He wouldn't swear to it, but he thought, perhaps, there was the slightest softening about the dark eyes. But it could have been just the flickering of the lamp flame.

"Well?" he prompted, the single word harsh with ten- sion, and Ganfrion biinked.

"Perfectly, m'lord Rhomandi. Perfectly."

Chapter Three.

. - . and so, my beloved Rag'n'bones, while I miss you terribly, and would dearly love to urge you home, post haste, I believe you may rest easy tonight. I've read the letters Lidye has sent to her father, and she has read mine to His Imperial Highness Orakan (and yes, dar- ling, I do know him). While I still have reservations regarding Lidye, those reservations do not extend to her loyalty to the Rhomatum Web.

No one is that good an actor.

Between the two of us, I assure you, we can outma- neuver any agreement of Auntie Liia's making.

With love and a disgusting number of hugs and kisses and decidedly lewd thoughts.

Your Shepherdess Deymorin folded the letter carefully, and refused to feel like a fool when he raised it to his lips before placing it on top of Nikki's painfully proper account of his intentions.

He couldn't fault them. Not Nikki, not Lidye . . . he wouldn't dare fault Kiyrstin. And with luck, they could ac- complish a fair amount of good. He'd already written to Kharl Varishmandi, and suggested a similar meeting. If Kiyrstin, Nikki, and Nikki's Shatumin bride could lay the groundwork, so much the better.

At this point, any action he didn't personally have to make was welcome.

He set his elbows on the low table, and buried his face in his hands, rubbing his temples hard, then squeezing his eyeballs into his skull with the heels of his hands.

Tired. He was very, very . . . hell, he was fucking exhausted.

The watchtowers along the Amaidi Channel were . . .

functional. The individuals manning them were . . . enthusi- astic. With time, they might even approximate soldiers. But they had good men in charge, men with Kirish'lan border experience, and if anyone could train such raw recruits, they could.

Feeding them was another matter. There were farms around most of the forts. And those farmers had been in- duced to extend their fieldsgiven the free labor of the would-be soldiers for clearing and the promise of a ready market.

He wasn't certain that they all didn't consider the whole thing a game.

Couriers from the northern end of the Maurislan Chan- nel carried a different message. They had felt the pressure of Mauritum for years. The black market trade was alive and well, there where a person could swim between island and mainland, if he were fool enough to risk the icy waters.

The northern border watch had never truly ended; it had simply lost official sanction and shifted its priorities. Dey- morin doubted the renewed sanction would affect trade, although it might raise the "import tariffs" paid for tempo- rarily blind watchmen. And those looking out for ship- wrecks might as well also keep their eyes out for Mauritumin armed with weapons rather than perfume.

He could, if he so desired, take a few days off. He'd stopped here in Barsitum for precisely that purpose, only to discover the local magic no more effective for his aches and pains than it had been ten years ago, after he'd taken a flying leap from a Rhomatum Tower balcony. Ten years ago, he'd come here with great expectations, following Mi- khyel's experience, and he supposed some would say that had he not come, the infection in his leg wouldn't have healed, and he'd never have walked again.

But he'd seen others, as badly injured as he had been, who had recovered without benefit of Barsitum, and couldn't say he necessarily attributed his recovery to the node.

Unlike Mikhyel. Mikhyel should have died. Mikhyel cer- tainly should have been a twisted cripple for life. He'd come home from Barsitum without a single (visible) scar.

The ley seemed universally to favor his middle brother.

Four days since Mikhyel's "adventure." Three days since Mikhyel should have arrived in Giephaetum, and nothing, no word from him, not on paper, not in his head. Nothing even to assure them he had survived his downhill foray.

Deymorin had tried to contact Nikki, tried to force Mi- khyel into their three-way communication, but Mikhyel hadn't answered, and neither had Nikki, other than a brief, fluttering awareness.

Obviously, only Mikhyel could instigate their far-flung communication.

There did seem to be an inherent bias in that ar- rangement.

Deymorin stretched backward in the odd baglike chair the brothers favored: leather, stuffed with dried beans.

Odd, but comfortable, in the way it shifted to fit his body.

But nothing could ease the sharp pain in his back, grow- ing worse with each passing day, until he'd been reduced, when he had to walk for any distance or over rough footing, to once again using a cane for balance.

Kiyrstin could fix it. Kiyrstin's hands could have him vir- tually pain-free in minutes. And a night with Kiyrstin in his own bed would undoubtedly prove more efficacious than a dozen nights soaking in the brothers' pools.

And Nikki's meeting, if all went well, would be in two days. Perhaps three. Time enough for him to get to Rhoma- tum, without pushing himself or his horse. One didn't want to intrude on one's brother's moment of glory, still, if one were there . . . just in case . . .

He locked the letters in his case, gathered up a towel and headed for the baths. Ley or water, the heat and pum- meling jets eased a man's muscles.

And tonight, with the promise of Rhomatum on the hori- zon, he might just sleep.

Even if he didn't hear from his recalcitrant middle brother.

~ 8 Q.

"The lady Nethaalye is not receiving guests at this time."

Neither the philosopher nor the magistrate had been gradu- ated that could match a lifelong servant's capacity for pompous.

Mikhyel dipped his head, thanked the Giebhaidii House butler, and gave him a sealed letter, which the elderly man placed on the table with four other untouched envelopes his also, from previous visits. Mikhyel left without protest, there being nothing to protest, and wandered down the front steps of the tall house, and out into the surrounding garden, frustratingly aimless for yet one more day.

His fourth day in Giephaetum, his fourth attempt to see Nethaalye, his fourth unequivocal rejection from the house.

He was being, there was no other word for it, snubbed.

Nethaalye was . . . unavailable, her father was . . . just there, but stepped out . . . in a meeting . . . at lunch. In fact, every official in the city was busy. He'd arrived a week early, and, well, they were extremely sorry, but their sched- ules were filled. They'd rearranged their schedules to ac- commodate him once, they couldn't possibly be expected to do so again.

Snubbed. No doubt about it.

"Stood up again?" Ganfrion's dry tones wafted to him on a breeze, and Ganfrion himself stepped free of the shad- ows, clean-shaven and immaculate in a long black coat and tailored cuffs. "Can't imagine what you do to women, Suds."

Mikhyel had decided, over the past several days, that that ridiculous nickname wasn't worth fighting. Besides, it had a certain value as an indicator of his odd bodyguard's current mood.

At least, he'd never used it in public. Yet.

"I can't blame her," he answered, feeling oddly empty.

"I just wish I knew if her silence is by her choice, or her family's."

"You put off marrying her for years, then deserted her to Anheliaa, after getting another woman pregnant, and you can't imagine why she wouldn't want to see your face?

By the ancient's balls, man, you're amazing."

"How do you know all that?"

"Fly on the kitchen wall, Rhomandi-lad." Meaning he was romancing the Giebhaidii kitchen staff.

"Rings," Mikhyel muttered, "be careful!"

"Always. 0, lord of mine." Ganfrion strolled a few paces away and paused, hands clasped at his back, staring up at the house. "That's her room, you know." And tossed him an over-the-shoulder look. "Third floor. Balcony. Salmon- colored curtains."

"Salmon curtains." Mikhyel chuckled, in spite of his bet- ter sense, and asked, with similar disregard to prudence: "And how do you know that?"

"Fly on the"

"kitchen wall."

"Actually, the laundry."

Mikhyel cupped his forehead in his hand, and shook his head.

"There is a way," Ganfrion said, slowly, and Mikhyel could almost hear the scheme forming.

"To do what?" he asked, with some trepidation: "Do you really want to know if she wants your guts for garters?"

"Lovely. How?"

"I could get her a message."

"Through kitchen maids? Or laundry?"

"Actually" Again, his eyes scanned that window. "I was thinking of something a bit more direct."

"You're joking, surely."

"I'm joking, surely not. Suds, you've got to loosen up.

You want to send her a message, she'll get it tonight."

"You know what troubles me most about you? I'm actu- ally considering accepting your suggestion."

"Of course, you are. I'll need something of yoursor something to tell her only you would know. Something to convince her I'm your true messenger."

"Just give her the letter. She'll recognize my handwriting."

"You're joking, right?"

"No." But the disgusted look on Ganfrion's face prompted him to qualify: "I don't think so."

"No special memory? No name? No ring?"

Mikhyel shook his head.

"Well, I give up on you, then. You don't need to ask.

The answer's obvious. I'd leave you, too, you romantically- deficient boor."

"Our relationship wasn't like that."

"What is she? A dog-faced termagant?"

"Not at all! She's quite handsome!"

"Then you had no relationship."

"We were friends."

Ganfrion looked at him as if he were out of his mind.

"There are other ways to deal with women, Ganfrion."

"Women you're not engaged to wed, perhaps. Suds, you're more hopeless than I thought. Well, I'll think of something. You just write your note."

"I've changed my mind."

"Not a chance. You've intrigued me. Obviously, I must meet this lady, withor withoutyour leave."

"I'll write the damned letter. But you watch yourself around her, do I make myself clear?"

"Why, Suds, you wound my pride."

"Touch her. Crypt-bait, and more than your pride will be wounded."

"Crypt-bait. Rhomandi, there's hope for you yet."

8 d ~ The fine white sand of the practice field glimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Across that white expanse, dancers of all skill levels and ages gathered in groups, stretching, swaying, spinning and tumbling in time to the music that drifted through the cool mountain air.

A Khoratumin dancer's life was filled with music, morn- ing to night. Music of all sorts, from every known corner of the worldas the dancers themselves came from all over to train with the Khoratumin instructors.

In their brief history, the Khoratum radical dancers had already captured the attention of the civilized world. Visi- tors from throughout the web and its neighbors had come to watch the Khoratum ringdancers, and carried tales home, along with promises from Rhyys regarding the Khoratum training program.

And so the foreign dancers came to Khoratum, sent here by sponsors to learn the exotic forms of the hiller dances, and the secrets the dancers were said to harbor, thinking that by training alone they could attain that unique quality that set the Khoratum radical dancer apart from all others, with or without the rings.

And in their blind arrogance, they filled Rhyys' coffers with wasted coins, and expanded Rhyys' already outsized ego with delusions of his own significance in the world.