cormallon in the same sentence as treason in people's minds.

Gods. Maybe we should have been yelling at each other, it might have been more believable; but I couldn't see Stereth losing control under any circumstances. Or maybe I was wrong, maybe Cantry was the one person he would yell at.

No, I couldn't see even Cantry getting past that wall. Although who knows what happens when two people are alone in the dark?

"I meant to ask," said Ran. "Would you have full-quarter married me?"

My thoughts did a sharp veer. You're sitting here working out your own execution, and you want to talk about our wedding?

He added simply, "I've had a lot of time to think. I just thought I would ask."

Heaven only knew what the eavesdroppers thought. I said, "Very probably."

"Well. Good, then." He smiled a little shakily and took my hand.

The door swung open. Vere Atvalid, no doubt disgusted with the way the conversation was tending. He said, "Thank you, Cantry. You can go wait in the other room now." Not even an unadorned "my lady." He could bow over a kyrith crone in shabby trousers, but clearly he put outlaws in another category entirely. The Atvalids had their standards, the prigs. I hoped his damned wedding never came off.

I stood up. Ran said, "Sweetheart, step away from the table."

I've said before, there's a tone people use when they're serious. I was thoroughly confused, but I stepped away.

Vere Atvalid put a hand to his neck. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. Ran said, "Close the door."

He meant me, though he was staring at Atvalid. I shut it. The Steward was turning pale. He started to cough.

Have you ever seen anyone choking? Two seconds ago they were concerned about a thousand minor details, they had strong opinions on the proper design of a shirt collar and the fact that they hate vegetables. Two seconds later, and you can see in their eyes that they don't care an iota any more: It's all narrowed down to one concern only. An invasion of dragons from the Annurian legend could be taking place, and the survival of the human race could be in doubt, but the outcome's all one to them. It's not just the fact that death has its own perspective—it's the surprise that comes with certain forms of it. People have died willingly for a cause, but here they've had no warning, no chance to prepare. The body states its own case unopposed: It wants to live, and the hell with everything else.

Vere Atvalid dug his fist into his own abdomen, but of course there was nothing lodged for him to force out. He kept feeling his throat frantically, searching for an obstruction he knew was there.

Ran held his eyes. Atvalid bent over the table and pounded a fist against it, once. Do something!

Ran leaned over slowly. The soft blue felt hat of Imperial Favor had been jammed into Atvalid's belt. The edge of it

was visible past his outer robe. Ran licked his upper lip thoughfully, his fingers reaching for the blue folds. Then he hesitated. "I can't take it," he said. "You have to give it to me."

Atvalid's fist hit the table again.

"Can you hear me?" said Ran, frustrated, but enunciating each word clearly and loudly, as though agony had a volume of its own that he needed to be heard over. "You have to give it to me."

Atvalid's fingers scrabbled at the belt. He took hold of both ends of the hat at once and couldn't get it loose; then he pulled it out and flung it at Ran.

It hit Ran's chest. Vere Atvalid crumpled to the floor and lay there, not moving.

I walked around the side of the table and knelt where I could see his face. He was breathing again.

I looked over at Ran. "What did you do? And what good does it do us? There are half a dozen guards in the room outside, and another dozen upstairs. Are you going to choke them all?" Apparently the kyrith had been right; the leaching of sorcery was only temporary. But I didn't see how it could help us now.

He stared down at the blue hat in his hands. He was pretty washed-out himself, but there was a triumphant look in his eyes. He fell to his knees beside me, glanced at Atvalid, and dismissed him. "He's alive." Ran took a deep breath. "I needed his symbolic permission, or I wouldn't be able to do this so quickly."

"Do what? People will be in here in a minute—"

"If they were listening, they'd be in here now. I'm not saying we're not being recorded, but he was the only one listening. —Watch what you say, just in case."

"He'll be thrilled with us when he wakes up. The odds on letting me go just took a nosedive."

"They were pitiful to begin with." He spoke quickly. "Take off his outer robe."

I started to pull it off, questioning as I went. "Look, I know you like to keep things to yourself, but this is definitely the moment to speak up—"

"We do the logical thing, The— uh, sweetheart. One person came in here. One person will leave. Him."

I stopped, the robe half off. "Another projected illusion? It's not possible. It would take weeks to set up."

"A planted illusion, using him as the focal point of attention. By the laws of magic, attention is energy; he has the accumulated perceptions of everyone who's looked at him recently, and he's given permission for it to be tapped. You'll wear this hat—"

Despite a couple of years of study, I could only follow Ran's technical jargon so far. One thing was clear, though. '77/ wear the hat?"

"Only one of us can leave. You're the logical choice."

Usually I reserve my arguments until present crises are over, but we lost three or four minutes here batting it back and forth. Ran wasted some initial time by taking the position that he was the First of Cormallon and he was ordering me to go; this had its usual effect, and he dropped it pretty quickly. I told him that he was the native here, and I had more faith in his ability to accomplish something once he escaped than I did in my own. He pointed out that the farmer illusion was no longer safe and with his face he wouldn't get ten steps outside the bank.

"If illusion won't work for you, I don't see how it'll work for me."

He said, "Give me your cards."

I handed him the pouch and went on arguing. "You could be out of here by now, and off looking for a Net link. The Steward has one."

He spread the cards in a swirl on the table, evidently searching for a particular one. "If I'm executed," he said in a voice that suggested his mind was on something else, "any evidence as to family will die with me. No one will care enough to pursue it." He pulled out a card from the deck. "Here we are."

Ran is a born egotist, except when it comes to his duty. "What about me?" I said finally, in a forlorn kind of way. "What am I supposed to do alone in the Northwest Sector?"

He looked mildly surprised. "We can't both go. Here— see this card?"

It was the rope and plank bridge over Thunder Chasm. A farmer was leading a cart and oxmod over it, a risky proposition at best. I pulled back mentally, to keep it from being more than a card.

" 'Careful Endeavor.' What of it?"

"We don't have it anymore." He tore the card in two. "The picture also represents a link between two geographical locations. We're linked, too, through being tied to this deck of cards. If we'd gone through a Cormallon marriage celebration, we would've exchanged bluestones for a while, but we'll use what we've got just the same."

I blinked. He was leaving me far behind. If he'd started to recite " 'Twas Brillig and the Slithy Toves," I couldn't have been as unenlightened.

I almost said, "Ran," but remembered in time not to use his name. He looked up from the deck and said, "Time, my tymon. We don't have any. Take the card."

I took the half he held out to me and replaced the deck mechanically in my pouch.

"Ignis fatuous," he said, "an illusion lodged in the mind of the beholder. Like romantic love." (An Ivoran speaks.) "Those who have seen Vere Atvalid most recently, or those who are on daily terms with him, will retain a strong impression of his appearance; and that appearance is what they'll see. The guards in the room by the stairs have seen him most recently. They won't stop you."

He was putting the other card inside his robe, by his bluestone pendant.

I said, "I don't look anything like Vere Atvalid."

"It's a planted illusion, not a projected one. You don't change."

"Thank you, I know the difference. I also know that only a sorcerer can place an illusion like that, and only if he's on the spot. It has to be placed on each person, one by one. So it looks like you're the logical candidate to escape, after all—"

I'll be with you every step of the way.

He hadn't said it out loud. I stared at him. "The deck," he said. "We've both used those cards so many times, we've both worried over them so much… they're your equivalent of a bluestone, Theo—sweetheart. If you died tomorrow, we could reconstruct your memory traces from that deck."

I had a sudden and somehow suffocating vision of my pack of cards in the library-morgue at Cormallon, among

Ran's dead ancestors, pulled out now and again for a walk through my memory.

"Attention is energy," he said again, repeating one of the hundred and ten laws of magic. "Your attention to the cards, other people's attention to Vere Atvalid—the psychic traces remain, for a while at least. I'll be able to see through your eyes and do what needs to be done. So we'd better cut it short, tymon, and get you out into the world while we can."

"And you'll be with me… every step of the way."

"Until you get too far out of range. We should be all right while you're in the bank, though."

I hesitated.

Ran said, "Our friend isn't going to stay unconscious forever. You've been shilly-shallying for nearly ten minutes."

"I have not been shilly-shallying!" I said, rather loudly, trying to cover up some of the confusion I felt. In all my visions of Stereth's band coming to a bad end, I'd never really imagined Ran at the end of a rope or the downside of a chopping block.

"Glad to hear it." Unlike mine, Ran's voice sounded utterly normal. "So, you think we would finally have made it to the wedding party at the end, do you?"

Well, there were a lot of smart-aleck remarks I could have made to this non sequitur, but under the pressure of the moment I condensed them. "Yes."

"… Just checking." Ran came over, kissed me very briefly, and pointed me to the door. His hands on my arms were ice-cold, even through the sleeves of my light jacket.

I went through the door. I stepped out into the special storage room. I started to walk away. Behind me I heard Ran shut the door and twirl the lock.

It seemed to be happening, didn't it? Every step I was taking was making this reality more true.

I stepped into the guardroom. About six young men in uniform looked over to me as I did so; I made sure my glance took them all in. Now was the time for me to be arrested, if it was going to happen.

One of them stood up from the chair where he'd been drinking tah. "Sir, do you want me to stay with the prisoner?"

I shook my head, realizing sickly that Ran and I hadn't discussed voice. When I opened my mouth would they hear

Vere Atvalid, or an upset female barbarian? I continued hurriedly to the stairs.

Nicely done, tymon. Ran's thought startled me.

Ran? I sent back. There was no reply.

I got to the first landing and paused for breath. They'd dug their vaults deep, the paranoid kanz. My hand on the railing was cold and slippery.

Don't… won't be long now. Part of the sentence was missing. Static in magic, I thought, with no humor whatsoever. I was getting farther away.

There were footsteps on the landing above. A door closed. The feet started down the stairway.

Go back. And face six guards without an explanation? Not to mention laryngitis.

It would look better if I were ascending the stairs normally. No—the farther up I got, the more fragile was the connection with Ran's sorcery. I backed down a few steps and started up to the first landing again.

A set of deep red robes embroidered with gold thread came into view. Feet in boots, like everyone on the Plateau, but these were soft, thin yellow leather, with suede flaps. A fashion boot, not anything I'd like to take out into a Plateau night. A belt embossed with traceries of situ leaves. An overrobe of white, clean even in this climate. And a face—

"Vere, my boy!" said a voice I'd heard before, but never this happy.

The voice of the provincial governor. Nor Atvalid.

I froze. Surely Vere's father would not be deceived for long. He barreled down the stairs and threw his arms around me, somehow not noticing that I was a lot shorter and softer than his strapping offspring.

He was an affectionate father. My breasts were pressing against his rib cage. No, he didn't notice.

"I'm so proud of you!" he cried. "Forgive me for coming myself. It's not to check up on you, you know that, my dear boy. But I couldn't stay away. I swear I tried, for a full quarter of an hour I tried, but I had to come at once. You've made it all worthwhile, Vere. My very best hopes, everything I've worked for—I'm babbling, aren't I? It's a good thing nobody from the Shaskalan council is here. Well, aren't you going to say something?"

He waited. I did, too, for a handful of seconds that seemed to stretch for several hours, while my thoughts banged around hopelessly in my brain like a bird trying to escape a room.

"It's good to see you, Father," I said finally.

I tried to steel myself for whatever came.

"So you do forgive me?" he asked.

"Certainly. Uh, there's nothing to forgive."

The arms around my back again, crushing my chest. He was soaring high with joy. "Now, I know you sent for an armored car," said Nor Atvalid, "and instead you got an aging administrator. But I have an explanation, and I'd like you to listen to it before telling me it's a bad idea."

I was afraid he'd suggest we talk upstairs, but he was too excited to think of anything but saying what he'd come to say.

"This Stereth Tar'krim," he said. "He's grown too popular with the uneducated. He appeals to the same idiots who go to provincial theater and think pole pirates really exist."

Didn't pole pirates exist? That was a blow.

"We need to show them that he's not a success, he's a criminal. A failed criminal—that's the important thing, the failure. That's what we have to get into people's minds."

"Umm," I said, trying to sound thoughtful.

"So I've ordered a cage to be constructed here in Kyno-gin. A sort of prison-wagon. We can carry him back over the roads to Shaskala and let the people line up and see our captive inside. Then we can execute him publicly back in the city. I don't think we should make it a municipal holiday, do you? That would be attaching too much importance to him. And. yet we want a good crowd, you know. What do you think?"

Apparently Atvalid Senior moved quickly for somebody who'd said he was leaving things up to his son.

"Uh, won't displaying him on the Shaskala Road be dangerous? It might lure in his followers."

I was hoping to keep Ran in Kynogin for a while. Particularly if they wanted to execute him in Shaskala.

"So much the better if it does," said the Governor, with the first trace of coolness I'd seen today. "I'll welcome getting a score for the price of one. Cutthroats and scum, standing in the way of all our best interests."

Even the people whose job it was to capture Stereth Tar'krim didn't usually talk about him that way. In the Sector, where life was hard, people had sympathy for the difficult choices of others.

"Years of effort," Nor Atvalid went on. "Working for the governorship. Trying to prepare the people for a less corrupt system. Constant struggle—I know I neglected you, Vere—and always more work, always people getting in the way. Refusing to understand that I was trying to help them, trying to make up…"

The man was obsessed with this. He went on for a good five minutes on the theme of being misunderstood. If they would only all pull together and cooperate with him! But no, they followed after a passing outlaw with a good line of talk and no interest in improving things—

Trapped in a stairwell with a madman—and the real Vere Atvalid could be coming around even now. For the first time in my life I felt a hint of the panic of claustrophobia.

I put a hand on his arm. "Father, perhaps you'd like to go down and talk to the guards. They can fill you in on things. I'm a bit tired—"

He turned a keen gaze on me, making me even more nervous. Gods, he had to keep looking down to address me, didn't he even notice that?

"Son," he said, "I appreciate your leaving the university to complete this mission. I know your friends must have advised you to distance yourself from my little obsessions, didn't they? You don't need to answer, I wouldn't expect any differently from the world as it is. But it means a lot to me, Vere. Your grandfather would have had something to say about it, too."

"Oh… yes, I'm sure he would."

"Sit down for a minute, Vere."

"What?"

"Sit down. Here on the steps. I want to talk to you seriously for a minute."

Let me out of here, powers of earth and heaven! Gods of fools and scholars, all I want is to see sunlight again and deal with the troubles I have, which are more than sufficient to my needs.

I sat down.

"Son, I never talked much to you about Tammas District. You were just a boy when we were in residence there, and the troubles hadn't really started, and when they did I thought it best to send you off to your cousins. That may have been a mistake. Not that I would want you to suffer, or be in any danger, but I think like most youngsters you probably have no conception of what things were like there."

I'd heard about the troubles in Tammas District, even met a few refugees in my time; it was all pretty remote, though. And things were supposed to have settled down, anyway, except for the unemployment and the militia units always being there. There were plenty of places to go on Ivory before I ever needed to see a godforsaken place like that.

Tammas District. Wasn't that where Stereth was from?

"Grandfather Torin had only been in office a month when things started to go wrong. Poor management of the man before him, he said, and I believe him. Your grandfather's an honorable man in his way. You know that, don't you?"

I made a sound in my throat that could be taken for assent.

"Of course. You've never had much of a chance to talk to your grandfather, and I've always regretted that. He really doesn't have the energy, Vere, I'm sure you realize it's not that he doesn't care. He can barely get out of bed, after all. No one in our family has ever disgraced the Blue Hat, son, don't forget that. Generations of administrators, and no one ever had to give it back to the Emperor. Not even Granddad. —Not that there's any reason he should have. Had to give it back, I mean."

Nor Atvalid rested his arm on my shoulders. It was amazing that this man, vulnerable as he sounded now, could be the same one who put on the show on the platform in the center of town, the day I came in to sell stolen cattle.

"You see what I'm saying, son?"

"Oh, yes." I didn't have a clue, but I tried to sound enthusiastic in a detached kind of way. That may not make much sense, but if you've ever tried to discourage a harmless idiot at the All-Athenan University Mixer from trying to pick you up, you'll know the kind of tone I mean.

He took a deep breath, and let it out happily. "I've tried to ensure that Tuvin Province was different. And it was harder here, harder from the beginning, with so much territory in the Northwest Sector. —But all that's in the past. This is a turning point, and you're responsible. When the officials turn out to see Stereth Tar'krim's execution, they'll know I mean business. Son, have you reconsidered your decision?"

He said it as though it were an obvious question. "Uh… which decision do you mean?"

He laughed. "You've got Granddad's sense of humor. But don't tease me, Vere, tell me the truth—now that you've succeeded so brilliantly, do you begin to see the possibilities in a government career?"

"Oh! Yes, I do see the possibilities."

The grip on my shoulders tightened for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was choked with emotion. "That's all I ask. For the moment." He stood up, not turning away his face the way an Athenan would whose eyes were swimming with tears. "Will you come down with me and show me the prisoner yourself?"

"Well, if you don't mind, Father, I'm really tired. Exhausted. I was just on my way up to get a few hours' sleep. You don't mind, do you?" I sounded as pathetic as I could.

"No, no, I should have realized. Forgive me. Go on, and take my blessing with you."

"Thank you." I took the next step, but a hand on my sleeve held me back.

"Son? I love you."

I hesitated, long enough to see he felt the hurt of it, then said, "I love you, too, Father." Well, didn't I feel like pond scum.

He kissed me on the forehead, still completely unaware that he could never have done that if his real son was standing one step above him. Then he turned and went down the stairs. I ran as fast and as silently as I could, up to the sunlight and open air.

Chapter Seventeen

The sunlight was in my mind. I was disappointed to see that it was dark in the bank when I got upstairs, and lights were on, shining dimly on the rough stone counters and polished floor. I only remembered then what the Steward had said, and for some reason the thought that I'd have to wait any longer for good honest sunlight absolutely devastated me. I really don't know why, but I still remember that I was crushed. I felt like crying.

I'd stopped to wrap my scarf around my head before exiting the stairwell. Even so, I don't know what the handful of people in the bank may have seen as I scurried for the front door—the Steward of the province, or another knockaround denizen of the Sector in dirty clothing. The light of two moons poured in on the threshold. I got out, ducked behind the nearest passing wagon and walked along with it to the gray shadow of a grain-agent's tent, then took the back ways out of town. I might have been pleased at my success in evading notice, if my mind weren't on Ran.

Now where? I knew the direction Shaskala lay in, vaguely; probably a wheeled cage with the notorious Stereth Tar'krim inside would pass me on the road if I started walking that way. All right, so forget that idea. Somewhere far to the west was the route to the lowlands and the Ordralake districts. Also too far. I doubted if anybody had brought in a shipment of Net equipment while I was being detained, so the parameters of the problem remained as hopeless looking as ever, didn't they?

I realized that while I was considering the matter my feet were taking me on the route to the monastery fort. Perhaps my feet had a point. My own thought about Stereth came back to me: At least with him I could make a deal.

Back to the outlaws? That called forth a sour grin, de-

spite the trouble I was in; the gods did like to play their little jokes on Theodora, I'd noticed it before. Ran would have a fit, or would he? Perhaps he expected me to go this way. I trusted he didn't expect me to leave him in Kynogin and call for my own rescue from some future Net link, long after the execution. A stupid lapse on his part, if he did.

Gods! Why hadn't I gone back to the money room with Nor Atvalid? Two of us would have come in, two of us could have gone out! What an idiot I was!

Still, that scenario was by no means certain. It would have been asking the superhuman for Ran to plant two sets of simultaneous illusions in every passerby. And Vere might have been stirring by then, and taking out both At-valids was asking a lot. More likely we would have both been trapped.

Yet it hadn't even occurred to me. Kanz!

I passed the small grove where I'd once paused to read the cards, leaving a bunch of stolen steermods to wait. I hoped Stereth would be reasonable.

Stereth is always reasonable by his lights, but they are not the same lights that other people use. As I walked I replayed my talk with Ran and my prolonged journey up the stairs of the Kynogin bank endlessly. The scene in the money room was still on my mind. I wasn't sure why it bothered me, but it did. It's not that Ran was a sissy; he was normally pretty direct about getting what he wanted. But there'd been something in his eyes when he was looking at Atvalid's blue hat that I didn't like at all. I'm not at all sure he hadn't enjoyed that contest, vicious though it was. And I don't know if he would have attacked the problem in the way he did, if the scene would have had the flavor I seemed to perceive in it, if he hadn't been trying so hard to be what Stereth would have been.

A spooky thought. And one that I think we will leave behind us. The never-ending Plateau sky stretched over me to the edges of the world, and the grass was tough and hunter-green in the moonlight. It would have been a good night to be alive if I didn't know all the things that I knew.

I reached the fort by dawn. I walked down the path through the valley, thinking that the place had an empty feel about it. Nobody challenged me, nobody stopped me.

I kept walking, but warily; things were different here, somehow. I was almost to the entrance of the main hall when a voice hailed me: "Tymon!"

I turned and saw Grateth appear magically from the turf. He wore his usual gray-green jacket that he was never without, and his eyes moved to take in the whole valley.

"Where is everyone?" I asked, as he approached.

"I dunno what you're surprised about," he said, in his rhythmic Sector accent. "You and Sokol slip out like ghosts, you can't expect us all to wait about to see what follows. No offense, Tymon. I see you've come back alone."

"Yes. I've lost Sokol. I need to talk to our leader about that."

"Umm. No doubt you'll get the chance. But when I said alone, I meant without any militia. That's why we all cleared out, darlin'. Stereth sent me to keep watch and warn off any of the new bands reporting in."

I looked into his calm, jaded, born-for-the-military face. "I'm working at not being insulted, Grateth."

The face was transformed by a grin. "And a fine job you're doing." He pointed west, toward nothing I could see. "My mount's over that way, Tymon; come along, I'll take you to the others."

I followed him through the dirt and damp grass and came suddenly on a brown and black mount placidly munching behind one of the outbuildings. Grateth got on first, then pulled me up behind him. I put my arms around his waist, in the way I'd learned to do ages ago, when Des Helani had kidnapped us.

As we moved out, I put my face for a moment in the back of Grateth's soft, faintly smelly jacket. My voice came out muffled. "It's good to see you again, cantry tar'meth."

"And you, barbarian."

"Where are we going?"

"North. Stereth and the others are camped near Death-well Fortress."

I pulled my head back. "Grateth! I was held for a while by the Steward, and I told him the band stayed on Death-well Plain!"

"Did you?" said his voice, calm as ever. "Well, never mind, little Tymon. It's a big place, and we'll hope for the best."

* * *

He brought me to a hollow in the Plateau hills several hours north. There was no old monastery this time, not even a barn; just some lean-tos scattered around as a concession to the local weather. Deathwell Fortress loomed now and then through the mists, a distant and ominous shadow. I could see why people were nervous about the place.

It was a fairly large camp, and I saw people from Tarniss Cord's bunch carrying wood and practicing fighting in the mud along with the old band. Of course, I thought; Stereth would have told Cord to clear the fortress as well. I hope they don't all blame me for having to move out into the elements like this.

"Tymon!" yelled a pleased voice. A tall, green-eyed outlaw stood up from the group at the fire.

"Des!" I called back. I took one arm off Grateth's waist and waved from the back of the mount.

Then, "Tymon," he repeated, more sadly. He shook his head.

"Damn it, Des, don't you start with me. I've had a very bad couple of days."

My tone seemed to reassure him. "It hasn't been all chocolate and dancing girls here, you know," he said, but it was more the sort of thing he always said to me. "Stereth's unhappy," he added, in warning.

"I need to talk to him."

Grateth had halted the mount. Now he signaled for me to slide down, and Des helped me off. "Try to keep her out of trouble," Grateth told him, "while I go see what he has to say."

I said, "I want to come with you."

"Ho, ho," said Des, putting his arms around my waist and turning me so I faced the campfire. "You don't want to go in there now, Tymon. Let Des entertain you while our brother goes and smooths the way. Make sure he has no weapons nearby, Grateth. And no breakable objects."

Des was kidding, but he wasn't kidding. I decided that maybe they knew best. "All right," I agreed. "But I need to talk to him soon, Grateth. It's urgent."

"Right." Grateth touched the side of his hand to his head, as though to a superior officer, bowed and rode on.

"Real soon!" I called after him.

"What a troublemaker," said Des. "Why don't you sit down with me? Although—actually—you look kind of tired. If you want to take a nap, we can wrap you up and stow you in the back of my lean-to."

I'd missed the greater part of two nights' sleep. I did feel incredibly tired, but not sleepy at all, as though I'd been drinking tah straight through the day. "I can't. I'll need to talk to Stereth."

"One-track Tymon. I'll wake you up when he's ready to see you, but I'm telling you it won't be for a while. He's got all the section leaders in his tent, and I don't think he'll want to shoot the breeze with you until they're finished."

"Why, what's going on?"

Des was leading me over to his pile of gear, stacked by a couple of poles and a leather roof. He pushed the gear out of the way and rifled through some old, stained blankets. "I think he's arranging a simultaneous strike on a militia unit. Anyway, that's the rumor. We're all hoping it's false. —Here we are, sweetheart; nice and cozy."

He patted a mound of blankets. I found myself yawning.

"And I can't hang about too long, anyway," he went on. "There's a tah shipment coming through in a couple of hours, and I'm taking out a group to confiscate it."

"Confiscate?" I yawned.

"In the name of the people." He grinned.

"You should be in politics, Des."

"Not me, sweetheart." He helped tuck me in, then stood up to leave. I thought of something, reached out and grabbed his ankle.

"If you're going out on a run, who's going to wake me when Stereth's ready?"

He let out a dramatic sigh. "When Stereth wants to see you, you don't have to worry about who'll wake you. But I'll tell Sembet to be on the watch, all right?"

"Don't forget."

He sighed again and walked away.

It seemed to take forever to fall asleep, but I must have done it, because I kept waking and seeing the roof of the lean-to, and remembering one or another of a series of vivid dreams. I don't recall them all now, but I know in one I was in Shaskala trying to get to the execution block

with an Imperial pardon before it was too late, and obstacles kept coming up to delay me. Then I woke and saw the lean-to and thought, "Only a dream." In my relief I fell right back asleep and found myself in Shaskala again, still with the pardon in my hand. It was the scheduled time for execution and I was frantic—but I thought, there was a reason, a moment ago, why you thought there was. a solution to this. What was it? I looked at the streets, the crowds, the time—it was hopeless. What could I have been thinking?

In another, I was trapped in the Athenan embassy with Nor Atvalid. I kept claiming I was an Athenan citizen, and he kept claiming I was his son.

Sembet Triol woke me up in the middle of that one. I saw his face, his carefully maintained jacket and outer robe, the short sword he was entitled by birth to carry; and the world reoriented itself. "Gods, Sembet." I took"his hand in relief, and let him help me sit up.

"Are you all right?"

"I think so." I sat and tried to pull my thoughts together. "How long was I asleep?"

"I don't know. But Des only told me to watch you about an hour ago."

"Has he gone out?" Sembet nodded: "What about Stereth?"

"He's asked for you to come see him in about ten minutes. He's saying his good-byes now to the section leaders. You don't look in good shape, Tymon."

"It was such a real dream. Nor Atvalid was there—" I paused, remembering that Sembet probably knew a lot more about that family than I did. And thinking, too, that there was something in the back of my mind trying to find its way out. "Sembet, did you know the Atvalids used to live in Tammas District?"

He nodded. "Of course. Old Torin Atvalid was provincial governor for years and years."

The famous troubles of Tammas District. "I had the impression the people in Tammas got picked pretty clean."

"Yes, both before and after things went sour. The provincial government was thoroughly corrupt—"

I gave him a look at that.

He protested, "Everyone expects officials to take a per-

centage, but there's such a thing as going too far. There's no point in destroying the economy of people you intend living off of, is there? The rebels really had no choice, they had to fight back."

"And that's when the Emperor sent in troops?"

"He had no choice either. The Empire can hardly tolerate armed revolt, Tymon. The universe would be in chaos otherwise." There was a nobly born Ivoran speaking. As they say here at scenes of blood and destruction, it was just one of those things that happen because we are in this world.

"What about Torin Atvalid? Did he get any blame for it?"

"Well, not officially. His policies certainly tipped the balance, if you ask me. And the Atvalids came away from Tammas with an exceptionally heavy House treasury."

I considered all this in the light of my chat in the Kyno-gin stairwell. "I think Nor Atvalid is trying to make up for things by reforming the Tuvin provincial government."

"It would not surprise me." He shook his head. "The curse of the Atvalids: They always go too far." He tapped me on the arm. "Ready to go? I wouldn't keep him waiting… under the circumstances, I mean."

Stereth's tent was the largest in camp, but still not all that roomy. I recognized some of the pillows and rugs that had softened the hard stone floor of the monastery fort, and a set of chipped malachite bowls. Green and black, crimson and gold; a fitting den for an outlaw chieftain.

As ever, it was Stereth himself who did not fit the bill. Des could have pulled off the role with style, and his voice would have been heard in the back rows. Stereth simply looked up from his sheaf of papers, nodded for Sembet Triol to leave, and regarded me from his careful accountant's eyes.

Knowing my manners, I waited. After a moment he said, "Grateth seems to feel that executing you would be inappropriate."

Ice, pure ice. Des and Sembet spoke with awe of Stereth's occasional flashes of temper, but if it was true I'd never seen it. Just this arctic plain, with here and there a hint of irony or fellowship. No fellowship today, though. That market was shut down.

"That's good to hear," I said quietly.

"Don't relax. I don't take orders from Grateth."

He was silent again, still measuring me, so I didn't speak either. I knew my place by the rules of Ivory; I was the supplicant in this encounter, returning to claim a relationship I'd previously spurned. Etiquette required a low profile on my part.

Cantry came in from outside then, spared me a quick glance that gave nothing away, and placed a bredesmoke pipe and bag in front of Stereth. She took the malachite bowls and set a stack of three of them within reach, along with a bottle of wine.

Three bowls. One would have meant Stereth was drinking alone, that I wasn't being offered hospitality and should begin making my will; two would have meant that I was being given guest-rights and might have implied a commitment. But three could just mean that Cantry picked up some bowls in a hurry and didn't count them. Since accidents don't happen around Stereth, what it actually meant was that he was being as annoyingly careful as ever. Considerate of my feelings, though—one bowl would have been more than I could have handled just then.

He packed some bredesmoke into the pipe and took a puff. "All right, Tymon, talk. Tell me what you've been doing while we've been slogging up here from our nice dry home."

So I told him everything that had happened since Ran woke me up two nights ago and suggested we escape. I thought he might hurry me along through some parts, once he had the gist of the story, but he seemed interested in it all. I managed to reconstruct most of the conversation with the Governor. Since Stereth refused to either cut me short or tell me what he wanted to hear more of, I even included what the Governor was wearing when he came down the stairs. Stereth just puffed and listened.

It wasn't a large tent, and soon it was full of bredesmoke. My eyes, no doubt red already, began to water.

When I'd finished he said conversationally, "So, did you have some purpose in coming back to us, or do you just seek to renew old ties?"

I said—and there was just a touch of accusation in my voice—"Sokol is in jail because they think he's you. He's going to be executed because they think he's you."

"Well, and that's no disadvantage to the band, is it? It should take some of the pressure off us."

"Since when do you want the pressure off? I thought you wanted to be an irritant. Besides, all these farmers and ranchers you've allied with made their agreements with Stereth Tar'krim. Once the legend's gone, will they still cooperate?"

He smiled. "Des did much of the wooing. No doubt he can continue."

"It's not as good. You know that. This has been a public relations gimmick as much as anything else, and it's bad for public relations to kill a legend." He let out a smoke ring. I added, "I'm sure the Emperor will be reassured to hear you're dead. He won't have to buy you off." Two smoke rings. Three. Damn the man. "Besides, the pressure from the militia will be on again, the second they realize the tah blockade is still going. Unless you plan on letting that die, too."

My head started to ache. Secondhand bredesmoke usually wouldn't make me high so quickly, but I was dangerously low on sleep.

He said, "I take it you'd like me to get your half-husband out of custody. A risky undertaking at best, Tymon."

"Not for somebody who robs tax shipments from armored cars." I hadn't meant it to come out quite so baldly, but the sentence seemed to go straight from my brain to my lips.

Stereth smiled. Then he said, seriously, "If I took this business on, and retrieved our sorcerer from the enemy, I would expect him to be more cooperative in future."

"He will be," I said. I couldn't commit Ran without making a Cormallon promise, but I didn't need to; the obligation to Stereth would drive him crazy until he discharged it.

Stereth picked up a malachite bowl and set it between us, then put another beside it. "Care for some wine, Tymon?"

"Thank you." He poured for us both. I raised the bowl and took a sip, then replaced it. Any more and I'd be sprawled on the gold and crimson rug.

"One more thing," said Stereth. "Just as a matter of curiosity, and a favor to a friend, I was wondering if you would tell me Sokol's birth name."

I was actually shocked at this coming from him. Outlaws

don't ask their birthnames, I knew the look on my face was saying.

Sue me, replied the look on his own.

"Just a favor," he repeated.

Manners required that I not refuse a favor, just as they required that I take a sip from the winebowl and sit there inhaling bredesmoke, when we both knew damned well he was getting me stoned deliberately. But he was crossing over boundaries now, and I had to make a decision.

Under the circumstances, I would have liked to postpone it until I was awake and sober.

"And please don't insult me with some pseudonym," he went on pleasantly. "I always know when I'm being lied to."

That might be a magnificent bluff, but I'd been impressed in the past with Stereth's ability to tell truth from bullshit.

All right. At the moment, Ran's life was the first priority. We would deal with the rest later.

"Ran Cormallon," I said.

"Hmm. That's what I'd heard."

Was that also a magnificent bluff? I would never know.

He said, "I suppose I should let you continue your nap. Sembet said you were resting."

It was a dismissal, so I started to get to my feet. Unsuccessfully.

"I can't stand up," I said.

Stereth turned toward the tent entrance and called, "Sembet!" A few second later Sembet Triol entered and took my left arm. Stereth took my right. They lifted me up and helped me to the entrance.

Just before he turned me over to his nobly born henchman, Stereth said, "Tell me, Tymon, what's your own birthname? That can hardly be a state secret."

"Don't be so annoying, Stereth," I said acidly. "That can't possibly be of any interest to you."

I felt a faint shaking in Sembet, as though he was laughing.

"She's not entirely sober," Stereth explained.

"Oh," said Sembet noncommittally. He was still vibraing gently, but apparently didn't trust himself to speak any further.

"Oh, get her to bed." Stereth let us both go and went back inside the tent.

I had quite a sleep that day, because I woke up many hours later—back in the monastery fort, on a pile of jackets and robes in the main hall. They told me later that they'd tried to wake me, and ended up loading me on a wagon with the provisions. I suppose it's a sign of Stereth's trust in me, or in his ability to really tell truth from falsehood, but he moved his base back to our old haunt. "Easier to hit Kynogin from here," pointed out Carabinstereth as she helped me wash when I awoke. My muscles were sore, from the bouncing in the wagon or from stress, and I felt thoroughly wrung out.

I may have had as many nightmares as before, but this time I couldn't remember any. It felt as though I'd just climbed out of a pit.

Carabinstereth went off to do other things, and Sembet Triol came in with a jar of water. Things suddenly came together in my mind, and I spoke as though we'd just broken off our conversation minutes ago.

I tapped him urgently on the shoulder as he bent to set the jar down. When he straightened up I cried, "Torin Atvalid was Governor of Tammas District! Nor Atvalid's father was the person who imprisoned Stereth!"

"Yes," said Sembet, "I thought you knew."

But I was driving somewhere, and wouldn't get off the road. "Look, it was Torin Atvalid's policies that were responsible for the rebellion in Tammas. He gouged everybody—even Ivorans couldn't stand for it—and our Governor Atvalid—" I heard Sembet's voice in my mind, from the ride home from Kynogin that day: "Nor Atvalid never could stand his father. Whatever his father did, he'd do the opposite."

I went on more slowly, "Nor figured that the way to avoid the kind of suffering they had in his father's province was to come down hard on the other side."

"The Atvalids never did learn moderation."

"But don't you see! Sembet—Torin Atvalid created Rice Thief!"

"Well," he said, "it's nothing to get excited about."

There's an expression they use on Ivory: It won't make

dinner come any sooner. That was the consensus of the company on this topic. I even tackled Carabinstereth on it; surely her energetic nature would generate a little excitement over this. She was folding towels when I found her. She did look up briefly. "Oh, yes, Tymon. I think I'd heard that from someone."

Theodora rides in, a day late and a penny short. Whenever I have one of my profound insights I find out later that somebody had it first in the fifth century oldstyle and it's been a cliche ever since. That sort of thing happens to me a lot. Back on Pyrene, whenever I found a piece of classical music that I liked I was usually told later that it was a big favorite centuries ago of the Poliker Secret Police, and they often played it when they were torturing people. Believe me, news like that can affect your self-esteem in all sorts of ways. That wonderful sense of joy and discovery of the new never seems to make it through untarnished.

You're probably wondering what was happening to Ran while all this was going on. That was certainly in the front of my own mind at the time. Stereth told me shortly after I woke up that first day at the fort that Ran was still in Kynogin and still alive, and that a cage was under construction outside the winehouse.

I wanted to question him further about his plans, but he brushed me off. "I'm working on it, Tymon. Don't be importunate. Isn't there enough here to keep you occupied?"

Certainly there was. I don't think I've mentioned it before, but Des had returned from his tah raid with thirteen hostages. Thirteen. Stereth was furious.

"We can ransom them," said Des pleadingly, aware he was in trouble.

We knew Stereth was furious because he was spitting out his words with a precision even sharper than usual. "Why did you bring them to me, Des? Did you think I might benefit from meeting each one personally? What did you think I could do with them here?"

"Here" was the monastery fort, by the way. Des and his crew had shepherded the prisoners (blindfolded) all the way down from the north. This spoke volumes of how careful he could be when he chose; also how far he would go to avoid unpleasantness.

Killing was hard for Des, and much as he admired Stereth, he would sidestep the hard jobs if he could.

The prisoners were still blindfolded, standing uncomfortably around listening to the debate. Ten men and three women, most of them pretty strong-looking, as caravan workers had to be. One of them was a little older and better dressed; probably the caravan-master, or the owner's agent.

Stereth was going on. "And did you think I could spare people to stand guard on this bunch? Or were you assuming we'd just leave them blindfolded, and I could take each one by the hand and lead them to the privy personally?"

Des looked extremely uncomfortable. It was the first time since I was there that I'd seen Stereth light into him publicly.

The more prosperous-looking one stepped forward. His dark hair was shot with gray and there were small diamond studs in his ears. I was standing near enough to see sweat on his forehead, above the red rag of blindfold. The perspiration had activated his perfume; I could smell a cloyingly sweet scent mixed with the stink of fear.

"Has this unworthy one the honor of addressing the great Stereth Tar'krim?"

Stereth made a disgusted face. I suppose at the moment he didn't want to hear from his liabilities.

The man's head was turned to a spot between Stereth and Des. There was a very slight tremor in his voice when he spoke, but he showed more control than I'd expected. "If you would excuse this one's presumption, gracious sirs, I would like to inform you that my wife will pay well for my safe return."

Stereth gave up pretending that the man was a stick of wood, and deigned to address him. "It speaks well for your marriage, gracious sir, but we don't have time to send any messages. We're rather busy right now."

"Great outlaw," said the man, as he switched to the still respectful but less groveling vah-form of first person, "I would be happy to give you an address in Shaskala where she might be reached, and if it would please you, to pledge my word and my family's honor not to escape."

Des threw Stereth a begging look. Stereth's rather con-

temptuous glance circled the room and lit on me. "What's your opinion, Tymon?"

"Me?" I was surprised at being consulted. I spoke honestly, doubting it would have any effect on his decision anyway. "I have sympathy for his wife."

The man had cocked an ear my way at the sound of my voice. He was no fool, and knew enough not to fill the next few seconds of silence with more promises. After a moment Stereth said, "You bargain for your own life. I assume that means you have no objection to our ridding ourselves of the burden of your fellow workers? One prisoner is much easier for us to detain."

The man didn't hesitate. "As agent for the Keldemir Tah Company, I can promise to pay their ransoms as well. And if for any reason the company will not pay, I will make it up from my own pocket."

Several of the band in the hall then exchanged looks. If true, he must be extraordinarily wealthy. And they liked the way he'd spoken up for his companions. These folk weren't cantry tar'meth, but they had some style.

Stereth saw the way opinion was going. He addressed his outlaws: "If we do this, you're the ones who'll be pulling extra shifts. Des, you'll be responsible. I want their pledges and I want two guards on them at all times. You can fix up one of the outbuildings for them."

He dismissed the matter. The band had kept hostages before, though usually not this many.

So Des drafted some helpers and took them out. I heard part of his "hostage orientation lecture" afterward, in which he explained that if anyone tried to leave, etiquette demanded that the prisoner be shot and the legs of everyone else be broken. He did a good job of putting the fear of heaven into them, and of course they'd been pretty cowed to begin with; none of them gave us much trouble.

They were a lot of work, though. Feeding them and carrying their wash water and cleaning out the hastily-rigged privy in the corner of their building.

It gave my arms and legs something to do while I was worrying about Ran.

Paravit-Col brought in some flyers a few days later. Notices had been posted in the market towns and at the hilltop

gibbets that the notorious Stereth Tar'krim, now brought low by the forces of justice, would be transported via the Shaskala Road on the twenty-eighth of Kace. It assured any food and drink vendors who might care to set up on the road that day that they would not be asked for licenses by the passing militia.

It gave us two weeks to do the impossible. I had respect for Stereth, but knew I was asking a lot. I went to him again to ask if he'd made any arrangements, and again he brushed me off. "I'll let you know, Tymon. If you're restless, go help Mora with the waterjugs."

Sometimes Stereth reminded me of the sort of parent who discourages a child from bothering them by always bringing up chores.

I said, "Where's Des? I haven't seen him in days. Is he involved in this, or is he in some other kind of trouble?"

"Waterjugs, Tymon."

"Well, is he dead or alive?"

Stereth went on his way. I did help Mora with the waterjugs, though, and worked out double-shifts with Carabin's classes, and became quite the floor-cleaner and blanket-shaker. They were good about putting up with me. I was pretty near the edge those days.

The twenty-eighth of Kace dawned in a gray mist, with a fine coating of drizzle falling on the hills. I rose early and stood by the doorway, looking up the path toward the pair of twisted trees on the skyline. Stereth and Cantry were still sound asleep beneath a single fur blanket. My eyes ached. I wasn't really uncomfortable with my lack of sleep, though, because I'd forgotten what a full night's rest was like. I wondered what the twenty-eighth of Kace looked like from the basement in Kynogin, and I wished Stereth would wake up and light the fuse on the day's events. If nightfall came without bringing off this mission I strongly doubted there would be another chance, and the waiting was growing intolerable.

I wandered over to the waterjars and prepared to make a rude amount of noise, then paused. I can't say it was any feeling of consideration that held me back; it simply occurred to me that Stereth might not function at his peak today if I woke him. As for me, I was as close to my peak

as I was going to come until the whole matter was over, so I went for a walk.

I walked for an hour. Even in a drizzle the hills were piercingly beautiful. In fact it was the last peaceful day I would see on the Plateau; and what peace there was, was certainly not in me. When I returned I found Stereth and the group awake and dressed, and Clintris na'Fli leading a line of mounts from the stable.

"There you are," said Stereth, irritably. "You might take your mount, Tymon, this whole expedition was your idea. We'll be breakfasting on the road, so don't give me that famished look." (Any look I gave him was strictly blank.) "All right—are we all ready, boys and girls? Good. We're going to bail Tymon's husband out of jail."

And this is what the Athenan scholar and the dangerous outlaws went off to attempt.

Chapter Eighteen

A cold, drizzly ride with the smell of wet fur from my mount never being far from my nostrils. Stereth parked us on some hills overlooking the Shaskala road, but nowhere near where I'd anticipated. I'd been thinking he would lead us to one of the more empty stretches of country—the gods knew there were enough to choose from—but we were not a kilometer out of Drear Market Town. Vendors were all over the road already.

By then it was late morning, and though we'd eaten on the road we were all hungry again. Stereth sent most of the group away, not bothering to tell me where. Finally I said, "How about some food?"—thinking he'd bring out the dried strips of beef now. He smiled and tossed me a coin.

"Go try one of the vendors, Tymon. My treat."

I looked down the hill at the bakers and sweets-sellers, the stands for smoked beef coated in lemon and honey sauce, the knots of people from Drear moving about. It had stopped drizzling, and the spectators were rolling in from the farms and ranches. "You're joking."

"Not I. Your job is down on the road anyhow."

"Oh? Has this unworthy one the honor of addressing the great Stereth Tar'krim?"

"No need to be testy about it. There was just no point in discussing it with you earlier."

"And my job is… ?"

He told me. I said, "I fail to see how this advances our goal."

"Did you rejoin our band just to give me a hard time? Do your part like everybody else, Tymon. People here are risking their lives on your behalf."

Put that way, I felt in no position to argue. I tied a scarf around my head and went down to the festivities.

Two hours later I was sitting on the damp ground at the side of the road with the remains of a stew pie at my feet. Grateth, I saw, was nearby, wearing the clothes of a ranch-hand, letting the spotted mount he'd brought nibble at the long grass on the hillside. He patted it from time to time, fanned himself with his cap, and gave no sign that he knew who I was.

A family was on my other side, farmer-types; five children, one of them a toddler, all with country accents. They ate an enormous amount, then argued as to whether the Governor was to be disliked or admired for capturing Stereth Tar'krim. The father and mother were cautious ones, but the kids were all for Rice Thief.

"Wait till he comes by, your Rice Thief," said the father at last. "We'll see who's the clever one then. Let this be a lesson to you! Any one of you turns out outlaw, he'll get the back of my hand before ever the gibbet sees 'em. Stick to your chores, and none of this dreaming."

"But he's a hero," said one of the older boys. "I never said I'd be a hero."

The mother folded their striped picnic cloth and dropped it in a basket. "Whatever he is, he'll not die in bed, and that's all we need remember."

One of the boys turned to another. "What do you think it's like, being hung?"

"You think they'll hang 'im? I heard they were going to chop 'im."

"Bet hanging's worse."

"Bet chopping is."

Well, I was so glad I'd picked this spot. Grateth was brushing his mount's coat idly, oblivious to the debate. I couldn't see anyone else belonging to Stereth.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax. Some time later I heard one of the boys say, "They're coming!"

I stood up and looked down the road. Nothing. But the kids still looked excited, so I took a few steps up the side of the hill.

Very far in the distance, movement. I stationed myself on the hillside and undid the fastenings on the respectable

white outer robe I was wearing. My hands were sweating. I really didn't see how we were going to succeed; if only Stereth, like Ran, would choose to be a bit more forthcoming. Both of them could use a good Athenan therapy group.

Now there was a frightening thought. My brain seemed to slow down at that point, tracking in the same circles while I waited, forever, for the procession to reach us.

The Governor and the Steward were in front, preceded only by six militia officers in gold dress uniform. Then about thirty more soldiers, then—yes. A large cage, ornamental gold leaf around top and bottom (Ivorans did nothing by halves), with huge trundly wheels whose top thirds disappeared into humps in the floor. The Governor was bringing his man in in style. A band of red characters ran around the top of the cage, below the gold leaf: "So are all enemies of our beloved Emperor brought low."

Behind the cage, an endless parade of militia. Oh, Stereth. I hope you know what you're doing, I hope the gods will protect me as they protect all scholars without wit enough to come in out of the rain. The cage trundled closer and I saw Ran sitting in the middle, on the bare wood floorboards, his knees drawn up, his arms around his legs. As though maximizing the distance between himself and the crowds. It must have been a long journey from Kynogin.

Two officers rode to the left and right of the cage. Two people in civilian dress accompanied them: A man and a woman in city robes and decorated boots. Sorcerers, I'd bet my life; the Atvalids protecting their cargo. Damn! If only I'd pressed Stereth. Of course after my escape from Kynogin bank, they would assume the sorcerer in Stereth's company was Cantry. They were more right than they knew. Cantry would be dead if she tried her illusion-in-the-road trick here; these people were professionals.

There were shouts just down the road: A fight broke out at the beer stand. Governor Atvalid, with a disgusted look on his face, motioned for a couple of officers to go over and put a stop to it. One of the men fighting took a swing at an officer and ended up on his backside in the dirt. The Governor's mount—bred for show, evidently, danced out a few steps, and her rider began, "Citizens! If you please—" I was trying to get a better view of Ran. He

didn't appear to be moving much; he wasn't even looking around. Drugged? I took a step down the hillside to get a closer look.

A yell pierced the air. Even having been warned of this much, I nearly jumped out of my boots. I turned involuntarily to the hill to my right, and stared at the five people cresting it as though I'd never seen them before.

Cantry was at the lead. She wore no hat, letting her blonde hair loose, and her jacket and trousers were the flashiest of all the bandit clothing I'd seen. There was a gold chain with a huge roc sapphire at her throat. Usually Cantry was a plain, silent shadow, but today she was an outlaw princess, and the soldiers stared at her. The four men flanking her were Lex, Komo, Paravit-Col, and Sembet Triol. Paravit-Col alone looked nervous, but even he wore his new quilted jacket of emerald green.

"Release Stereth Tar'krim!" she cried, before anyone had a chance to recover.

The Steward was the first to make an effort to deal with the situation. "Disarm yourselves and surrender, madam." Unimpressed with the show of outlaw legend, he used a form of address that was barely polite. He looked younger and grimmer than I'd seen him before, and wore a traditional high officer's dress cap of shining silver cast with battle carvings around the sides. Very nice. I'd carried his blue hat of Imperial Favor out of the bank with me accidentally and didn't notice it till I was halfway to the fort. I'd have dropped it on the floor for him if I'd remembered.

I heard murmurs of "Cantry, she's Cantry" from the crowd. I pulled off my scarf and outer robe, showing my barbarian coloring. Beneath the robe I wore the jacket Stereth had given me. I pushed a gold circlet up on my forehead. "The hell she is!" I yelled as forcefully as I could. The soldiers stared from one of us to the other, paralyzed, like the audience at a provincial theater.

"How many of them are there?" I heard somebody say.

The Steward, a man who did not react well to confusion, pulled out a pistol.

Oops. He looked toward Cantry, then leveled it at me.

A flash of green smoke, and the rumble of an explosion, shook the ground near the beer stand. More green smoke poured from somewhere to the rear of the militia column.

Somebody grabbed me from behind and, reacting like anybody trained by Carabinstereth, I nearly kneed him in the groin before I remembered it was Grateth. He pulled me up onto his mount and we rode through the green fog. I could just make out Cantry and her group riding like hell in five different directions. They'd never gotten any closer to Ran than that, and I felt sick. I twisted my head round as we crested the hill, and in the clearing smoke I saw the patch of ground in the center of the militia column, the ornate cage with its beautifully calligraphic warning.

It was empty.

I rode on, hopeful, scared, and confused, away from the distant shouting over the hill. There were more trees around this area than most parts of the Plateau, no doubt one of the factors in Stereth's choice, and we zigzagged among them.

"Hey!" I called to Grateth. "You're heading back to Drear!"

"I know!" he shouted in an impatient tone, so I let him go. Obviously I was a spear-carrier in this drama. We slowed to a walk before Grateth took us into the market town. "They'll be all over the hills looking for us," he said quietly. "Safer here. The cattle agent's one of our fences."

The cattle agent was prudently not home, but we were received by a familiar figure. "Des!" I shouted, and threw myself into his arms.

"It went pretty well, didn't it?" he said, grinning.

"Did it? Is he all right? Where have you been for two weeks? Will one of you tell me what's going on?"

Des wore his smug look, the one that said he couldn't fail to please his audience with this bit. "I've been helping Sokol, darling. The vanishing act was my idea."

"Where is he? How did you do it?"

"Well, it's a long story. He's fine, really. We just have to collect him."

I punched him, not hard, in the shoulder, and said, "Tell me what happened!"

"If I tell you, you won't be impressed."

"Des, how can I not be impressed? Sokol disappeared from a cage in full view of a troop of militia! Tell me how you did it!"

"People are always disappointed when they learn how tricks are done. Trust me. I had to assist the magician who opened for us when I was with the Sotar Touring Company, and I know what I'm saying. —Not that I told anybody how the tricks worked, I mean. I'm very discreet, Tymon."

I was puzzled. "A magician? So you did use sorcery?"

He frowned back. "Magicians don't use sorcery, sweetheart. Oinerwise why would people come to see them? Any sorcerer can make an illusion so that somebody looks like they've been cut in half, but it takes a clever man to do it without magic. Why, I always had to read an affidavit before each performance, guaranteeing that no sorcery was involved in any—"

"Damn it! Just tell me how you did it!"

He saw I was serious, and shrugged. "Trap door in the cage. I've been a carpenter's apprentice the last two weeks."

I was disappointed. "Is that all?"

"I told you you'd be disappointed. I shouldn't have said anything."

"But it's so obvious—" I paused. "It's too obvious. And didn't they see him when he came out? And didn't they check the cage when it was made?"

"Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs, my barbarian. Grateth, aren't some of the others supposed to be here by now?"

Grateth had been pacing. Now he nodded and said, "I'm going to look around. Stay here, and don't argue too loudly."

He left. Des sat down and stretched out his long legs. "Tymon, people see what they expect to see in this life. They ordered a cage, and they got a cage."

"And nobody saw him climb out?"

"Ah. Well, there we come to a specific point. He didn't really climb out, actually. He's, uh, still in the cage."

"The cage was empty! I saw it!"

"And didn't I just tell you not to trust what you see? Your half-husband is even now in a crawlspace under the floor, by one of the wheels. That's why the bottom of the cage looks so secure from beneath—it is, there's no exit. Paravit-Col and Komo had to go back and cut him out.

—Hope they're doing it soon. Not a lot of air in that section."

I sat down myself. "You said he was all right."

"I'm sure he is. Everybody knew what they had to do."

"Gods." I was silent for a moment, then said, "Won't there still be guards around the cage?"

"Around an empty cage? Every soldier in the troop will be out scouring the hills for Stereth Tar'krim, or the Gover-nor'll have apoplexy. Or he might have it anyway."

"But won't they figure it out, come back and check—"

"You didn't figure it out till I told you." He ran an exhausted hand through his hair. "That's what the fighting at the beer stand and the bit with you and Cantry was for— give 'em a show, don't give 'em time to think. They're too busy to think now, too. Eventually, yeah, maybe in two or three days they'll come back and check. By then the cage will be kindling, and we'll have another legend of the great Stereth Tar'krim, who disappeared on the Shaskala Road."

We sat there, both wrung out. Then I said, "Des, you ever thought of going in for directing instead of acting?"

He laughed. "Don't give me all the credit, Tymon. This was Stereth's show. I was just a consultant."

"Your idea, though. Thank you."

He kissed my cheek. "I'll take the thanks, but I really don't deserve that either. I didn't bring up the idea seriously. I was drunk one night, and was asked my opinion—"

"The old Stereth Tar'krim Get-Your-Followers-Stoned-and-See-What-They-Have-To-Say Trick.''

"Well, if it works—"

Grateth came in again. "Lex is here. We're missing Komo, Sokol, and Paravit-Col. Everybody else had other meeting places."

Lex entered a few seconds later—followed by Stereth. We all practically snapped to attention.

Stereth's eyes were bright behind the glasses. He brushed road dust off his jacket and said, "I came to tell you not to wait for Komo. He and Sokol had to take another route home. —He's out and safe, Tymon. He just has to make it back to the monastery. I haven't seen Paravit-Col."

"I did." It was Lex. "Two soldiers had him. He was off his mount. They were walking him southwest, toward Kynogin."

"How long ago?" snapped out Stereth.

"Ten minutes."

"Take Grateth and show him. Deal with the soldiers before they multiply."

"Deal with them?" That from Lex, who was worse than Des when it came to avoiding any trouble.

"There are only two. Follow them and kill them." He turned to me. "You go with them, Tymon. All this was at your request."

We found tracks where Lex showed us. There were no militia within sight; I don't know if we were just lucky or if they'd mostly fanned out by now into territory farther from town. We had a good chance of overtaking the soldiers, apparently, because Lex said the marks still showed they were walking their captive behind their own mounts.

After a couple of minutes I saw Lex and Grateth exchange looks. I said, "What?"

Grateth pointed to the ground. There were no bootmarks here, just traces of two mounts. And those traces were none too clear—as though some ultra-careful servant had followed with a broom, sweeping them up.

"I don't get it," I said.

"Got tired of walking him," growled Lex.

"Then what are they doing with him?"

Neither of them answered. We followed the tracks through some brambles and down a damp hillside, where I could finally see the slight gulley Paravit-Col had left as he was dragged through the grass.

The soldiers had gone on a merry ride. Their trail circled and doubled back, zigzagged through the prickly Sector trees and bushes, and headed back toward town.

Five kilometers outside Drear, we spotted Paravit-Col's new green jacket on the opposite bank of a stream. Coming nearer, we saw the brown of his riding trousers, and his dark curly hair. Grateth reached him first, and turned him over as I dismounted.

He had no face.

Ran was waiting back at the monastery. We took hold of each other for a while in sheer relief, then pulled away to see Stereth waiting. I reported in about Paravit-Col.

"I'll tell Mora," he said. "What about you, Sokol?"

"I also regret his death," said Ran formally. He was thinner and tired-looking, which I guess was only to be expected.

"Well you should," said Stereth. "but I was speaking of your future with the band. Your half-wife gave me reason to believe you would be more cooperative at our next meeting."

We were alone in one corner of the main hall; people were still dribbling back from the great rescue. So far Paravit-Col was the only reported casualty.

Ran turned to me, his face unreadable. "Did you give a House promise?"

"No."

His gaze returned to Stereth. "Then I'm under no obligation to honor any personal promise she may have made."

"She made no promise. I had the impression she spoke more from a knowledge of your character. She did tell me once that you never forget an obligation."

I'd mentioned it in passing, months ago. Did the man store up every damn thing he heard like nuts for the winter?

"I'm not aware of any obligation," Ran said.

Stereth let that falsehood lie there in silence, growing. Then he said, "I see you got my message about the trapdoor."

Ran's lips twisted. "Thank you," he said briefly, as though the words hurt. A second later he burst out, "Whatever you did was for your own reasons—"

"It always is."

"I never made any agreements with you or anybody here—"

"No, we all realize that."

Ran looked more and more frustrated. Stereth smiled. "We'll talk later. You should both get some sleep. The afternoon still stretches before us; no doubt we'll find some way of entertaining ourselves. And you certainly don't need to concern yourself, Ran; no Cormallon promises were exchanged."

Ran turned slowly and looked at me. I felt my face get hot.

"I'll leave you to your rest, then, shall I?" Stereth patted me on the shoulder in comradely fashion and left us.

"It was a complicated situation," I told Ran.

"The one thing I didn't want anyone here to know—"

"They were going to execute you!"

Well, our voices were raised for a good quarter of an hour. If anybody didn't know his name before, they heard it then. Eventually Ran remembered that it was beneath his dignity to yell, and slipped into the icy formality he reserved for those times when he was particularly angry. I hated it when he did that.

There was no question of a nap by the time we were through, and I stamped out to find something physical to do. Most of the bands were back by then, and as I tramped angrily through the stables and up to the coop and down to the hostage privy it started to penetrate that the atmosphere in the fort had changed. There was a grim seriousness everywhere. None of the fooling around or congratulating or friendly insults that followed a successful run. Paravit-Col, the youngest of the original band and always popular, was dead—but cruel as this may sound, that wasn't enough to explain the change. Death comes as no great shock to Sector outlaws.

"Stereth thinks we're nearing a crisis," Des said to me, when I cornered him in the hostages' outbuilding, carrying in extra blankets. He seemed to feel the prisoners were his personal pets.

"He didn't say anything to me."

Des shrugged, and I had to admit that Stereth never revealed much to me if he could avoid it. I suppose it was only sensible.

"Cantry told him," said Des.

This was a new one on me. Presentiment, if that's what we were talking about, was a rare ability. Even with the cards, I— The cards. How long since I'd run them? I ought to get them out now and see what they had for me.

Just then Mora appeared at the door. "There you are, Tymon. Come along, we're having a session in the main hall. Carabinstereth sent me to find you." Her voice was businesslike, her eyes clear. I couldn't tell if she'd heard about Paravit-Col yet, or not. They'd been lovers ever since the day Clintris na'Fli brought in the giant country bathtub.

The thought seemed to take away any naturalness I possessed, and I found that I had no idea what words to say

to her. I nodded finally, and she said, "Ten minutes, Tymon." She closed the door.

I turned to Des. "Does she know?"

"She knows." That grim seriousness was even in Des' voice—Des, who'd always seemed to feel that when life started to go wrong he could just pull aside the scriptwriter for a private talk.

The mood was everywhere. For Carabinstereth to announce a double practice session was unusual enough, and I found when I got to the main hall that the class attitude was quiet and tense, not the usual slightly hysterical humor that prevailed at these times.

Some of the protective face helmets had been lost in the move from Deathwell, so Carabinstereth simply announced we would do without. Lex, of course, had his own specially padded helmet still intact; you could always count on Lex to look out for number one.

I stood on the sidelines waiting during the third hour of class. Periwinkle, the chubby girl next to me, handed me the waterjug. We were always thirsty during lessons—I remember our lips were usually dry, too, for some reason, and the women were forever smearing creams on them. Anyway, I took a swig, trying to ignore the dread I always felt waiting for my turn. I was second from the top of the line.

Juvindeth was on the mat. Juvie was stubborn as her road-name, but not that difficult to get along with, and she was as short as you can get without being a barbarian. She did a few well-aimed kicks at Lex, our instructor-target that day. Bad luck for Juvie: She was forced into a complicated maneuver near the edge of the mat, slipped, and went over. This is not usually a problem, as we were taught to continue fighting from the ground, and indeed, women usually have the advantage of men in that kind of fight.

Unless of course the man gets her in a pin, as Lex did now. He fell on top of her, holding down her arms and legs. I remembered Carabinstereth's warnings: Let a man land one good blow on your head or face, and you're done for. And Juvindeth had no protective helmet.

Lex released one wrist to administer the blow. Quick as a cat, Juvie went for his eyes with her one free hand. Lex's head went back, but he got hold of her wrist again. This

time he pulled her left arm over by her right and laid part of his weight on top of them. She was now open to have her jaw or skull broken, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Carabinstereth was supervising, of course, but she made no move to interfere. She and Lex had always assured us that they would never hold back, and a fight would only be over when it was over. But for the gods' sake, they weren't going to let Juvindeth be beaten to a pulp for the sake of some stupid rule! Why didn't Carabin purse her lips and let out that damned whistle that marked the end of a drill? This was crazy!

Lex raised his arm. Suddenly—and I must say that I'd made no decision to do so—I was running for the mat. My foot connected beautifully with Lex's padded helmet. It felt like kicking an overripe melon. Lex toppled over, and all three of us were down. Juvie rolled out immediately and positioned herself for some follow-up blows to Lex's head. I'd hit the floor like a ton of bricks and the wind was knocked out of me; I watched as Juvie smashed into Lex's face mask twice, and saw the helmet roll off across the mat. She seemed unaware or unconcerned about this; she had her heel above Lex's face, about to administer the coup de grace, when Carabinstereth's whistle froze her in place.

Juvie blinked and slowly lowered her foot. She went to her knees. Carabin bent over Lex, who seemed dazed. She helped him up and over to a pile of pillows at the side of the hall. By the time she returned I was starting to get my breath back, and was sitting up on the mat, gasping.

"Well!" she said in a voice that sounded, of all things, pleased.

I looked up at her accusingly.

She smiled. Addressing the line of women she said, "Our Tymon seems to have broken custom and jumped into somebody else's fight. I think we might give her a round of applause."

And they all started clapping and stamping. I felt my face get hot for the second time that day.

"Let's hear it for Juvindeth, too!" called Carabin.

Redoubled enthusiasm from the line. But she wasn't getting off that easily. When the clapping died down I said,

still sitting there, "Juvindeth could have been hurt badly. Maybe even killed."

Her eyes danced. "We knew that if something like this happened, one of the people nearest in line would run in. It was bravely done, Tymon."

She was holding out a hand to help me up. I was still resentful, but I took it and got to my feet. "It wasn't brave," I said honestly, "it just happened."

She grinned.

"How could you be sure it would happen?" I pursued. "How could you know it if I didn't know it?"

She kissed me. "Get back in line, Tymon, you haven't had your turn yet."

Gods! But I felt I had to say: "Carabin—I don't know that I would be able to do something like this in a real battle."

"Of course you would do it, sweetheart; you couldn't help it. You're trained."

How many other things will change me when I don't want to be changed? Waiting in line again, in a dream of exhaustion, I heard someone ask, "Why are we going through this? The militia could walk in any time they want, and we just don't have the firepower to stop them."

It was a question that was always on everybody's mind, but one we never asked. The mood really was different that day.

Carabinstereth's voice was cool and ironic. "Well, if we never have the chance to fight, you've still had good practice. But if the Steward wants to bring a string of us in for public display, he'll hold back that firepower. And then, children, you have to choose—you can go quietly and face torture and death; or you can fight back, and face probable torture and death."

"I guess you're going to fight," said someone.

"I always fight," said Carabin, "but that's who I am. Of course," she added thoughtfully, "that's who you are now, too."

Chapter Nineteen

I slept for four solid hours after class, and woke up to darkness and lit candles in the hall.

People were finishing up the day's chores, playing cards, resting. Cantry was sweeping the stone floor down through the middle of the room. There was a figure in shadow, sitting alone off by a pile of tattered scarlet cushions that flickered into rhythmic brilliance from the light of a nearby candelabra: Mora Sobien Ti. The streaks of light gray in her hair were unmistakable.

There was something I needed to do. I took a candle and went up the newly repaired spiral stone staircase to the roof of the hall. A parapet enclosed the edge; unless I stood on my barbarian tiptoes, all I could see were the stars overhead.

I sat down on the cold stone, put the candle about an arm's length in front of me, and took the pack of cards out of the pouch that hung from my belt.

Card one: In this configuration, Significator. By rights this should be Ran, as this pack had been dedicated to him at birth, but what I saw was The Burning Tower. Ran was no burning tower, even metaphorically—I stay away from people like that, they scare me. If I'd seen The Prisoner card, I would not have been surprised, but this made no sense. I looked down at the picture, so beautifully rendered: Thundercloud, lethal lightning bolt, and the screaming face in the window, wreathed by flames. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see into this picture any further.

Card two, pulled out swiftly and snapped down. The Wheel of Luck. On Ivory, this card is rendered as a torture device, with pitch and sharpened nails at the bottom of the wheel. Where were these cards coming from tonight? I grabbed a third before I could have time to think. I took a breath. My

eyes were closed, and I was in no hurry to open them. There was something wrong with me too, tonight—with the atmosphere in the monastery fort, with the cards, with all of us. Do your job, I told myself, and opened my eyes.

The Hunter, Stereth's card. Well, and nothing wrong with that, was there? I forced myself to watch it until it changed.

The man in brown and green holding two dead ground-hermits came to life; his face was cruel, and the birds in his hands were moving in feeble terror. As I watched, he wrung their necks. Then, his clothing changed to a yellow and crimson robe with fashionable boots, and he turned and looked out of the card as though he could see me sitting there on the roof, under the distant stars. Looked out at me with a hatred so hard I was physically afraid. Nor Atvalid, Governor of Tuvin Province, was The Hunter tonight, not Stereth Tar'krim.

I turned over the card and sat back. Three cards of death and destruction, as though the pack had no time to fool with Significators and configurations. No time for anything but an immediate warning. I'd never seen hatred like that on anyone's face; people had done some awful things to me in the past, but out of indifference or spite or small-mindedness—not this heavy weight of personal obsession.

I gathered up the cards, shivering. It's a cold night, Theodora. Yes, and maybe colder before it was over. I got to my feet and started down the staircase at a run.

Where was Ran?—That huddle in the blankets by the fire. Good, he was safe. I looked around for Stereth and found him sitting knee-to-knee with Cantry while they fed each other little bits of stew. They were the ones who ought to be on a damned honeymoon.

Hey! Wasn't tonight three-quarter night? I dismissed that thought at once—nothing pleasant was going to happen now, maybe nothing pleasant would happen to any of us ever again. I marched up to Stereth and blurted, "We have to talk."

He saw at once that I was upset. He wiped his fingers on a rag and told Cantry. "See if you can dig out some more wine." Then he motioned for me to sit.

"Stereth, something's happening. I think—I think the mi-

litia are going to attack us tonight. Any time now, maybe any second."

He studied me. "Cantry's reported some negative feelings as well. Is this barbarian premonition, or is it some kind of women's thing?"

"I'm serious!"

His voice was reasonable. "On what evidence are you serious?"

Well, they were no longer a secret. I took out my deck of cards and slapped it down on the floor beside our cushions. "I help Ran—Sokol—with professional projects. Sorcerers use cards as a guidepost to keep themselves out of trouble. This deck is Ran's personal mapping device."

"And yet you read them? You're not a sorcerer."

"It's a long story. Take my word for it. I ran these cards five minutes ago, and all they can talk about is violence and death. I have every confidence in you, Stereth, but I think we ought to get out of here."

He accepted the data—as data—and considered. "If I were the Steward, I would be home asleep now. They had a long day today, and there'll be more problems tomorrow. Why keep the troops going on double shifts? It's not like there's a deadline to capture us."

"Asleep!" Usually he was more perceptive than that. "That family won't sleep a full night till they've seen us die personally. The Governor hates you—and me—and I guess Can try. The others he just despises normally."

He seemed genuinely puzzled. "Why?"

"Why? Stereth, I don't think you have any idea of the effect you have on people. I wish Des were here, he could explain it to you." I took a deep breath. "Look at how you've turned our lives upside-down. You knock people over and leave casual bootprints on their necks as you step by on your way—never mind. This isn't why I'm here. We have to run for it, I'm trying to get through to you."

"Tymon—"

He looked past me, toward the door. Des was coming in from outside. I called, "Des! Come here and explain—" I stopped short.

Des was staggering. He held his left arm and rested for a moment against the door. Then he continued, dazed,

through the hall. He knelt down by Stereth and looked at him, bewildered.

"The kid with the yellow headband—" he began. "The kid with the yellow—" He stopped. He frowned. I leaned forward to say something to him, but Stereth motioned me back. Des began again. "The kid from Deathwell was helping me feed the tah people." Des never called them hostages. "We started outside with the empty dishes, and this light hit him."

That seemed to be the end of the story, so Stereth asked, "Where is he now?"

"He's dead," said Des. "The light hit him."

We ail glanced involuntarily toward the door. "Don't go out there," I said at once.

The card game in the corner had stopped. People were looking at us.

I saw that the cloth on Des' arm was torn away, and the flesh underneath it was blistered and red, as though it were sunburned. Cantry appeared from nowhere, holding a basin of cool water, and she knelt down and helped Des out of his jacket, and placed his forearm gently in the water.

"Des, your arm—" I said.

He glanced down at it, uninterested. "That's the side the kid was on, the kid with the yellow—"

There was a wailing sound that filled the world, getting louder and louder. Suddenly the hall was flooded with a sunlit brightness that never happened on the Plateau. The full shabby dustiness of the place was palpable, with the blank faces of its inhabitants hanging there as though on some ancient, dead tapestry.

Then dimness again. Whole, blessed dimness, with nothing broken and nobody hurt.

Nor Atvalid's invitation to surrender could not have been plainer if he'd walked up and tapped on the door.

As the minutes stretched into a quarter hour, then a half hour, then the sort of eternity you find in a hospital waiting room, it became clearer that Atvalid was holding off. till sunrise—for the convenience and safety of his troops, and to give us a chance to break apart mentally. There was an occasional scream from outside, marking somebody from one of the outbuildings or stable who'd tried unsuccessfully

to run to the main hall. I could understand their wanting company. "I'd tell them to sit where they are," muttered Stereth, "if there were some way I could tell them."

Des looked up at us. The shock was wearing off. "I hope the tah folks know to stay inside," he said.

This was met with silence. Nobody had much altruism to spare in concern for the tah caravan hostages. The Governor's warning shot had awakened Ran, who was sitting beside me, holding my arm. "The hell with this," said Stereth suddenly. He stood up and crossed the room. "Lex, pick up your cards and deal. We'll have a hand of Thistle, that always helps me think. Cantry, get out the good stuff. We've had some fine times here, all of us, and if this is our last night I refuse to give them the satisfaction of cowering through it."

I can't say this was greeted with enthusiasm, but a case of wine did seem to ease the tense silence we'd been in before. Gradually card games started up again, and brede-smoke conversations, and I think, in the back of people's minds, there was a vague and undefined hope that somehow Stereth would do something that would get us all out of this. No one crossed the line and expressed it, however, for that let the door open to the cold knowledge that there wasn't much he could do. When I thought back on the remarkable things he'd accomplished in the past I could see that most of what he had done was by misdirection: An illusion in the road to make a car swerve; a flame by a sensor to convince someone their vehicle was on fire; a disappearing outlaw leader who wasn't even an outlaw leader to begin with. Now an obsessively hating and powerful official stood outside, with a militia regiment and heavy weaponry. Short of trying to convince him he had the wrong address, I failed to see what misdirection could be applied here.

I had half a bottle of Sector wine myself. Carabinstereth was comforting Mora, Lex and some people from the new bands were playing Thistle, and I was trying to figure out which of us might still be outside. Ran didn't join in the wine or the game; he sat by me and frowned. Stereth came over to join us.

"Kanz outside has Tellys weapons. His troops probably

don't even know how to use them. What the hell is he thinking?"

Ran finally spoke up. "He wants to win."

"He's cleaning out a troop of outlaws, not conquering a city. There aren't more than thirty of us here tonight— forty-three if you count Des' tah friends."

I said, "Maybe they'll go easy on us for not killing the prisoners."

They both looked at me. I said, "I'm just mentioning the possibility."

"We could threaten to kill the prisoners," said Ran.

"If we could get to them," pointed out Stereth, "and if they even knew we had prisoners."

The employees of the Keldemir Tah Company were probably the only people who were going to get out of this trouble alive.

"You think it was Paravit-Col told them where we were?" asked Ran.

Stereth shrugged. "The more surprising thing is how quickly they dropped everything and hauled out the heavy artillery. Don't these people have anything else to do with their time?"

I gave a short laugh. "Stereth, you made his son look like a fool. You ruined his capture of a famous outlaw leader. Besides—look, I guess Des reported to you a long time ago that the district Steward is Torin Atvalid's grandson."

"Of course he did. Though I'd already heard."

"It must have made you feel good to score off an Atvalid."

"It didn't make me feel bad." He pulled off his spectacles and began wiping them with his handkerchief. The moisture in this climate was always clouding them up, one problem I guessed he wouldn't be worrying about in the future. "Do you have a point here, Tymon?"

"They know you, too, they feel responsible for the chaos you've caused. Look, doesn't knowing about Nor Atvalid and his son, and their problems, doesn't that make them more real to you? Nor's reaction is to hate—but doesn't knowing people make you less want to hurt them?"

He replaced his glasses and looked at me straight-on. I always felt a little nervous when he did that, and I remem-

bered that icepick feeling I got from Des when he did his Stereth impression. "Tymon, you seem to have a personal problem, if you don't mind my saying so. These people are enemies. They're not there for you to identify with just because you know their stories."

People and their stories. I said nothing. He went on, "You're a little too adaptable, that's all. Something to guard against. You're not really barbaric in other ways, so… I don't see what's amusing about this, Tymon. Out-worlder standards of humor must be very odd." He got to his feet, a trifle offended, and went to join the card players.

I turned to Ran, who'd been silently taking in this last part. "You're not the only one who thinks I'm too adaptable."

"And I also don't see the humor in it."

"Come on, don't you perceive a pattern here? I'm fine as long as I'm going along with what you want. It's only when I take the enemy's point of view that I'm 'too adaptable.' "

We were leaning against a pile of stolen Andulsine rugs. "Theodora," he said very gently, "if you went around taking the enemy's point of view, he wouldn't be the enemy anymore."

"This is my point. Ran."

He muttered something that sounded like "outworlders."

I said, "It's ironic. The Governor hates us like poison, yet until the Kynogin Bank we never even met him. And he's the one we were sent to check up on!"

"I met him," said Ran.

"What?"

"I met him. In the Shaskala jail. He was crazy even then, he had two of the guards hold me down while a third one twisted my arm." Ran's voice was calm, reminiscing.

"You never told me this!"

"Well, there wasn't much point, and you had other things on your mind. And I know how you get, Tymon."

"How I get—"

He added hastily, "And I thought I'd wait till we were both out of trouble, and could plan out a nice revenge together."

Typical Ivoran motivation. "That was a sweet thought,

but didn't we agree you would start filling me in on things?"

"I'm telling you now," he pointed out.

Well, that did it. "Ten thousand provincial troops outside, we're all going to die, and you're telling me now. Great Paradox! Do you have to treat every single thing that happens to you like a state secret? Do we need to keep a torturer on retainer to get the day's news out of you when you come home? I should be privileged you chose to mention it at all!"

"Theodora, sweetheart, you're not taking this the way—"

"I'm not taking it at all! What the hell could I have been thinking? I could be peacefully doing research on Athena— library research. No translations, no interviews—let me tell you, primary sources are overrated!—"

I would like to point out here that the entire situation of that night was not conducive to rational appraisal. Let's cut out about ten minutes:

"—and I can only thank the gods that, if we live through this, we'll have missed three-quarter night."

"What?" I'd gotten his attention.

"Tonight's three-quarter night, my friend, and it looks like the wedding is off."

He blinked. He seemed to take this information in slowly. He groped around for words: "Uh, we could exchange tokens instead of cakes. It's all symbolic anyway. We could consider them spiritual cakes."

"We could consider ourselves as unmarried."

Making a major mistake, he said, "Dying unmarried would be a disgrace to my family."

Clearly he was speaking one of the first thoughts that sprang to mind. It wasn't the most flattering statement he'd ever made. I got up, not trusting myself to sit next to him with all the physical aggression Carabinstereth's classes had set to boiling, and went to watch Stereth watch the card players.

I played a few hands of Thistle, drank till my legs felt shaky, and lay down on a large cushion beside Des, Komo, and several of the newer people. I started to feel better, or as better as anyone could feel under the circumstances. The night was far advanced by then.

An unnatural calm had settled over the company, I'd

wondered about Stereth handing out liquor to people who might be fighting tomorrow—one-sided though that fight might be—but perhaps he'd known what he was doing. That out-of-control, slightly manic despair that had gripped us earlier in the evening was gone. I listened as the people beside me talked about wine, sex, the army, and anything but their families. Komo told the story of how he and Paravit-Col had returned to the Shaskala Road to cut Ran out of the cage.

"Really, Komo?" asked one of the newcomers. "I thought you'd pulled the cage off somewhere else first."

"Too difficult. There was a manager in charge of drive-beasts who refused to let us touch them. So we just cut him out, then and there, right in the middle of the road."

"No soldier stopped you?"

"Hell, the soldiers were all off chasing Sokol in the hills. Plenty of vendors and Sector folk there, though. None of them tried to stop us."

"Ooh," said the boy—nearly as young as Paravit-Col— and in spite of everything before us this night, still starry-eyed over hearing a story from one of Stereth's original band.

The talk moved on to traditional bandit topics.

"They'll behead Sembet, and probably Sokol, too, with his accent."

One of the older newcomers made this contribution. Beheading is considered more dignified than hanging, and is the required method for executing nobility. Of course, none of the Six Families ever stepped forward to claim any of its wayward members found on the killing block, but it was always possible that someday they would lodge a complaint after the fact. The sentencers were generous in the matter, and gave almost every prisoner the benefit of the doubt. The most ragged and ill-spoken dreg in Stereth's army could claim noble blood and get an ax rather than a rope.

As a result, there was a fair amount of speculation among Sector outlaws as to which form of death was preferable. Those two farmer boys on the Shaskala Road were nothing to a bunch of interested bandits on a slow night. It generally went something like: "I dunno, Tibbie, with the ax at least it's over quick. None of this twisting around forever while your face turns purple."

"So you say, but I saw a

chop in Skeldin Market Town where the executioner had to hit the woman six times before he got a clean stroke. And I swear, my friend, her mouth was still screaming afterward."

"You imagined it, Tibs, it was in your head. How could she scream without lungs?"

"Your own damned head, brother. My uncle Vatherin was hanged, and except for a few seconds of kicking, it was over."

This popular topic was debated again that night in the fort, while the wind gathered to a howl and the room grew smoky from hearthfire and bredesmoke. But this time Des Helani said to the man who'd brought it up: "I don't think we should talk about it in our sister's presence." And he nodded toward me.

"Why not?" asked the man.

"She won't get a choice, mush-head. She'll be hanged."

I said, "Thanks, Des." Always considerate.

I got up, restless, and paced the hall. They'll behead Sokol, too, with his accent. Where was Ran? He'd been over by the rug pile when I'd seen him last-when was that? Hours ago?

I looked into the smaller rooms off the back of the hall, interrupting two trysts. Well, I would have interrupted them if they'd taken any notice of me. No Ran. This was ridiculous—there weren't that many places he could be. We were confined to one building, after all.

One building. But the north edge of the roof met the roof of the shed we'd made to house the stable equipment and the stolen tah, and that met the conical edge of the roof of the cookhouse.

No, I couldn't believe it. Not our careful, prudent Ran. But even a prudent man can do stupid things on the night before he's due to hang—or get chopped—I ran up the stairs to the roof, opened the trapdoor gingerly, and crawled to the parapet wall on the north edge. I very slowly peeped my head over the side.

There was smoke coming from the roof of the cookhouse.

I put my head down again and leaned against the side of the wall, consumed by guilt. He couldn't be doing anything this stupid just because I'd said to forget about the wedding!

Yeah? said the voice in my head. What else is he doing

out there? Is he going to emerge with a carving knife and take on the militia single-handedly?

No, the man was in the cookhouse making marriage-cakes. We were all halfway to execution, and even now the smell of vanilla and cinnamon was being carried to me on the wind.

I wondered with detached interest if he'd found all the ingredients, or he'd had to make substitutions.

Finally a figure detached itself from the opening in the cookhouse roof and started toward the shed. Under the cloudy, muffled light of the moon-and-a-half I could see that Ran was wearing the red and white robes he'd worn in Shaskala; not the sort of thing I'd advise climbing rooftops in. Then I saw he'd pulled the robes up and tucked them in his belt and was scrambling bare-legged over the stone as though wading in a stream back in Cormallon. There was a pack slung on his back.

He bent, hugging the crest of the shed, and made his way toward the wall of the main building. I moved back, not wanting to startle him as he climbed over the parapet. His head appeared, then his shoulders, then one foot was on the top of the wall. The other slipped slightly and he cursed and then got it planted on top as well, though not securely. He raised himself further, straightening his legs to strengthen his balance. The wind blew out the sleeves of his outer robe like great snowy wings streaked with blood… and all at once the picture from the card I'd read in Shaskala came back into my head.

Beware of heights.

Without thinking, any more than I'd thought when I jumped into Juvendith's fight earlier that day, I launched myself toward the wall. I was still running when I saw Ran's right foot step on the inner edge, and the stone give way beneath it. His arms went out frantically, trying to regain his balance. He was tipping over backward when I grabbed his waist and pulled him down on top of me.

I got a nasty blow to my back when we both landed on the stone of the roof. Of course, having my slight barbarian frame there to absorb the shock made it a bit easier for Ran.

"Theodora?" He rolled off me and put his hands on my shoulders. "Theodora, are you all right?"

I couldn't talk. The wind had been knocked out of me, and not for the first time that day. There was a time on another planet, I'd like to point out, when the hardest exercise I had all day was turning pages—and that all things considered, I find that mode of life superior.

"Theodora! Answer me! Did you hit your head?"

I knew I wasn't hurt, but it would be a few seconds before I'd be able to answer him, a few seconds that he filled by continuing to call my name in a tone that suggested he was genuinely frightened. I might have been pleased, in a way, but I felt badly about scaring him. Kanz, I thought, it's not enough I have to wait on a rooftop and save the boy's life, now I have lie here helplessly with the responsibility of easing his mind!

A couple of eternal seconds later I managed a grunt. This delighted him and took some of the pressure off me. I hate responsibility of any kind.

Finally I managed to sit up and whisper.

"What?" he said.

"What… the hell… are you doing in that damned robe?"

"Oh. This. Well, to be honest, I didn't really think I'd make it there and back. And I refuse to die wearing provincial trousers."

I started to laugh, which made my back hurt. So he helped me rest against the wall and took off his outerrobe and put it behind me as a cushion, and showed every indication of wanting to be of service in the nicest possible way, and to sum it up, I could hardly continue to resent him for this stunt. Not that I considered it the wisest thing he'd ever done. Of course, arguing with him on what was probably our last night together hadn't been an admirable move on my part, either.

He opened his pack and took out two well-wrapped marriage cakes. Apparently my body had cushioned their fall, too, since they were cracked but not actually in pieces. He passed me his, and I bowed and put it in front of him. Then he bowed and placed mine in front of me.

"You know," I said, "on Athena we'd go to a Justice of

the Peace, and the whole thing would be over in twenty minutes."

He pulled a piece out of his cake, put it in his mouth, and said, "You appreciate it more if you have to make an effort."

"Is that one of the things your grandmother used to tell you?"

He swallowed. "Not in those words. But I'm sure Grandmother would agree that I did the right thing tonight."

She probably would, too. She'd been a great believer in duty, Ran's grandmother.

I finished my cake and knelt so that I could just see over the wall. The hills around the valley were rimmed with campfires. It would have looked peaceful if it weren't so disheartening.

He joined me. "So ends the story of Stereth Tar'krim."

"Not even our story."

"Well, you never know. We might come in for a mention."

Given how much Ivorans loved their legends, it might well be so. Would tales be drifting around a hundred years from now about Sokol and Tymon and Des Helani and Carabinstereth?

"You know what we've become, tymon?" asked Ran, watching the flickers on the horizon. "We're classic heroes."

He'd used the high-theater term. I sniffed. "More like two-bit heroes."

"In any case," he said, "we're heroes with half a night still to go."

We both lay back against the silk of his outerrobe and I settled in the crook of his arm. A blast of light shot across the sky, as it did occasionally all through that night: Nor Atvalid keeping us aware of our place. "I don't suppose there's anything you can do personally," I said. It was the first time I'd backed up Stereth's attempt to draft him.

His voice was noncommittal. "Let me point out that at this stage they have sorcerers traveling with them. I'm sure they've got mirror-spells on the soldiers and the weaponry. Anything I did to them would hit me."

From Ran, that wasn't necessarily a refusal. Besides, he hadn't had me studying the Red Book of Sorcery for two

years for nothing. "Don't you always tell me that it's not the spell, it's the intelligence of the person placing it?"

I could almost feel him smile.

I said, "I'd stack you up against a gang of provincial sorcerers any day of the week." This was the simple truth.

He held me closer, which was comforting, and when he still didn't answer I said, "You know what'll happen if you do nothing."

Of course he knew very well. He was imagining the same sort of scenarios I was: Des and Cantry in the Imperial torture chambers, Mora and Juvindeth lying on the Shaskala Road, their skulls split open like messy fruit.

"Theodora," he said finally, lightly, "your inappropriate friendships make my life very difficult."

I said nothing. If it made him feel better to pretend the bond was all on my side, let him. An answer like that was good enough to last me through till the morning.

So that was how we spent three-quarter night: on the roof amid intermittent gunfire, with no lovemaking, just what comfort we could take from closeness and warmth under that huge, cold, late-summer sky.

Chapter Twenty

Have I told you about shujenifs, classic heroes? There aren't that many really famous ones in the history of Ivoran high-theater. They're the tragic protagonists, who personify a theme that they work out according to the rules of classic drama. They are introduced, they take action (or not), they praise or rail against fate in poetic language, and then generally they die. And that's the end of the play.

Two-bit heroes, on the other hand, are done in installments—you can go to a play and see #143 in the story of One-Eyed Lenn and the pole pirates. They never really end, they just dribble on and on. Nobody feels the responsibility to treat them with respect that they feel toward the great shujenifs like Oedipus and Melara—no obligation to round out their lives with the imposed structure of drama, as handed down through the ages. When two-bit heroes play, the serious climax in act four is followed by a banana-slip in the epilogue, as the players and audience feel inclined.

And if you missed installments one through 142, it doesn't matter; there'll be another bunch of minor heroes along when the next troupe of players comes through. There are too many two-bits to keep track of all their names.

As for me, I used to collect stories. Folk tales and things, that I picked up from people along the way and wrote down for posterity, or to keep myself occupied—to be honest, it was hard to tell. But when I'd finished the collection I'd begun to realize that one of my motives in making it was this longing that I have for a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Well, everybody has an end. But with shujenifs, and proper stories, the end comes at the right time and every-

body learns something. Not the messy and pointless way it comes in real life.

As I lay there on the roof there was a break in the clouds and the full moon and a half streamed through, wasting their glory on two people whose stories would be over tomorrow—one of whom, I saw as I turned, was already asleep.

I must have gotten some brief sleep myself, though I wouldn't have believed it before, because when I looked at the sky next it was whitened with the beginnings of dawn. My gaze traveled down toward the door and stopped.

Stereth was standing there, fully dressed, freshly perfumed, and wearing a pistol in his belt.

I nudged Ran. He shifted, opened his eyes, and froze.

From the look on Stereth's face, you wouldn't have known that dawn and death were overtaking us all. He said calmly; "Now that you've discharged all this sexual tension, perhaps we can talk rationally."

For once he was wrong about something. Nevertheless Ran sat up easily, as though it were a late morning at home in bed, and rested an elbow on one knee. "What is it you want?" His voice sounded almost charitable.

"Not knowing what's possible, it's hard for me to say. May I sit?"

Ran indicated the stone floor beside us. Stereth sat.

"Not that I mean to press you," he began, "but I've divided our force into two groups, under the direction of Komo and Carabinstereth. They're going to take everyone outside, with their arms raised in surrender. When the At-valids get here, Carabinstereth will give a signal and we'll fight."

I said, "What do you think that will accomplish?"

Stereth pushed up his glasses. "Most of us will be killed in the fighting, which will be better than Imperial torture, and in the confusion one or two might actually escape. Although that's doubtful."

One or two. There were over thirty people in the fort that day.

"You could threaten to burn the tah," said Ran. "The Emperor would be upset."

I said, "Nor Atvalid doesn't care what we do to the tah."

"So speaks our Tymon," said Stereth. "She claims to understand something of our Governor's state of mind. Besides, they have to get close to us to hear our threats… which would mean close enough to shoot us. You see why I'm interested in hearing your ideas, sir Cormallon."

That Cormallon was twisting the knife a bit. Come on, Ran, I thought; for once in your life, give a little.

Ran said thoughtfully, "I suppose my name will be on everyone's lips by the end of the day?"

"Certainly not. I told you, I would never betray a loyal member of the company."

He said this with a straight face, and to my surprise, Ran burst out laughing. "A man who makes such polite threats deserves all the help he can get. Don't raise your hopes, though, Stereth. They've got at least two sorcerers with them, and I'm not omnipotent."

"I never raise my hopes." That I could believe. Stereth rose to his feet, checked his pistol, and said, "Tell me what you want."

There was a noise at the door to the stairs, and Lex appeared. Stereth motioned for him to keep quiet. Ran moved to the parapet and scanned the horizon. He swallowed nervously. I saw that he was sweating. "Tell them to take off anything yellow."

"It's a trick!"

"Shut up, Lex." Stereth regarded Ran. "What do you mean by anything yellow?"

"Yellow headbands, robes, jackets, boots. Gold jewelry, too."

"They won't like that. What are they going to do with it so it doesn't get lost?"

"They can bury it in the damned ground for all I care. I don't give a kanz." He almost never used profanity, and certainly not twice in a row. His attention wasn't really on any of us, though; he was more like a man about to disarm a bomb than one working up a feat of magic. He'd been defining and shaping for hours, just in case, and now that it was all straight in his mind he had to get rid of it or he'd go crazy. So far as I know, this is not a law of magic. It's just the way Ran's work twists him up into knots. In a sense he was as obsessive as the Governor of Tuvin Province, but being less reform-minded he was more socially acceptable.

Lord, Ran must have been playing with ideas and formulae for months to have gotten this involved.

And he'd never said a word to me.

Stereth opened the door to the stairs and called, "Komo! Carabinstereth!"

A second later Carabin appeared. "Komo's downstairs setting a good example," she said. "Want me to drag him up?"

"Just pass this along. Tell your groups to take off any yellow clothing and all their gold jewelry. Tell them their lives may depend on it—Sokol's planning something big."

Carabinstereth's wide smile lit her odd blue eyes. Her searchlight grin hit Ran and me, then she turned and I heard her clomping almost cheerfully down the stairs. I don't know if you can understand this, but at that moment I felt badly about her trust in us, because I didn't know that we could justify it. Ran was certainly giving no guarantees.

Ran's troubled gaze swept the hilltops. "Tell her to get some rope, too."

"Rope?"

He swallowed again. "You'd better tie me up."

Stereth took this in. "May one ask why?"

"Because I might start to thrash around and hurt myself. And because I'll be less of a nuisance tied up." Stereth started to open his mouth and Ran cut in impatiently. "They're bound to have mirror-spells set up. I can get through the cracks—I know tricks they've never heard of." This was spoken without pride, as a statement of fact. "But anything I give them will rebound on me, too."

Stereth's logic was unhindered by concern for his sorcerer. "I take it from this that whatever effect you generate won't be lethal. I thought you were going to kill them."

"Does it matter to you, as long as you win?"

"No," said Stereth, "It doesn't matter to me. Do whatever makes you happy." He gestured to Lex. "You heard the gentleman; tie him up." And our gangster Robin Hood left the roof.

Even at a time like this, when Stereth absented himself from a place it was like an engine hum suddenly going silent.

Lex cast us both a sulky look and said, "I'll get the rope."

"Hurry." Ran's voice was tense.

"They're starting to move in," I said. Tiny men in tan uniforms were stepping leisurely out of hiding on the horizon.

"I know. Don't talk to me, Theodora."

Half a minute later Lex was back with a dirty hemp rope on his shoulder. Heaven knew what it had been used for previously. "Give me your hands," he told Ran.

He was very efficiently trussed hand and foot like a steer-mod for slaughter. That seemed bad enough, but he said, "Better tie me to the door. I might jump off the roof."

"Jump off the roof?" I repeated, loudly. "What the hell are you going to do to yourself?"

He continued speaking to Lex. "When it starts, Tymon had better be downstairs."

"Wait a minute—"

Just then Stereth reappeared. "They're ready down below, I'm going to send them out. How are you up here?"

Ran said, "About to go. But Tymon will be happier downstairs."

I said, "I want to stay with you."

He turned to me, tiredly, and said, "/'// be happier if you don't have to watch."

Stereth said, "Take her downstairs, Lex."

No doubt he didn't care if I stayed or not, but he wasn't going to have anything interfere with Ran's concentration. I backed toward the other end of the roof, Lex following. "Hey! No reason I can't stay till it gets bad, is there?"

Ran sighed. "All right. Back off, Lex, and could everybody shut up and ignore me?"

Stereth at once turned to the parapet. "Care to join me for the view, Tymon?"

I didn't really want to know about the view just then. But morbid curiosity got the better of me and I went over to Stereth. I glanced briefly back at Ran, who had closed his eyes and looked not like a sorcerer working a spell but a man in a fit of depression. Outside, the troops of the Tuvin militia were marching in with unmistakable confidence. "Fewer of them than I thought," I said to Stereth. There were only about a hundred.

"All that light show last night," he replied. "It was meant to rattle us."

I looked at his face. It still gave nothing away. And though I can't say I approve of Stereth's style—I see nothing wrong with occasional moderate displays of emotion, even negative ones like fear—I had to admire him for his incredible control. Myself, I was sweating ferociously and kept feeling as though I had to use the privy.

I said, "Where are the others?" Lord, my voice was embarrassing. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I thought they were coming out."

Stereth's voice was cool. "Komo and Carabinstereth? They'll be out in a second… there they are. I told them to wait till the militia were near enough to see clearly that they were surrendering. Good. This will give the bastards something to watch." The merest trace of viciousness was in that last sentence. Considering these soldiers were coming to torture and kill him, I suppose it was understandable.

A knot of people was forming below, hands clasped behind their heads. They kept filing out of the fort and spreading into a ragged line. I was distracted by them myself, and it took me a moment to register what was happening to the advancing militia.

They weren't advancing. The nearest of the tan uniforms were milling around uncertainly, as though faced with conflicting agendas. They were close enough to the fort for us to see faces, though not expressions—but there was one expression visible, an open mouth yelling something, and not happily. Then the yeller removed his helmet and put his hand on his head. A second later he was tearing off the jacket to his uniform, tossing it away… and scratching?

Within seconds the soldiers seemed to have forgotten us entirely, taken up with their private hells. Light-rifles were hitting the ground like summer rain. Stereth watched as though hypnotized, a look of open delight suffusing his features, the only time that I ever saw it. But I suddenly remembered what was happening and turned back to look at Ran.

His head was pushed against the stone at the side of the entrance to the stairway door. His eyes were closed. His inner robes were wet all over with sweat, and he was moaning. I left Stereth and went over to him.

"Ran?"

He was muttering under his breath. It couldn't be the

spell because whatever it was, he'd already placed it—to spectacular effect, as far as Stereth and I were concerned.

"Ran?"

"… hold on, hold on, can't take it back, can't take it back—"

He was straining against the ropes, pushing himself against the rough stone, saying the same words over and over and over again. Then he started hitting the back of his head against the wall. I grabbed it at once, frightened, but he fought me. He got in another good crack.

"Stereth!" I yelled.

He was too involved in the intoxicating sight of the At-valids' troops, who were, as he told me later, running for the hills at that very moment.

"Stereth!"

He turned reluctantly.

""Help me," I said, keeping my hands around Ran's skull. He cracked it against the wall one more time, nearly pulverizing my fingers.

Stereth was there in a second. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around Ran's head while I tried to hold him still. "Lex!" He yelled. "Lex, bring a blanket!"

It took a while to get Lex's attention, too. Stereth met my eyes joyfully as we held onto the thrashing human being in our arms. "Like an army of invisible fleas," he said wickedly. "Their skin'U be coming off in strips if they keep up their rate of scratching."

I protested, "It can't just be an itch that's doing this!"

"The grandfather of all itches, it looked like to me. All over them, and with no possible relief. You can only stand a few seconds like that, Tymon, before you go crazy—owH That last was because Ran had kicked him in the knee, whether accidentally or deliberately was impossible to tell. It made no dent at all in Stereth's glow. "I wonder how long it will last. If it takes them to the nearest poison river, that would be fine with m—youch. Lex! Where the hell are you?"

Lex appeared shortly and Stereth had Ran incarcerated behind a mountain of pillows, where his efforts to smash various parts of his body onto the stone were impossible to satisfy. Stereth wiped sweat from his brow as he stood up from our mutual wrestling match.

"Well! I hope he's not going to be this way permanently, Tymon. It would create all kinds of moral problems."

"I never imagined you as having moral problems, Stereth."

"I don't, and I would hate to start. Lex, stay here and watch him. When he recovers, bring him down so I can talk to him… Uh, if he doesn't recover in a couple of hours, you'd better arrange for shifts."

A couple of hours? That was an unpleasant thought. I said, "I can stay here, Stereth."

"No, I want you away from him when he comes out of it. He'll feel better that way, he didn't want you to watch."

Unexpected ruthlessness and unexpected consideration. Des could claim to understand Stereth's pattern, but I wasn't about to try. I nodded, though I knew I would be brooding about Ran every minute, and followed him down the stairs.

So Ran's method of "using sorcery as a weapon" did not involve any explosions, lethal illnesses, or hailstones the size of tennis balls falling from an angry sky. I didn't know that that would save us or the Cormallons when we were brought before the bar of Imperial justice, but clearly Ran was going for any technicality he could.

He came out of his fit after about an hour and a half, refused to move anywhere and lay there in his own sweat and torn clothes for another hour. Then he refused to talk to anybody until he'd washed.

Lex was uncharacteristically thoughtful enough to whisper this news to me as soon as Ran recovered, and by the time he actually appeared in the main hall I was nearly as giddy as everybody else.

And they were giddy. Our scouts told us that there were still observers set several miles away, but at the moment nobody showed any intention of coming a step nearer. Frankly, I wasn't sure what the band was so happy about, since the essential problem remained: They knew where we were, and if we left they would follow. But it was hard not to be happy about being alive, and about having scored off the militia, up till now a source of fear; and when I'd heard from Lex that Ran was heading for the waterjars to wash

up I found myself grinning as crazily as the people around me.

The wine came out again, not that anybody needed it to be drunk. A couple of people brought out some dice and tried to get up a game of Red Geese, but it was impossible to concentrate even on something as simple as that. Des had hugged me about a dozen times, and after the dozenth he suddenly looked over at Stereth and said, "Can I go see if the tah folks are all right?"

Stereth nodded. He had his feet up on a homemade rail by the hearth, and though Cantry was with him, neither of them were talking. Everyone else was on fire, but Stereth apparently had gone as far as he planned on going by letting himself enjoy today's rout. Usually I'm a pretty buttoned-down person, but in the euphoria following Ran's performance it was as though that layer of control lying on top of my mind had been cut smoothly away with a knife; I could have done anything. Des was lucky that for once it hadn't occurred to him to suggest a roll in the pillows. In fact, my mood was so alien, I was almost relieved when Ran came in, as much for the fact that he'd keep me from cutting loose like a balloon and sailing over the countryside as that I was glad he was safe.

Stereth may have asked for him, but he came to me first, which warmed me. To be honest, I nearly started crying then, which will tell you how odd I (and all of us) were feeling. I was sitting by the wall, having changed into my old robes again for no good reason. He took my hand and kissed my cheek, and I said, "You've got a bruise."

He touched his forehead. "More than one. You'll see some of the others when my robes are off."

That pressed a button. Down, girl; normalcy, try for a little normalcy. "Stereth's looking this way. He probably wants to hear about your spell. So do I."

He smiled. "As a layman, he wouldn't appreciate it the way you would."

He has a grand smile when he uses it. "So what was your limiting definition?"

"Wearing yellow, of course—because of the uniforms, and anybody too high for uniforms would have jewelry— and within a seven-kilometer radius—"

"—of the fort. I knew there had to be some geographical limit."

He shook his head. "A seven-kilometer radius of energy weapons. That way they had to leave their Tellys equipment behind."

"I'm surprised they would figure it out sufficiently to leave them."

"People who are suffering will experiment wildly to find relief. Believe me."

"Are you all right?"

He nodded. He looked exhausted, which wasn't surprising. "I'll go check in with Stereth." He frowned. "Was that his jacket I found tied around my neck?"

"It was around your head originally."

"Oh. It has blood on it now. I suppose I'd better apologize." He walked over to Stereth and sat down beside him, and they both began talking softly. The firelight played on their faces.

I looked around and saw that Des had returned— bringing his tah hostages with him. Oh, well, I thought, they probably aren't very dangerous. And they were accepting bowls of wine from him and Carabinstereth as though they had every intention of joining the band in reaching total oblivion.

The owner's agent, the black-and-gray-haired man who'd bargained for their lives, took a bowl and smiled at Carabinstereth. His diamond studs glittered in the firelight. He took a deep draught, returned the bowl to the table, and bowed and said something ultra-courteous to Carabin, for she dimpled and gave him her best bow and smile back. You had to grant the man knew how to talk to people. Then he walked past me, closer to the fire. As he passed I could tell that his perfume supply had run out.

He pulled something from the big outer pocket of his robe as he went. His hands fooled with it thoughtfully. He stopped, ran a hand over his head to smooth his hair, and then shook out what he was holding and set it on his head.

It was a blue hat of Imperial Favor. I knew, I still had one just like it. This one was crumpled, but if it wasn't genuine, it was a close copy. He raised his voice. "Excuse me! Ah, excuse me, great outlaw, Stereth Tar'krim, and my friends and captors. Could I have your attention?"

I was still staring, and by now so was everybody else. Stereth had brought his feet down from the railing. Ran looked completely disoriented.

The man smiled. "This unworthy one is Camerial Thu. I am the Prime Minister's Negotiator, the Voice of the Emperor. My word is His."

He paused, as though expecting some reaction. Nobody moved; there was only one reason why the Prime Minister's Negotiator would be here, the reason Stereth had had us working toward through the whole long summer of hope and death, thievery and treachery. And here he was, and all of our faces looked completely blank. I felt as though I'd taken a step that wasn't there. The Negotiator's practiced smile faded slightly.

"Urn, I can prove my identity easily. Governor Atvalid knows me well, for one thing, as before his present failure I was a frequent visitor to his House."

Even Stereth looked incapable of moving or speaking. The Negotiator pushed his smile back up another few watts and beamed at us kindly. "You do understand, do you not?" His voice took on a ritualistic tone.

"The Emperor has sent me to ask, what it is that you want."

Chapter Twenty-One

We were "mustered out," as Grateth called it, in Shaskala.

The Negotiator went out to speak to one of the militia observers; he came back, a day and a half later, with an escort of a hundred men who accompanied us to that city.

The Atvalids were clearly in disgrace. I never saw them after that, but I heard that father, son, and grandfather were all asked to return their Blue Hats to the Emperor. No ceremony for that, they tell me; it's not like some ancient religious excommunication. A messenger in Imperial livery shows up at your door one day and asks ever so courteously for the hat, which he waits for in your anteroom like a mail carrier waiting for a reply to some engraved party invitations; then he bows when he gets it, and stuffs it into a bag and returns to court. A short little dance, but the Atvalids would probably never recover from it.

I was sorry about that in a way, but then they were alive, and most of my friends were alive, and from a barbarian point of view the outcome was perhaps the best we could have expected.

As for Stereth's crew, we all spent a long two weeks in Shaskala, readjusting to the heat of late summer off the Plateau, waiting to be processed. The temperature here was pretty much what I could expect back in the capital, Shaskala's height above sea level making up for its more northern location, and I borrowed a straw fan from one of the bailiffs in the Justice House.

Ran was quartered in a different place, but we met most days in the long room the officials of the Justice House used to process us all. Stereth wasn't there, but much of the band was. They sat, or slept, on the long wooden benches, and played endless hands of Thistle and Sleeping Dog—Des and Grateth and Lex and Juvindeth; most of the

original band was there. Not all of them had been at the fort that night, some were still out with the mixed bands Stereth had created, and didn't know yet about the pardon; but it was just a matter of time. We understood that Stereth was negotiating the details with Imperial officials, and left him to do it, although Lex was heard to say more than once that it was probably all a trick and our bandit chieftain's body was most likely rotting in this damned heat already.

So much for Lex. The processing involved a lot of individual questioning, so that the officials could create new identities for us. It would be pointless, after all, to release a lot of criminals with nothing to do but return to their thievery. This was a problem for Ran and me—we didn't want new identities, we wanted our old identities, but we didn't want to tell anyone what they were.

I avoided any specific documentation as to my past, and assumed Ran was doing the same. The band always addressed us by our road-names, fortunately. I was lying back on a bench by the wall one day, my feet up on the bench in front of me, wondering if there were any possible way I could get a book out of this for the Athenan University Press (which will tell you I was already drifting back into my past life), when Des came over and sat beside me.

"You've been quiet lately, Tymon."

"Anticlimax effect, I guess. I'd been expecting to be dead."

"I suppose you and Sokol will be getting back to your regular careers now."

I looked at him. "Des, I hope you're not going to bring up that idea about fixing the flyer races."

"No, no. That would be stupid. Can't I just ask an old friend how she's doing?"

"Sorry." The room was quiet, lazy, and hot. The low voices of the two Imperial examiners and their current focus, Komo, buzzed in the background. There was a ceiling fan, run on electricity like the rest of upper class Shaskala, but for some reason they never turned it on. Maybe it wasn't working. "We'd like to get back to our regular careers, but I don't know if we can manage it. These people seem very keen on hearing all about our past."

"Ah. That's tough, sweetheart. But I know you two will think of something. And at least you're not dead."

I laughed. "Very true. And in that regard, I've been thinking about your old tah-friend, The Voice of the Emperor. I wonder why he decided to negotiate, instead of giving the Atvalids another chance. Eventually they would have taken us."

"Huh! Between Stereth and Sokol, we could have held them off for months." I doubted that, but perhaps the Negotiator had believed as Des did. "And the tah would have rotted, and the Emperor was probably already sick of the whole thing, or he wouldn't have sent out his Voice."

"That's true. And I suppose the Negotiator had a career to look to as well, and didn't want to spend his life in the Northwest Sector. I guess the deal was as much political as practical, like everything else on Ivory."

"No need to be so mournful about it, Tymon. It got you out of a hole, didn't it?"

"Out of one and into another—"

Just then the High Justice, a stocky man with a blue beaded cap and blue robes, took the platform in the front of the hall. Somebody yelled, "Attention for the High Justice! Attention!"

The High Justice cleared his throat. "Uh, it has become clear to officials that the rules of civilized combat have been violated by certain members of this band. Uh—" he turned to the man beside him. "How many do we have here?"

"Twenty-two this morning, gracious sir. Eight are in holding."

"By certain members of this band, probably here in this room! I'm telling you now, I have no intention of letting such a violation pass. I find it offensive, and when we identify the culprit he, or they, will find the full weight of Imperial might on them and their family."

Des and I looked at each other.

"So I'm asking right now for you all to save yourselves some trouble. Tell us which of you employed sorcery in the recent altercation with the Tuvin militia. I'm warning you, we will find out. And it will be easier on everyone if we find out now, instead of dragging the information out of you."

Thank the gods, nobody turned to look at me or Ran.

The High Justice waited. He did not look like a man

who compromised. Probably appointed by Nor Atvalid, patron saint of reformers.

After a moment he made an impatient "so be it" kind of gesture to one of the other officials, and left the platform. Des whispered, "What are you going to do?" There was no answer to that, so I made none.

They questioned three of us that day, taking their time. Lex was one of them, but I wasn't worried—he despised authority, except for Stereth, and was as stubborn with appointed officials as he was with anybody else. A good friend like Des would probably crack before Lex would. Somebody was bound to tell them who we were, though; statistics alone were against us.

I wondered what they would think when they got to me. They must have considered Cantry to be the sorcerer at one time, but they couldn't prove she was the one who'd sent the Atvalids' forces running for the hills—in fact, from her lack of education, she almost certainly wasn't. And they could have one, or two, or three sorcerers to contend with; there was no way of telling. They only needed to pick one, though, to satisfy the scapegoat needs of the High Justice.

So when they led us in the next morning, I was relieved to see Stereth there. He was flanked by two officials, and he still wore his bandit jacket and trousers, in spite of his dealings with the higher ranks of the Imperial hierarchy. His eyes met mine and I threw him a look with as much pleading as I could stuff into it. He ignored me and strode to the front of the hall, where the High Justice was sitting at a table, no doubt ready to give us another little speech. The High Justice had a drink on the table in front of him, a pile of cushions under his behind, and was fanning himself gently with a straw fan not unlike the one I'd borrowed. He paid no attention to Stereth for a moment; then he looked up, unimpressed.

"Yes?"

Stereth presented him with a sheaf of three or four pages, clipped together. "I have a notice from the Prime Minister advising you that the inquiry into the use of sorcery by some member or members of my band is closed."

The High Justice blinked slowly. He took the papers, also, very slowly, and spread them out on the table. He

licked his lips, took a sip from his glass, and started to read. He kept us waiting for a good twenty minutes. Finally he looked up again.

Stereth was standing in the same position, as full of patience as though he'd just stepped into the room a second ago.

The High Justice said, "May I ask how you got these so quickly?"

"Got them?" repeated Stereth. "I was given them. It's hardly my place, or yours, to dictate to the Prime Minister."

The High Justice put the papers back in order, roughly, and clipped them together. He handed them back to Stereth with a sharp gesture, as though he'd have preferred them to be a dagger. "Thank you. I've been informed."

It was a dismissal. Stereth stayed, however, and took a new, folded set of papers from the inside of his tattered bandit jacket. "I also have a set of release orders for a couple of the people here. The woman known as Tymon, the man Sokol."

Ran was standing across the room; our eyes rriet.

The High Justice didn't look at us—he didn't know which ones we were. He squinted up at Stereth. "The processing of this group is not complete."

"Nevertheless, they're to be released today. The order is dated yesterday, to be effective at the first hour this morning. At this moment they're already free to go—technically, of course. It awaits your pronouncement."

The High Justice pushed back his low table and got up from the cushions. He faced the room and said, "The two detainees known as Sokol and Tymon are free to go." He spat out the words like unidentified wine at a nobleman's party.

Stereth smiled, bowed, and withdrew. He gestured for Ran and me to follow him, and we wasted no time in doing so. At the entrance to the hall, I turned around and looked back.

People had settled again into their places. Carabinstereth wasn't there that morning. Grateth was dozing. During the long twenty-minute reading of the Prime Minister's papers, Des had started a game of Red Geese up with one of the bailiffs. Des' head disappeared below a bench and I heard the snap of dice hitting the wall. I smiled. Nobody in the

band ever played Red Geese with Des because it was a game he won with a frequency significantly higher than statistics would dictate, no matter whose dice he seemed to be using. His head came up again, but he wasn't looking my way, and I heard his voice saying, "Oh! Tough luck, my friend!" with all evidence of sincerity.

Then the door closed, and we were outside. No chance to say good-bye. It was the last time I saw them. We were standing on the dazzling white steps of the Justice House, under the blue, merciless late-summer sky, with Stereth and two guards from the court who were apparently there to see that we both left peaceably.

Ran took a few steps down, but I turned to Stereth. "I don't get it," I said. "The High Justice was so sure of himself—" I stopped. "You bribed the Prime Minister."

He grinned. "Always start at the top, Tymon. It saves time."

I said, "But how?" When he continued to look at me with that expression of mild interest I flushed and said, "I don't mean I think it would be impossible morally."

"Thank the gods for that, Tymon."

"But you can't have enough left in the kitty to bribe someone who's rich in his own right. Can you?"

"Not everyone is as interested in money as you and me," he said.

"So how? Have pity, Stereth. Tell me what you did."

"I told the gentleman that I wasn't interested in his job," he said.

That's right—I remembered. Annurian had wound up with the prime ministership in the end. And it was traditional to get your buy-off in money and power both. Stereth went on, "I told him I wasn't interested in any of the usual posts, either."

The guards seemed to want me to move on, but I wasn't budging. "What did you ask for?"

"Minister for Provincial Affairs."

"Gods, why? I didn't even know there was a Minister for Provincial Affairs."

"Maybe I like the way it sounds." That damned smile was still there, as though he found me amusing. In fact, Stereth looked more relaxed and more pleased with himself than I'd ever seen him.

I said, "Is this the beginning of an era?"

The smile widened. "When next we meet—if we do— you won't know me."

"Why not? —Oh. Is that an order?"

"An order, or a favor from a friend. Whatever works."

The guard beside me said, "You'll have to come along now."

Stereth said to him, " 'Gracious lady.' She's not a prisoner now. Address her properly."

"Gracious lady," agreed the guard, unwillingly. He tugged at my arm, and I took another couple of steps away.

Stereth said, "And I wouldn't worry about retribution, Tymon; your psychological assessment was on the mark. There've been several suicides in the House of Atvalid. They're taking this very hard."

He turned and went up the steps. I continued down, led by the guard, my mind going in circles. The Governor, of course… I called, "Stereth! The Steward, too?" The son had been a friend of Sembet Triol's once.

But Stereth had gone inside.

Ran was waiting at the bottom. He said, "No suspicious characters on the street. They seem to be really letting us go."

"Of course, if Stereth arranged it. I guess it'll take a while longer for the rest of the band." I glanced at the guard. He waited till we'd both stepped off the bottom step of the Justice House, then turned and went back inside.

Ran said, "They probably have a groundcar we can rent at the inn we stayed in before." As we walked down the street he said, "Theodora? Do me a favor. Don't call them 'the rest of the band.' "

It felt very odd walking that street, past the sculptured facades of the Shaskalan city buildings, dropping from one life into another. I've dropped into a few different lives in my time, and it never gets any easier. The only comfort is that now I know the disorientation will eventually fade. I don't know what I'll do if someday it doesn't.

When we reached the inn they brought out an old, battered car, a poor relation to the one we'd driven up in from the capital in another season of time. One of the inn's servants, a thin young man with a slightly snobbish look, held the door open for us to inspect it.

Ran turned to me suddenly. "We don't have any money," he said.

He must have been mentally returning to his old identity as well, for his voice held the childlike bewilderment of a Cormallon caught without funds.

"Yes, we do," I assured him. "They returned my effects to me while we were in holding." I counted out a few tabals and gave them to the servant.

Ran was staring. "Where did you get that?"

"It's the bounty I got from turning you in in Kynogin." I had thought it was a reasonable answer. Then we were looking at each other and laughing, with more than a touch of hysteria. The servant regarded us warily, no doubt wishing the inn had required a background check. Still laughing, Ran took the door from him and held it open while I got inside.

Neither of us felt like speeding back to the capital, so we drove carefully down the winding Plateau road, and toddled along like tourists through the fields and meadows beneath. Farmers, wagons, long fragrant rows of fruit trees, and a constant cough of dust behind us from the dirt road. In the afternoon we stopped one of the approaching wagons and bought some bush-apples from a boy in a dirty robe, who let us drink from his waterbag. Later I started to doze as we went along the part of the route that lines the river. More trees, and long slopes of lawn, then the wide stripe of silver water and a low orange sun…

When I woke again, hours later, it was dark and we were zooming through the bogs that line the road to the north of the capital. Ran must have kicked up the speed while I was asleep. He looked tired.

"Hello," I said, stretching.

"Almost there," he said.

Thinking about it, it was a little surprising to me that Ran hadn't headed us for the main Cormallon estate; he'd been through a lot, and it was the only place he ever felt really safe. But that was hard to reach without an aircar, and meant a long trip west, around the southern edge of the Sector. We could be in the capital a lot sooner, and I for one would be happy to see familiar surroundings.

Finally we passed under the old Northern Gate, through

the streets of cheap shops near the wall, and down one of the special boulevards built in the last century or two to handle bulkier traffic. Ran drew up at our house in the residential section, halting the car near the automated security station.

We got out awkwardly, our muscles stiff from the long ride. As we neared the front door, I saw that the light on the parcel receipt was flashing.

"The receiving station's full," I said to Ran.

He grunted. Clearly he was too tired to deal with it now.

"Probably wedding presents," I said.

"They should have been sent to Cormallon," he commented with some disapproval. And we went inside.

The first time I ever saw that house, with its rich woods and tapestries, I thought it was palatial. Now I thought of it as "snug." As I entered it, I had that familiar double-vision feeling that comes from returning to a place one has been too long away from. The rooms looked homey and normal, and alien and strange.

I took a bath. I rolled up my very much used robes and threw them in a corner, and I settled into the big white tub on the second floor. Ran had most of his robes off too, and padded in and out of the bath in his bare feet, scattering mail. "This one's yours. This one's yours. This one's yours—"

Ran was under the impression that any mail he didn't want to receive belonged to me. Apparently he'd thought the better of checking the receiving station. The Cormallon sense of duty always got to him when it had any amount of time to work.

"Kanz."

"What?" I asked, luxuriating in the water. I hadn't had a bath since—heavens, I hadn't even been able to bring myself to use that tub Clintris na'Fli had brought back, last seen abandoned on the hill with a sediment of quick-set in it.

Where was Clintris now? She hadn't been one of the people in the fort that night. Pain in the neck though she was, I hoped she was all right.

"A dozen pieces of mail from our would-be client. Probably wanting to know where his reports are… and then

wanting to cancel the assignment. I don't look forward to seeing him."

I could believe that. Of course, we knew now that the Atvalids were no family to get allied with, but so did everybody else in good society on the continent.

"I'll have to return the retainer." Ran winced.

It was the proper thing to do. Still— "Hold back an amount equal to my old salary for the summer. As your 'assistant,' I shouldn't be paid on an assignment basis. Call it operating expenses."

He smiled. "It would leave us with something," he agreed. "Let me think about it. The man obviously doesn't want to use the Net, so we'll have a while to make our reply."

Eventually I became tired of lying in a few gallons of water, and got into my nightrobe and slippers. Slippers! How delightful. I padded around with a ridiculous smile on my face.

Ran was in the bathroom with the door closed. I could hear water running in the sink. I walked down the hall to knock on the door and ask if he wanted me to order us some food.

And stopped short. There in the shadows on the high shelf where we kept little-used items, at the end of the corridor—

—was a frangi.

Sure, give me a hard time if you want to, those among you who enjoy feeling superior. But every hero is entitled to a fatal flaw, even a two-bit hero. For the Greeks it was hubris; for Othello it was jealousy; for me it's an orange squashy thing with black dots. Ugh! I don't even like writing the name.

Fortunately, Ran had seen me get hysterical over this before, and though he'd looked disbelieving, he knew it was a nondebatable, preordained matter. I would not have to give lengthy explanations or deal with sarcastic laughter while trying to keep from throwing up at the same time.

Still, no need to scream at present, was there? Not yet, anyway. "Ran? Would you mind coming out as soon as you have the chance?"

"What is it?"

"I'll show you when you come out."

There. I hadn't made a complete spectacle of myself. I could keep an eye on the abomination and yell if it moved. It was important to know where it was, because if it got away I'd be up all night worrying where the hell it was.

A minute later Ran emerged, sliding a comb into his pocket. "What's up, tymon?"

"Ran, am I hallucinating, or is that orange thing on the ledge—"

"It is." He moved between me and it. "You should have told me it was an emergency," he said kindly. He looked around, spotted a broom and grabbed it. "Wait down the stairs."

I moved with alacrity. Behind me I heard thuds and curses.

A few minutes later Ran came down and said, "All taken care of."

Ran wouldn't tell me it if it weren't true. I walked into his arms and tightened my own around his chest until I could feel his ribs pressed into mine. "I love you," I said.

He moved his hands to my shoulders. "You never said that to me before," he said wonderingly.

"I didn't?"

"No, you didn't."

I stayed held on and we didn't speak. Then I felt Ran start to chuckle.

"What are you laughing at?"

"You came through a military attack without any trouble, but a frangi—"

"One has nothing to do with the other!"

"Apparently not," he agreed.

A long time ago, when Stereth told me the story about the day he'd cracked his head on the underside of a table and Cantry had fallen in love, I'd quoted an ancient writer: "Even one whom we at all times admire will suddenly seem ten times more lovely than ever before." And he'd pitied me for not knowing what it meant.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Reader, I married him.

Sorry—you'll have to let me have that line, even though I know only the scholars will get it. You must allow me these occasional references; I can't be expected to throw off years of literary servitude overnight.

It was quite a party, too. I'd hoped for a small gathering, maybe just a few of the Cormallons we couldn't do without, but we announced the successful passing of four-quarter night to Kylla one evening in the Shikrons' villa, and that was the end of that.

She took me aside. "My dear! A patched-up, two-kembit affair? Not to be thought of! We need to show the world that the House of Cormallon values its new alliance."

"Kylla, the Cormallons aren't allying with anybody but me. I have no last name."

"All the more reason to make an official splash. And besides," she said, taking me by the arm, "your name is Cormallon."

And the matter was taken firmly from my unskilled barbarian hands.

Kylla sent out the official invitations, hired the music and the security, advised me with great seriousness on my three traditional outfits for the evening, chose a menu, and sent over extra cooks from Shikron. And this was the woman who used to try to get out of doing the household accounts. When her interest was caught, Kylla's organizational abilities were formidable; she was a juggernaut on the roll, and nobody who knows her stands in her way once she's decided on how things need to be. Technically, as a Shikron, she wasn't supposed to be involved in the hosting of a Cormallon event at all. Ran kept a low profile, saying that he had urgent business in the south, which I doubted.

But it wasn't awful, really it wasn't. I didn't know the vast majority of people who came, but they all seemed to feel that if I was on their House territory it was good enough for them. There was no exchange of bluestone jewelry, as there generally is at a Cormallon wedding celebration; I refused to accept one, and told Ran to put that thought right out of his mind. His House uses bluestones, and other items, as keepsakes, since by the laws of magic whatever one carries habitually comes to retain the thoughts and memories of the person who carried it. The first thing this family does with its dead is to strip off the jewelry, particularly the bluestones, which are considered an excellent medium for preserving psychic traces.

But I found the idea of having my habits of thought interred in the Cormallons' library-morgue a suffocating one. I'm not sure how some of the things that go on in my brain would appear to an Ivoran. Besides, it looks like I'll be leaving all these memoirs around; let posterity check into them, if it's so interested. Ran found my attitude surprising, but it's not as though the library was a chance at immortality, after all—the people who owned the items were dead, and these were just a lot of souvenirs. As an ancient philosopher once said, "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve immortality through not dying."

So we skipped that part of the tradition. Instead I smiled through introductions to flotillas of relatives, and sampled all kinds of unidentified dishes, and downed a bowl of vintage wine to satisfy the Ducort family guests, who'd grown the grapes and sent it over in massive kegs two weeks before the event. That seemed to be the sum of my responsibilities. As the First of Cormallon, Ran had to mingle, but I stuck close to Kylla and followed her lead.

I woke up late the next day, disoriented, and with a sense of relief and disappointment; I don't know why I was disappointed, I hadn't been looking forward to the party, but it had loomed large on the horizon—rather like a giant thundercloud. Now the estate was quiet. The sun was high, Ran had flown in to the capital to arrange a final transfer of funds to our ex-client, and I was sitting on a bench in the kitchen eating a biscuit. The cook and the kitchen workers were off napping between brunch and dinner, re-

covering from the excesses of the previous night. I sat there by a slant of light that ran over the big wooden table, turning a corner of Herd's copper pot to gold. I ate my biscuit and thought, "Well, Theodora, you've done it now."

In some ways it was still unreal. When would it be real? When we had a matched set of little Cormallons running about the place? Or maybe not even then. Maybe we'd have to wait till I was one of these old Ivoran matriarchal grandmothers, ordering everybody around and scaring the pants off them. I had to laugh at that picture: The stooped-over, wrinkled barbarian midget, stamping the butt of her cane on the floor and telling the younger generation to straighten up.

I'd met any number of gray-haired Cormallon aunts, by the way, many of them single or widowed, and all with a huge capacity for vintage wine and late-night dancing. I was done in long before they gave any indication of slowing down.

I hadn't heard much about Stereth's band during this time. I'd given a blind message-number to a few of the members while we were in processing in Shaskala, so they could let me know how they were doing. It didn't surprise me not to hear from Grateth; he was intensely shy about approaching people. During the long days in the Justice House I'd asked Des what he thought he would do now, and he told me he hadn't a clue, which I could well believe. I checked the message box (it was in our nonNet banker's custody) periodically, but there was never anything from him. And I found that, fond though I was of Des, and much as I missed him, the fact that he made no effort at all to keep in touch did not come as a shock. I knew that if I ever saw him on the street he would open his long arms and scoop me up in a joyful hug, and I'd be as welcome as ever I was. And if I asked him why he didn't contact me, he'd just look sheepish and hurt. I'd never ask him, though. I knew why he didn't contact me. It was because he was Des.

Carabinstereth, on the other hand, did leave a message. I found it one day in mid-autumn, when the wind was swirling down the streets of the capital carrying leaves from the

pathetic half-dozen deciduous trees the city boasts, and I'd nearly given up expecting to find any word from anyone.

"Hello, sweetheart," said the message, prudently not using names. "I trust you and the boy are well. I've just gotten a commission to escort a nobleman's daughter to her marriage home, and then stay on with the house guard. A southern location—don't know what I'll think of the cold. Still, how much worse can it be than riding through a soaking rain on the Plateau? And if it doesn't work out, I've got an old friend running a florist's shop in the capital who says I can work there. So have no fears for me, darling, and know me always to be,

Your friend from the old days,

C."

A florist's shop? One pitied the customers already.

As for Stereth himself, there was no need of messages. He'd set up in a lavish villa in the capital, scandalizing the neighborhood by keeping his road-name.

No doubt he was doing whatever a Minister for Provincial Affairs did.

It was three months later that I finally heard the end of our Northwest Sector story.

I found a Net message waiting for me at our house in the city saying that Octavia of Pyrene, my old childhood chum, was back in the capital after her circuit round the provinces. Would I care to get in touch?

Would I! Particularly that day: Ran was off in Braece, making an appearance at a godsort's initiation, and Kylla's nurse was away visiting her family for two weeks, leaving Kylla completely at the mercy of her offspring. Over the course of the long summer Shez had reached the age of communication, and she was full of questions and constant activity. I was feeling just a trifle neglected. I do like having acres of time to myself, and waking up when I choose, and taking long baths and playing loud music when I like; but that kind of thing wears thin quickly, and you start to wonder where everybody is.

Octavia: You should have seen her that night before graduation, when we stuffed the wet paper wads into the teaching machines. While we stuffed she sang a ditty of her own devising that parodied our creche anthem, and left me

helplessly limp in my chair watching her sing, stuff, and raise her eyebrows at me as though to say, Theodora, what could possibly be the matter?

Or during the weekend we spent in Comiss Major, where we stood on the crest of the hill and saw snow for the first time. Or the wicked improvisations she did of some of the more boring professors in second level—

Octavia had always been more socially forward than I was. She was the one who'd taught me how to order in bars, and on nights when she'd had a few she struck up conversations with strangers that turned into lengthy song-fests and long philosophical talks that ended when the sun came up. Not that we could indulge in that way too often; just during our rare holidays. But I could ride along on her coattails, too shy in those days to strike out on my own.

Anyway, I called Kylla when I got the message and told her all these things, and asked her advice on how to show Tavia the very best of the capital. "Things she might not see on her own," I said. You need say no more when you speak to Kylla—she's more than willing to plan a social event for thousands.

"Lunch at the Lantern Gardens," she said. "—Stop that, Shez! Why don't you put all the pages back together, now? There's a good girl. —And it's such a lovely day, what about a walk in the Imperial Park afterward? They have such excellent security there, and I could bring Shez and get out of the house."

"Oh," I said, not realizing that she'd meant to come along. Now that I thought of it, I had a vague memory of meaning to invite her the first time I'd tried to meet Tavia, but back then Tavia had also talked about bringing somebody else with her. I said, "Are you sure you won't be bored? We'll probably rave on and on about old times."

"Darling, if you knew what it was like being trapped here for two weeks with Shez—no! Put that down!" Kylla disappeared from the Net picture. She returned a moment later wiping her forehead. "No, Theo, I think an afternoon out is a fine idea. Hire us all a carriage for the day, and pick me up here. I'll get some rope to tie Shez's hands."

She was joking about that last thing. I think.

So I hired us a carriage and had the driver stop at the

Shikrons' first. Tavia had told me not to bother picking her up, she would meet us at the Lantern Gardens.

Kylla was dressed to kill, of course, and her daughter wore a rich green silk robe in a flowery pattern, with silver bangles on her fat little wrists. She jingled as Kylla lifted her up and in to the floor of the carriage.

"So, darling," said Kylla, when she'd gotten Shez installed on the seat facing the rear (her chosen place), "tell me more about your friend. You never talk about Pyrene, you know."

I hesitated. "I suppose I don't, much. I was sort of a misfit there, to tell you the truth. I hated it, or most of it. It's just not that interesting to talk about."

"Nothing at all good about your life until you moved to Athena?"

"Well, there was Tavia, of course. It was her and me against the world. And you know—I haven't thought of this in years—it was on Pyrene that I started studying cross-cultural myths and legends. Only I didn't think of it as studying, I thought of it as playing. They really frown on that kind of thing there, you know—no career paths encouraged that aren't of obvious practical use."

We hit a bump in the street and Shez gave a shriek. We both stared at her, concerned, but she looked delighted. "Again!" she cried. "Do again!"

"We can't do it now, sweetheart," said Kylla. "We'll try to do it again on the way home. —Not very likely," she added, muttering to me. We would be coming home from an entirely different direction if we went to the Imperial Park, and one with better paved streets.

We drew up in front of the Lantern Gardens, and as our carriage-driver wore the livery of the best agency in the city we were bowed in immediately. Tavia had a table in the corner; I saw her blonde head over the row of bronze vessels that lined the boundary rim between sections of the establishment. Before I could yield to my first impulse to grab her, hug her, and make some silly, excited sounds, the maitre d' stepped between us and offered us a better table near the stage. "Thanks, this is fine," I said. It was so odd and poignant and delightful to see Tavia's face on this older woman.

"There will be a show in an hour's time," explained the maitre d'.

"It's kind of you to offer, but—"

Kylla said, "It might be a good idea. Shez will have more room to walk around over there. We'd be right against the wall here—"

I grinned helplessly at Tavia and waved. She waved back. The conspiracy to interrupt our first meeting had its way and we were all ushered over to a table by the ring.

We sat down and I took Tavia's hand. "It feels like decades!"

"It practically is one decade," she said. She was wearing a very conservative Pyrenese suit of powder blue with a crisp white stripe down the middle. I thought, she ought to go a bit native while she's here; the silks and things are so much fun, and they'll never let her wear anything like them at home. I'll mention it later.

I introduced Kylla and Shez, and though I thought we'd dive immediately into the past we spoke in a more detached way of what Tavia had seen and done on Ivory. It felt as though there were a gap between my old friend and myself, though perhaps I was imagining it; but it made me more awkward and the chatter less easy to slip into. While we spoke, Shez wandered around the circumference of the ornamental fountain on the side of the stage. (This was not new to me. Kylla and I used hand-signals to make sure she was always in one of our lines-of-sight.) I noticed Tavia's eyes following Shez with a look of disapproval.

"How is she?" asked Kylla, digging into a broiled samwhite.

I reported, "She's on her belly on the rim, fishing for kembits."

"Why people throw coins into fountains wherever they go is beyond me," said Kylla. "Any theories, Octavia?"

"No, I'm afraid not." Tavia certainly wasn't working at this social interaction; what was wrong? But the courteously rigorous Kylla kept the conversation flowing, bless her.

"Should she be here?" asked Tavia at one point, when the talk had returned to Shez. There was still some disapproval in her tone.

Kylla started to laugh. "That's exactly what I used to think before I had Shez!" Kylla misunderstood, I thought.

Octavia was speaking as a Pyrenese, used to the creche system, where children were never seen by adults in the ordinary course of affairs. "But her nurse is off in the provinces, I'm afraid, so we must bear the brunt."

We spoke of any number of things; Tavia said that she was being transferred from Farm Machinery to Produce Control. And things continued to feel not right. She looked with displeasure at the tah pot that was brought to our table, and refused a cup in a way I could only call curt. There was almost a hostile tone in her voice when she spoke, but again, I thought it might be my imagination; and besides, I should leave her some slack—there were bound to be awkward moments after all these years. And she probably wasn't very comfortable on Ivory.

She'll feel better in the park, I thought. It was a gloriously beautiful place. So I suggested we cut lunch short and ride to the section of the Imperial public grounds that lie along the river.

Kylla uses the bribery method of child control. "Shez!" she called to her restless-looking daughter. "Shez, want to go for another ride in a carriage?"

Shez trotted along at once. When we reached the park she ran in under the statue of Lin the Younger, only to be caught up at once by a Park Security man in Imperial uniform, who lifted her, laughed, swung her down again, and said, "Wait for your nurse, darling! Oh—" He broke off, seeing Kylla and our party. "Your mother, I mean. I beg your pardon, gracious lady."

Kylla gave him her patented smile and a sincere thank you. She can always make a terrific impression, I thought, with an envy so far beyond me it wasn't even bitter. In fact, here I was strolling between two people whose social skills I'd tried to learn from in my time. It made me feel just a little like a poor relation.

Even in autumn, an afternoon in the capital is the hottest time of day. "Let's get closer to the river," said Kylla. So we took the turning to the left and came out over the first of the nine green terraces of land that lead down to the water. "Shez!" she called. "Want to go on the moving stairs?" And Shez dropped the flowers she'd been picking and ran after us.

Escalators are considered silly devices on Ivory, and

that's why they longed to put them in the Imperial Park. Like a silver line of expensive toys they linked the grassy terraces from top to bottom. We went down and down, till we were only one level from the bottom, and could look along the path below that led upriver. Across the water was the Palace Star Tower.

Kylla took in a deep breath of west wind and sighed happily: She pointed to the Star Tower. "Makes you think of Petev's soliloquy, doesn't it?"

I laughed, remembering the last time I'd heard that recited, by Des Helani on a windy plain on the way back from Deathwell. " 'This night of nights,' " I agreed, quoting. It's impossible not to know that soliloquy, every theater troupe on the planet had their version of it, and lines from it seemed to creep in everywhere—the lowest beggar in the market could do fifteen minutes of Petev with his hands tied and standing on one foot.

I turned to Octavia. "We're talking about a scene from a famous play." I explained. "That's the tower where it really happened in history. Not the soliloquy, I mean— that's the tower where Petev really spent the night he decided to kill the Emperor. Two dynasties ago, I think."

Kylla smiled, watching Shez explore the line of blue flowers that ran along the path. "It's one of your favorites, isn't it, Theo? Why don't you do it for us—Octavia probably hasn't heard it, and it's a very dramatic story."

"Huh! You should have heard my friend Des recite. He could do it right."

"Oh, just run through a few lines. The part where he remembers visiting the Palace when he was a child—that's the middle part," she explained to Tavia, "I always get that mixed."

Well, it is arguably the most beautiful poem Ivory has produced (I'm sorry what little I'm giving you here is in translation), so I grinned, stood up straight, and said, "This night, my friends, this night when the lighted boats of Anemee will never reach their slips on the lake of noble souls—"

As I was speaking (I couldn't declaim it the way Des could, but then he'd been half-mocking himself when he did that), I saw Shez leave the blue border of flowers to investigate something new.

Now, the escalators in the Imperial Park cut through the

terraces almost geometrically. Suddenly there's a hole in the ground, and there you are. The mouth of each escalator has hard, transparent paneling around the sides to keep people from falling in, paneling that links with the transparent panels at the outer wall of each terrace. At the opposite corners from the entrance there's a gold railpost on each side, a small space, and then the panes of paneling begin.

Shez began exploring the opening between the railpost and the paneling. But then, it was a very small opening. It had to be: It would be a long drop down to the next terrace.

Kylla, I saw, was still looking across the river.

"The golden mornings of earliest youth, charmed by

artifice And birdsong in the gardens of my sister—"

I broke off. "She can't get through that, can she?"

Kylla turned, spotted Shez, and said, "ACK!" She was off like a missile, robes flying, just as Shez slipped one arm and one foot through the opening.

Kylla hauled her out, grabbed her by the shoulders and said fiercely, "Never, never, never play around stairs! Never!" She pulled her daughter over to us, placed her hand over her own heart and said, "Nothing like getting the adrenaline pumping."

Shez seemed to have already forgotten the incident. She was looking with wide eyes at the children's play set (designed by a series of Imperial architects) that rose like a miniature Paradise farther along the terrace. "Can I go on the tree-slide?"

Kylla looked at me and rolled her eyes. "I'd better go see she's occupied for a while. Anyway, you two should talk."

I supposed we should. My two gaudily-robed friends moved off a short way along the terrace, and I looked at the one remaining, in her powder-blue suit. "Well," I said awkwardly. The atmosphere didn't seem right for continuing the recitation. "Never mind the rest of the poem. It's incredibly beautiful, though, Tavia, you should pick up a copy." I hoped I wasn't chattering. "The very last couplet is the most wonderful thing I've ever heard—'When sand has covered all we have built, still the—' "

"Oh, stop it!"

"What?" I stared at her, taken aback. Her face was red and cross.

"Just stop it! Always showing off, just like the old days! You haven't changed a bit, Theodora."

"What?" I repeated, stupidly.

"So what if you've read a lot of old stories! Who cares? Always bringing them up, always memorizing and showing off!"

I felt myself flush. "But I didn't memorize it, it's a famous po—"

"Trying to make me feel bad because I don't know your 'famous' things! Always grabbing the spotlight!"

I felt as though I'd stepped off not a step, but a cliff, that wasn't there. My head was whirling. Had Tavia completely forgotten our past history? She was the one who was the social success! I'd only tagged along! Reality turned upside-down.

Simple grammar deserted me. Tavia took advantage of my involuntary silence to say, "You always thrust yourself forward, you know. I could see you didn't think much of my trying to make new friends, but you might have—"

I found my tongue and burst out, "But I always admired you for the way you met new people! Remember that night in Comiss Major, in the bar, when you told that skier, 'No, I love it when men get drunk and shout stupid things'?" That skier had followed her around all three days we were there. She'd been in rare form that night.

"I didn't say that. I would never say that."

I blinked, unable to think of an answer for this denial. "But, Tavia, we had a lot of fun together—"

"I didn't even want to go to Comiss Major! It was your idea, aiways you wanting me to do the things you wanted to do! Like today, this stupid park! I knew you hadn't changed, I told Hippolitus that! What the hell could Theodora know about Ivory that would be any help to anybody? But he's the damned security staff, and I'm in stupid Produce Control!"

"I don't under—"

"I didn't want to see you, you idiot! Great Unity, the ego of this woman! Why do you think I never answered your letters?"

"I thought—I thought after I moved to Athena, the censors—"

"Blow the censors! I didn't even visit when I got my first assignment, when you were still on Pyrene!"

"You said you were busy—"

"Anyone else would have gotten the message! But not Theodora the wonder child, who reads everything in the antiquities library, and drops her Pyrenese citizenship!"

I became distantly aware that Kylla, hearing voices raised, had returned and was standing there wide-eyed, holding Shez's hand.

"But—" I groped for some common ground. "Remember that night before graduation, when we stuffed wet paper in the teaching machines?"

"Your idea, not mine! I told you the guardians would be upset! And it surely didn't go on your record, did it, not on another damned planet!"

I put my hand to my face, which still seemed to be there, though it was sizzling like a griddlecake. "I thought—you never said—"

"Oh, don't tell me this comes as a surprise—you've been getting little digs in at me all day!"

"I've what?"

"You ordered salad at the restaurant! Don't think I don't know what that means!" And on that indignant note, she turned and flounced off.

I stood there. Kylla came over to me hesitantly. "Theo, sweetheart, are you all right?"

I nodded vaguely.

"I think we'd better get you home," she said briskly.

I followed her out of the park.

Shez was uncharacteristically silent on the ride back. Kylla thumped on the roof of the carriage, stuck her head out, and said, "We're taking the lady Theodora home first, driver. If you haven't been paid in advance, I'll do it when we reach my house."

When we reached mine, Kylla said, "Go inside and pour yourself a good stiff drink, darling. I have to go with Shez, but I'll call later."

I said, "What does it mean when you order salad?"

"Means you're hungry, I think, dear. Now go on in."

So I did, and of course started crying buckets of tears as soon as I got through the entranceway.

Several hours later Ran came in. He kissed my rather puffy face and said, "You ought to answer your Net messages. Kylla called me in Braece and said that you spent the afternoon with a second Clintris na'Fli."

I chuckled, more because it was sweet of him to try than because I felt like it, and said, "Kylla said nothing of the kind."

"Well, she would have if she knew Clintris. She did say, 'If she weren't a friend of our Theo's, I would have said from the beginning that she was the most ill-bred, ill-mannered specimen I'd ever seen. A regular tymon, Ran— and I don't mean that the way you do when you use it with Theo.' "

Dear Kylla. Ran's voice, of course, was nothing like hers, but his facial expressions were uncannily exact.

An hour of cosseting later, I'd come out of it enough to realize that I'd come out of it eventually. When he saw I'd recovered, Ran said, "Kylla speaks Standard, you know."

"I didn't know, but it doesn't surprise me."

"She recounted a lot of your conversation with this Py-renese woman. The reference to Hippolitus was interesting. Didn't you say that was the name of the man who was running the mining project in the Northwest Sector?"

"Yes, the Governor introduced him to the crowd that day in Kynogin—you know, when I brought in the stolen cattle. It's almost certainly the same man. Pyrene is sparing in the assignment of proper names, that's why we have so many different ones."

"If he's really on their security staff, it suggests a lot of things about his presence in the Sector. That mining story was pretty thin, but it served to get people stirred up. And it put pressure on the outlaws, which they were bound to respond to. You'd almost think they were aiming for another Sector rebellion to start."

"Oh, of course, that was clear as soon as she said it." I sniffed, still not entirely free of these stupid weeping jags.

"It was?" Ran sounded startled.

"Yes, and it was probably Pyrenese agents who added those helpful little touches in sabotaging the tah shipments

Stereth couldn't reach. He always struck me as being surprised by some of that news."

"This was clear as soon as your friend spoke? And you haven't said anything to me?"

"Damn it, I was upset!" I sniffed again. Clearly the relative importance of an alien-fomented rebellion versus a rejection by a friend bore different weights in his mind. But then, it hadn't been his friend… or the only friend of his youth.

He sighed. "My very dear wife."

He'd been standing; now he pulled me down onto the divan beside him. "What are we going to do with this information?"

I was remembering the day Tavia had lifted her hands to catch the snow in Comiss Major; had she really resented me even then?

Ran tugged at my robe. "What are we going to do with the information? We certainly don't want to approach anyone in Imperial government with it." Nobody on Ivory deals with the Imperial government if they can help it, and they pave the way with bribes when they must. Nor would any particular official we approached necessarily be interested in these facts—they were a notoriously self-centered bunch.

I said, "I still have my contacts in Athenan Outer Security. If they thought Pyrene was getting too much power here, they might move to stop them… Or they might not. I really have no idea what their aims are. And I don't feel today that I can predict what people will do."

He kissed my forehead. "Don't get paranoid, you're doing pretty well."

"I'm disillusioned with Athenan intelligence anyway. I was thinking about dropping my connection there."

"Umm. It doesn't leave us a lot of alternatives. But I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea of letting a bunch of foreign barbarians try to influence my planet." He paused. "We do know one Imperial minister. We might tell Stereth."

I took my head from his shoulder and looked at him.

He returned the look sheepishly. "Well, you know," he said, "we were in the original band." * * *

"The minister is asleep. You'll have to return in the morning."

We were standing at the steps to Stereth's villa, having been accompanied across his enormous garden by two brawny Imperial gentlemen with pistols. The night was warm for fall, and the air was full of scent.

"Would you please inform the minister that Sokol and Tymon are here?"

The doorkeeper inspected our clothes and jewelry. "… Sokol," he said, as though wondering if it were a practical joke.

"And Tymon," I added.

"On urgent business that may not be delayed." This is the almost ritual line used by important people in the capital to signal to other important people that they really do have to talk.

The doorkeeper bowed; at least we knew the right thing to say. He disappeared.

The two armed guards remained. Ran said to me, "Well, he used to wake us up enough in the old days."

And one hoped he would not be too irritated by it. There was a long tradition on Ivory of newly respectable ministers killing old acquaintances who popped up indiscreetly from their past. But I think we both felt that Stereth was the sort who would listen before doing anything like that. Still, Ran looked thoughtful as we waited.

A good quarter of an hour passed. My mind kept replaying the day's events. I'd never be able to hear Petev's soliloquy with solemn joy again; those shining words were forever gashed and defaced by the memory of this sunlit afternoon by the river. How could I have been so wrong?

"Produce Control," I muttered.

"What?" asked Ran.

"When I ordered salad, maybe she thought I was making fun of her for being transferred to Produce Control."

"Theodora, my very dear, if you could get your mind off the lunatic you met with this afternoon and get it back to the business at hand—"

He was right, and I was probably wrong about the salad reference anyway. The gods knew I was totally off base on everything else I'd thought about Octavia.

The doorkeeper returned. "The minister will see you.

You'll have to wait his pleasure in the visitor's room. You did wake him up, you know."

The visitor's room was a large sitting room with silk cushions and many old, enormous oil paintings that showed politically correct scenes from Ivoran history. Candleholders punctuated the pictures and carved wood and stone of the walls; nevertheless, a chandelier that clearly operated off imported Athenan power packs dominated the ceiling. A square gold table was in one side of the room, surrounded by pillows, with a holder for a tah pot in the center. We were directed to the table by the doorkeeper, who then left to return to his duties.

A moment later Stereth walked in. He wore blue and red silk robes, the outer borders embroidered with gold stitchery, and red plush slippers. Nor was that the only thing that made him look odd to me; his hair was cut neatly—well, his hair was always neat, he was fastidious about his appearance—but it was cut in the fashion of the capital. Before he reached us he slipped a pair of plain spectacles from the chest pocket of his outer robe and hooked them over each ear in the old familiar gesture. I smiled.

"Tymon!" He'd caught my eye first. "And Sokol. It's good to see you safe and sound. I've ordered tah and wine, they'll be here shortly. Please, sit down."

We sat, and he went on. "You'll have to forgive Cantry, she was too sleepy to get up. She sends her regards." I'd wondered if he kept Cantry with him, and here was the answer. Although, in a moment of paranoia, I did note that we hadn't actually seen Cantry. He went on, "And you two? May I presume to offer congratulations… ?"

He phrased it in the discreet way one asks that particular question.

"Yes," said Ran, who was used to saying it by now. "We've passed four-quarter night."

"Excellent! You know, I always believed that you both made a good pair, particularly after Tymon here made such a godawful pest of herself over your incarceration."

I smiled austerely.

He went on, "Not a classic pairing, of course. Not the obvious kind of thing that a family would arrange—"

You don't know Ran's family, I thought.

"—but having seen you both operate, I must admit it works."

Even as an old married couple, we seemed to come in by the two-bit door.

Ran said, "It's courteous of you to see us."

"Well, I knew it must be important for you to make a special visit. After all, traditionally, newly bought-off outlaws tend to kill the associates who knew them when." He smiled, and I knew he was stringing us along. I relaxed.

"You're not making any great effort to distance yourself from the past," pointed out Ran. " 'Minister Tar'krim'? You're the first I've heard of to keep his road-name."

An old man with a sleepy look about him shuffled in with the tray; Stereth took it easily from him and poured us all cups of tah. Of course, technically there was no reason he couldn't poison us, but it would be impolite to refuse. Stereth said, "Yes, it seemed the best course. Those in the Imperial Government who come from the Six Families will always see me as an outlaw; but by not taking a new name, I don't come across as a social climber as well. I'd prefer not to be seen as another parvenu begging for acceptance."

"You could have taken back your old name," said Ran.

"No, I couldn't," he said shortly, and that was the end of that.

I put in, "Besides, if your name is a legend, why change it?"

He smiled again. "It does give me a certain cachet with some of the people I deal with. And the others it keeps on their toes."

We talked of the paintings on the wall for a few minutes, till we'd all finished our tah; then Stereth poured wine for us and asked, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Ran said, "Tymon can tell it best."

So I told him what I'd heard, and hinted at what I surmised. He listened. When I was through he said, "What makes you think I would take an interest in some scheme of Pyrene's and a few bought officials?"

Ran said, "First of all, I don't believe that the new Minister for Provincial Affairs would let anything happen to the provinces until he's had a chance to rob them himself."

Stereth burst out laughing. It was a joyful laugh, not like

anything I'd ever heard from him in the Sector. "I'm sorry Cantry stayed in bed. All right, friends, no need to go further; I'll look into the matter. Good enough?"

Ran nodded. With the immediate business cleared I put down my winebowl and said, "I've been trying to find out what happened to some of the band. Do you have any idea?"

He straighted his silk robe. "Tell me who, and I'll tell you what I can."

And so he did. Grateth had turned farmer and stayed in the Northwest Sector. Des had said something about a possible job with the Capital Touring Company, but it fell through, and his present whereabouts were a mystery. "He's not been taken out and beaten for trying to fix the flyer races, though. I checked."

"What about Sembet Triol? He wasn't at the fort that night—"

"No." Stereth bit his lip. "He was pardoned, but his noble family refused to take him back."

"But an Imperial decree is supposed to wipe out the past—"

"The Sakris are an older family than the Mellevils." The Emperor's name was Mellevil. I hadn't known that Sembet Triol was a Sakri. So was our client, if you recall—though I don't suppose it would have made any difference if we'd known about the connection. The Sakris are a large family.

"Where is he, then?"

"I don't know. He left his short sword at the Justice House, took his purse of compensation, and told me he was going west. I don't know where. I suppose we'll never know."

We'll never know. Such a final phrase. There's an expression on Ivory: Penathi so mai, "the wind we hear in the branches, that we'll never see." It means, let it go. Like ishin na' telleth, it was an Ivoran motto I couldn't live up to.

Where was the structure? Where was the beginning, the middle, and the end? All these tales and myths had never fully prepared me for the fact that there are just some things we're never going to know. What song the Sirens sang, or what name Achilles used when he hid among the women. Where Sembet Triol had gone and what would

become of him, and why magic worked for some people and not others, and exactly when Tavia had begun to hate me.

Ran was saying, "What is this purse of compensation business?"

"I arranged for five hundred tabals in gold to go to every member of the original band, or everyone who was in the fort that night."

No gold for us? I glanced at Ran, whose look replied, Let's not press our luck. He said to Stereth, "What about the others?"

Stereth shrugged. "They all got pardons."

"But no cash. Some of them are going to end up outlawed again."

"There were over four hundred of us at the end," said Stereth reasonably. "The government couldn't process and pay off each one individually. They never would have taken my negotiations seriously if I'd insisted on that."

"Did you push for it at all?" I asked.

He reached for a bowl of kinuts from a nearby pedestal and handed it to me. "Life is as it is. They're better off than they were before they met me, aren't they?"

This was true, but depressing nevertheless.

Stereth was gazing at Ran now. "I hope I've been helpful. Perhaps in future you can do some service for me, gracious sir Cormallon."

Ran blanched and said, "I'm always eager to perform a service for a friend." A noncommittal generalization.

"As Minister for Provincial Affairs, I'm always looking for new talent. Theodora—Tymon, I mean—is welcome as well."

Minister for Provincial Affairs. For the first time I gave that phrase some thought. The Emperor would have been happy to give him that, because it was a post nobody wanted. For one thing, it involved actual work. For another, and this was the basic point, it meant dealing with the provinces… which in the view of the Six Families, were one step up from dungheaps. The overwhelming majority of food shipments, tah, weapons, and military personnel came from the provinces, but you wouldn't think it to listen to the news coming out of the capital. They were a self-involved lot there, and any provincial kid worth his salt,

lying awake at night listening to the Net, wanted to run off to the capital to make his fortune. Whereas if they'd just all stay home and organize, nothing could stop them.

Stereth was a man with provincial experience. Surely these thoughts had crossed his mind. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but it seemed to me suddenly that all the provinces needed was somebody with vision to coordinate an alliance, and Stereth seemed just the one to do it. Or get beheaded trying.

I would be interested in following his career—from afar.

Ran, I saw, was giving Stereth's offer courteous consideration. I met his eyes across the table and softly mouthed the words, "Beware of heights."

He turned a bland smile toward Stereth. "I don't want to disappoint you, but the affairs of my House take up so much time…"

Stereth made a dismissive gesture. "Think no more of it! Just an idea." He reached for another pedestal, topped by a dish of candied fruit. "Have a piece?" he said.

Ran hesitated almost too lengthily, then took one.

The doors to the visiting room closed behind us, and I drank in a deep breath. "It's good to be alive, isn't it?"

I spoke in Standard, as the doorkeeper was with us.

Ran said, "He was careful to use both our names. I wonder what he'll ask in return for keeping silent about this little chapter in our lives."

We reached the vestibule, where the doors to the garden stood open. I saw the head of a security guard beyond one of them. "Please wait here a moment," said the doorkeeper in his quavering voice. "Your escort will be along shortly." And he tottered over and took a seat on the stool by the wall.

"Whatever it is," I said, "we'll worry about it then." Nothing seemed too difficult to handle at that moment, under the dappled starlight slanting over the floor, amid the heavy scent of the roses. I breathed in perfume and night wind.

"The avoidance of death sometimes has this effect," said Ran practically, as he seated himself on a bench.

I sat beside him and wondered about a culture that specializes in buying off or absorbing its enemies. It didn't

always work, though, did it? Look at Petev and Copalis in Death of an Emperor.

"Ran, I have a question."

He sighed. "No, I don't know what the salad reference means, Theodora. Nobody knows. Let's just go home and get some sleep."

"I wasn't even thinking about that!"

"Oh. Sorry. What was it, then?"

(I should tell you, in case it starts driving you crazy, as it did me, that we never did figure out what the salad reference meant. Several weeks later I got up the courage to call Octavia and ask her, thinking that if she left the planet before I found out it would dog me for the rest of my life. We spoke briefly over the Net, and I still recall her wide-eyed, angry look when I asked her if it had anything to do with her transfer to Produce Control. "No it doesn't, Theodora. You know what it means." The impression I got from her was one of incredulous disbelief at my nerve in pretending ignorance. Then she said, "I can't believe you," and switched off. So not only don't I know, my pet theory was knocked out of the ring.

But Ran's reminder got me to thinking briefly about this afternoon, and it occurred to me that I might have ruined the expedition for poor Shez, who'd had no idea what was going on. I remembered how silent she'd been, right up till the time that Kylla'd told her to say good-bye to Aunt Theod—

"My gods!"

"What?" said Ran, looking around sharply.

"I've become one of the Cormallon aunts!"

He burst out laughing. After a minute he said, "Next time send up a few flares so I can follow your thought processes."

"Here they are," said the old doorkeeper suddenly, as the two armed Imperials who'd brought us in earlier appeared in the entranceway.

"Please follow us, gracious sir and lady," said one, and

we were careful to do so circumspectly. One doesn't fool around with Imperials.

So we left Stereth's little palace and followed them over the pebbled pathways under the stars toward the gate. Fountains splashed on either side of us. And I thought of the journey back from Tuvin in the groundcar, the whole long tired trip, and how I wakened from a nap to look out on my right at the well-watered fields near the river. It was nearly twilight and the low sun made long, delicious shadows in the lush grass. A white house with wooden pillars was set in from the road. A broad expanse of lawn ran south of it, bordered on the edges by tasselnut trees that bent toward the river. And in the middle of this sea of dappled grass, standing by herself, was a little girl who whirled her arms as though directing a great and invisible orchestra. She was too intent to see us pass.

What was in her mind? Was the man who'd come out on the porch of the white house, who stared north and south as though searching for something, her father? Of course I never saw her again, and I suppose there'll be no reason ever in my life to return to the Tuvin Road. And I thought of all the hints, all the flashing gleams on the river, all the stories we'll never know the endings of.