He was certain, if that was indeed the case, that he'd hear all about it in the coming hours.

"Stay where you are," Mikhyel murmured to the rustling paper in the next row back, and joined those gathering at the window.

Impatient passengers poured from the open-sided cars as the train coasted to a halt, but Deymorin was not among them. Mikhyel refused to be anxious. Four of Deymorin's men, inconspicuously dressed and seemingly at ease, had been the first to step free of the forwardmost car; the sense told him Deymorin was near and well; beyond that, he kept his mind resolutely isolate.

Eventually, after the reverse wave of boarding passengers had cleared the dock, when Mikhyel was the last individual left standing at the window, Deymorin did appear, swinging free of the engine, a wide grin on his face.

Mikhyel relaxed, knowing now not only where his brother had been, but why his mind had been so unobtru- sive: Deymorin and Nikki shared a fascination with ma- chines not even that inner link could inspire in Mikhyel.

As his grinning guardsmen fell in on either side, Dey- morin waved a farewell salute to the engineer, skip-walking backward like an adolescent. The small engine answered with a burst of steam and a cheerful whistle as it pulled out.

Deymorin skipped about and took the lower stairs two at a time, throwing his head back to catch Mikhyel's eyes and broadcasting a cheerful mental announcement. But the sense turned dark and ill-tasting, Deymorin's hand fell, and his grin vanished into a black scowl, before he disappeared into the shadows below.

"All hail Prince Deymio, savior of Rhomatum, leader of the combined forces of the Rhomatum Syndicate. Who stopped Mauritum with sweets and toys." It was the gut- tural voice again, this time at his shoulder.

"I told you to stay back," Mikhyel said, knowing Gan- frion for the source of Deymorin's black humor.

Ganfrion shrugged. "I finished the paper." He folded the sheets with an economical flip, and tossed the paper to Mikhyel's abandoned chair. The room was empty now, save for themselves and a person of indeterminate age snoring quietly on a corner couch.

"You may go now."

Ganfrion slouched about, leaning against the window, arms crossed. "I better wait until the farm-boy gets here."

Despite his better sense, Mikhyel bristled. "Deymorin's no farm-boy."

"No?" Ganfrion's narrow, dark eyes rounded on him. "He followed me last night. Suds. Subtle as a bull moose in a glass house. Call him what you will, soldiers won't follow him."

"Deymorin's men would follow him to hell and back."

"Farmers." Ganfrion's scarred upper lip lifted. "I'm talk- ing soldiers. Suds. Mercenaries. Swords, guns, and death for hire."

"Men like you."

"Men like me."

Deymorin appeared at the door, scowling.

"You are dismissed," Mikhyel repeated firmly. He steadied the shoulder strap and headed for the door, determined, should Ganfrion press him further, to turn him over to Deymorin's charge, to let him see what kind of leader Deymorin was or was not.

That way, he'd be free of them both.

He'd hired Ganfrion in part because the inmate re- minded him of Deymorin; it was, he thought in retrospect as he brushed past Deymorin and headed down the hall, a very stupid reason.

~ ~ 8.

For once, Deymorin thought sourly, Ganfrion displayed a modicum of sense. The jail-rot remained at the window where he'd been standing too damned close to Mikhyel and nodded almost civilly to Deymorin, who dipped his own head a calculated degree, and followed Mikhyel.

His men were waiting in the hall, their eyes flitting be- tween himself and Mikhyel, who was already halfway toward the staircase that led to the station's main entrance.

Deymorin hurried after Mikhyel, all too aware of the angry silence closing his brother's mind off from him.

He'd read Ganfrion's file (compiled through his own sources), and, he would admit, with his node-wandering his- tory, and underworld contacts, Ganfrion could have been a useful adjunct.

To another man's entourage.

Pacing Mikhyel as they passed from one building to the next, he caught the flicker of eye, the half-twist of Mikhyel's dark head that indicated he was under covert inspection.

Laughing, he held out his hands, first palm up, then down.

"Greaseless, I assure you, brother. Would you like to check behind my ears?"

Which neither gained him the laughter he hoped for nor eased that inward tension. Mikhyel's jaw set, his face turned firmly to the front and grim.

"Trust me, Mikhyel."

"The way you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you."

"So much so, you insisted on attending this meeting."

"I didn't insist, they obviously expected it. I thought it would be rude not to."

"You weren't supposed to be here at all."

"I thought you'd appreciate the support."

Mikhyel said nothing, and Mikhyel kept that mental dis- tance that had a vague tendency to chill Deymorin's heart with an ice that could spread clear to his fingertips if he allowed it go unchallenged.

"Ganfrion's not coming?" Deymorin asked, fighting that chill, seeking the root of this argument.

"No."

"I read his file."

"I know."

And Mikhyel didn't care what Deymorin thought. Not now. That came through clearly, just in his silence.

"You should have On with you. And a couple of his men."

"I had Ganfrion."

"And you told me that Ganfrion was not one of your guard. Yda were quite specific on that point."

MikhyeB flung him a look that swept past him to his men.

"How largt: a guard do you think I can flaunt before the locals take offense? This is Shatum, brother. Not Mauritum.

Just in case you've forgotten."

Deymorin set his jaw on the retort that rose. The issue wasn't that simple, but Mikhyel knew that. Mikhyel knew there were those throughout the web who would happily see the end of the Rhomandi era in Rhomatum. Wasn't that why he'd hired Ganfrion in the first place? To ferret out that infor- mation and discover its roots? He should let his spies do their job and in the meantime, keep a sensible protective layer between himself and people he damnwell didn't know.

"Is that why you were in the engine? Alone?" Mikhyel asked, out of his thoughts.

"I had my men with me." He nodded to Belinh and Ghestrovii walking to their front.

"As did 1. Until you arrived with yours."

"And if we get separated? They'll come with me, Khyel, regardless of what I tell them."

"And were they with you last night when you were trail- ing Ganfrion?"

His teeth grated, one on the other. Mikhyel knew damn well he didn't trust Ganfrion. The fact that he'd followed the inmate into some of the darker shadows of Shatum was his business. Besides: "I can" Take care of myself, he caught the words be- fore voicing them, but it didn't take the link for Mikhyel to complete the sentiment.

"I see. Different rules for the Rhomandi than for his brother."

"I had my men."

"And who in addition to Ganfrion spotted you? Perhaps you should reexamine your own wisdom, Rhomandi."

Deymorin pressed his lips tight. Mikhyel was angry. Mi- khyel was making deliberately provocative statements.

More than likely Mikhyel was nervous about this meeting.

Unnecessarily, Deymorin was certain. These past nights, long after Deymorin had flung himself exhausted into bed, he would wake to images in his head of candlelight and notes and maps spread about a table, and Mikhyel's long- fingered hands, the newly cast Rhomandi ring glittering in the flickering light as the hand bearing it turned a page.

No, his concerns now had nothing to do witl Mikhyel's persuasive abilities in the civilized arenas his eloquent and elegant brother was accustomed to treading. It Was this no- tion Mikhyel had taken of probing more deeply into the underground factions within the nodes. He feared that Mi- khyel's strange new obsession would lead him into situa- tions far beyond Mikhyel's ability to survive.

Mikhyel called him a hypocrite, and cut him off cold when he tried to discuss it. But there was a helplessness to Mikhyel that frightened him. A vulnerability that went be- yond his physical frailty. Deymorin was haunted by images of Mikhyel lying crumpled on the ground at Boreton, be- side his bed, limp in the arms of that animated corpse, in the garden with Nikki flailing at him. . . .

And that vision in Mikhyel's head of Mheric Rhomandi's crop-wielding hand bearing down on him. Mikhyel denied the link, rejected the possibility that Mheric's actions had so deeply affected him, but Deymorin recalled the prison, Mikhyel's passivity with Ganfrion and five other "Damn you!" Mikhyel hissed at him, and Mikhyel in- creased his pace, pulling ahead of Deymorin's limping stride, and Deymorin made no attempt to catch him up. His leg throbbed like a rotted tooth; he'd twisted his back trying to see the underside of the engine's control panel, and without Kiyrstin available to work her ten-fingered magic, he saw no reason to aggravate it for a brother determined to ignore him.

{Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric, if you can't get your mind on the meeting, get the hell out of Shatum!} By the time his head stopped ringing and his vision cleared, they had arrived at the conference chamber.

Chapter Thre.

IntroductiPJls were a droning formality, a matter of Princeps Ttekharin dunPwirriin apologizing for the sudden change t schedule, and explaining how the Rhomandi would enlighten them all as to the reason for that change.

Nine men and three women, chosen advocates of the twelve Shatumin guilds. Primary among those guilds was, of course, the Leythium Guild that included all handlers of the ley, from the growth-chamber attendants to Talin Pasingarim, the senior Shatumin Ringmaster, who was, nat- urally, their advocate at this meeting. Lawyers and accoun- tantsin this city that was the major trade conduit for the Kirish'lan Empire, those guilds were second only to the Leythium Guild.

Except, possibly, for old Kharl Varishmondi, standing next to the window, staring out at his beloved Lake Yakhi- marrha. The patriarch of the Varishmondi shipbuilders, who formed a guild unto themselves, the old man's opinion undoubtedly carried more weight than any five others, should he care to make that opinion known.

Kharl had been a frequent visitor to Darhaven when Mheric was alive. Since Mheric's death, Deymorin hadn't seen him.

Beyond that, if he wanted to know the names, Deymorin had the list, Mikhyel had seen to that, but he was here to observe only, moral support for his brother, and once the introductions were complete, he was more than willing to nod pleasantly, and sit down, tacitly declaring Mikhyel in charge.

Mikhyel remained standing, neither by word nor glance acknowledging his gesture.

Resentment flared, until he noticed the silent looks being passed about the table, and realized Mikhyel could not af- ford to register gratitude, could not even think gratitude.

Mikhyel would concede to no one in this roomincluding Mikhyel himselfthat so important a moment was being abdicated to the lesser Rhomandi.

Mikhyel o~ed with a general statement of appreciation for them gatnering on such short notice and with so little explanation, and an apology for any inconvenience their changed schedules might have caused them.

In a delivery that never hinted of rehearsal, Mikhyel shifted smoothly into a personal greeting to each guild ad- vocate, including in that greeting some recognition of the guild's work in general and the advocate's persooaal accom- plishments in particular. Deymorin resisted the temptation to stare, knowing that three days ago, Mikhyel hadn't known a yardarm from a beater bar.

If ever Deymorin had doubted the wisdom of sending Mikhyel on this tour, it vanished then. Even had Deymorin tried to make similar use of Nikki's notes, he'd never have matched Mikhyel's near-intimate delivery.

Neither could he match Mikhyel's sense of timing. While the first mentioned still preened, those yet to hear their own tributes were leaning slightly forward, and all of them surreptitiously eyed their fellows, evaluating the relative prestige of their acts, making sure their fellows were equally cognizant of their efforts as this perceptive foreigner.

He could appreciate that talent now, in a way he couldn't when they'd matched verbal blades before the Syndicate in Rhomatum.

Even old Varishmondi turned slowly from his window, as Mikhyel's litany reached him at last. His gray head tilled as he made a shaggy-browed assessment of Mikhyel, then slowly, deliberately, the big man's backbone relaxed, his arms crossed and he leaned his broad shoulders back into the window frame, one leg rising to prop in casual ease on the sill.

Mikhyel tipped his head in acknowledgment, then, with another smooth feint, shifted his attack.

"I also apologize for the lack of information you have been given. That was, I freely admit, at my request, so blame me, not your honorable princeps. I thought impa- tience might be better than speculation based on insuffi- cient information. I wanted to be available to answer those speculations as they arose."

"Is Anheliaa dead?" Abrupt, rude, without preamble, the question came from one of the advocates. Which, Deymorin wasn't sure.

But Mikhyelstaring straight at a man half-again his sizeobviously did know.

Mikhyel, in fact, answered as abruptly, "Yes."

A forthrightness that obviously rocked the large man, who biinked and sat back in his chair.

"If I may, dunMheric?" a more reasonable voice inter- jected, and Mikhyel nodded. "When did she die?"

"The-neighteenth day of the third month."

A maftient's silence, then a third voice commented, "The day th storms subsided." The ringmaster, Deymorin thought, Pasingarim. "The day the power returned."

And another: "The day Persitum dropped from the web."

Mikhyel stood quietly as those observations took root.

Then, he said, "I will be happy, honorable advocates, to answer your questions, but if you will allow me a few mo- ments to lay the groundwork . . ."

"One question only." Pasingarim again. "Who has been master in Rhomatum Tower since Anheliaa's death?"