"And you lost that gods-be-forever-damned debate be- cause you never got it through your thick head that not all cities were Rhomatum! Shatum never wanted Khoratum capped. They knew it would make Rhomatum immeasur- ably more powerful, and the ringmaster doesn't exist that trusts another ringmaster, especially Anheliaa of Rhomatum!"

"Then why the hell did they sign Anheliaa's fucking contracts?"

"I don't damnwell know]"

Mikhyel had stopped pacing to face him. They were shouting at one another now, as they hadn't for years.

"I don't . . . damnwell know," Mikhyel repeated in a quieter tone, and he began pacing again. "It makes no sense. It never has made sense. Anheliaa promised some- one something somewhere. I was hoping to find some clue in Shatum. I kept waiting for someone to ask specifically, but there was nothing. And there should have been. The Southern Crescent historically depended on the strength of the storm belt to help keep the Kirish'lan raiders at bay."

"Raiders, hell," Deymorin broke in. "Shatum wanted to be the solitary overland funnel for the Kirish'lan traders. I was fighting for the rights of farmers and timbermen; the Shatumin Ringmaster wanted the graft from the trading caravans, guaranteeing crossings. Once the storms eased, free traders began making solo passages, taking their chances and more often than not surviving, and cutting into Shatumin profits."

"What difference did it make? Their goal was the same as yours. You both wanted Khoratum left open. You've never understood the difference between motivation and ac- tion"

"What good is the one without the other?"

"It gets the damn job done."

"While compromising a man's soul."

Mikhyel spun about in mid-stride to face him. "Dey- morin, there's a world of difference between a man's soul and the moral compromises he makes for the sake of a nation."

Deymorin frowned. Then asked, quietly, "Khyel, what the hell are we arguing about?"

Breaths, deep and trembling, fluttered the lace at Mikhy- el's throat.

Deymorin held out his hand, offering that solution, and Mikhyel's hand lifted . . . reached . . . then jerked back.

A rejection more painful than a fist to his face.

"We're discussing the efficacy of your presence during my negotiations," Mikhyel said firmly. "Yours is a . . . a difficult presence to transcend."

"Is .that why you damned near choked me in Shatum?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Nikki warned me to be careful of that power of yours.

Just how much did you learn from Anheliaa, little brother"

You damned near froze my throat solid. If you want me to let you talk, you can damn well ask in a civilized manner!

Otherwise, I don't see a lick of difference between your tactics and Anheliaa's except you don't need the fucking rings to do your dirty work for you!"

"Neither do you," Mikhyel said, his face as blank as vir- gin marble. And Deymorin remembered that same meeting in Shatum, recalled Mikhyel staggering in mid-sentence, wasn't certain whether it was Mikhyel supplying the mem- ory or not.

"If that answer matters to you, Deymorin, we might as well give up now. I'll not be accounting for myself and my actions during an invasion of my territory, and a disruption of my preplanned attack. I'll not apologize, not for what I say or do with determination, not for the collateral conse- quences of this curse we carry."

" 'Collateral consequences.' Is that what you call damn near choking me?"

"I didn't know, Deymorin. I just knew I needed you not to talk."

And what he didn't say . . . that the attack had been both ways. He told Deymorin not to condemn him. What Deymorin should note, Kiyrstin would say, was that Mi- khyel did not condemn him for nearly knocking him cold in mid-argument, and then ordering him to get them both out of the situation.

"What was I supposed to do?" Mikhyel asked. "Stop in the middle of a meeting to chastise abject stupidity? What was I going to say? Shut up, fool?"

"Yes."

A two-beat pause, then a flat, "Shut up, fool."

"Is that a joke?" Deymorin responded hopefully.

"Should I laugh?"

"Deymorin, what does it take to get through to you?

What must I say to get you out of my life and on with your own?"

"I'm just trying to"

"What makes you think I need help? And what's to stop all those people from assuming I need you there when you cut my meat for me at the dining table?"

Deymorin tried a teasing grin. "Well, you weren't eating enough to keep a newt alive."

Mikhyel uttered a frustrated curse and threw his hands in the air.

"What was I supposed to do?" Deymorin asked. "You think I've wanted to dance attendance on you? You've been one step short of a cliff edge ever since Anheliaa died.

You're the one who put your faith in a killer. You're the one who's been attracting animated corpses. You're the one who nearly cracked in Shatum at the mere mention of An- heliaa and Boreton! You're the one who's been stumbling over your words like a pubescent whose voice hasn't changed. I don't know what's happened to you, but"

"You've happened, big brother"

"But"

"And when you're quiet in my head. I'm making excuses for what you're saying aloud]"

"Now wait just one damned"

"I doubt you'll like their assessment of you any better than mine. Bad enough to face them as the proxy of the mythical eldest Rhomandi. Now I'm speaking for you with you sitting beside me, with your friendly, all-encompassing grin and massive presence, everybody's best friend."

"What's wrong with that?"

Mikhyel scowled at him, lips pressed together. When he answered, it was one, short word. "Provincial."

Deymorin lifted his chin, refusing to snap.

"Learn to talk less and observe more, big brother'. You're too damned open. Too obvious. You get them happy drunk, they smile and say exactly what you want them to say, agree to anything you propose, and you find out nothing.

Settle nothing. Get nothing on paper. Maybe you can oper- ate on a handshake and a promise Outside. In the City limitsany City limits1 guarantee, they'll deny it as soon as they're sober."

"They didn't."

"Because * got it on paper. With their secretaries as wit- ness. Before they were sober."

"And while I was pouring the wine."

Mikhyel shrugged.

"But that doesn't gain you the respect you need, is that what you're saying?"

"Nor you, Deymorin. We're supposed to be presenting a viable partnership. We're supposed to be reassuring them of Rhomatum's continued strength. We're not doing very well so far."

Old suspicions. Old schisms. And old habits. As he con- sidered Mikhyel's words, he wondered at his own recent behavior. He'd not been in the habit of overindulgence for some years.

But he hadn't been drunknot at Shatum. Not until Mikhyel showed up. And then he'd swallowed as fast as Varishmandi had poured. Because Mikhyel had expected it.

They'd acknowledged his interference with Mikhyel's thoughts, but they'd not considered the effect of Mikhyel's expectations over his actions.

Even so, he had to wonder whether his own actions were the result not so much Mikhyel's expectations, but of old, old patterns, the old challenges to each other's behavior that had driven a wedge between them for years.

A niggling pressure in his head: acquiescence from Mi- khyel. He grinned wryly.

"It may be a good thing I wasn't around all those years."

"Maybe it is."

Time and separation had allowed them both to mature.

It would take more time and careful exposure to eradicate those entrenched and mutually destructive habits and expectations.

But in cold blood, he knew Mikhyel was right. And that was his thought, and none of Mikhyel.

He held out his hand, clasped Mikhyel's arm wrist to wrist in the intimate farewell of closest trust, and realized as his fingers touched, easily encircling Mikhyel's thin fore- arm, another reason for his reluctance to leave his physi- cally delicate brother.

Like the tingling in the air before a storm, Mikhyel's frustration permeated his skin through that pulse-to-pulse touch.

"Rings, Deymio, I can't imagine how I ever survived without you."

"I can't help worrying, Khyel. You're not halfway through this trip. You're already showing the effects of too little sleep and not enough food"

Mikhyel avoided his gaze, but touch revealed a wry choice that was no choice at all. Of a stomach unwilling to hold anything down.

"Funny, I never took you for the nervous type."

"Nervous? Not really. Terrified might begin to cover it.

But I always am, Deymorin. I spent the entire night before I faced you in Council over the Khoratum affair, throwing up. It's never gotten any better."

And Deymorin had never seen a colder visage than his brother had worn that day.

"It keeps my wits sharp."

"So that's your secret."

Mikhyel grinned at last. "Only one of them, brother.

Only one." He released Deymorin and jerked his head toward the door. "I promise you, I won't starve. Raul won't let me. Now get out of here, will you? I want to make Barsitum before midnight."

"If they don't get you there"

"Don't worry. Ganfrion knows this country well."

Deymorin paused at the door, one glove on, the other balanced in his hand. "I can't believe you made a deal with that man, Khyel."

"He's exactly what I need."

"You really trust his honor?"

"His honor? No, not in the least."

"Khyel, dammit"

Mikhyel laughed. "Get out, Deymio. If my judgment proves at fault, well, I'll leave you Ganfrion in my will."

Deymorin eyed him a moment, stretched an imperative hand, which Mikhyel accepted without hesitation. What came through to Deymorin now was anticipation. Determi- nation. Even a hint of excitement. And most importantly, confidence in himself and his abilities.

Deymorin chuckled. "About time, fry. Keep in touch."

And with a parting jab at Mikhyel's shoulder, he was out the door.

~ 8 ~.

Mikhyel stood on the veranda rubbing feeling back into his shoulder, while Deymorin and his men mounted and sorted themselves into pairs. Deymorin's horse seemed in a particularly foul mood, bucking and twisting under him, and good-natured shouts filled the airlaughter, and offers of a grandmother's pregnant mare.

Deymorin sat quietly, as if the world erupting beneath him were an everyday occurrence, and only Mikhyel, of all those watching, knew the jolt of pain that accompanied each stiff-legged impact.

Deymorin had been too long away from his Kiyrstin's hands: his old back injury was flaring. But the creature finally settled, and Deymorin lifted his hand to Mikhyel in farewell, his grin unabated, and rode out the stableyard gate at what appeared a most energetic bouncing step.

With every jogging stride, Mikhyel's sense of Deymorin faded.

"About time."

It was an almost-echo of Deymorin's words, and Mikhyel turned half-about to discover a body nearly as large as Deymorin's blocking the entrance to the inn.

"You're a spineless ass when he's around," Ganfrion continued, staring at the double column exiting the stableyard.

Mikhyel stiffened. Deymorin had his reservations about Ganfrion; Mikhyel had his own.

"Tell Captain Ori to get the men mounted," he said, brushing past him. "We're leaving immediately."