He drew a breath and stood up, drawing his cloak about him as he did so, painfully, distractingly aware of Deymorin.

"Yes?"

"Do you have your papers, Mikhyel dunMheric?"

And suddenly, despite his brother, past the plain cloth- ing, he recognized the man asking the questions, and his blood froze.

"I explained to the gate"

"Do you have your papers, Mikhyel dunMheric?" the man persisted.

The man's name was Sironi.

"INo, I"

He was gorTarim. Nikki's new wife's father's man.

"Then I'm afraid I must place you under arrest."

Deymio!

Deymorin jumped.

"Sorry, Rags," Kiyrstin said. "Too hard?"

"I No. Fine."

"Fine? That's it? Justfine?"

"No! Magnificent. Perfect. But"

{Gods, Deymio, I need} Mikhyel's voice. In his head.

He biinked. "Did you hear"

{Deymorin!} The thoughts were as clear as words, and fraught with embarrassment. {If you hear me . . .

Papers...} He cursed again, not at all softly. "It's Khyel. Something about the damned papers."

He gasped as, with a whispered, "Khyel can take care of himself," Kiyrstin returned to her previous pursuit.

But he'd never "heard" Mikhyel from so great a dis- tance, and he feared more than identity papers had put that edge of panic into Mikhyel's thoughts. A residual impres- sion of green-and-gold-uniformed men sent a wave of ice through him that overwhelmed all other emotions.

She cursed softly, and her eyes glittered up at him.

"Trouble?"

He nodded.

"Damn. Sorry." She stood up. "You get your clothes. I'll look for the buttons."

"Under arrest?" Deymorin repeated, doing his best to assume at least the appearance of outraged innocence. "On what charge? By whose order?"

Heads appeared in stable doorways; Deymorin frowned at them, and a few disappeared. Many did not, as vulgar curiosity unerringly sensed a feeding frenzy.

"Deymorin, please," Mikhyel said, and an urge for cau- tion filled that underneath sense. "Perhaps we should just go with them. Straighten this out in private."

The leader of this mixed guard smiled faintly. Two men in Rhomatum constabulary blue, three men in practical Outsider clothing, all openly armed, and this businesslike leader, who, by his moves, carried his own hidden arsenal beneath his middle-class clothing.

Deymorin found something profoundly disturbing about city constables taking orders from such an anonymous source.

But there was no sign of the green-and-gold uniforms he'd thought he'd seen in Mikhyel's mind, colors that he associated with Lidye Fericci dunTarimnow Lidye romNikeanor.

"What's this all about?" Nikki, flanked by two men, ap- peared from a side tunnel down which their horses had been stabled. His voice held the shrill edge of adolescent nerves. "Do you know who I am?"

Deymorin heard Mikhyel's soft groan, and Deymorin thought, or perhaps it was Mikhyel's thought: Not now, brother.

"I know who this man says you are, boy." The leader's eyes ran rudely over Nikki's rumpled figure, over clothing that had been a dandy's pride this morning, before wild rides through storms and horses that needed grooming had taken their ruthless toll.

"Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric," the leader said, refer- ring ostentatiously to the gatekeeper's note. "The third I've arrested this week."

"Third?" Nikki repeated and biinked, the arrogance fad- ing. "What are you talking about?"

"Surely you don't believe you're the only one to hear the rumors that the Lady Lidye's husband survived the valley holocaust? I will say, you're the most complete group of imposters we've arrested so far. I don't suppose you have your papers. No? The Rhomandi seal ring, perhaps?" The man's brows rose expectantly, his gaze moving again from one to the other of them.

In vain, as it happened. The family ring to which he referred had surely melted, along with the Mauritumin hand illegally bearing it, in a blast of ley-induced lightning.

That "holocaust" to which this fellow so blithely referred.

The Boreton Turnout had been a horror, but the devasta- tion had been exceedingly localized. And this official was calling it a holocaust? One did have to wonder at the sources of the rumors and the panic, when officials were using such language in the presence of ordinary citizens.

But Deymorin held his peace. There were procedures for them to go through, papers to fill out . . . hell, they'd send to the Tower for someone to come identify them and have their release authorized by the time they finished those forms.

The leader referred again to the gatekeeper's notes. "It says here that you are the Rhomandi, Deymorin, dun- Mheric, Princeps of Rhomatum. That this woman is Kiyr- stine romGaretti, first wife of Garetti of Mauritum, and that these are your brothers, Mikhyel and Nikaenor, both of House Rhomandi, both dunMheric. Is that correct?"

"That's correct," Deymorin answered shortly.

"You are the Rhomandi?" the man repeated, and Dey- morin paused.

The Rhomandi. As if he were still the family patriarch.

Mikhyel had not made that claim. Wouldn't, meticulous bas- tard that he wasthat much hadn't changed. The gatekeeper, or this man himself, had inferred it, meaning Nikki's as- cendance to the title was not yet public knowledge.

They'd all agreed, at Armayel, that in all practical senses, Deymorin was still the Rhomandi, but they'd never imag- ined the issue coming up under quite these circumstances, and considering Nikki's belligerent do you know who I am . . . Deymorin was no longer certain how to answer.

Yet even as he hesitated, that sense they shared carried Mikhyel's support, as well as Nikki's to acknowledge his title, and so Deymorin nodded once, briefly and without losing eye contact with the leader.

The man's eyes narrowed, and he seemed momentarily taken aback. But only for a moment.

"In that case," he stated firmly, "I must insist that you follow me."

8 8 8.

They didn't give her time to collect her cloakby the time Kiyrstin thought of that dereliction, it was far too late to remedy the situation.

The guards led them to an iron-barred passageway, the only such gateway she'd seen in this stony maze. While the leader unlocked the gate, the guards collected torches from the floor, old-fashioned light sources that flared at the touch of the punk left simmering in a pot beside the doorway.

The grim-faced leader ordered them to sort themselves, two and two, and then led the way into the wide tunnel.

They followed, Nikki and Deymorin to the front, herself and Mikhyel behind. It was a conscious sort, at least on her part, and, from the look he cast her, an arrangement Mikhyel welcomed.

Mikhyel claimed he found her presence restful. Of course, considering her competition for the honor, she didn't set overmuch store on Mikhyel's choice of adjectives.

There were times, Mikhyel had revealed to her at Armayel, when his brothers' thoughts could nearly overwhelm his own thinking.

She could well imagine that this was one of those times.

Mikhyel stumbled; she caught his elbow and steadied him.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"My pleasure," she murmured back; and when the guards failed to object, she ventured, "Is it Deymorin?"

He nodded.

"His leg?"

"In part."

"How bad is it?"

"Worse than at Armayel."

"His leg? Or just how much you're picking up on him?"

"Both." Gray eyes shifted toward her in a low, sidelong stare fraught with innuendo. And Kiyrstin thought of what she'd been doing with Deymorin, and who Mikhyel had been talking to at that same moment.

"Oh, dear," she said. "I'm sorry, Mikhyel. Truly."

"Could have been worse."

"By another minute?"

A momentary pause, then his shoulders began to shake.

"You might say that."

Another stumble. This time she was ready.

"Damn you, Deymorin."'

She barely caught his muttered whisper.

"What's going on?"

"He's worried about me. Again. Rings, I get tired of it.

He's afraid I'll collapse, or something, and sometimes . . .

sometimes my knees just give. It's as if his thoughts" A curse coincided with another catch in his stride. "Bad enough to be hauled off to Sparingate. I'd prefer to make the trip with some remnants of dignity."

"You don't sound particularly concerned."

"I'm not exactly overjoyed, but there's little we can do until they tell us why we've been arrested. It could just be formality. I can think of several good reasons for processing anyone claiming to be a Rhomandi very carefully into the City, particularly if there are unknown individuals trying to impersonate us. On the other hand, you should know that these men" He glanced at his side, where a man in a blue uniform walked, eyes straight forward, pointedly granting them privacy. "Most of them, at least, are Ferricci."

"Lidye's father's men?"

"The web was down. The City's resources might well have been overtaxed, the constabulary willing to accept help from any quarter. Lidye's father was here for the wed- ding. Her husband disappeared the day after. I'm not sur- prised he's remained, considering what's at stake."

"Considering his daughter might just rule in Rhomatum?

Under the right circumstances, of course. Such as the Rho- mandi brothers in prison? And Anheliaa dead?"

Another long look, and a stride steadied before the rhythm could be disrupted.

"If Deymorin doesn't get you free of Garetti and marry you soon," Mikhyel said, "I'll do it myself."

"To keep you on your feet?"

His mouth twitched, and for a moment, she was almost sorry her heart had already been swallowed by his older brother.

"I thought you were promised to that young Giephaetum womanNethaalye," she reminded him.

"Well, there is that." His face took on a mournful look, then brightened. "Would you consider being a second?"

"Khyel," she said reprovingly. "I've been first wife to Garetti of Mauritum for fifteen years. Much as I love you, I'd have to decline."

"Better to be the Rhomandi's mistress, than the Rho- mandi's brother's second, eh?"

"Sad, what the standards of the world are coming to, isn't it?"

He laughed outright this time, which drew a startled look from the guards.

"Rings," he muttered, and his head turned away from her. When he turned back, his face was grim.

"The man in charge?" His lips barely moved, but she caught the question and nodded. "Sironi gorTarim."

GorTarim. A surname that indicated a man sworn for life to Tarim Ferricci. More than a hired guard. Much more.