"Hardly matters now. I'll finish my paper, defend it be- fore the board, and then I'll be free of him forever."

"Surely he's not still employed at the academy?"

Mikhyel shrugged. "He did nothing illegal."

"That could be proven."

Mikhyel shrugged again. "He's a damn fine lawyer and professor. Perhaps the students considered it a fair exchange."

"And Korelli? Did he consider it a fair exchange?"

Exasperated, Mikhyel dropped his eyes. When he looked up again, the small, tired eyes behind the thick spectacles had gone misty with sympathy.

"Poor lad. Well, we'll just have to get this paper of yours written, now won't we?"

With a sense of filth about him, inside and out, Mikhyel dragged himself up the narrow stairwell and limped down the hallway to his room.

DunRondri had been his best opportunity. He'd hoped, with that softening over supper, that the information would be more forthcoming, but all the assistant secretary had said was that the general consensus held that the era of the Rhomandi was over. That the Southern Crescent had to be put in its place and that everything was pending Mikhyel dunMheric's visit, which had been delayed due to illness, which everyone knew was a lie, and everyone was getting damned antsy about the situation, saying Mikhyel dun- Mheric wasn't coming at all, because he'd made such a fool of himself in the south that the Rhomandi had recalled him.

He'd become amazingly adept at calmly hearing himself denigrated in the past handful of days.

Listening to conversations not his own, milking informa- tion from a stranger on a topic regarding which he knew absolutely nothing, pretending to be someone he wasn't . . .

such prevarication had become second nature to him. Gan- frion would be proud.

Listened, milked, but learned little of substance regarding Nethaalye's presumed caucus, other than something was, without question, drawing significant numbers of significant individuals from all over the Northern Crescent, and that something was enough to drive the likes of dunRondri to drink and indiscretion. But overall, he'd gotten nothing, likely, worth the risk to his influential neck.

Or at least, nothing an impartial observer would consider worthwhile; for himself, he'd never felt more alive, certainly never felt more in control of his own life. He'd foiled three robbery attempts (two on himself, thanks in part to Dey- morin's advice about where to keep his money), two as- saults, and numerous shoplifting attempts.

Deymorin would also say that if he'd kept to the areas of Khoratum the individuals he most wished to tap tended to frequent, his life would have been far less exciting.

He'd had, he would be the first to admit, a secondary agenda over these past five days. There wasn't a spot in all of Lesser Khoratum that he hadn't investigated, not a strange food he hadn't tried, not a store he hadn't browsed, not an alley he hadn't searched.

All that experience, including examining the stables of three different brothels, and he'd found no sign of either Temorii or the young man in the cloak. He was a fool. An obsessed, guilt-ridden idiot. He .could wish . . .

But no, that was too selfish. Temorii, the street-lad and the truth behind that illusive perception would have to wait.

If the political climate in Khoratum awaited the arrival of Mikhyel dunMheric, it was time Mikhyel dunMheric en- tered Khoratum.

Tonight, he'd contact Deymorin and set the final plans into motion.

Ganfrion was, according to Deymorin's last report, camped a day's ride outside of Khoratum. Deymorin him- self was on maneuvers on the Harriisidumin line, two days'

ride to the south. He'd contact Deymorin, Deymorin would send word to Ganfrion, and he'd be gone, free of Khoratum in three days.

He set the key in the lock and turned. It resisted with a grating noise that had set his nerves on edge the first day, and the effect had only worsened with familiarity. But the lock worked; a man's privacy didn't need anything more.

He stumbled into the dark room, the only light a shaft of leylight seeping through a gap in the curtains. Blindly weary, he dropped scarf, greatcoat, and dress coat in a pile he'd regret in the morning, and dropped himself onto the mattress, kicking his shoes one at a time onto the floor.

His braid made a lump at the base of his skull. Ex- pending his final bit of energy, he pulled the clip free and flipped it across the room in the general direction of the table.

A pale hand reached into the shaft of light and caught it.

Mikhyel, discovering a hidden reservoir of vigor, jerked upright.

"Who's there?"

"Matron let me in." A ghostly shadow rose from the chair. "You told Thyerri you were concerned for me," the shadow continued,, and the voice was as beautiful as he remembered, and he wondered how he could ever have mistaken anyone else's for it.

"Thyerri?" he whispered back. "The street-lad?"

Like a ghost, Temorii drifted into the shaft of silver light.

Her shoulder lifted in a graceful shrug. "I am, as you see, well enough." She turned toward the door. "I should, I suppose, apologize for any distress I caused." And one pale eye glittered back at him. "I . . . I am sorry, Khy."

Her hand was on the doorlatch before his aching legs could carry him across the room to her side. He covered her fingers with his own.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I've been all over this city looking for you!"

"Why?"

"Because" Fool that he was, he had no sound answer, settled on, "Because I want to help you."

"Help me. That's rather miserly of you."

"Miserly? I . . . don't understand."

"The entire web is in need of help, Mikhyel Rhomandi dunMheric, and you want to waste time on one lone beggar."

"I've spent my life helping the web; I don't intend to stop now."

"Ah. I'll be going, then." She turned the lock with her free hand.

He tightened his hold on her other hand. "Does dedicat- ing my life to the web mean I'm not allowed to help a friend?"

"I'm not your friend, Mikhyel dunMheric."

Simply said. Coldly enough said to make him wince. He should have known. She and the boyThyerri, she'd called himwere of a kind. Proud. Resentful of any valley-born man's interference in their lives. He was rijhUi. The in- truder. No different than the rapacious investors. Never mind he meant better.

"Forgive my presumption," he said, weary to his bones, and let her hand slip free. She jerked the door open.

He turned and slumped into the nearest chair, not want- ing to see her leave, only then realizing just how much the hope of seeing her again, of solving the puzzle that was Temorii, had sustained him these past days. His exhaustion returned tenfold; he propped his elbow on the table, closed his eyes, and propped his forehead in his palm.

The noisy latch slid into place; he crossed his arms on the table and let his head fall forward, thinking maybe he'd just fall asleep right there.

"Help me what?"

He jumped; the chair beneath him slid, tipped and crashed to the floor. Her hand on his elbow was all that kept him from following it down in an ungainly sprawl.

Heart racing, he got his feet under him, and stood straight. Temorii quite matter-of-factly set the chair right and pushed him down in it, before settling herself into the other chair. She leaned her elbows on the table and stared at him.

Waiting.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, trying to resur- rect all the times he'd thought of her over the past days, what he'd planned to say when they met again, though this interview in no way resembled that fantasy encounter.

Searching for something approaching composure, he got to his feet, and twisted the overhead lamp into alignment.

He got no more from the leybulb than the faint glimmer that said all other lights were on in the building, but that shimmer was sufficient to highlight her face.

He poured himself a glass of water, a second for her, set it on the table between them when she refused to take it from him.

"Never mind," she said, and placing both hands flat on the table, shoved herself to her feet. "Farewell, Mikhyel dun"

"F-find your mother." He steadied his voice and contin- ued. "If that's what you want. Go home, wherever that is."

A startled look vanished between one breath and the next. "In my sleep?" She asked.

He nodded.

"You're cruel to use it against me now, dunMheric.

Mother is long ago. Past history. There was only one thing I ever wanted, and it's closed to me now. Not even Rhoma- tum's premier barrister can change that fact. So best you forget me."

This time he didn't try to intercept her dash for free- dom. Physically.

"Is it the dance you want?" he asked.

She froze, her hand poised above the latch.

"The street-ladThyerriimplied as much."

Her breath caught; her head dropped.

"It doesn't matter," she said, and the music in her voice soured. "Rhyys determines who competes, and my opportu- nity passed."

"Are you too old?"

"Hardly."

"Incompetent?"

She turned slowly. "I'm the best damned radical to ever challenge the Khoratum Rings."

"Then why'd you lose?"

"I didn't."

"Then why aren't you dancing?"

"I never got a chance to compete."

"Why not?"

"Because the damned web went down and the rings crashed!"

"Oh. Well, then, I guess we'd better get you another chance to compete."

Her mouth opened, closed. "You can't." She said flatly.

He grinned, relieved at having breached her cold indiffer- ence at last. "Never tell a lawyer 'can't,' Temorii."

She drew a deep, shaking breath and hissed: "I missed my chance, damn you!"

"Only one?"

"For me, yes."

"Not for others?"

"I'm not others."

"Temorii, do you want to compete?"

"Yes!"

"Then stop giving me unsubstantiated conjecture, and answer my questions!"

Her mouth set, lips pressed tight in anger. Unimpressed, Mikhyel grinned, his blood moving faster with each passing moment, now that he had a specific goal. He pulled his notebook and a pen from the outside pocket of the case on the floor behind his chair, tested the pen's cartridge, and began taking notes.

"The next competition is scheduled for"

"Canceled." Still sullen, but she hadn't gone out the door.

"Canceled?"

"Delayed at least." Her mouth twitched. "You're ill, remember?"

The public announcement. He'd forgotten.

"So" Mikhyel raised an eyebrow and made a note.

"First: Mikhyel recovers. I can manage that." And with a flourish, checked off the line. "Then, we find out the new date." He sensed her proximity, made a point not to look up. "Third: practice. Are you in . . ." He thought of that thin body, and poverty and obviously short rations, and wondered: "How soon could you . . . I mean . . ."

"You get me in. Barrister, I'll be ready." Her breath was short, quick. Frightened.