A hint of images seeped past the wall along with the specific message, and Deymorin knew beyond doubt, then, which pool held his brother. He grabbed Nikki's sleeve in one hand, the lamp in the other, and headed down the narrow aisle toward the entrance stairs. But: {Damn you, Deymorin! Keep Nikki away!} Clear and fiercely proud. Unashamedbut determined to spare Nikki the brutally clear images that burst past the barrier along with that command.

Deymorin surged forward.

{Damn you, Rhomandi. It's under control!} And Khyel didn't need his older brother's help, that was very clear, except to keep his younger brother ignorant.

Well, damn what Khyel wanted. He ran on, Nikki, igno- rant, but trusting, at his heels.

Ice flowed through his brain, chilling the anger. Freezing him to the core. He couldn't move. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Nikki slammed into his back. As suddenly as it had ap- peared, the chill was gone.

Deymorm staggered to the stairs, dragging Nikki after him, his mind a seething mass of images from Mikhyel, his own anger and frustration, and fears for Mikhyel.

Keep Nikki ignorant. As if Nikki wouldn't know. It didn't take any mind picture to guess what Mikhyel was facing at this moment.

"What was that all about?" Nikki asked. "Where's Mikhyel? I left him right here."

"It's . . . all right," he said, the only explanation he could think of. He didn't add why the hell had Nikki left him alone.

"What do you mean, 'all right'?" Nikki repeated, indig- nantly shaking his arm free and smoothing his sleeve. He'd taken his time in the latrine: face and hands spotless, hair combed into submission, and beneath his cloak, his fancy coat showed little evidence of the day's adventures.

"What's all right? Where's Mikhyel?"

Taken his time and left Mikhyel to those damned wolves.

Anger flared again. Anger against the wolves, anger toward Nikki, who should have known the trouble Mikhyel could find here.

Anger against Mikhyel for keeping him here now. Igno- rant. Impotent to help. He clenched his fists and beat his own knee. Waiting.

"Dammit, Deymio, what's going on? One minute. I'm going back to find Khyel1 thought he'd had the sense to follow me. I couldn't damnwell piss in the corner, now could I? The next. I'm in the dark, in a filthy hole, and I can't move! Khyel's voice is yelling in my head, making me stay 'in the closet,' but it wasn't the damned closet!

It's Sparingatel"

So, Nikki didn't know. Had caught none of those images, hadn't realized the significance of what he had seen.

Deymorin clenched his jaw on a sarcastic retort. Such ignorance made a man wonder how he'd come to raise so naive a child.

And on a second thought wonder if he had the right to condemn Nikki so quickly. He thought of his own frozen muscles. And: Go to the closet, Nikki. Stay there until I come for you.

Just like the old days at Darhaven. With Mheric. And at the moment, what Mikhyel was enduring wasn't a beating.

Bile rose. He fought it down. In the hours after Boreton, he'd shared Mikhyel's mind. He'd thought he knew every- thing about his father. He'd thought all Mikhyel's dark se- crets had been revealed.

Now, he wasn't so certain.

He tried to smother the thoughts and speculations. Mikhyel had never told Nikki about their father, had demanded a promise from Deymorin never to reveal to Nikki what he'd discovered during the sharing of their minds. However much Deymorin might disagree with that decision, they were Mikhyel's experiences to share or not, as he chose.

But what Mikhyel was facing now . . . at this moment . . .

"Deymio," Nikki asked, "shouldn't we find Khyel? What if he's"

"Khyel is fine, Nikki," Mikhyel himself answered out of the shadows, and in the shadows he stayed, propping him- self casually against a cornerstone just beyond the ring of light.

His cloak, an expensive, gold-embroidered garment, draped negligently from one arm, and his hair was hanging loose behind his shoulders. Deymorin couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Mikhyel fully dressed with his hair loose.

The effect was . . . chilling.

He'd thought he knew everything of significance there was to be known about Mikhyel dunMheric. Now, seeing him standing there, knowing what he'd just done, Dey- morin wasn't certain he knew his brother at all.

"Where have you been?" Nikki demanded.

Mikhyel's easy laugh sent another shiver down Deymor- in's spine.

"Negotiating with the locals," Mikhyel said, and tugged a strand of loose hair, as if suggesting the price of his nego- tiations had been the silver and enamel pin that had held his braid in place. "This area" He kicked a chunk of loose mortar toward the shadows beneath the stairs.

"has been declared ours for the night. Beyond that. I'm counting on Kiyrstin's Just Deymio to . . . hold . .."

Mikhyel's head lifted, looking beyond Deymorin. That inner sense radiated a private warning: Mikhyel's attitude issued a clear challenge.

Deymorin twisted to loqk' over his shoulder, and surged to his feet to face tne man stepping into their circle of light.

Few men could look Deymorin Rhomandi straight in the eye. Fewer still would dare. Deymorin was a large man, tall and powerful. He was also clever, well-trained in the arts of self-defense and offense. And he had been born to be the Rhomandi.

Those were the facts of his personal existence, facts he'd never seriously questioned. He'd grown up in utter confidence that there were few men he couldn't at least hold his own against, one on one, in a battle of wits or of strength.

With this man . . . {Ganfrion) Mikhyel's mind supplied the name, and if a mind could spit, Mikhyel's spat . - . he'd be inclined to caution.

It was a rare sensation.

He wasn't at all certain he liked it. Not here. Not with this man.

"How much?" the manGanfrionasked, in a surpris- ingly civil voice, and Mikhyel answered: "I told you"

"I'm not talking to you, Suds." Indifferent. Patronizing.

Delivered without so much as a blink in Mikhyel's direction.

Even Nikki flinched from the anger that flared through- out the link. Anger, Deymorin noted, surprised, that origi- nated with Mikhyel, not himself. But Mikhyel controlled that blaze immediately, and Deymorin received a clear de- mand to play along with the man's notions.

Which evidently meant (he assumed when Mikhyel's brow tightened in response to the thought) that wringing the man's thick neck was not an option.

"How much?" Ganfrion repeated, speaking directly to Deymorin, this time fingering the money pouch openly dis- played at his belt. The pouch was heavy, bulging; one as- sumed with coins.

And no one, the open display declared, dared take it from him.

"Howmuch." Impatience tinged the rough voice.

"Not for sale," Deymorin answered flatly.

"Come, man, I've only five months left in this sty. You'll have him back. I've a fancy for cleanliness, and Suds, here, smells as good as any woman. Certainly better than any- thing that's come down those steps since I arrived."

"My answer stands."

"Too bad." Ganfrion clucked and shook his head, look- ing toward Mikhyel's shadows for the first time. "Don't say I didn't try to give you a civilized option. Suds." He began to turn away, caught Deymorin's eye, and paused. Hostility flared one way and the other. Then Ganfrion's scarred lip lifted in a sneer. "The hill-boy has settled your tab for tonight. Beyond that, well, you might find yourself de- fending your territory." His sidelong gaze drifted indiffer- ently across Nikki, then settled on Mikhyel, still standing in his shadows. "All your territory."

"I think I can manage," Deymorin replied, relaxing now the stage had been set and the players identified.

"One man against seven. Brave words."

"Three," Nikki said, and Deymorin glared at him, willing him to keep his mouth shut.

"Three," Nikki insisted, ignoring him. "Where's your seven?"

The man scanned Nikki briefly. "A fop, a whore, and . . ."

Returning to Deymorin: "... just what are you, friend, other than very large?"

"What am I?" Deymorin bared his teeth. "Definitely not your friend. Now, if you don't mind, my unfriend. Suds, the fop, and I have had a long day. A very long day. So . . .

go play with your pack, will you? Thanks ever so." And when the man hesitated, Deymorin repeated, "Go, go, go!"

And shooed him away with several flips of his hand.

Ganfrion pulled back, narrow-eyedstartled, perhaps.

Deymorin noted the shift of weight, the mouth that opened slightly, preparing a retort that was left unrealized. Accus- tomed, more than like, to different results from his intimi- dation tactics. But the inmate shrugged, and sauntered off into the shadows.

"Fop?" Nikki sputtered when Ganfrion was gone.

"What's he babbling about? Who's a whore? Khyel, who was he?"

"Deymio?" Mikhyel's voice quivered around the edges; Deymorin felt sick, knew it for spillover and answered: "Go! Trust me."

His final words echoed to empty space. Mikhyel had dis- appeared into the darkness toward the latrine, leaving his gratitude floating in the air Deymorin breathed, and his cloak in a glittering heap on the littered floor.

It was some few moments before Deymorin could trust his own stomach enough to say: "Don't ask questions, Nikki. At least, not just now. Khyel negotiated us out of a very unpleasant"

Spasms ripped through Deymorin's gut. Instinct said pro- tect himself, shut Mikhyel out. But instinct be damned.

Twenty-seven years of being Khyel's older brother said his churning gut was no accident: Mikhyel had kept the reality of the last hour from him, as he he'd kept a hell of a lot else private, even during those moments of uncompromis- ing truth a month ago.

Whatever prompted Mikhyel to let this much through, whether anger, or spite, or just a desperate need for under- standing, trust was close behind. Trust that Deymorin would understand. Trust that Deymorin would help. Trust that Deymorin wouldn't reject him regardless of his reasons.

Either that, or Mikhyel sought to drive him away in total disgust. Perhaps Ganfrion wasn't the only one receiving a challenge tonight from Mikhyel dunMheric.

And with sensations as real as if he stood in the latrine beside Mikhyel, he had his arms around Mikhyel, holding him steady against the involuntary spasms, controlling his own rising bile, sending that control through his touch to Mikhyel.

{Doesn't matter. Barrister,} he thought as clearly and em- phatically as he knew how. {Doesn't matter. I'm here, brother. Always.} A return swell of relief and gratitude failed to mask Mikhyel's residual resentment. Old resentment: a sense of disbelief. Distrust based on a lifetime of Deymorin not being there. Of being left to face Mheric . . . Anheliaa . . .

And an almost overwhelming fear that his assurances were just words. That tomorrow, he'd be gone. Again. And it would be Mikhyel alone . . . again.

"I'm sorry, fry," Deymorin whispered out loud, for all there was no blame he could assume. Not this time. He couldn't have stood between Mikhyel and Ganfrion, and been with Oshram as well Another spasm; a sense of bitterness, of frustration and self-anger. And he felt Mikhyel sink to his knees, felt the damp stone against his brow.

Deymorin clenched his fists. There was nothing he could do, short of following Mikhyel to the latrine. And for that, Mikhyel would never forgive him.

"Deymio?" Nikki asked softly, and gripped his elbow, then pulled away as if stung. "Rings, Deymio, what's going on?"

"Felt that, did you?" Deymorin swallowed hard. "I don't think Mikhyel meant you to. He's still unwell, Nikki. Those men, well, you heard the one. His name is Ganfrion.

They've made some assumptions about Mikhyel and my- selfperhaps you as well. You be careful who you turn your back on, hear me? Mikhyel has . . . promoted those assumptions because it's far simpler than the truth."

"Not to mention safer," Mikhyel finished firmly, re- turning to their small pool of light, radiating self-assurance.

(They mustn't learn who we are, Nikki.} But Nikki just shook his head, and his half-understanding, his frustration, permeated that underneath sense. Nikki didn't hear as clearly as Deymorin did, not even when Mikhyel wanted him to, although he'd heard well enough when Mikhyel had demanded he hear.

And Nikki still hadn't figured out what had happened, that was crystal clear from the half-thoughts and images he spewed like a flood-driven fountain.

Hell, Deymorin thought, he hadn't put all the pieces into their proper places. He only knew he'd never felt so useless in all his life.

Mikhyel drew closer and continued, aloud, but very softly, and Deymorin felt it in his head as well: a dual expression that Nikki did apparently follow. At least his confused frustration eased from his corner of the mind- triangle.

"But why did he call you a hill-boy? What did you tell him?"

"Nothing, Nikki. They He decided that on his own. I saw no reason to correct him. Whatever misconceptions these men make can't be as dangerous to us as their associ- ating us with the High Court that sent them here. They're not really very happy with Mikhyel dunMheric, and there's no way of telling what they'd do to his brothers to get at him. They've little enough to lose at this point, and the simple fact that we're here means someone wouldn't be all that upset if we never left."

"But what did they"

"Nothing you need to know about, Nikki. Just, for all our sakes, stay close to Deymio. You're young. You're"

{Innocent*ignorant} filled the underneath, but Mikhyel didn't say the words, and because Mikhyel didn't say, Nikki didn't hear. "That's like blood in the water to these men."

Deymorin opened his mouth to object that ignorance was not an asset here, but Mikhyel had turned away, mentally as well as physically.

"Well, fop and unfriend. I'm for bed, such as it is," Mikhyel said, in natural tones, and picked up his cloak in two-fin- gered repugnance. "The sooner to sleep, the sooner morn- ing and light."

He disappeared under the steps into their negotiated ter- ritory, leaving behind a shadowy need for conferenceat least in Deymorin's mind. Deymorin caught Nikki's eye and jerked his head to follow.

Closer examination revealed the area, as promised, unoc- cupied, for reasons that rapidly came clear. Cold air rushed in from several narrow openings in the stone, pumped in, one end in the air circulation system.

Cursing loudly to satisfy the hardened humor of the in- mates who had hustled them, they found a spot near the corner where they could huddle together in fair comfort.

Nikki dropped down next to Deymorin.

Mikhyel kept apart. Standing.

"So, Deymio," Mikhyel began, in that bilevel voice, "what did your friend Oshram have to say about our arrest?"

"Tower orders."