Giephaetum is the key to the Northern Crescent and Neth- aalye's brother is one of the junior ring spinners in Gie- phaetum Tower. If I can convince them, I've got the North . . . at least long enough to heal the web and for Lidye's loyaltiesnot to mention our ownto come clear . . . to everyone.} {All right, Khyel, all right.} Deymorin's reluctance col- ored the thought. {But keep in touch.} {Naturally.} (And, Khyel . . .} Greater reluctance. A sense of embar- rassment, a sense of having been guilty of an injustice. And humor, but that was from Mikhyel.

Nikki had a momentary sense of ostracism, but Mik- hyel said: {Reconciling personal differences, Nikki. I made a deci- sion with which Deymorin justifiably argued. This time, I was right.} {I didn't say that!} Deymorin protestedloudly.

Nikki laughed.

{There's a lot of resentment in the Towers. I'm going downhill tomorrow and do some checking} {You mean Ganfrion is.) Deymorin interrupted.

Mikhyel's answer came in impressions, a desire to hear for himself, a sense of excitement. Of {Adventure?} Deymorin's shout echoed painfully in Nikki's head. {Have you lost what little sense you had left?} A mental chuckle. {That's what Ganfrion said.} The sense of Deymorin faded away in aimless, frustrated, distorted images, then returned, suddenly and very forcefully: {Rings! Nikki, tell Kiyrstin! Tell her everything. About the southern node, about Lidye. Everything.} Before he could stop himself, Nikki's impression of Kiyr- stin flooded the link, and between one blink and the next, Deymorin's anger flared, then Deymorin disappeared from his mind. And immediately after, Mikhyel vanished, and nothing he could do would bring them back.

"Nikki? Nikki, darling, are you all right?"

Lidye's hands, soft yet secure, held his face.

"Nikki, what's happening? Talk to me, darling."

"Deymorin? Khyel!" Shouted thoughts became shouted words. "Where'd you"

Nikki bit his tongue on the rest, coming to his senses at last, as Lidye's gaze bore straight into his heart.

"Your brothers. You're hearing them now? Nikki, how is that possible?"

He shuddered, drowning in his brothers' thoughts and suspicions. "I should never have told you," he whispered, horrified now at his own indiscretion, even though Mikhyel must have known he'd told her, and had said nothing.

"About your brothers? About your fascinating connec- tion? How unkind, Nikki. I thought we were exploring the ley together?"

"It's not" He broke off, more confused than ever, thinking about Anheliaa making independent decisions that affected the whole web, and wondering, had he been equally at fault. "It's not my secret alone. I should have consulted them first."

"And they'd have said no. They don't trust me." Her delicate eyebrows drew together in a sad and weary pucker.

"And you don't either, do you? Not anymore. And yet, if trust is an issue, you alone know how terribly ignorant An- heliaa left me. You alone know how much help I require every day."

"Do I? And what did Anheliaa tell you about a node to the south of Shatum? What did your father tell you, when he agreed to our marriage?"

She backed away, turning slowly, gracefully, moving in an unhurried path to the chair dunPendac had occupied earlier. But there was neither guilt nor shock nor evasion apparent in her face.

"I know that what Father expected and what I intend to do no longer coincide, and have not since the instant An- heliaa died and the heritage of the Rhomatum rings passed into my hands. I know I'd never do anything to threaten the Rhomandi hold over the rings. I know that the child I carry in my belly is the most important creature ever spawned in the world, and I know that no paternal order will supersede my loyalty to that child. Does that set your soul at ease, dear Nikki?"

"Why do you call me that?" he asked, past a tightness in his throat. "Why pretend to care for me? Why do you look at me the way you do? Touch me the way you do?

Make..."

"Love to you? Perhaps because I do love you, Nikki. Is that so difficult to believe?"

"What kind of fool do you think I am? I look at you, and I see . . . I see the sort of woman who might find Deymorin, or even Mikhyel stimulating, but"

"Mikhyel? Goodness, Nikaenor, don't be silly. You're everything a woman could want."

He snorted, painfully aware at that moment of his own shortcomings. "A woman such as you appeared to be at the first, perhaps. Flighty, shallow. A bit childish. Much as I hated to admit it, I could see why the rings considered us a match. Now . . ."

"You said it yourself, Nikki. The rings considered us a match. You chose the words to describe me. Perhaps it's your image of yourself you need to reconsider."

A drought on his tongue made him realize his mouth was hanging unbecomingly open. He closed it, worked to produce enough saliva to swallow. Seeking to see himself through her eyes.

He had, after all, changed as surely as she had in the past weeks. He'd secured the allegiance of some powerful men and set a complex project in motion. Perhaps he was more than he thought.

The rings had, after all, paired him with Lidye.

Chapter One.

In all probability, Deymorin was right. Ganfrion was: Mi- khyel duuMheric had lost what little common sense re- mained with him.

Handsragged, scratched, and filthy handsrested on either side of the cracked ale mug on the knife-scarred surface before him. Hands that should, by proximity, be- long to him. Mikhyel considered lifting his right index fin- ger, and the appropriate digit rose and fell again, which was either extreme coincidence, or Raulind was likely to end his years-long service on the morrow.

Well, he'd asked for it. He chuckled ruefully and lifted the mug to his lips, succeeding this time in keeping his face blank while the bitter brew destroyed the handful of taste buds that had survived his first swallow.

His right instep still throbbed from Ganfrion's last warn- ing on the etiquette of the Ramblin' Rosie.

Ganfrion had laughed when Mikhyel had first suggested this joint venture into the Moisaiidum dockside, scowled and said he wasn't risking his neck for a rich man's fantasy when Mikhyel had persisted.

There'd been, of course, no real argument.

In cold-blooded logic, he had to admit there simply was no logical reason for him to have come to the Rosie with Ganfrion. He'd hired Ganfrion specifically to enter places like this for him.

But that "for him" was precisely why he'd insisted on coming here himself. Ever since that night in the Crypt, he'd grown increasingly aware of the fact that he'd begun to live his life through and for other people.

In the Crypt, Deymorin had worried about him. Not about Nikki, not about Deymorin himself, but him. Because Mikhyel dunMheric didn't know how to handle real life, or so Deymorin was convinced. And for all the proof he had to the contrary, Deymorin's assessment was absolutely on target.

He never did his own dirty work. When it was safe, when taking action was a matter of public speaking, or filling out papers, or changing the lives of thousands with a penstroke, he acted willingly enough. When it was his personal self at risk, when he actually needed something physically done, he hired someonelike Ganfrionto complete the job for him. He hadn't even helped Deymorin bury Anheliaa.

That night in Barsitum he'd been forced to wonder why he didn't handle his own problems. He didn't consider him- self superior to Ganfrion, certainly not to Raulind. He didn't think he considered himself superior to anyone.

That simple truth was, Mikhyel dunMheric was afraid not of death, not of injury, but of incompetence. All his childhood with Mheric and Anheliaa had proven was that he was stubborn. He'd shown the world time and again that he was intelligent and manipulative.

But there'd always been a safe distance between himself and his opponents. He'd been a child to Mheric's adult power. In politics, he'd been the Rhomandi, a position he'd had to prove his right to hold, but a position of intrinsic stature. Man to man, equal to equal, man to life . . . he'd never tested that side of himself.

He'd never faced life as himself and won.

Somehow, when Ganfrion had suggested this foray into the dockside, it had seemed his chance to show them all, to prove to Ganfrion, to Nikki, to Deymorinand most of all to himselfthat he neither despised them or their world, nor placed a higher value on his life than on theirs.

Which sounded dangerously like proving to them all he was as much a man as they were, which sounded danger- ously like stupid and foolhardy, under the circumstances.

But Ganfrion had armed him with clothing and a story to tell should he have to open his mouth, and then told him to keep it closed, or he'd close it for himpermanently.

Hence the unfamiliar hands resting before him, the cloth- ing that scratched his skin raw in places, while tickling with suspect mobility in others. Fortunately, he'd changed in Ganfrion's quarters and not his own room; with luck, he'd shed the creatures that had taken up residence with him when he changed back to his own clothing.

Provided, of course, he lived that long.

Not that the men milling shoulder to shoulder about the tavern concerned him; it was his own so-called bodyguard.

Granted, he had established the rules, had given Ganfrion leave to signal in any way Ganfrion deemed necessary, but it was an agreement he was rapidly (considering bruised ribs, a crippled foot and insect bites in places he couldn't possibly reach) reevaluating.

He'd found it suspicious, when they'd first entered the tavern, that while his clothing and general appearance re- flected the low end of the surrounding spectrum, Ganfrion was undoubtedly the best-dressed man in the room. How- ever, as all eyes in the tavern skewed to Ganfrion wherever he went, Mikhyel rapidly ceased to resent the fact.

In one sense his crazed notion was proving immensely enlightening: no sardonic report could match watching Ganfrion operate in person. The man had no shame, would draw attention and spin a tale so outrageous, no one dared challenge his veracity.

And overall, since the crawling creature (whose identity remained a back-creeping mystery) seemed to have fled his personal premises, and since his remaining foot was tempo- rarily secure (Ganfrion having spotted an "old friend" on the far side of the crowded establishment), Mikhyel decided he was perfectly content to stand, elbows on the bar, throbbing foot propped on a rail, and just listen to rough, northern accents discussing tomorrow's weather, and whether it would affect the shipment scheduled to arrive.

Much of the talk seemed at first aimless and repetitive, but eventually it began to achieve a rhythm with all the subtlety of a fencing match between old friends. Mikhyel had watched Deymorin engage in such impromptu meetings in the fencing salle. There was a distinctive flicker of a smile, a grunt of surprise as a previously known quantity revealed a new skill.

Here, each new arrival added a piece of a growing puzzle that began with wives and children and the day's work and grew to encompass world commerce. And within the casual speech, tidbits of information would rouse similar flickers and grunts.

Quite, quite different from political meetings of his expe- rience, where the greatest surprise was finding out your opponent didn't know key information.

One thing was quite clear, there was no love lost between these men and their Southern Crescent counterparts. While they made no mention of new webs to the south, their economy was suffering, and they set the blame squarely on Shatumin shoulders.

"Heard tell as how Giephaetum is plannin' f hop inta bed with Mauritum, if this keeps up," someone said down the bar.

"Yeah, and m' mother's entertainin' Garetti hisself t'morrow," said another.

"And what's she entertainin' him to? Tea? Or crumpets?"

"Crumpets, a'course, Blendini. Never nothin' less fer ol' mum."

"Don't gotta worry 'bout Garetti, then, do we?"

"Not for at least another month, laddy. Gots stayin'

power, does mum."

General laughter then, and Mikhyel wished they hadn't strayed. Mauritum and Giephaetum?

"Where you from, stranger?"

Such was Mikhyel's limited local fluency, it took him sev- eral heartbeats, and an irritated repetition of the question to realize the speaker had addressed him.

"South," he responded, striving for the rough tone Gan- frion had coached into him. "Terslingam.'''lt was a small town on the far end of the Pandiini Sound, known for its fine garments.

"Waiting for Pobriichi's linen shipment, then." Said as a statement of fact: a man who knew his importers.

Mikhyel nodded. "And Peristan wool, if the gods have favored us."

"Long wait, stranger." A hint of suspicion colored the man's tones now. "Been months since Pobriichi come in here. Gotta deal with the Shatumin thieves these days."

"That's strange." Mikhyet frowned, hoping he looked properly taken aback. "The old man's always used Pobrii- chi, and Pobriichi docks"

"Not since last fall. Just who the hell are you, stranger?"

Ears pricked around them. Conversations lulled. Sidewise glances missed nothing.

Mikhyel held up his hands, hoping to deflect the man's anger, and beginning to improvise on Ganfrion's scant story as rapidly as he could. "Just repeating what the old man told me. He sent me here. Said it was his first order in a year. Why isn't Pobriichi coming in here?"

"Pobriichi's out. Gods-be-cursed Varishmandi stole all four ships right out from under 'im. Broke, thanks to the Rhomandi swindler brothers."

"The Rhomandi? I thought you said Varishmandi bought him out."

"I said he stole 'em."

"But you said Pobriichi was 'broke,' " Mikhyel said, try- ing to sort out the man's words. The Varishmandi were astute and even ruthless businessmen, but far from crimi- nals. "The Varishmandi did pay fairly for the boats, did he not?"

The man drew back, staring at him, then waved for an- other drink. Veiled at Ganfrion's "friend" when she failed to respond immediately. She cursed back, but swung her legs across the counter (a scenic move that momentarily diverted the local man's attention) and drew his drink, ac- tions that prompted a dozen more demands for refills.

"Pay, did he yes," the man answered when his ale ar- rived. "Fair, did he not."

Mikhyel shifted his attention to the dark brew in his mug, and the flecks floating across the surface, wondering if this was a strange local saying, or if he was being mocked.

One of the flecks appeared to be swimming.

He should have kept his mouth shut.

"I hear you mention Pobriichi?" Ganfrion leaned be- tween Mikhyel and the local to claim his mugand an ex- tended kiss. In the middle of that kiss, his boot aimed for Mikhyel's remaining footand missed, Mikhyel being in- clined to learn from experience.

Ganfrion grunted, frustration to one who understood the under-the-counter transaction, and released the barmaid.

He thrust back from the counter, casting Mikhyel a scowl, and said to the local, "Hell of a situation, eh? What's be- come of 'Briichi's family?"

"Wife's holdin'. Kid's in Sparingate"

"Sparingate? Why?"

"Went after the Shatumin thief. Got caught. Shoulda been 'tother way 'round, I say."

"Absolutely. Helluva fate fer your old man."

"Dunno what I'd do, were m' da to do hisself in like that. But I can't hardly blame the lad fer goin' after old Varsh'di like that. Only wisht he'd a' got him afore he was caught."

"The boy's father committed suicide?" Mikhyel asked, trying to piece the snippets together with any case he'd reviewed, which, if the boy were in Sparingate, he would have.

"Where's this 'un from, friend?" the local asked Ganfrion.

"Hell if I know."