The slender, elegant creatures who entered the room one at a time in answer to their introduction, bore little resem- blance to the athletes who had warmed up in the sand the previous morning. Male and female, they were painted and dressed, with their long hair crimped and braided in elabo- rate styles, their slender, nearly sexless forms hidden be- hind flounces and drapes, padding and corsets, or flowing robes with padded shoulders.

But while they moved with uniform pride, each made that pass in their own style; however their sponsor-provided coaches had adorned them for the occasion, they knew what they were there for, and uniformity was not a preferred commodity in a Khoratumin radical dancer.

Each contestant made a slow circuit of the tables, ac- knowledging the guests, making a special show at the table of their own backers. The musicians catered to their lead, choosing pieces to enhance that tour of the tables, creating a background that was a constantly shifting medley of fa- miliar ballroom pieces.

"Thyerri of Khoratum."

Mikhyel jerked. Startled. And took his eyes from the competitor bowing before him to seek out the entrance of the lad who had played so strange and fleeting a role in his life.

Laughter began with those nearest the door, and spread as more caught sight of the strange vision entering the room. The figure bore little resemblance to the others. He was dressed in leather, tanned to skin-hugging flexibility.

His cropped hair was held back from his face with a band that trailed beads and feathers down his back. There were beads and feathers also at his neck and on his leggings. His face, like the other contestants, was painted, but his was a mask of a different kind, composed of fine lace-patterns of pale blues and greens and purples.

Like the ley itself.

And proud as Mother herself, Thyerri strode down the hall, with the grace and power of an athlete, not the studied glamour of the others. As with the others, the musicians shifted their style to match his. But this time, it was no ballroom piece. It was of a kind with those pieces he'd heard in the Lower Khoratum taverns. Hiller music, with the drums dominant, enhancing Thyerri's solidly placed strides.

That drum, and Thyerri's own determination, the obvious self-confidence that matched the most self-confident of the previous contestants, silenced the laughter.

These rijhili had no idea what they were seeing.

Mikhyel felt his lips twitch, remembering his meetings with Thyerri, and his firsthand introduction to the deroga- tory term. And seeing Thyerri this way, no longer won- dered at his initial confusion between the hiller-lad and Temorii. In many ways, Thyerri did remind him of Temorii, ways that went well beyond the physical similarities all the dancers shared.

And it went beyond the strangely-shaded hair, even be- yond the similar high cheek bones and finely-sculpted chin, features that he saw for the first time without the cloak's hood.

It was their bearing, a posture that said somehow. I'm different. Good or bad, you can never be what I am. Never have done what I have done. And he wondered, remember- ing that brief sense of contact, whether that bearing came from Mother. Whether Thyerri was another of Mother's children and, if so, what might have dropped him from her favor.

More than ever, he regretted that lost opportunity the first night to get to know the street-lad better. And now it was too late. Now Thyerri's soul belonged to Rhyys.

Thyerri had no table of backers. He'd not been one of the nine on the field yesterday morning. Rhyys must have granted him some sort of special dispensation, possibly as recently as last night. One had to wonder what piece of privacy Thyerri might have sold to get Rhyys to allow him to compete.

... nothing stands between a Dancer and a chance to dance...

As Thyerri crossed in front of Rhyys' table, that haughty glance slid past them all to seek out one of the servants standing patiently behind Mikhyel. And Thyerri's eyes lit, his face broke into a smile, and he swept a bow so deep the feathers flopped forward and brushed his sandal-bared toe. The feathers flipped back, and the audacious fellow blew the servant girl a kiss, then whirled and strutted away, to unison applause of appreciation.

Rhyys turned with a snarl toward the object of Thyem's interest. She cowered and dodged his back-handed sweep, nearly dropping the wine bottle she held.

Mikhyel's upraised palm intercepted Rhyys' heavily jew- eled hand in the middle of its wild swing. Rhyys glared at him; Mikhyel said mildly, "Your guests enjoyed the perfor- mance, Rhyys. Make more of it, and you give it a signifi- cance it otherwise lacks."

Rhyys cast the servant a disdainful glance, then threw himself back into place and signaled for the next contestant to enter. Mikhyel smiled back at the servant, but she was staring at Rhyys, wide-eyed and very frightened.

She had what was becoming a familiar look to Mikhyel.

Short-cropped hair, though her black mane had the flat look of dye, and the slender elegance of a dancer, though she was markedly older than Temorii or any of the contes- tants. Perhaps Thyerri's older sister. Perhaps, he thought of the difficulty of telling age with the hillers, even his mother.

He drained then lifted his wineglass, and when the young woman bent forward to fill the goblet, he murmured, "Fol- low me out?"

Her nod, if it was a nod at all, was a single dip of the head that brushed her hair against his cheek.

Thinking he'd done all he could to ensure her immediate safety, he turned back for the final handful of contestants.

"Temorii dunKhoramali."

Only years of life with Anheliaa prevented him dropping his wineglass. He set the glass down, and placed his hands beneath the table where they could shake in private.

Temorii, child of the Khoramali. As audacious, in her own way, as Thyerri had been. She wore a gown similar to the one Mother had given her in the cave, and there was no doubt Mother had provided this one as well.

Spider-fine leythium lace gave the illusion of transpar- ency, yet revealed nothing, the illusion of all color that was no color, but a walking shadow of a rainbow.

Grown lace, not manufactured. Grown around a manikin form over the course of years and under painstakingly con- trolled conditions; such gowns were available in highly spe- cialized markets, but he'd never seen one that approached what she wore. Considering what just the bodice would cost, he could only imagine what rumors were generating even now behind the silence within the room.

Temorii's upper body was, like so many of the dancers, lean and hard, but rather than hide that unusual character- istic she gloried in it. The gown proclaimed to the world that the one who wore it was different. Special. And proud of the difference.

At least, that's what it said to him.

Below her narrow hips, the skirt flared into heavy folds that flowed behind her in a short train rippling with sparks of color. Her shaded hair was a shimmering veil down her back, shot, like her skirt, with sparks of color. Near her head, where it was deep, almost black, sable, she wore a coronet of leythium crystal.

Her face was bare of any makeup. But her flawless skin, benefit, no doubt of growing up bathing in leythium pools, dark lashes and large, obliquely-set eyes needed no enhancement.

At least, not to his eyes.

The musicians were first to shake off the spell she cast.

Following the flautist's lead this time, they began a rippling, flowing, nearly formless melody that sounded more like the wind in the trees and a mountain stream than a song.

And that sound seemed to ripple up her spine and as if she had no will of her own, she began to dip and swirl in response to the rise and fall of notes. She made her circuit, just as all those before her had made the circuit, but she made it as the dancer she was to her core. Fortunately, the alert flautist recognized the spell Temorii was under and brought the music to a cascading climax in front of Rhyys' table.

She whirled to a stop, but before Mikhyel, not Rhyys as had all the others. Whether by her design or accident, he didn't know. But she didn't bow. Not to him, not to Rhyys.

Her long, deep breaths made the leythium sparkle on her breast and in the hair that had swirled around to the front of her shoulder.

She dipped her head to Rhyys. To himself, she gave a look that twisted his heart.

Then the music began again, and she was gone.

The servant said her name was Sakhithe, and that she was a friend of Thyerri's once, but that Rhyys had laid claim to her, and she feared for Mikhyel if he tried to help her.

Mikhyel laughed, reminded her that slavery was illegal throughout the web and handed her over to Raulind, and asked Raulind to have Paulis see to the details in the morning.

There were times he truly enjoyed having a completely reliable staff.

Inside his room, Ganfrion was waiting for him.

"You've got to leave. Now. Tonight."

Before he'd even taken off his coat. Reliable was one thing. Interferingthat was another.

He tore the pin from his hair and began pulling the braid loose, anxious for the bath that would eliminate the stench of ocarshi from its strands. After tonight, there was no doubt left in his mind that whatever value Rhyys had once had to Anheliaa and the web, that value had gone up in greasy yellow smoke long ago.

He tossed the pin on the dressing table, then turned to face Ganfrion.

"No," he said flatly.

"Dammit, dunMheric, you're getting bubbles in the brain again!"

Mikhyel paced his room, trying to think how to explain to Ganfrion, enough to ease his concerns without getting into the issue of Mother. Without proof, Ganfrion would simply take it as more evidence of his growing irrationality.

"I can't desert Temorii," he said at last.

"She's not even here. For all you know"

"She was at the parade. You're getting sloppy, Gan."

"I was busy elsewhere."

"You didn't see her tonight. The marked hostility they have for her. Because of me. If she loses"

"She won't."

"She's good, Gan. But nothing is that certain."

"If the vote is rigged, it's certain."

"Rigged?"

"Thyerri says"

Mikhyel swung around to face Ganfrion. "Thyerri? What did you do? Have lunch with him and discuss my business?"

"Yes. Khyel, listen to"

Mikhyel raised a hand; Ganfrion's mouth closed in a tight bar. Without a word, Mikhyel gestured to a chair. Ganfrion sat. Mikhyel poured two glasses of wine, handed one to Gan and swallowed half the other. He refilled it and sat down.

"All right, Gan, what did Thyerri have to say?"

"He came straight to me after his meeting last night."

"And you're only now coming to me?"

"I wanted to verify his story. And I met him again this afternoon. He found me."

"I see. Go on."

"He didn't even pretend that I wouldn't know what he was talking about."

"He knows you've been following."

"And knows who I'm with."

"All right. And?"

"He says Temorii is marked to win."

"Why?"

"To keep you here. Control you. Perhaps use you as a diversion if their plans go awry and panic breaks out."

"We know when?"

"Tomorrow, after the competition. Sometime."

"When exactlyT'

"I don't damn well know! If I did. I'd tell you!"

"All right," Mikhyel said. "All right. Of course you would. Mauritum?"

"Definitely involved. There's a man, Thyerri says he's gorRhyys, but that Rhyys is his puppet, not the other way around. A scar-faced man out of Mauritum. He's the one to watch."

"You've got nothing more on him?"

"Keeps his nose real clean. Suds. No one mentions him."

"Except Thyerri."

"Except Thyerri."

"You trust him?"

"Thyerri?" Ganfrion paused and frowned down into his glass. "In this case, yes. Absolutely. Khyel, Thyerri says the Mauritumin has a Rhomandi ring." Ganfrion nodded toward Mikhyel's hand. "Like yours."

"That's impossible."

"Anheliaa's man Brolucci?"

Mikhyel shook his head. "He must be mistaken."

"Just . . . shit. Suds, keep an eye out for him? If it is true"

"I'll keep it in mind, Gan. I promise you." He stared down into his wine, swirled the deep red liquid. "And Tem- orii? What about your . . . reservations?"

"Irrelevant. Inconclusive."

"And the ringmasters? Demonstration? Or takeover?"

Ganfrion sipped his wine. "By what I know, it's to be a brief demonstration. A shutdown to frighten Lidye. By what I suspect . . . * think they plan to take over Rhomatum."

Mikhyel nodded. It no more than coincided with his own thoughts.