"So," Kiyrstin said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "how long do I give you?"

Forever, was the quip that rose to Deymorin's tongue, but never escaped. He was all too aware, at the moment, of just how much he'd begun to take their future together for granted.

"Take that look off your face, Rhomandi," she said softly. "We don't walk a safe path. We haven't since we met."

"Is it so easy for you?"

"Easy? To watch you go out that door, not knowing if you'll come back? Not at all. And it never will be. But neither will I waste time and energy worrying about some- thing over which I have no control." She took his face between her hands. "I love you, JD. I have loved you. I look forward to loving you for the rest of my lifeor yours.

Short or long, that time has been well spent."

She kissed him lingeringly, then let him go with a brisk pat on the cheek. " 'Sides, Deymio-luvie, I don't intend f stick around if the locals go bad. I'll ditch these fancies, swipe another pair o' Khyel's breeches from under ol' Rau- lind's nose, and hit the road. Meet you in the woods. Find us a lake or twowot ye say, luvie?"

He laughed because she expected it.

"Good plan. Except I'd cultivate Raulind's good will. Ac- cording to Khyel, he's more dangerous than he looks."

"Ah."

"Stay here with him," Deymorin said seriously. "Tell himhell, tell him everything you think he should know.

Trust his judgment, is the best I can advise.Raulind?"

The valet looked up from the small bag he was packing.

"Staying here is best, m'lady. There are routes from the Tower of which Mistress Lidye's men are quite ignorant. I have sent messages to Master Khyel's allies on the Hill.

Should necessity dictate, we will find at least temporary refuge with them."

"I knew I could count on you, Raul," Deymorin replied.

Raulind held out the valise and a cloak. "I'd prefer my efforts be wasted, m'lord Dee. Tell him his bath is waiting."

"I'll do that. Kiyrsti?"

She stopped him with her lips.

It was dark in the Crypt, long past the final lamp turn- down, and Deymorin ordered the lights left down. No sense, he pointed out to Sironi, in alerting those who might have hidden Mikhyel the first time.

{Khyel?) Deymorin sent out into that blackness. {For the love of Darius, brother, answer me!) He was there, Deymorin could sense that much, and alive. Relieved, Deymorin paused at the foot of the stairs, closed his eyes and listened to that inner voice. He was vaguely aware that inmates had risen, and were closing in through the dark, but Sironi was there, and Jerrik, with others of Tarim's guard.

In that darkness behind his eyelids: peace, warmth, the quiet of near sleep he'd learned to associate with Mikhyel at his most accessible. Too awake for dreams, too far into sleep for that wall he erected about his conscious self.

And Mikhyel's mind was quiet as it had been only on the best nights at Armayel.

There were vague sensations Deymorin's cognizant mind readily identified: a stout arm for a pillow, a second lying heavy along his side, and the warmth along his back was a large body.

Deymorin controlled the anger that flared, and traced those sensations, clear as a signal fire in the night, to their source. For all instinct demanded he hurry, cold prudence made him commit false probes into one dark warren after another. Sironi had claimed a thorough search had failed to locate Mikhyel; Deymorin's walking straight to wherever Mikhyel lay with that human pillow would raise far too many undesirable questions.

Besides, this way (he shot a deliberate wake-up call to that gradually stirring mind) Mikhyel would have time to prepare.

(Deymorin? Back here?} Returned to him, along with a surge of concern.

For him. The dolt. Deymorin caught that mental thread and sent back: {Come to take you home, fry.) Relief, then, and a sense of movement, vivid impressions that translated, moments later, to a shadowy figure at the edges of their flickering circle of light.

Two shadowy figures.

Deymorin froze, fists clenched. Mikhyel moved toward them, Ganfrion, an arrogantly-tilted head taller, at his back.

For a moment, Deymorin saw nothing except that dark, scarred face, the challenge issued -in Ganfrion's every move.

But for all Deymorin longed to plant a fist right in the middle of that arrogance, he couldn't. Ganfrion was a pris- oner, without recourse; Deymorin had arrived here with substantial backing.

Which wouldn't stop him from beginning immediate legal inquiries into the past of one Ganfrion of Sparingate Crypt.

Mikhyel stumbled, and thoughts of equity faltered as Ganfrion's blunt-fingered hands steadied his brother's strides. Bare-footed strides. Mikhyel was filthy, his face bruised, and a swelling around one eye threatened to turn purple by morning. And his clothing "Where's your coat?" he asked, by way of opening.

Mikhyel stopped.

"It's good to see you, too, Rhomandi," Mikhyel said in a voice as flat as that underneath sense. "And I'm fine, thank you for asking. How's the weather?"

The smallest man in the circle of light, his face as smooth as a twelve-year-old's, no coat, bare feet, his shirt in tatters . . . and he still managed to look down his nose at all of them.

Deymorin stifled a shout of relieved laughter. The Barris- ter was alive, healthy in all the truly important ways. Gan- frion might have had him in these past hours. Every man down here might have, but they hadn't defeated him. Not by any means.

He could get Mikhyel safely to the Tower, and see to these scum later.

You'll do nothing, Deymorin.) We'll see) Nothing.'} Are you all right, Khy?}

Silence.

"Fancy tailor," Deymorm said, aloud, and stared point- edly at the standard prison-issue gray that hung from Mik- hyel's waist, let his eyes drift to the bare feet below.

"Changing the Barrister's image?"

Mikhyel's mouth twitched, along with an eyebrow. "Con- sidering the size of the exchange, I don't envy the new owner's feet."

"Subtle as always, eh. Barrister?"

"Deymorin . . . " Mikhyel shook his head, then swept his hair back from his forehead. "Just . . . get me out of here?"

Underneath, Mikhyel was exhausted, and relieved, but little else, other than a sense that if Deymorin was here with Jerrikand joking, then all that comprised his world couldn't be collapsing.

"Sure, fry," he said quietly. He shook out the cloak he carried and flung it around Mikhyel's shoulders, setting Ganfrion back a step with a warning scowl.

"Thank you," Mikhyel said, drawing the cloak securely into place.

"Got a whole rig for you up in Oshram's office."

"I don't" Through his touch on Mikhyel's shoulders, Deymorin received a flashing desire just to be home, in his own bath, followed by a sense of Raulind's spider-fingered touch on his sore back.

{That good, is he?} Deymorin asked silently.

{Rings . . .} At least, he thought that was the essence of Mikhyel's mental sigh.

{Be careful. I'll steal him from you.) {You can't afford him, brother.} "So, do you want to just go home?" Deymorin asked, his head beginning to throb with that silent effort.

Temptation. That came through clearly, but he knew his meticulous brother, knew Mikhyel would want to make a dignified entry into the Tower, and so wasn't the least sur- prised when Mikhyel finally shook his head.

At the top of the staircase, Mikhyel paused and looked down, a slow, guarded scan of the blackness below. That scan paused when it reached Ganfrion, still in reach of the torches. Other shadows, barely visible, were closing in around the big prisoner.

Perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about legal retaliation after all.

Mikhyel's brow tightened, and Deymorin was ashamed of the thought.

But Mikhyel only said, as he turned and stepped out of the Crypt, "I hope to hell Raul remembered a hair clip."

~ ~