Ganfrion's stance shifted ever so slightly, assuming the careless insolence it had, for a moment, lacked. The dark eyes that had been drawn and (Mikhyel realized in retro- spect) a bit uncertain, raked him now with exaggerated interest.

"Nothing I can get here, Suds. I like a bit more meat on the bones I chew. Raul, thanks, but no thanks. I fear this pool would not prove salutary to my ignoble flesh. I'll seek something a bit less rich farther down line."

Ganfrion slung his bathing towel over his shoulder and strode away, down a passage, the soft leylight gleaming on numerous scars beneath the dark hair on his arms and legs, a long scar across the large muscles of a less-hairy back.

He was limping.

"It's good that he get time in the baths," Raulind said.

"He's suffered recently, I believe."

"As long as it's not mine."

"Has he, then, correctly judged your attitude? Should I depart to a lesser pool?"

"You know better."

"Do I?"

Chapter 5ever.

"The time to move is now. The web is dissolving beneath us. If in fact Mikhyel dunMheric is forming a secret union among the Southern Crescent Nodes, it could only be to force the Northern Crescent into accepting this Shatumin witch as the Rhomatumin Ringmaster."

Relieved that, from Rhyys' comment, his actions were no longer the center of attention, Thyerri slipped through the shadows to a corner vantage where he could monitor the levels in the wineglasses without himself being noticed.

"Lidye of Shatum cannot control Rhomatum, much less the entire web," Rhyys continued, lecturing as Rhyys was inclined to do. "All our understanding of the ley suggests that, and the current chaos in the power stream supports it."

"And yet, our ringmaster claims the web has stabilized since Persitum dropped out. That the depletion of our node has eased. If, in fact, Anheliaa is dead or dying, as our southern informants suggest, would that not indicate Lidye of Shatum is capable?"

"If that were the case, there would be no reason for all this maneuvering on the part of the Rhomandi. These are the acts of desperate men. We must take Rhomatum before the southern radicals gain control of it and through it, de- stroy every node in the web."

"And if not this Shatumin woman," a red-painted face asked, "if not the Rhomandi, then who? The Shatumin has, at least, the benefit of Anheliaa's training, if not Rhomandi blood. Whom, of Rhomatumin birth, would you set in her place? Inept is better than no control, isn't it?"

"Hardly," Rhyys answered, in the patronizing tone every dancer had learned to hate. "A figurehead all the nodes can respect and trust would mean the ringmasters working as a unified force to create a stable perimeter. The merest technician has been known to monitor the Rhomatum rings since Khoratum's capping."

"But that was before Persitum cut us off," red-face pointed out.

"Precisely." The smooth, new voice emanated from the deep shadows at the table's far end, where a dark-cloaked, hooded figure reclined, a black moth among gaudy butter- flies, a mysterious figure that was invariably included in Rhyys' commissioned fantastical paintings. "But with the right master in Rhomatum, who is to say Mauritum will not open its borders to Rhomatum? Perhaps even greet the Syndicate with open arms? With Persitum stable, with Mauritum and Rhomatum united into one great state, who can imagine the heights to which we might rise?"

"Pretty words," another nameless voice said, "but the problems began when Mauritum invaded. The resultant chaos ebbed when Persitum dropped from the web. Is it such a stretch of imagination to hypothesize that Mauritum was the source of the malignancy deteriorating the web?"

"So," the moth replied, "from this, I take it you believe the reports out of Shatum."

A cloth-draped head dipped in acknowledgment.

"And do you also believe, as does this Southern Alliance, that the Rhomandi are clay to be shaped and fired to your liking?"

To that, there was no answer ventured.

"At your peril, sirs, at your peril," Rhyys, never one to remain out of a conversation for long, said. "I say Shatum will fall victim to her own naivete."

The moth lifted the ocarshi pipe to the shadows beneath his hood. The food before the shadow-figure lay virtually untouched, his drinking had been moderate, but his ocarshi pipe had never left his hand. Not surprisingly, considering the ugly scars on the fingers cradling that pipe, the only visible skin within the shadow. Ocarshi clouded a man's mind, masking pain with insidious pleasure.

"You sound very certain of that, Khoratum." The words drifted out on a cloud of oily smoke, but the moth's voice was steady, the words clear. "And yet the Shatumin reports of Mikhyel and Deymorin dunMheric have little in common with those individuals you have described."

It happened that way sometimes. Common belief held that ocarshi attacked a man's pain first and his wits after, that if a man in pain could balance consumption, he was overall clearer-headed under the drug's influence.

From the cloud around him, evidently this man's pain was great.

"The Rhomandi are playing us for fools with this talk of Mauritumin invasions," Rhyys said, "Since they've been forced to abdicate the Tower to a non-Rhomandi, they must diminish the importance of the web, if they are to maintain their power within the Syndicate. They are creat- ing fears of outside invaders in order to unite the Syndicate militarily under their leadership."

"From what you say," the moth interposed smoothly, "it seems possible, perhaps even probable, that this machine the Rhomandi blame for the collapse was not brought in from Mauritum, but was a Rhomandi ploy to destroy the webor at least gain time. Another generation, perhaps, with the web in chaotic ebb, to breed another Rhomandi master?"

"Quite." Rhyys' mouth stretched in a wolfish baring of teeth. "If Mikhyel dunMheric plays the fool, it is to lure those he would control to a false sense of superiority. Re- gardless of what the Shatumin say, Mikhyel dunMheric is not and never was a puppet for Anheliaa. She feared him."

"But if something damaged those much-vaunted wits?"

The moth persisted. "There were rumors of illness, you said, even before the Collapse."

"I would not operate on such an assumption. Even were that the case, they have allies Anheliaa feared. She feared Deymorin's Outsider friends and she feared Mikhyel's in- fluence within the Council Hall. Were it the youngest these reports spoke of, Nikaenor, I'd believe them. Anheliaa de- clared Nikki Princeps precisely because he was a fool and she could control him long enough to gain control of his offspring. That's what she planned two years ago, it's what she repeated to me the day of his wedding."

"And why would Anheliaa want a fool in charge of her city? Why would she choose an incompetent to control her precious web?"

"Anheliaa wanted the Shatumin as a broodmare for a Rhomandi child, nothing more. She planned to live long enough to raise that child as her replacement."

"She took her time about it."

"She'd planned for the eldest to marry years ago and produce an heir for the Tower. She finally had to force the issue last fall. At Nikaenor's wedding, she believed she had succeeded in separating Nikaenor from the others. That Deymorin and Mikhyel left Nikaenor in charge at home, indicates a solidarity of purpose among the Rhomandi brothers and with the Rhomatum Council that would in- deed ignite Anheliaa's greatest angerand fear."

"Fear? Why should Anheliaa fear anything?"

"She risked death capping Khoratum to seal the web against them and their ley-blind influence. She'd risk death again rather than release control to them while she was alive, and she'd risk no few other lives to keep the web safe from them after her death. Do you think it an accident that Anheliaa chose wives for them who could both keep the Rhomatum Rings spinning and ally House Rhomandi with the greatest Houses of Shatum and Giephaetum? She knew the rift beginning in the web. She knew there was greater danger from within than from without. She could feel it in the rings, and wanted to ensure the nodes would remain loyal."

"And yet, Nethaalye returned home unwed," another voice cried out angrily. "Anheliaa chose a Shatumin as her heir, and insulted the Northern Crescent. Is this the act of a woman intending to solidify the web?"

"Your cousin returned home on her own, Giephaetum,"

Rhyys sneered. "Had she had more sense, she'd have stayed there and ministered to a Shatumin witch, if that was required to stay in Rhomatum Tower."

"Damn your"

"I thought we were here to celebrate our solidarity," the moth's voice, still soft, managed nonetheless to overpower the other two. "Might I suggest we avoid insulting one another?"

The Giephaetumin leaned back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Rhyys drained his glass, then gestured angrily for its replenishment.

"You are right to chastise," the Giephaetum said at last and with a nod toward the moth. "It is the Rhomandi we must depose, not one another. Not even Shatum."

"And if the Rhomandi are correct?" red-face asked. "If Mauritum is making a move to control the Rhomatum Web, wouldn't it make sense for us to unite against Mauritum?"

"Under the Rhomandi?" Rhyys sniggered. "The breed has died out. We must take Rhomatum now, unite the web under a powerful leader. That will stop any notions Mauri- tum may have. Which I do not for a moment entertain.

Mauritum will support us. The Rhomandi have always been the source of opposition to Mauritum. Anheliaa was the final Rhomandi gasp for survival, and now she's gone. The time to move is now. If Giephaetum joins with us, if we can bring Persitum back in, we'll have by far the majority of the web and the Southern Crescent won't stand a chance.

They'll know that. They'll bend to wisdom and join us, and we'll choose who rules Rhomatum. We'll choose a princeps with the power to rule the rings, not cater to special interests."

"And who would you set in that exalted position, Khora- tum? Yourself?"

"Hardly. * am master of Khoratum. But there are those"

"Who?"

"The ringmasters of the satellites will choose."

"Ah. Then you intend for the ringmasters to rule us."

"I didn't say"

"Any such appointment will, I am quite certain, be sub- ject to Syndicate approval, Orenum," the moth cut in smoothly. "And, ultimately, I should imagine Rhomatum herselfthe rings, not the citywill make the choice. You speak in past tense of the Rhomatum Ringmaster, Khora- tum. Do you, then, believe that part of the rumor?"

"Painful as that loss is, I believe she must be." Rhyys'

voice caught, and he dabbed at his eyes with a stained finger towel. "I thought I would know for certain when she fell from the web, but it seems otherwise."

Thyerri stared into the locarshi smoke that was said to hold images of lost ones to one who would see them. It was also said that when a person died and was immersed in the ley, their soul became a part of the web. But perhaps that was only to appease the grieving souls yet living.

The smoke made his eyes burn. He biinked them free of cleansing tears, only to realize everyone was staring at him.

"What did you say?" Rhyys asked, and Thyerri realized he must have spoken aloud.

He bent his head and answered quickly, quietly, "Forgive me, honorables, I meant no disrespect. I was only think- ing"

"I asked what you said, dolt, not why you said it!"

Thyerri's hands clenched on the double-handled ewer.

"It's the ancient wisdom, sir. If the scent of Anheliaa re- mains in the web, it might be because her body has been consumed, but not her soul." He kept his voice low, hoping it would not betray the contempt he felt.

"Anheliaa's . . . scent?" Rhyys rose slowly to his feet, and Thyerri looked up, realized his mistake when he couldn't look away, wouldn't deny the challenging gaze.

"Why do you describe it that way?"

Thyerri backed away, seeking the limits of his territory, discovered the table much too close.

"Please, m'lord, Thyerri didn't mean anything by it!"

Sakhithe ran between them. "He's of the hills and they talk that way all the time. Please, m'lord, don't be"

Rhyys turned his glower on her; she blanched and stag- gered back a step, but caught herself and stood her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. Thyerri put her gently behind him, facing Rhyys alone, resigned to whatever fate was his. He'd known since Bharlori first boasted about his fortune that tonight was doomed.

"Sit down, dunTarec," a slurred voice ordered. "The boy's just spouting hiller nonsense."

Rhyys turned on his company. "Don't tell me what to do, dunErrif. That's exactly what it's like. Anheliaa's scent is still in the web. Tell me how a damned servant knows such a thing!"

"The girl explained that. Besides, I thought we were cele- brating tonight."

"A point well taken, Giephaetum," the moth murmured.

"So, do we celebrate Giephaetum's alliance? Will your sire join the Northern Crescent against the Rhomandi?"

"He arrives tomorrow, sir, to partake fully of this Radical Dance Festival our host is sponsoring. You can ask him yourself."

Casting Thyerri a final intimidating glance, Rhyys threw himself back into his pillows, snatched the ocarshi pipe from his neighbor's hand and took a long pull, holding the potent smoke in his lungs for several long seconds, eyes closed, before expelling it very slowly, pausing to reinhale through his nose that which he had exhaled from his mouth.

Thyerri turned his face to the shadows to mask his revul- sion. Addicts came in many forms. Those like the moth, who indulged to keep pain at bay, dancers who had lost the dance, to keep the memories at bay. Rhyys' life con- tained no such pain, either physical or mental. Those like Rhyys simply gloried in the expanded sense of power the smoke gave them.

"To the alliance!" Rhyys' voice rose, and a chorus of voices answered him, and goblets crashed and shattered throughout the room.

"Another round!" The shout filled the room. And as Thyerri and the others hurried to replace the discarded goblets: "To innocent dupes!" Which roused laughter and a response: "To Mauritum!" And: "To the Rhomandi coastal watch."

The laughter and the toasts grew increasingly outrageous, and for a time, Thyerri and the others were kept busy re- filling cups and chasing after more wine. For everyone but the moth. The man in the dark cloak sat back, raising his cup, but not drinking. And soon, he ceased making even that gesture, turning instead to his pipe.

"Where are those dancers Bharlori promised?" some- one shouted.

Another voice added, "Tell him to send in the boy.

Tobinsi said he's better than a Varkisin window whore."

Thyerri stiffened. Bharlori had said nothing about prom- ises, and he had no desire to perform for this drug-stupid audience.

But before he could slip out, Mishthi, in an attempt to bring them back into grace with the man paying the gratu- ity, dropped to the floor beside Rhyys, in a cloud of silver- and-rose silk, and whispered breathlessly: "We are the dancers, m'lord. And Thyerri, he's the most wonderful of all."

Thyerri swallowed his protest, and took another step toward the bead-obscured passageway.

But Rhyys seemed interested only in Mishthi. Rhyys cupped her chin in one hand and turned her this way and that. "I'll take your word for it, girl." He released her and sat back. "Stand up. Let's have a look at you." She hurried to obey; he traced a circle with his finger through the air and she turned slowly. "Well, let's see what you can do."

He waved his hand at the musicians. Mishthi searched the room, smiled when she saw Thyerri and rushed to his side, hands held out.

"No," he said flatly and strode openly toward the door- way. But two large men barred his escape. Two men attired as outrageously as he, only in steel and leather, and bearing swords and knives they undoubtedly knew how to use.

He whirled, outraged. "I'm no slave, Rhyys dunTarec,"