Kiyrstin, who swam extremely well in a variety of waters, tapped Ganfrion's arm, demanding attention. He turned a scowling face to her; Deymorin took another step down.

"You, I take it, are Ganfrion." She smiled blithely and held out her hand. "I've heard about you, too." Her glance flickered toward Deymorin; he frowned. "From several sources."

And while Deymorin pondered the multiple layers of that revelation, Ganfrion's scowl faltered. He accepted Kiyr- stin's hand gingerly, wrist to wrist, as she'd offered. Her hand closed firmly, and Ganfrion, after a start, returned the grip.

Her smile deepened, and she gave a little nod. "You'll do." And with that cryptic remark, she took Nethaalye's arm and steered her toward the parlor door.

Nethaalye protested softly.

"Don't worry, child," Kiyrstin said. "They'll growl and spit a great deal, and compare biceps and other anatomical parts, but nothing will come of it." And as she closed the parlor doors between them, she called back, "Try not to break anything, boys."

The thin wood did nothing to muffle her laughter.

Ganfrion, mouth slightly open, stared at the door, then gave an answering shout of laugher. Deymorin, more accus- tomed to Kiyrstin's tactics, ignored her and took the final handful of steps to confront Ganfrion eye to eye.

"Why aren't you with him?"

Before Ganfrion could answer, the door opened again, and fear replaced every other emotion.

"Raulind?" Deymorin asked, "is Khyel here, then? Is he truly ill?" And in the next instant knew that couldn't be the case. He'd know if Mikhyel were near. Dead, or alive.

"M'lord Rhomandi," Raulind said. "How pleasant to see you. Sooner than we expected. Ganfrion, have you not ex- plained? How exceedingly wicked of you."

"Raulind, dammit"

"Well on his way to Khoratum by now, I should imagine, sir. Might I suggest we retire to the smoking room and discuss the matter in a somewhat less" He hopped for- ward as another portmanteau swung through the doorway, "trafficked locale?"

Imperturbable as always, Raulind headed in the opposite direction from Kiyrstin's parlor. Just as if he knew where he was going. Which, like as not, Raulind did. Somehow.

Deymorin scowled at Ganfrion.

Ganfrion glared backuntil his rain-spattered shoulders began to shake. His mouth twitched, resisting his obvious efforts to control it.

"M'lord?" Raulind prompted.

And Ganfrion with a grand wave of his hand toward the door, added, "Shall we go, uh, compare biceps . . . m'lord?"

Deymorin, with the ominous feeling he'd been caught between three experts, preceded Ganfrion down the hall.

9 8 ~.

The wind whistled out of the northeast, off the Gai'tishii- lari glacier, cold enough to penetrate to Khoratum Tower itself. An alleyway on the very edge of the umbrella pro- vided no refuge whatsoever.

Thyerri huddled in the stolen cloak, that retained only the faintest hint of ocarshi in its deepest folds, and tried to ignore the cold as he tried to ignore the protests of his empty belly.

The bulk of his hoard had gone for replacement clothing (one could hardly term them "new" garments where patches outweighed original material). He'd been grossly overcharged by a merchant who had sized up his customer's surreptitious ways in the first exchange, and judged his ca- pacity to bargain accordingly.

But then, considering the ridiculous clothing he'd been wearingclothing included in the description on the war- rants posted throughout the district, clothing which, short of theft, he could do nothing aboutThyerri's manner might not ever have been at issue. And if he'd been willing to steal, he'd never have had to go through that umbrella- skirting thief of a secondhand merchant.

At least now, with his hair washed free of the black dye, and dressed in the plainest of hill clothing, he could walk the streets, buy a meal, and even gain the odd coin or two without risking imminent arrest.

Besides, Rhyys seemed to have lost interest, for all the warrants had not yet been officially removed. But when - one blew away, or was posted over, no one came along to replace it, the way they had at the first.

Another gust. He pulled the edges of the hood closer and let the shivers rattle his joints, hoping by that means to generate the heat needed to warm the air within the heavy wool folds. He had to leave the cloak, which was far too fine and would be noticed, when he went after food, or to perform one of the small jobs that kept his pockets from going completely flat. That meant getting chilled, on evenings such as this, and getting chilled to his bones meant spending the rest of the night getting warm.

Better than the alternatives, or so those other alley-rats he sometimes huddled with claimed. Himself, he wasn't yet convinced. He'd share no bed, rijhili or otherwise, just to survive, but there were times he truly wished the wind would simply steal him away as he slept.

The shiver became a steady vibration in his back. His feet, fingers, even his nose tingled. He buried his face in his crossed arms, saving the warmth of his exhaled breath within the cloak. Behind the darkness of closed eyelids, hunger made sparkling patterns, a myriad of colors in a spring-green glow.

His dream, coming to haunt him even in waking.

He cursed softly, tearfully, wishing the dream away, hat- ing it and the disaster it had wrought in his life, until at last, it began to fade, for once without consequence.

"What about my" A voice said, out of the dream.

A glittering tingle, a flash blinding to his dark- accustomed eyes.

Thyerri smothered a cry and hid his face again, convinced hunger had brought back the old delusions, the waking dreams that had haunted him in the days following the collapse of the web, like memories that weren't his own.

"Thank you."

That voice was no dream.

Thyerri scrambled to his feet, blinking himself awake.

A man stood in his alley. A man whose clothing, even in leylit silhouette, declared him unwelcome in this elite spot of destitution.

"Who are you?" Thyerri asked. His cold-hoarse voice was barely audible, even to his own ears, but the man seemed to hear him.

"Uh, hello." Another invader from the valley, from the accent. "Where did you come from?"

But Thyerri had no intention of answering questions.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry. I'm . . . lost. I was . . . looking for a place to stay."

Precise, his low tones; from the valley, but not of the sort that had most frequently patronized Bharlori's. This man might well have been one of Rhyys's guests that god- forsaken night, were he not here now.

"You'll be wanting Tower Hill."

"By no means! That's where . . . I mean, the coach left me off, and the place was much too expensive, and they said to follow Steachli Lane, and I would find something in my range, but there was nothing .. ." The narration floundered to a non-end, and the man muttered something, then picked up a large bag lying at his feet, and turned back toward the light.

Thyerri laughed, a short, bitter laugh. Steachli was on the far north side of Khoratum. Lost, indeed.

"Rijhili." He spat the word out, making no attempt to conceal all the hatred, old and new, that word held for him.

The shadow paused and turned.

"Did you say something?"

He certainly wasn't about to repeat himself, not with this shadow-man out of dreams walking the wrong damned way again. Thyerri took a step back, seeking deeper shadows, cursing his own stupid tongue.

"Did I offend you? I'm sorry. I've just arrived, and I fear I am quite woefully ignorant of local manners."

"Go away."

"Please, it would be very helpful to know what I did, since I'd like not to repeat the mistake with someone else.

Could I . . . buy you a warm drink? Dinner, perhaps? Any- where you like? So that we might discuss it?"

"Sure, why not? Bonnechhii's?"

A graceful gesture of the hand. "Lead on!"

Harsh laughter hurt Thyerri's throat. "You can't afford a room on Upper Steachli. Dinner for two at Bonnechhii's would buy you Minta's Place."

The rijhili's responsive chuckle sounded easy and unof- fended. "Very good, my friend." Another step closer to Thyerri. An extended hand. "Compromise?"

"No!" Thyerri stumbled back another half-step. Into -. stone. Trapped. His heart began to race.

"I'd honestly appreciate"

"I said, go away'." Thyerri's voice broke, as fear, and cold, and panic took over.

The shadow leaned its head forward, as if trying to see better. "How old are you?"

"As old as the hills. Go away!"

The shadow stopped encroaching, but it didn't go away either.

"I'd be quite happy to oblige, but . . . well . . . Do you know a place with good, inexpensive lodging?"

"If I did, I would be there, wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. Would you?" The shadow shrugged. "Ah, well, I've no more time to waste. It's getting late, and damned cold. Certainly wish I could find someone who might give me a hand with this bag. Maybe guide me to a place that won't steal from an honest man. There'd be a double biilli in it. If you see such a person, tell them to look for the . . . rijhili . . . wandering the streets like a damn fool, will you?"

The damnfool rijili swung the bag about and began a slow, slump-shouldered amble toward the leylights of the street. Thyerri sighed, thinking of the offered prize that meant meals for a week, and sighed again and knew he intended to snatch the proffered bait.

~ 8