Rosethorn planted her hands on her hips and glared at the sergeant. 'T want an explanation and I want it now."

Briar shifted on his bare feet. The ground quivered. He felt roots - tree-roots, crop- roots, bush-roots - straining in the ground. Rosethorn was upset. The plants wanted to go to her; their eagerness to do it made the dirt tremble.

"They're all right," the sergeant told her tiredly. "But they did a big magic out in the harbour, the two of them, and now they can't even sit a horse. Had to bring them like killed deer. The girl was asleep when we landed -I don't think she even knows how we brought her home."

A Guard draped one of Daja's limp arms around Lark's neck. Sandry went forward and took Daja's other side.

"She's a trooper, this 'un," the Guard told them. "Acted her part good as a grown woman. Take care of her."

Sandry beamed at him. "We will."

As they bore Daja inside, Lark called over her shoulder, "Briar, get these soldiers a bucket of water."

He raced to obey, now that Rosethorn was calmer and the ground still.

Rosethorn went over to the other lump. "Frostpine, too?"

The sergeant nodded, wiping her forehead with a weary arm. "We would've taken him home first. He insisted we come here and leave the girl with you, even if it was the longer ride from the harbour."< "you="" may="" as="" well="" leave="" him,="" too.="" he="" doesn't="" sleep="" in="" the="" fire="" dormitory="" -="" he="" just="" has="" a="" dismal="" loft="" above="" his="" forge,"="" rosethorn="" informed="" them.="" "we="" can="" look="" after="" him="" as="" well="" as="" daja.="" bring="" him="" inside."="" looking="" back,="" she="" saw="" that="" tris="" was="" still="" there.="" "tell="" lark="" -="" we'll="" put="" frostpine="" in="" my="" bed="" for="">

Tris obeyed. Lark had just finished putting Daja in her room, on the ground floor, instead of trying to take her upstairs. She nodded when Tris said what Rosethorn had planned, and opened the door to the other woman's room. Tris peered inside, curious.

There were plants by the rear window - the only other window looked into Rosethorn's own shop, and was shrouded by open shelves laden with clay dishes.

There was a small altar in the corner, a clothes-chest, a desk and a bed. It was all plainer even than Tris's room. Does Rosethorn care about anything but plants? she wondered.

But she knew that was wrong. Rosethorn cared about Briar, and Lark and birds.

Maybe she was even beginning to care about Sandry, Daja and Tris herself. If she thought about it, Rosethorn hadn't really barked at any of them - not painfully, as she had when the four had first come to Discipline - since the earthquake.

"You see?" Lark murmured. "No b.l.o.o.d.y hooks in the ceiling - not even a skull anywhere."

Tris blushed. She had been wondering something like that.

"In here," Lark called, waving to the Guards who half-dragged the unconscious Frostpine between them. Tris stepped out of the way.

As the Guards pa.s.sed her with their burden, the girl's sensitive nose picked up a funny odour: smoky and bitter at once. It was a familiar scent, but where did she smell it before? It was a heavy reek that clung to Frostpine's and the soldiers' clothes alike.

Curious, Tris went to Lark's room to see Daja. Sandry wrestled with one of the Trader's shoes. Tris helped with the other, sniffing the air as she did. Daja, too, was covered with that familiar, smoky odour.

"Look," Sandry whispered, once Daja's shoes and stockings were off. She touched Daja's right cheek. In the same place where the three at Discipline sported red weals, Daja had a nasty-looking scratch. "This has to be cleaned."

"Right here." Briar came in with a bowl of sharp-scented water and a pair of dry linen cloths. "Rosethorn says water with fresh yarrow crushed in it will clean that ouch she's -we've - got." Pulling up a stool, he sat next to Daja, and dipped a cloth in the bowl. Wringing it out, he dabbed at Daja's scratch, gently cleaning it. "I'm glad you left that staff of yours upstairs," he told the sleeping girl. "I'd hate to have you bonk me on the head for washing this out."

Pain flared on Tris's cheek; her own welt stung almost as much as when she'd first got it.

"Wish I'd been there," Briar murmured, to himself as much as to the girls. "All those ships..."

"Shalandiru," whispered Daja, eyes closed. "Oared warships, lateen rigs."

"I don't know if she's babbling or dreaming,'" remarked the boy. Reaching inside his sleeveless shirt, he brought out a little stone jar, and opened it. "You'll love this," he told Daja. "My first batch of comfrey salve. It'll fix you up in no time, without even a wicked scar."

Sandry, whose uncle was a pirate-chaser, leaned over her friend. "What kind of shalandiru?" she asked, watching Briar gently smooth ointment on Daja's cut.

Interesting, she thought. The weal on her own cheek was hurting less. "How many, Daja?"

"Front rank, ten dromons," whispered Daja. "Placed every other one with single-bank galleys." She sighed.

"Front rank? There were more?" Sandry asked.

"It's a fleet, saati" whispered Daja. "I didn't get a good look at the second rank, or third - but they have them. I'm so tired."

"What's a dromon?" Tris wanted to know.

"Two banks of oars," Briar and Sandry replied at the same time.

"Most galleys just have the one," Sandry continued. "Dromons are bigger."

"And they have the thunder-weapon." Daja opened her eyes and tried to sit up. None of them helped her. At last she surrendered. "Frostpine?"

"Rosethorn's room." Briar jerked his head in the proper direction. "He's as melted as you."

"What thunder-weapon?" Sandry asked Daja, frowning. "Was it that boom-thing we heard?"

"It sank one of the Duke's galleys." A tear rolled slowly down one of Daja's cheeks, leaving a clean track in the grime. "It tore the sailors to pieces, and blew a hole in the keel. We saved a few, but our boat was nearly full to start. Oti Bookkeeper give them credit, and send them to a kinder berth."

"A catapult-stone would hole a ship," Briar pointed out. "You don't need thunder for that."

"A stone" - Daja yawned, her eyes sliding shut - "doesn't rip people and planks to shreds and fire the hold."

Tris started at this description of it. Leaning forward, she wrapped a hand around Daja's wrist. "Wait. This smoke, that's all over you and Frostpine." She ran a finger down the other girl's arm. It came away sooty. "This black stuff. The smell - it's not just wood smoke. Is that your thunder-weapon? It makes this stink?"

Daja nodded, and slept again.

"Briar! Tris! I need you!" Rosethorn called, her voice sharp. "Now, not tomorrow!"

Briar placed his salve on the desk, along with the water and cloths, and headed for the door. Turning back, he saw that Sandry was stroking Daja's hand, looking thoughtful.

Tris was sniffing her finger. She had gone a strange shade of pale under skin reddened from yesterday's time in the sun. "That isn't Lark who wants us," the boy prodded.

"Let's go, before she gets testy."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Ten minutes later, Briar and Tris set out along the spiral road, both carrying empty baskets and message-slates: Briar's for Gorse, Tris's for Moonstream. Rosethorn had ordered special foods for Daja and Frostpine, while both she and Lark felt that the Dedicate Superior ought to know what now lay before Summersea harbour.

"Dedicate Moonstream?" Briar asked a pa.s.sing dedicate in Fire red.

"South Gate," she replied, and hurried on.

People and carts streamed by them on the road as they walked. These were local farmers, come to shelter inside Winding Circle's thick, high walls. In a way, Briar was glad to see them - it was like being in Hajra, though much cleaner. Little Bear and Tris did not agree. The dog was simply miserable; he had begun life as a stray in Summersea, and had bad memories of crowds. Tris took each brush, each b.u.mp, each wait as a personal insult, her face getting redder and redder. Briar noticed that the wind had picked up, blowing every which-way. He said nothing - the breeze helped ease the day's growing heat - but he kept an eye on his housemate. If she got too out- of-temper, he supposed he would have to make her give way, somehow.

Near South Gate, the crowds evaporated. None of the refugees seemed to want to get too close to the cove and whatever lay in it. The woodshops and forges between the Water and Fire temples, however, worked at full capacity. To the left, in the yard around the school for physical training run by the Fire temple, red-robed dedicates and white-robed novices drilled with swords, wide-bladed spears and shields. Many of the boys that Briar knew from his short stay in their dormitory were holding their own weapons practice. There were a few girls among the boys; more girls and women wore red or white, and drilled as warriors.

Other red-garbed dedicates, in metal-studded leather jerkins and helmets, lounged around the South Gate, weapons close at hand. The gate was closed and barred with huge timbers. In the deep tunnel that ran from it through the wall, both Tris and Briar saw the blaze of magic. Power shone from the many round stones embedded in the mortar that lined the tunnel walls.

"Here - you two - scat!" yelled an armoured dedicate. She wore the sleeves of her crimson habit tied up, baring arms as muscled as those of any blacksmith. For all Briar knew, she was a blacksmith, like so many Fire dedicates. "This is no place for you!"

Triumphantly Briar held up the pa.s.s-token that Lark had given him before he and Tris left Discipline. Unlike the iron one, this was made of precious gla.s.s, with Lark's and Rosethorn's marks pressed into the sides. Lark had also tied a red silk cord so that it formed a cross on both sides of the round. That would get them anywhere in temple grounds, she had told them.

The dedicate took it, looked it over, then spat on the ground. "The dog stays here,"

she ordered. "The baskets, too. Keep out from under people's feet on the wall. If you're ordered off, I'd better not hear that you argued. Who're you looking for?"

"Moonstream." Briar tried not to sound smug. "The slate in this basket is for her."

"Then you only need to carry the slate, not the whole basket." The dedicate returned the token, but kept her hand out. The two pa.s.sed over their baskets, and ordered Little Bear to sit. To their surprise, he obeyed, thumping his tail in the dirt. "She's right over the gate," the woman told them. "Behave yourselves." She bent down to give the dog's rump a scratch.

Reaching the steps, Tris growled, lifted her skirts, and began to climb.

"Now what's the matter?" demanded Briar, following her.

"I've been climbing a lot of stairs lately," she snapped breathlessly. "I'm starting to hate it."

"Maybe they'd go easier if you didn't climb like you hated them," he remarked.

"Those flap-rags of yours don't help, either."

"Those what?" she gasped.

"Flap-rags. Skirts and underskirts. Swap them for breeches, like Daja."

Tris halted. Turning, she glared at him. "Breeches? Like some, some street rat, or busker, or, or a Trader? I come from a decent family, I'll have you know, and decent females wear skirts! And petticoats!" With a final glare, she whirled and finished the climb to the top.

"Once a merchant, always a merchant," Briar muttered. The world was truly a marvellous place, when a girl as smart as Tris Chandler clung to the very clothes that made her hot and cranky.

Moonstream and Niko were talking to a lean, red-headed dedicate in crimson. The two friends only glanced at the people they had come to find. Before them, visible at last, a pirate fleet lay in the cove. Like the fleet that Daja had described, galleys with two banks of oars alternated with single bank galleys in the row closest to the land.

Other ships lay behind them. Briar tried to do a rapid count, without success. The ships' images doubled and tripled and wavered before him, all lit by the silver glint of magic.

"No children allowed," a rough, high voice informed them. Strong, thin hands gripped Briar and Tris by the shoulder. The speaker was the red-headed man who'd been talking to Moonstream and Niko. Both looked up. It was a long way to look: he was over six feet tall. His short-cropped red hair stood at all angles, as if he often ran impatient fingers through it. His skin was weathered, his nose a thin, sharp blade.

Tucked securely behind a neatly trimmed red beard, his mouth tossed out words as barks. His eyes were his only attractive feature, a deep shade of blue that drew the eyes of anyone near him, whether they wanted to be drawn or not. His habit sported the black border of an initiate, or temple mage. The embroidered gold circle on his robe over the heart meant he was the First Dedicate - the head -of the Fire temple.

"Things might get rough here," he told them now. "The guards shouldn't have let you up."

Briar held up the gla.s.s token and the slate. "We have this for Moonstream," he said firmly. "It's important. Honest."

"And I came for Niko," Tris said. Somehow she tore herself away from the Fire dedicate's gaze and out of his hold, to walk over to her teacher.

"She's with me," Briar said, half-apologetically, to the man.

"I guessed that. And I know who are are: Briar Moss. The gardening mage-boy. I've heard about you and your house-

mates. Been setting the Circle by the ears." He steered the boy towards Moonstream.

"That's the weather-witch, Trisana Chandler. She knew we had a problem last night, didn't she? Nice bit of spotting. Smart girl, is she?"

"She does all right, for a skirt," Briar said, with a hooked smile.

By then they had reached Moonstream. "I notice you said that while Tris is talking to Niko and can't hear," she remarked, taking the slate. "By the way, this is First Dedicate Skyfire."

Briar shook hands with the lanky redhead, awed in spite of himself. They shared a homeland, Sotat. Five years before, Skyfire had been a legend as a general. On the death of his wife, he had given up his lands and armies, and taken his vows to the G.o.ds of Fire. As First Dedicate of that temple, he was in charge of Winding Circle's defence.

"I'm glad Lark and Rosethorn thought to send me this information on what's in the harbour," Moonstream said at last. She handed the slate to Skyfire. "I know the Duke will pa.s.s it on, but the sooner we get it, the better, for some things."

Briar noticed that pinched lines had appeared around Moonstream's plum-coloured lips. What harm could come to them, with Skyfire running the game? the boy wondered.

"Niko, I'm telling you, it was the exact same smell," Tris repeated anxiously. "I don't make mistakes about smells. It's the same as the one on Bit Island."

"I believe you, my dear." Niko looked worn and anxious. "What it means..." He gazed at the sea, combing his moustache with his fingertips.

Tris waited a moment, but not more - her curiosity was killing her. "How many ships are here?" she asked. "This is a different group from what's in front of the harbour, right? How many?"

"I can't tell," he replied. Seeing her frown, he added, "Like you, I can see they hide their numbers with illusions. But they're craven, these pirates. They hide behind layers of spells, done by at least a dozen mages. I don't yet have the key to all those spells, so I'm as baffled as you. No fewer than six dromons, I'm afraid, and ten plain galleys."

"The Duke's Navy will drive them off, won't they?" she asked, shading her eyes as she squinted out to sea. Something was taking place on two or three of the big galleys - dromons -two banks of oars, she told herself, fixing the word in her memory.

Illusion spells rippled over them like waves of heat, making it impossible to see anything but the closest ships clearly.

"The navy is scattered all along the coast," Niko told her quietly. "The few ships left in Summersea harbour are trapped now. We have to wait for the ships that are at sea to gather and come to our rescue. What are they doing out there?"

"Catapults." Neither of them realized that Skyfire had come over; both jumped at the sound of his harsh voice. "I can't see 'em - don't have to. The movements are right.

It's what I'd be doing, right about now. Shurri knows they've got our range."

"C-c-catapults?" squeaked Tris.