He broke a piece of bread off the loaf, and threw himself down in the simple wooden chair. Simple, but it had a back, unlike other rented chairs of recent acquaintance.

A backand stable. Luxury, indeed.

(All right, Deymio, get to it.} It was nothing more than he'd expected the moment Deymorin's anger shattered his dreams: Deymorin, suspi- cious and anxious, had gone to meet Mikhyel's entourage.

{And why, brother, didn't you just get back to the coast?) Mikhyel asked.

{The same reason you aren't where you're supposed to be! Things have come up} {Don't you dare blame my change of plans.) {And don't you flatter yourself. It's under control, thank you.) {So am 1. Thank you.) Long silence.

{He's got a point, Deymorin.) Hesitant input from Nikki thattastedof real under- standing. Mikhyel sent his younger brother heartfelt grati- tude with all the power his throbbing head could generate, and on a return pulse, like a hand fumbling in the dark to stroke his hair, Nikki sent sympathy, and a desire for the headache to go away.

A wish that threatened to suck his hold on consciousness right out of him.

Mikhyel severed the attempt with a thought that felt as if he clasped that fumbling, searching hand, and held it steady, but "free" of his head, and sent back to Nikki that he was feeling much better now, thank you.

(You're coddling each other.) Deymorin's thoughts floated over their hands, more soothing, in his dry humor, than Nikki's well-meant attempt had been.

[Yes, I am. You shouldn't have yelled so loud, Deymorin.} {And I'm supposed to know what it takes to wake him up? Would you mind telling me how? Last time I tried) Mikhyel laughed. {Forget it, both of you. I'm fine. I'm more than fine. Deymorin, tell me you didn't kill Ganfrion.} {Kill him? I got him drunk. Poor man deserved at least that.} Ganfrion and Deymorin allied. Perhaps he'd best concede.

(Bet on it! Don't move. I'll have Ganfrion take Nethaa- lye and Kiyrstin back to Rhomatum. I'll gather some men at Darhaven and} {No! Dammit, Deymorin, don't you dare! I'm fine. If I need help, I'll call. We know I can, now, and I'm promising you I will. I'm in a good position to listen for a while, so don't you dare foul things up for me by sending an army out looking for me.) {You sound as if you're enjoying this.} He biinked into the near dark of the room, and realized, {Yes. Yes, I am.} A pause, during which he could almost see the room in which Deymorin sat, the golden glow of a heating candle beneath the amber sheen of brandy. {I can't stop Ganfrion, you made certain of that.]

{He made certain.} Laughter, that bounced off the walls of that far-distant inn.

{That he did. I begin to comprehend your fascination with the jail-bait. If I promise to leave you alone unless you call, will you accept him bringing your men to within spitting distance of Khoratum, for when and if you decide to make a proper appearance in Rhyys' court?} Or a fast escape. Mikhyel smiled into the empty room.

It was no less than he'd expected when he sent Ganfrion off with Nethaalye.

And it was more. If Nikki was learning to think beyond his own needs, Deymorin was learning the art of graceful compromise.

{I'll go you one better, Deymio. I'll check in every"

He considered the promise he'd been about to make and revised it on the fly. {"other night. Deal?) (Deal!)

Chapter Four.

He supposed some would call it charmingly old-fashioned, this Node City perched precariously on a mountainside, just below the timber line. Like something out of a Tamshi tale, but sufficiently endowed with modern amenities for the dis- comforts to be picturesque rather than annoying.

For Mikhyel dunMheric, it nourished a bit too much squalor for the fantasy to overcome. Or perhaps, for some, that was the fantasy, to know there were destitute folk on the verge of starvation, and knowing you were not among them, that a coin from your pocket could provide them one more meal, or that same coin, mercifully withheld, could expedite their sad, but unavoidable descent into the ley.

It was an arrogance to sicken the healthiest mind.

He could well understand, in retrospect, the young local's antipathy toward him that first night. To that boy, Mikhyel dunMheric had been just one more rich man giving a poor hiller one more meal.

On this, the third day since Mother had transferred him to the surface, Mikhyel drifted through a market that was not the open stalls of Rhomatum, or the massive, covered shopping complexes of Shatum, but cozy, enclosed single units with carved and painted signs in place of flapping banners.

Creatures roamed the streets apparently at will: goats, sheep, chickens, even a loose pony or two, though from the way quadruped ears pricked at the sound of certain voices, he'd judge they rarely strayed far.

Wandering the outer perimeter streets, those areas of the city farthest from the Tower complex and modern buildings looming uphill, he grew accustomed to the local dialect, learned to tell locals from those who had moved in with the capping, from those newly-imported, and all from those just-visiting.

A great number of the latter. And too many groups trav- eling about in what appeared to be uniforms for a visiting Rhomandi's piece of mind.

The common talk centered around the upcoming radical dancer competition and the festivities surrounding it. One might assume, even without Nethaalye's advisement, that these guards, or at least their employers, were here for that celebration. One might also assume that that influx of visi- tors was quite normal: at least one shop owner, who carried leather and fur garments produced by local hiller families, said the week or so before a competition were always her most profitable.

Considering the cold mountain winds that regularly crept past Khoratum's weather perimeter, a man from the tem- perate valley could well understand the popularity of her merchandise among similarly thin-blooded visitors. He had, himself, picked up a pair of fur-lined gloves.

One might assume the visitors here for the festival, were it not for the fact that the advertisements for the event that met him at every posting board carried Mikhyel dunMher- ic's visage as well, and one might wonder why those signs (apologetically) proclaimed the date of the competition as subject to change depending on that particular dignitary's schedule.

At no other node had his visit been made public knowledge.

A suspicious man might think Rhyys wanted to make certain the city was in maximum turmoil while Mikhyel dunMheric was in Khoratum.

That suspicious man might also note that the portrait used on the poster was one he'd never seen before and one he had to examine twice before recognizing himself. Not a face he'd be inclined to trust, and that suspicious man had to wonder what Rhyys intended, whether that unapproach- able Rhomandi was a purposeful representation . . . or sim- ply substandard artwork.

He'd never particularly cared for Rhyys. Rhyys, like Lidye, had been Anheliaa's personal choice for the new node's first ringmaster. And Rhyys, like Lidye, had always pandered, to Mikhyel's way of thinking, to Anheliaa's worst egotisms.

But so might some say of Mikhyel dunMheric.

For all he knew, Rhyys had been as much Anheliaa's pawn as Lidyeand as Mikhyel himself had been. Perhaps, like Lidye, now that Anheliaa was dead, Rhyys was finally free to think his own thoughts.

It was possible Rhyys was as distrustful of Mikhyel as Mikhyel was of him. He could be gathering reinforcements, thinking Mikhyel dunMheric was on the way to Khoratum to disinherit him. Possibly Rhyys believed Mikhyel blamed him for the Collapse in the web.

And if Rhyys was indeed gathering the Northern Cres- cent leaders to create a unified agenda, Mikhyel dunMheric wasn't necessarily adverse to that. It rather well depended on what the Khoratum ringmaster's intentions were in cre- ating that union.

Sunset caught him by surprise, coming early and with startling rapidity as the sun ducked behind the hills. One of those cold mountain breezes wriggling past Rhyys' weather perimeter set his teeth to chattering, and he ducked into the nearest tavern, just as thunder grumbled in the distance.

He lifted three fingers to the bartender, the mountain sign (so Deymorin had assured him during last night's con- ference) for the reputation-at-stake homebrew, and settled into a corner booth from which he could watch the patrons without himself drawing notice.

The tavern had a curiously elusive ambience. Not at all like Rosie's but equally unlike any of the restaurants of Rhomatum he had patronized. If he sought a word to de- scribe it, and for that matter, all of this older district of Khoratum, he supposed that word would be innocent.

But the frightening innocence of a child toddling among wolves.

As a town, let alone a node city, Khoratum was young, not far removed from a tiny village community. Those na- tives still living here radiated a trust that could frighten a man not inclined to take advantage of them.

And attract those who were.

Even those who must have learned otherwiselike the young alley-rat who had greeted him upon his arrival, or the owner of the small hotel who had refused to take more than a single night's rent in advanceseemed determined to make each individual prove himself unworthy of that trust.

A double-edged sword of righteousness that could only hurt the innocent wielder. No matter how wrong it was, how essentially unfair, the unscrupulous would never truly be hurt. The honor, the self-respect that was gold to such as that boy in the alley was so much sand to the ruthless.

At the moment, the vast majority of Khoratumin power and wealth resided in foreign node hands. Mostly it was in the hands of those Northern Crescent businessmen who complained of the Southern Crescent's tendency to take advantage of their trusting natures.

Khoratum must grow up and take care of its own inter- ests. The Northern Crescent in general must care for theirs.

Not by power of arms, not by crying foul and creating laws to punish those who preyed, but by realizing that, fair or not, their world was now larger than their own small com- munity and that they must learn to protect themselves, rather than expect the wolves not to hunt.

On the other hand, while encouraging the young states to grow up, the Syndicate, in fairness and self-protection, should help ease that transitionfor both sides. Every node in the Rhomatum Web had benefited from the capping of Khoratum. (Even Shatum, for all certain factions would like to see the case otherwise.) They owed their child at least the time to reach maturity.

Somehow, he doubted these were quite the insights the Syndics had hoped he'd gain when they demanded this tour.

Thunder again, and lightning. .Moments later, rain de- scended in large, very loud, wind-driven drops. They were on the perimeter here, and the storm seemed practically atop them.

He'd never been this exposed before, not to a true, natu- ral storm, and for one insane instant, as the drenching stream flowed down the windows, he had the strangest in- clination to run outside into that storm and let those drops pummel his body.

Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

A young man came over and set a mug on the table.

Like the other servers in this tavern he was a local, one of the natives from before the capping. A high-cheekboned face, naturally beard-free, small, to a Rhomatumin's eye, and slight, dark, almost black hair . . . Mikhyel could well understand the mistake the inmates of Sparingate Crypt had made regarding his own origins.

"That'll be ten p, sir," the serving boy said, his voice low, diffident.

When Mikhyel asked for an open tab, the fellow bit his lip, looked over at the owner behind the bar, whose atten- tion was elsewhere, nodded, and left.

Too late, Mikhyel wondered if the lad had understood him.

Among themselves, the servers spoke the native dialect that was so deceptively similar to the language of Mauris- lan, which all the descendants of the Exodus spoke. The two languages were similar enough that a Rhomatumin could believe them the same, once long ago; similar enough that, if said Rhomatumin didn't really work at listening, he could convince himself he understood every worduntil he tried to respond, and realized he had no idea what the hiller had just asked.

He took a cautious sip from the mug, and discovered the ale more drinkable than most, which was something of a relief, as (according to Deymorin) a man did not, in the hills, order anything less potent.

Of the patrons he could see, most were male, all, from their dress and accents, from the Northern Crescent. And most wore uniforms. Evidently he'd happened on an upper- common meeting spot: too rich for the locals, not good enough for the masters.

The sole nonmartial group were all on the adolescent side of twenty, and evinced the capacity to become mem- bers of a mindless mob. As happened, there were only a handful of them, thus their failure to attain mob status here, but if a mob were in the making, they'd be certain to join in.

They had the look and sound of Giephaetum. Possibly offspring of those who had come in to help settle the new city. More likely they were just visitors, attachments to those personages flooding upper Khoratum. They were of- fensively out of place here, with their rude handling of the slight-bodied servers and their loudly voiced opinions about hill-folk and Khoratum and the mountains in general.

One, not the eldest, he would judge, but the largest, pro- vided the thinking, such as they could handle. The rest were nodders, those who would endorse whatever the thinker thoughtso long as that thought wasn't too challenging.

It was a pattern he recognized well, and one hardly lim- ited to the young of Giephaetum. He'd seen it often enough in the lobbies outside the Rhomatum Council Hall.

The mob's rather pretty waitress teased and taunted them, seemingly in full control, and flaunting her unavail- ability in their faces. The more frustrated they became, the more outrageously she flirted. It remained in tolerably good humor, but to Mikhyel's way of thinking, no good could come of it.

As the waitress swayed her way back toward the kitchen, another employee, an exceedingly slender young woman, emerged. She was carrying a closed container of some ap- parent weight, and moved through the room like a pale shadow, eyes downcast, her face hidden behind a fall of dark hair that lightened toward the ends as if bleached in last summer's sun.

The leader of the would-be mob, bored without his wait- ress to harass, grabbed as she passed. A smooth sideslip foiled the attempt, and she was beyond range before he could do more than curse at her.

Without so much as lifting her head, she aimed for the side door near Mikhyel's table. Mikhyel reached the door before her, and swung it open, then stepped back to let her pass. Pale eyes flickered up at him through a veil of sweat- streaked hair.

Up, but most of that height difference came from the bend of her body around the large container.

"May I help you?" he asked.

She biinked, long lashes tangling in that shaded hair, then looked toward the owner, polishing glasses behind the bar, and shook her head. Mikhyel bowed slightly and returned to his table. Moments later, she returned, the container notably lighter, the rope handle suspended now from one slender hand.

He smiled at her, but that hair remained a veil between herself and the world and he had no idea if she noticed.

Though dressed in hiller clothing, she was tallish for a hillerwhich still meant below average height for a Rho- matumin: Lower Khoratum was the first place Mikhyel had ever felt tall. Her extremely slender build, which seemed natural as opposed to emaciation, enhanced her apparent height.

Perhaps it was that build that made her every movement, as she made her way back to the kitchen, almost mesmeriz- ing in its grace. Curiosity piqued, Mikhyel raised his hand for another ale, and caught the serving lad's eye to order supper, intending now to stay.

Musicians arrived: guitar, lute, drummer, and a flautist whose face and hands were so badly scarred, Mikhyel won- dered whether the instrument belonged to another. But the lute player smoothed a clear ointment over the scars, and the flautist flexed lips and hands, and tried a few practice runs which slowly gained confidence and speed.

He stopped for another coating, and tried again.

The young woman came out from the kitchen, carrying a bowl and a pewter mug, and slid into a small, dark nook, where she would be invisible to the majority in the room.

But not to Mikhyel. He wondered, briefly, if that excep- tion was conscious, decided it was personal vanityhis wishing she'd noticed him, and if she was oblivious to his interest.

She ate and drank slowly, with the care and attention a connoisseur would grant marsh chicken and fine wine. Only the thin, shaking hand that lifted the spoon betrayed how rare that meal might be.

His ale arrived, and the bowl of stew. Mikhyel paid the announced price plus ten, which generosity got him a sly sizing, then a politely eager, "Thankee, sir." But he never took his attention from that dark little booth.

The music began, guitar and lute first.

The young woman paused in her meal, folded her hands quietly in her lap. When the flute began to ripple among the strings, her head swayed and dropped forward, her rag- gedly cropped hair once again masking her expression.

She lifted her napkin to her lips, folded it carefully, and left it on the table before she headed for the door.

Taken by surprise, as he was certain she had yet to finish, he sought another bite of the stew, and washed it down with the ale, torn between the desire to follow her, and the sure knowledge he was being a fool.

"I said, let me by!"

Anger set uncomfortably on the musical voice. The young woman had been cornered near the main door by the handful of Giephaetumin, and the oversized leader was forcing her into an empty booth.

Mikhyel was outraged. The other patrons, either truly or selectively deaf, had evidently chosen to ignore the assault taking place. But even as he ached for the young woman and wondered what he could possibly do that wouldn't bring extremely unwelcome attention to himself, the young woman brushed the groping hands aside, darted like quick- silver through the huddle closing in around her, and slipped out the door, the ill-mannered pack hot on her trail.

The music never even faltered, the conversations about the room never paused. It was all Mikhyel could do not to stand up and demand an explanation. Instead, he drained the ale, nodded his approval to the owner, and followed as unobtrusively as possible.

They'd disappeared by the time he reached the evening- quiet street, but he heard them, and he followed that laugh- ter and the hissed objections into a twilight-shadowed alley- way. There, under dripping eaves, they had the girl facedown in the mud; two were holding her captive, the leader was standing over her, his breeches half-pulled.

The pack had, however, suffered in the pursuit. Two bleeding lips that he could see, one out cold, and another rolling in a puddle and moaning.

"Here, constable," Mikhyel called with all the force in his lungs, and waved his hands wildly at his fictitious law- keeping authority, deliberately choosing the Giephaetumin term. "I told you there was trouble. Hurry!"

The pack froze, the leader half-turned, his face twisted in disbelief.

The young woman rolled, curled, and struck. Her heel contacted its delicate and highly exposed target in a light- ning fast snap; the leader howled. A second snap flipped her feet over her head in a roll that had her free in one moment, and at Mikhyel's side in the next.

The now-mindless ruffians scattered, as they were able.

The staggering leader disappeared between two buildings, at least one companion close on his heels. Two others shuf- fled away, dragging their semiconscious companion.