TWENTY-SECOND DAY.

"This is strange," Shkai'ra said, letting herself fall back and rolling her head onto Megan's shoulder. "Kh'eeredo, you've got to help me with this impulsiveness of mine."

"Impulsiveness? What, you mean taking the two children away from their parents after we ruined them? Taking responsibility for two children for at least six or seven years?

Impulsive?" She opened her mouth to continue and Shkai'ra sealed her mouth by kissing her. Megan smiled around the lass.

"Yes, I'll agree that it was dumb. But I love you anyway."

"I love you too. What little there is of you... Didn't anyone every tell you it's impolite to laugh while someone's kissing you?

Just for that, I'm going to kiss your ear instead." She glanced out the window. "Hour and a half 'till we have to be up." A grin. "IfI'm going to explain things to Sova, maybe we should practice."

"Don't forget Francosz. Prac-mmm-Practice sounds good to me." She pretended to scratch Shkai'ra with her claws. "You great lump, I'll have to cut you down to size. You've never asked me to help you with the children. Do you want me to?" She sighed and snuggled under Shkai'ra's arm. Then she reached up and dug her toes into one of the Kommanza's ticklish spots.

"Stop that!" Shkai'ra giggled hysterically and arched her back. "Oh, all right, you can help. Please! Shkai'ra locked her legs around Megan's thighs and rolled on her back.

Chapter Eleven.

ON THE RIVER BETWEEN NYSNY TVER AND RAND.

EVENING, TENTH IRON CYCLE, TWENTY-SECOND.

DAY.

"EEEEEEiiii-" Shkai'ra shrieked, the wooden practice blade scything around to impact on Sova's buckler with a gunshot crack of wood on wood. The Thane girl pitched backward, saving herself from a fall with a half-controlled dozen-step stagger that brought her back painfully against the rack of belaying pins about the Zingas Vetri's mainmast. She squatted, rolled, and dodged behind the mast in a defensive crouch as Shkai'ra followed up her charge.

"All the gods damn you, girl, stop flinching," Shkai'ra shouted.

Sova circled warily, keeping the thick pole between herself and her instructor, wooden blade held tight in her sweating grip.

Sweat... she could feel it pouring down her flanks under the padded doublet, down her neck from the aching heavy helmet, stinging and blurring in her eyes despite the cork and sponge lining. She wobbled, mouth open, fighting air that was shocking-cold on her face but seemed to be warm, wet flannel in her lungs.

The long sword stretched toward her around the mast, seeming to blur toward her midriff; with an enormous effort shedragged the buckler around to meet it, and the oak tip punched the circlet of leatherbound wood back into her stomach, wrenching at her shoulder.

"I... am... not... flinching," she panted, as her stop thrust faded six inches short of Shkai'ra's knee; the Kommanza didn't bother to block. "I... feel so... bloated and-" she dragged the air in with the muscles of her stomach, relaxed one knee and let weight pull her out of the way of a backhand cut, as she had been taught "-slow."

"Are you going to tell a foeman you can't fight today, because it's your bleeding-time?" Shkai'ra said. "Force it, girl, force it, or you'll end up dead or chained to a millstone!" The Kommanza bounced forward suddenly, leaping away from the mast, and front-somersaulted in mid air; Sova found herself backpedaling again, using buckler and sword to block cuts and thrusts that swung in from every possible angle. Hard enough to jar her right back to the shoulder, fast enough that only an all-out effort with no reserve could stop each attack, and was humiliatingly conscious that Shkai'ra was moving at a fraction of her maximum. At last one thrust jabbed into her shoulder, with a force that spun her about and left her gasping with the pain of the bruise.

Astonishingly, Shkai'ra was grinning at her. "Not bad," she said, leaning on the wooden blade. Sova fell to her knees, wheezing; Shkai'ra moved to her side, unlatched the helmet and poured a dipper of riverwater over the girl's head, then another over her own. The Thane could feel heat radiating from her face and neck and arms; nothing in her life had felt better than the cool evening breeze sliding over the sweat, tasted better than the first mouthful from the dipper Shkai'ra offered.

"Not bad at all, considering how late you started." Hard callused hands felt at her shoulders and arms and back.

"Tightening up nicely; now we need to get you stretched." Sova looked up and managed a smile around her gasps, distantly conscious that the woman was scarcely breathing hard at all.

"Mind you, any Kommanz ten-year-old could slice you into skunkbait, but it's a definite improvement." She turned herhead; Sova looked over to see her brother still stretched out prone, recovering from his bout.

"Megan!" Shkai'ra called. "Hai, weren't you going to work with Sova on the short blades?" She walked over to Francosz and nudged him in the ribs. "Enough rest, O Prince of Enchanted Sleep." He groaned theatrically, and received a harder nudge in reply. "Up! You should be able to run an elder like me into the deck. Up!"

Megan, also stripped down, looked up at Sova's startled face from the angle of her stretch, right leg stretched straight, left leg bent as if she were hurdling, right ear on her knee. "I told Shkai'ra I'd help out. She's the sort who likes going in at full screech, long sword spinning. Strip down to your shirt."

Silently Sova did, her fingers suddenly clumsy on the doublet.

The wind was icy on her chest and back. She heard Shkai'ra yell "Fifty!" to Francosz, heard him start counting push-ups at the top of what breath he had left and wished she were with the teacher she knew. The Zak had never offered to help before.

"Don't get chilled, keep moving. You need to be limber for knife-work. Follow what stretches I do. Begin." The Zak seemed to flow from hurdle stretch to V stretch, and put her chin on the ground. Sova tried and stopped a foot high off the deck. "Don't overdo. Right. There's a difference between stretch and tear.

Shift. The first rule of knife-fighting," Megan said. "The winner goes to the healer, the loser's dead." Sova found herself swearing all over again. Her Kkyd-hird had shown her these stretches, but the Zak could do them unbelievably well.

"Ky-" she stopped. What do I call her? "Captain? I can't do this, my muscles won't stretch that far."

"Never say I can't. I started worse than you. Up! Follow me."

Megan led her at a run around the deck, dodge coils of rope, leaping over barrels. Then she headed into the rigging. Sova groaned, set her teeth and followed. Up the lines then down, hand over hand, upside down, sideways. She was panting again, mouth open and dry, her arms and legs ready to fall off. Then down to the deck."Kneel. Catch your breath by the tail. Don't grimace at me, that lets everyone, including you, know that it hurts. Pretend it doesn't; after a while, it won't. You know that much."

The railing in front of Sova was greying, swaying as she wavered. She heard Shkai'ra's voice, the crack of wood on Franeosz's buckler, smelled roast beef that Piatr was cooking.

Her stomach grumbled but she felt so full. Then things settled again.

"So. Here we have practice knives, three or four weights and balances. Try them." The knives that Megan laid out on the deck were different shapes, made of dark polished wood like the sword Shkai'ra had made for her. They felt like satin.

"These are yours until you can make your own. I want you to try this every day, whenever you have a minute." Megan picked up a wooden blade, seemed to drop it. It spun round and the hilt smacked into her hand. "It's the first recovery. I'll show you slowly." Her hand flicked, the knife hilt rolled over her knuckles and continued the circle to smack into her palm again. Sova tried it; the knife clattered on the deck. "Just keep trying until you won't cut your fingers off with true steel.

"If you're interested, I have a book describing the way knife-fighting developed."

"Ca... Captain." Sova felt the blush rising up her neck and clutched the hilt of the wooden dagger hard enough to bring the knuckles white. "I-can't read. I'm just a girl."

Megan snorted. "Fine fix I'd be in if I couldn't read. That's another lesson I'll be teaching, I guess. Your brother, does he?"

"Yes."

"Well worry about that tomorrow. Too much talking. Knives away. This is the basic stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight on the balls of the feet. Knees bent. One hand for blocking. If you're lucky you'll have a cloak or a gauntlet."

They circled. "No, no, we're moving to keep our knife-handsforward. Stop." Sova froze in place and Megan continued the motion. "See how I can come around you and cut your arm?

Now-"

The supercargo cleared her throat. "Captain." Megan blinked out of her concentration, backed three steps and crouched to lay the imaginary knife on the deck.

"Yes, Zemelya?"

"Captain, we have to go over those books from the Brahvnilri office if we're going to find out where the cash was coming from.

Lady knows, it wasn't legitimate operations and I don't think the slaving or dreamdust would bring in that much either... and it's too irregular... I can trace the numbers, but..."

Megan sighed and turned to Sova. "Looking at figures in ledgers is a big part of being a captain. Here." She tossed one of the wooden knives, picked a stick of charcoal from a sack by the water-butt and walked to the rise of the poopdeck. There she sketched the outline of a human figure, reaching up to draw the head at arm's length above her own; the burnt wood went skrit on the smooth oak planks.

"Throat, stomach, groin, inner thigh, hamstrings. Get into stance, so. Lunge, so. No, don't hop: skim your foot forward and keep the back foot with toes angled out and weight a little to the front. Switch your center of gravity, but not so far forward you're pinned; move back with your knee... Good. Ten times each target, then switch. Don't fall into a pattern, and just touch the point to the mark."

Sova weighed the smooth curve of dark wood in her hand, scowling fiercely at the black outline and trying to put a human likeness on it; the only one that came to mind was the chimneysweep who had come last year. Legend said sweeps would steal bad children away; he had frightened her into crying when he mock-threatened it, she had known she deserved it and her parents would not care... She lunged, and the point went took against the stomach-cross.

"No, too hard for a beginning. Control it.""Why no mark for the heart, Captain?" she asked, without looking aside, as she had been taught. Treat a target as real and a practice weapon as steel, that was what the Khyd-hird had said.

"Too many ribs in the way. Practice on that until I come back."

Sova lay and stared up at the kraumak in its globe, the bubble of Francosz's almost snoring next to her ear, and couldn't sleep. Every knot in the planks under her pallet seemed to be bigger than her fist. She blinked and swallowed against the big lump in her throat, her chest felt tight and thick and the air all around seemed to press on her. I want to cry. She could feel the tears aching to be shed, and sniffed. The feather tick was too warm and heavy. Her stomach cramped, then eased again.

She sniffed but the tears wouldn't stop. She shifted out from under the blankets not to let in a blast of cold air to wake Franc.

I don't want to cry in front of him. She padded up to the deck, nodded at Stanver who was on watch.

The moon was down, but the bright spot of Shamballah was up over the port bow, shining in the ripples of the ship's passage.

She leaned over the stern rail, looked down at the velvet black and flickers of the water coiling out from under the ship. Behind her at the wheel, Stanver called, "Sounding?" Another soft voice from the bow answered, "Three fathoms, showing brown!"

The steady wind blew Sova's hair off her forehead in spidery wisps and the reflection of stars seemed to blur and shiver as her eyes filled with tears. I want to go home. She put her head down on her crossed forearms. I want to go home. Then she pulled her head up and wiped at her face. There isn't a home to go to, anymore, she thought. That brought a sob up from her chest to clog on the tightness in her throat.

She slipped over to the port ropewell, slid down to sit on the coil of the anchor rope, buried her face in her hands and sobbed until her eyes felt burned and ashy and her chest was empty and hollow."Do you want some company?" The Captain's voice over her head made her jump as if speared. Megan slid down to sit next to her, a shadow in the dark, wrapped in her dark cloak.

Go away, Sova thought. You're a Zak. A witch. What do you care? She put her head down on her knees and closed her eyes, trying to stop the last tears squeezing out of the corners.

"I used to sit in the ropewells and cry," Megan said quietly. "It used to be the only place I could hide on board a crowded ship."

Sova looked up, surprised. "You cried?" The Captain? Crying ? Nobody could ever make the Captain cry. That was impossible.

Like the Khyd-hird being a baby or the sky failing.

"Oh, a few times. I had someone who cared enough to listen to me to cry on, and she didn't mind getting her shoulder wet.

When I was your age, the whole world fell apart and it was like your Thanish Halya." She held open one fold of her cloak. "Are you cold? You're only wearing shirt and trous. It's clear enough to be going on for a real cold."

Sova hesitated, looked down at her fingers twisted together in her lap. She's not so bad, even if she is a witch. She edged over the coil of rope and squeezed in beside Megan, who wrapped the cormorenc feather cloak around her. "It's a good thing you're no bigger than I am," the Zak said. "We'd never fit."

They sat in silence for long enough for Yannet to make a full round of the deck above them. "Sounding!"

"Four fathoms, rocky!"

"Anything wrong that I can help?" Megan asked. "If I know Thanes, your brother isn't listening to you much."

Sova blew on her cold fingers and shivered. "N-o," she stammered. Then the tears came back. "I want to go home!" she wailed softly. "I just want to go back to being me!" She gulped, sobbed fearlessly and suddenly realized that she was controlling herself the way the Khyd-hird had taught her: with breathing.

But that was almost worse. "I don't know what I am anymore.I'm tired and my bruises hurt and... and I can't do it well enough. I never will!"

She choked off, stuffing a fist in her mouth. Megan brushed the hair off her forehead. "Home. Well. We can't do much about that. Sova, I realize that apologies don't really help, but for my part in your father's trouble-" She caught herself, took a deep breath "-your father's ruin, I'm sorry. And you are yourself.

Sova Schotter's Daughter.Someone..." The Zak put a knuckle under Sova's chin and gently pushed it up so that they were looking at each other. "Someone who I heard Shkai'ra say 'good'

to, not a few hours ago? A 'not bad' and a smile from her is an equivalent to a triumph in Brahvniki." They looked at each other, Sova seeing the spar-kle of reflected starlight in the Zak's eyes. "Hmmm, little sister?"

Sova nodded and buried her head in Megan's shoulder. "So,"

the Zak woman said quietly. "If you really need a shoulder and we're both up at an unGoddess-blest hour, ask me." She smiled.

"If you don't mind being friendly with a Zak."

Under cover of the cloak, Sova sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Doh, um, no," she said as her nose cleared. "I, um, I don't mind."

They sat together a while longer, the wind blowing steadily over Megan's shoulder, coiling around the ropewell, tugging at them. "Here," Megan said. A coin appeared between her first two fingers. It was a Thanish silver. It disappeared and reappeared. "My father showed me how to do this." One hand passed over the other and the coin vanished again. "Anyone can do this. Why don't you try it?"

For me? Sova thought. She just wants me to try it. Don't drop it in the river. She took the coin and slowly, fumbling a little, she made the coin "disappear."

"I did it!"

"You certainly did." Megan watched as Sova tried the trick five or six times, getting smoother every time. "You might as well keep the coin to practice with. It's yours."Sova hugged her and turned the coin over and over again, made it disappear again. "Really? Truly?"

"Really, truly."

"Sounding!"

"Three fathoms, showing mud and sand!"

The sounding cry happened three more times as they sat there and Sova's head gradually became heavier and heavier on Megan's shoulder. Finally the Zak stirred and said, "Bedtime, Sovee, come on."

Shivering, sleepy-eyed, Sova stumbled after her, up out of the ropewell, down the poop ladder and belowdecks, shuffled over and crawled onto her pallet, pulling the feather tick over herself.

Megan tucked the edges in around her, noticing that the closed fist she stuck under her cheek was tight around the old coin. As she straightened, she looked over into Francosz's gaze.

He looked at her over his sister, expressionless. Megan raised an eyebrow and stepped away. Back up on deck she retreated to the rail above the ropewell once more, her claws digging into the wood. Once, she looked down at the name "Habiku" graven in the oak and scratched it out viciously.

The sterncabin was as bright as the corridor, with starlight reflected off the wake and through the windows; they were closed all but a crack, and the little room smelled companionably of wool blanket, lamp wick, oiled leather and Shkai'ra. The Kommanza lay on her back, as usual; taking up most of the bed, also as usual. One arm was curled up behind her head and her cheek lay on her bicep; Megan looked at the sleeping face, relaxed and washed young by the pale light, the smooth, heavy arm and crinkled hair bright against the pillow. Shkai'ra rarely had trouble sleeping. She could brood, none better, day after day of black silence and slitted expressionless eyes; the Zak remembered her saying once that her people's neighbors sometime called them the "ice-lookers."

But she rarely lay awake with it. Come full dark, when thework of the day was over, for her it was time to eat, make love and roll into the blankets and unconsciousness. I envy her that, Megan thought as she undressed silently. I wish I could banish my ghosts so. If only for the hours of the night. She leaves me behind in my darkness, uncaring.

Perhaps it was her childhood; down in the River Quarter, there was always darkness amid the narrow rubbled streets under the cliffs, but never really night, never a time when everybody slept. Never a time when you could completely rest, either. She remembered lying awake listening to Mother and Father talking. It had been a warm sound, usually. Most so when she was very small, in the old family house in the Middle Quarter, where their voices came from the wallbed. Later, when they had to move downcity, there was strain in it as well as love; once she had heard her father crying, because they had to chose between having her boots patched and meat for the soup.

Megan shook herself back to the present with an unvoiced sigh, stretched. You'd be awake enough if I tickled you there, she thought, looking at the tuft of armpit hair that Shkai'ra's position exposed, an absurd little vulnerability.

"Doan' even think about it," the other woman mumbled, opening one eye a crack and holding up the blankets. Then, "

T'Zoweitzum, you're cold."

They curled together. Megan laid her head on Shkai'ra's arm, her cheek against the others throat; pulled her close with an arm and a leg looped over her waist. The Kommanza mumbled again and shrimp-curled, tucking her chin over Megan's head and bringing one long thigh up behind her.