"Oshram?" Mikhyel reached a hand to Nikki, who grabbed it and hauled him to his feet, then steadied him when his balance wavered. "Dare I hope that you can by any chance get us out of here?"

Oshram stepped closer, a puzzled look on his face. And his gaze shifted from himself to Nikki and up to Deymorin, before coming back to him, still puzzled. The man didn't recognize him, for all the Warden of Sparingate had been present in the High Court innumerable times.

Or he did recognize him and was prudently saying noth- ing the inmates slowly edging closer might hear. Which cau- tion did not bode well for their immediate removal from this ward.

"Can you at least tell us why we're here?" Deymorin asked, and Mikhyel felt his brother's impatience rising, sent cautionary thought back.

Oshram's eyes flickered toward the shadowy inmates, the surrounding guards at the top of the stairs and keeping those inmates back. "Well, Deymio, since Sironi didn't see fit to tell 'ee, I can't see m' own way f doin' it."

"Why should a visiting dignitary's guard's dereliction of duty keep you from following proper Rhomatum proce- dure?" Mikhyel asked pointedly.

Another flicker of eyestoward the guards, Mikhyel would swear it was wariness of the guards, not the inmates.

"IIf 'ee don' mind, Deymio m' lad. I'd like ye f come wi' me f th' office. Get me the partic'lars on the situation."

A silent question permeated the link: Deymorin wonder- ing if he should go with Oshram, or send Mikhyel. He thought that Mikhyel would be safer with Oshram, but that Oshram might speak more freely to him than to Mikhyel.

Mikhyel's immediate {Go!} intersected Nikki's agreement and support, and the whole formed a dizzying, multifaceted decision process that culminated in Deymorin's departure with Oshram.

But as he followed Oshram out the door, Deymorin's concern nearly deafened Mikhyel. Concern for Mikhyel, alone among these men he'd sentenced, for Nikki, so very young, and in many ways naive. And Deymorin's demand for them to stick together, and a concern that they'd al- ready been too free in their use of names and associations.

Too free, indeed. He, who was their greatest liability in this place of convicts, had been babbling like a half-wit when he came to. He could excuse his actions on the grounds that his brains had been addled by the fall, but excuses wouldn't make him any healthier, if the inmates had heard and decided today's revenge was worth tomor- row's price.

As Mikhyel's sense of Deymorin dissipated, a gnawing pressure below his gut grew all-consuming, and for a mo- ment he seriously considered (tired as he was) relieving himself where he stood. From the smell, he wouldn't be the first.

And then he realized that pressure wasn't his, any more than the embarrassment surrounding it was his.

"Excuse me," he said to Nikki, and thought deliberately of that mental map he had of this place, and of the latrine he'd noted from above.

"Thanks," Nikki muttered, and darted into the shadows.

Gods knew what Nikki had been watching as he came down the stairs. Too late, Mikhyel recalled Deymorin's ad- monition to stick together, which was only common sense, but decided he'd rather risk Deymorin's wrath than Nikki's.

Besides, at the moment, he seriously had to sit down.

The step met his tailbone rather more abruptly than he could wish, but the minor discomfort seemed to clear his brothers from his mind. At least for a moment. He buried his head in crossed arms, limp and sore, needing all his remaining strength simply to stay awake.

That was all he asked, now. Because as long as he was awake, his thoughts were his own. Once he fell asleep, the Nightmare lurked, waiting to suck them all in.

Fell asleep . . . or passed out.

Or panicked. He was a damned pistol on a leyroad, wait- ing to explode at random. That nightmare had affected all three of them more than once this past month. And it radi- ated from his mind with a force that penetrated even Nikki's resistant mind.

The dream was all he personally remembered of the fire- storm. Deymorin had filled in details, such as he under- stood them, but enormous gaps still plagued him.

He'd been in the Tower . . . Anheliaa had had him brought to the Tower. He'd forgotten that. Brolucci gorAn- heliaa, captain of Anheliaa's Tower Guard, had pulled him from his bed and taken him to the ringchamber. There, using the imaging sphere in the center of the Rhomatum Rings and his then-embryonic link with his brothers, Anhe- liaa had seen Deymorin at Boreton. And Nikki. In the wagon. Injured. Scared.

And Anheliaa had seen the Mauritumin machine, recog- nized its danger, and determined to destroy itat any cost.

Her desaeor his ownhad sent him through, had caused him to transfer instantly from Rhomatum Tower to the Boreton Turnout. Somehow, that transfer had completed a bridge to Rhomatum and Anheliaa's Tower-generated fire had destroyed the machine and all those around it.

Only he and his brothers and Kiyrstin had escaped.

Deymorin's mind pictures held images of the aftermath of that firestorm. And of himself, sprawled naked on the ground. And thoughts of pamicci salve that had healed those unnaturally acquired burns, save for a handful of scars on his back. . . .

Salve that healed his skin but stripped it of all the hair that proclaimed a man no longer a child. Stripped him most noticeably of the beard he'd worn all his adult life. The beard whose absence now caused even his brothers to for- get sometimes who he was.

He cursed that loss as he cursed the link that plagued him night and day, that stole his autonomy from him as the too-smooth face stole his painfully acquired individuality.

Deymorin had used that link, forged in the fires of Bore- ton, to enter his mind and draw him out of an equitable (damn it all) escape from a life filled with compromises and mistakes, a life finally justified in that single action that had saved his brothers.

He'd told Deymorin once, when Nikki balanced on death's door and Mikhyel himself was nearly mindless with pain, that he wished this cursed link with his brothers had never happened. While Deymorin had tried to understand, had said all the right words, his injured feelings had perme- ated and overwhelmed Mikhyel's objections, and Mikhyel had never again broached the subject.

Deymorin was convinced they were all better for the link.

Deymorin talked of memories shared, pointed out their new understanding that would have been impossible with- out this damnable connection. And if that was the case, if that forgotten (on his part) sharing accounted for his revi- talized relationship with Deymorin, he supposed he was grateful, overall.

On the other hand, he could guess what memories Dey- morin had tapped, and there were times he wished they were back to where they'd been a year ago, sniping suspi- ciously at each other, but private individuals, responsible only to their own conscience. Their thoughtsparticularly their memoriestheir own.

His own.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

It was a deep voice, with a cultured veneer to the accent.

Eastern . . . Fharatumin, or Khoratumin, or perhaps nei- ther. City of origin hardly mattered here.

"Pretty hair." That was a different voice. Closer. Com- mon in every sense. "Washed it this mornin', less I misses m' bet."

"Sureties find no takers, Adris. And I doubt that's all he washed." The first voice, and overhead. Given that much warning, Mikhyel managed not to flinch when a hand brushed lightly over his head, then lifted the braid lying heavy between his shoulder blades. A tug, not so light.

"Give us a looksee. Suds."

Curious how in all his concerns about what he might encounter here, he'd overlooked the most obvious.

Mikhyel lifted his head slowly, then recoiled from a lamp thrust toward his face. The owner of the first voice whistled softly through his teeth, and the hand left his hair to grip his chin, holding him still for that lamplit inspection.

For his part, his eyes still over-sensitive to light, Mikhyel could see nothing, not even shadows, beyond that blinding glare. The callused fingers released his chin at last, and rubbed his cheek curiously.

"Smooth as a baby's butt. Funny, you don't look that young."

"Hill-boy, Ganfrion, that's what he is. Smooth chin.

Black hair. Gray eyes"

"Gray? I thought they were green. Open wide. Suds."

Mikhyel frowned, and jerked away. The callused fingers slapped him lightly, and gripped his chin again. "I said open."

He set his jaw and biinked into the light, his eyes begin- ning to water.

Panic was his enemy, he understood the ways of Sparin- gate well enough to know that. And while they might push, this early in the game, to push too hard, too fast was to waste a valuable commodityamusementin a place where amusements were at a premium and time was in oversupply.

The first voice, Ganfrion, grunted. "Telling tales on your keeper, were you. Suds? Thought they kept the whore-spies upstairsaway from corrupting influences. Who's the giant Osh'm ran off with. Your owner?"

Whore-spies and keepers. Better, Mikhyel thought, than the truth.

"Hill-boy, I tell you. Look here." Someone jerked at his forearm, tore the lace away and gripped the wrist. "Break it with one hand, I could. Whaddya think, prison-scut?

Any takers?"

Real fear gripped him then. He fought it down, knowing his panic would consume his brothers as well.

But this new hazard threatened his calm in a way Ganfri- on's innuendo did not. Forced sex, that was to be expected here, amusement and dominance established in one eco- nomical act. Even an honest beating or two, for the same purpose. In that sense, nothing these men could do could be worse than what he'd survived at Mheric's hands.

He'd learned there was a spot inside, as quiet and safe as the closet at Armayel. Safer, not even Mheric could find him there. And when he came out, it was over.

But the thought of broken bones, here, where setting might be days away, if at all, of infection and lingering death . . . He shudderedthen cursed his own cowardice as the man holding his wrist laughed and tightened his grip.

Nikki, golden-haired, handsome . . . young, so very young . . . was only a handful of steps away. If he panicked, Nikki would hear. Nikki would come. . . .

He forced himself calm, found the safe spot within, and felt his arm relax. Such as he could past Ganfrion's immobi- lizing hold on his chin, he shifted his gaze to meet the other inmate's lizard-eyes, the fetid grin waiting for him to beg.

The grin faltered, the face went lax, and the clamp on his wrist eased.

"Let go, Brydn," the first voice, Ganfrion, ordered, in a quiet tone, a tone that expected obedience.

The face hardened. The vise-grip clenched again.

"Hub? Got bets, Gan''

The hand dropped his chin.

"I said letgo"

Mikhyel's hand fell and struck the stone stair before he had the wit to stop it, and Ganfrion, with a handful of cloak that caught the coat beneath as well, hauled him to his feet, held him there when his balance wavered.

The inmate was as tall as Deymorin. Mikhyel stared, un- focused, uncaring, at the ragged-edged collar. Not bad ma- terial, he thought absently. Faded stains, as if attempts had been made toward personal maintenance.

As a handGanfrion's, he supposedsmoothed his hair back from his face, he found himself drifting, as he'd learned to do years ago . . .

"So, Suds, you and your friends sleepy?"

. . . found himself wondering where Nikki was . . .

"First night's easy, Suds."

. . . wondering how long Deymorin would be . . .

"If you cooperate."

... knowing it would be too long . . .

"Second night Well, depends on how good you are, now, doesn't it?"

. .. and not giving a hell-sent damn.

Late in the evening, as the final supper crowd cleared and the dedicated drinkers began accumulating to discuss the day's events, the rijhili captaindunKarlon, Thyerri heard someone call himreturned, obviously on the prowl, as obviously having set upon Sakhithe as his chosen prey.

Thyerri tried to catch her eye, but she was laughing with a customer and he had an order to get back to the kitchen.

He paused at the bar to order a glass of mountain cari'U, on the house, which meant from his wages, but it was a gesture that, with luck, would distract the hunter from the hunt.

He dashed to the kitchen to leave the order, and dashed back Too late. Sakhithe's wrist was already imprisoned in the man's hand and tucked up behind her back, forcing her hip-first against his side.

Frustrated, but unable to halt the inevitable, Thyerri gathered the tray bearing a handful of ales and half his evening wages, and began a circuitous route through the tables.

Over in the musicians' comer, Kharmier, Trahdio, and their friends had left the standard melodies behind and began improvising. The unknown drummer picked up her beat, taking control from Kharmier's pipes with single- handed, heartbeat-regular taps. Then, with her other hand, she teased a counterpoint of a mountain lark's triple-beat coo from the flautist. Slowly insinuating into the new pat- tern, Trahdio wove his pipes in and around, like wind danc- ing among the leaves. And beneath them all, the guitar swelled into a relentless rumble, a mountain river in a flash flood.

Thyerri found his feet moving with the insidious rhythms, instinctive actions that soon drew the rest of his body into motion.

The nearby customers grew silent, then joined their hands to the symphony. At first, their clapping hands fol- lowed the drummer, then led her, challenging the musicians to make the music more complex, too complex for a simple hiller waiter.

But a hiller waiter who had danced the rings could antici- pate anything mere mortal hands could devise, and now it was Thyerri's turn to lead with nothing but the subtle movements of his hips, the tilt of his head or the flick of a fingertip.

He glided among the tables, tray balanced on one hand, oblivious to everything around him except as wrinkles in his dancing space, cognizant only of the thrum vibrating along his spine, the lyrical trill in his head.

Then the tray was gone, his movement unimpeded, and he dipped and swirled among the flute's cascading tones, the sounds more tangible to him than the rough-wood floor beneath his feet.

Dancer. He was, first, foremost and always, a dancer.

Man or woman, human or beast, alive or dead, clothing, hair, namesuch distinctions became irrelevant adjacent that single truth. He'd forgotten that, in his mind, in some foolish human preference for survival, but his heart remem- bered, and heart ruled his body now.

"Thyerri . . ." Words, soft and gentle as the flute's breath.

"Thyerri? . . ." Sakhithe, his mind whispered, and the word became a lyrical counterpoint to the flute.

He reached out to embrace that counterpoint.

A touch: Sakhithe's hand on his.

A moment's perception: dunKarlon's eyes on him.

A grasp of his fingers: Sakhithe was free and spinning across the floor, in a dancer's controlled tumble.

Thyerri laughed, swirled in a sweeping spiral that carried him up and around, and down to settle, gently as a falling leaf, in a half-crouch facing Sakhithe, arms outstretched, beckoning.

Sakhithe rose slowly to her feet.