Yes, Shkai'ra; she was carrying a man in a fireman's sting around her neck. A big man, he must be heavy to make her step carefully like that. The gangplank boomed under her boots; Piatr limped by her side, one hand on the man's arm.

The Thane girl controlled a pout. Her Khyd-hird and Piatr had left earlier, and given her a curt, "No," when she asked to come along. It wasn't fair; Francosz was in the city somewhere, looking around, with Yvar. She wouldn't get to go ashore until tomorrow.

She slid down behind the rail separating lower and upper decks, hands gripping the wooden uprights that she peered between, curiosity overcoming the resentment. Then her breath went out in an O of shock. The mans back was a mass of weals, new ones scabbed and red, some half-healed, others twisted masses of keloid scarring white even against the corpse-paleness of a fair man long away from the sun. She had seen slaves her father had beaten, but nothing like this. A whiff of something reached her and she gagged; it was worse than the leper beggar that had waited outside the gate, filth and flesh rotting alive. She stood staring, hand pressed to her mouth. It scarcely even touched her when Shkai'ra's gaze flicked across her with an impersonal scorn at the squeamishness.

"Mateus, get your kit. We need you." There was movement past her, figures kneeling beside the man. His face was turned toward her; she could see the flat emptiness of the eyes, the thick ribs like hoops stretching the skin tight, falling in valleys between them. Yellow fluid ran from the deep ulcers on his shoulders; his skin twitched at the touch of water and cloth onthe sores.

Mateus was there now. He had stood for a moment with his hand on his knife, the other raising the chest of medicines with a gesture of furious helplessness. He had ignored Shkai'ra's snarl of impatience, and he spoke to himself as he knelt beside the big man. Spoke Zak words she had never heard, softly, venomously; she could tell it was cursing from the tone, and the way Zemelya glanced sidelong at him from the corners of his eyes.

Sova blinked and listened. Shkai'ra was talking to Piatr: "Perhaps I'd better tell her..." She looked steadily at him for a moment. "No, you both knew him, it's your right."

Piatr had nodded, his skin grey, and turned to go. The Captain came up.

The Thane girl had been staring; she was shocked, but as a child is at a wonder, half excitement and half not understanding, fear that is a fear of an adult's incomprehensible distress, as a dog scents its master's, and howls without knowing the reason why.

This was different; she felt it come in the slow, heavy steps below her in the companion way that lead to the sterncabin. The Captain's face was a different thing, ice, a weakness in the heart of bones. Yet Megan simply stood, staring downward at the man on the deck. Shkai'ra began reaching out, began to speak, let her hand fall in silence. There was a great stillness, broken when Mateus let drops of a clear fluid fall on the man's back. An animal grunt, then a liquid sigh, unconsciousness.

Megan made a sound, faint, a beginning uncompleted. Her face rose; the eyes met Sova's without seeing. The Captain turned; she walked away, back to the ladder and the cabin. The girl felt a tense hush: awe, and a stillness like seeing an avalanche begin, before the sound can reach you. She felt a whimper beginning, suppressed it, felt a loss, a clearing, as if the sight had pushed her over a threshold in her soul, to a place where such things could be. Where there was no safety, and even the Captain, her friend, could be lost.Then the sound began from below. Sova cried out and pressed her hands to her ears, bent her head to the deck and wept, wept for the broken man, for Megan, for her own childhood. Wept without hope of comfort, even when Shkai'ra's arm encircled her shoulder and held her, for where was refuge?

Stillness lay over the ship like a cloth on a wound. In the dark people sat, looking everywhere but at each other in the pale glow of the lamps on the dock. The rattle of dice on the deck, as sailors tried to bring normalcy back, was empty and faint, like the rattle one fears at a bedside watch, and those that made frantic love did so to comfort themselves.

There had been no sound from the cabin for most of the evening watch. They'd all heard the wail grow hoarser, collapsing into discreet words occasionally, damning his soul to every Halya. Curses filled with tears as something else smashed. Then silence.

Shkai'ra came down the companionway and found Piatr still sitting by the door, his head leaning back against the wall as he listened. Next to him a shadow uncurled itself and blinked solemn green eyes at her. Ten-Knife stretched and curled around her boots, but did not purr. She stood a moment looking down at the two of them, then nudged the dead rat away from its place by the door, putting out a hand to open it.

"Wouldn't," Piatr said, voice final, just above a whisper. "She said no."

Shkai'ra sighed. "Someone has to. She keeps this up, she'll get crazy enough to be left with her friend at Joy Shrine."

"She said no," he repeated but his voice was less certain.

"Then she'll have to tell me herself," Shkai'ra snapped and opened the door.

The only light was from the kraumak behind her and when she closed the door, from the outline of the window, broken bits of wood swaying slightly in the rocking motion of the ship. As she stepped in, something crunched under her boot and therewas a movement from the darkest part of the room. "Leave me alone. " Megan's voice was ragged and torn like the room. Not a whisper but a sound that has been used too hard.

"Megan."

"I like it like this."

"Megan." Shkai'ra's voice was soft as she stepped forward.

"Let me put on the light-"

"NO!".

The Kommanza put out a hand toward the dim figure in the dark and only her flickerswift reflexes saved her from being clawed. The Zak was still again after that one strike as if she had never moved.

It felt right, in the dark, Megan thought. It had surged up and over what defenses she had, flowed through her like oil-sludge. Hate and fear were nothing compared to this monster that sat in her limbs and mind while she watched from somewhere a great distance away. The dark was as cold as the slushy river outside, and since the rage had died to ashes she had been that cold.

Shkai'ra paused. Perhaps Megan had gone truly crazy. There had to be some way to reach her.

"Megan," she paused, floundering, almost angry. She was no damn nursemaid, but... Megan needed her. "When we met...

when we loved... Together, you said. Together we defy the storm." She paused. There was no sign from the Zak. "Kh'eeredo, you're alone in it, while I'm here."

One heartbeat. Two. Three... With a solid impact Megan threw her arms around Shkai'ra, ignoring the Kommanza's instinctive defensive move.

"I'm going mad, Shkai'ra." Megan's voice, ragged as torn paper. "This is killing me. I'm going mad. I hate him. I want to tear him into bloody shreds. He hurts me by hurting my friends.I won't be able to have friends. They'll be hurt-"

"Kheeredo, I'm here. I'll help you kill him if you need it. You're not crazy. I know. You're strong enough that he'll never touch you again." Megan held to her lover as if she were falling, and shivered.

Chapter Thirteen.

SLAF HIKARME, F'TALEZON.

TENTH IRON CYCLE, TWENTY-THIRD DAY.

The Slaf Hikarme was silent under the snow. Silent except for the hoarse, inarticulate shout of rage from the private chambers of the master of the house. The servants and slaves in earshot tried to keep on with their tasks, flinching when something heavy broke, trying to pretend everything was as usual.

It had started when the master came home from Dragon's-Nest the night before. He had slammed in the front doors, shouting for his slave Lixa. When the butler had informed him that she was not yet back from Zingas Uen's, Habiku had gone silent, turned on his heel and stalked into his chambers.

"That BITCH! Avritha, the Viper as a name suits you! She refused me! Bitch! Viper in heat! Whitlock, I'll have you still!"

The shouts from the inner chambers had been accompanied by smashing of priceless furnishings, the lapdesk flung straight through the west window. Now everything was silent.

The butler, hovering nervously in the corridor, glanced at the valet who shrugged and looked away. The door opened and Habiku, disheveled, clothing torn and disarrayed, one of his hands cut and bleeding, looked out into the light. "Get in here,"

he said hoarsely. "Get things straightened up."

"Of course, Teik, at once-" Habiku cut the butler off mid-word, brushing past him, leaving the door swinging open behind him.

"Enough of that." He looked down at the cuts in his palm thoughtfully. "Have a bath poured," he said absently. "I'll justhave to think of another way."

"Teik?" The valet stopped as he signalled one of the slaves, looked back at his master.

"Oh, nothing. I'll be in the Library." Habiku tried to straighten his clothing, folded his hands behind his back and paced down the hall, head down, thinking. He missed the look his servants exchanged over the devastated rooms he left behind.

"Yes, Teik."

RAND, HSIANG ISLE.

TENTH IRON CYCLE, TWENTY-FIFTH DAY.

Megan had gone to the metalworkers' street with Piatr, wrapped in a mood darker than her cloak; Piatr, and a banker's draft large enough to make the supercargo wince. Shkai'ra was alone on the quarterdeck, washing down after sword-dancing, when they returned. She paused with the bucket over her head, poured, then vaulted the railing. Francosz looked up from book and slate as she did. Sova was concentrating on copying the outline of a letter in the waxboard. She paused and nibbled on the end of the stylus but didn't look up.

Megan was directing as a dozen porters wheeled the cloth-covered dolly down the dock, its wooden wheels clattering on the worn stone.

Whatever it is, it's small, Shkai'ra thought, scuffing at her hair with a rough length of toweling. About five by three, but heavy, from the way they were handling it.

Megan stood by with a tension more evident than pacing, and her eyes flicked up to the rigging.

"Mateus!" she called. The first mate yawned up from below, from his bunk. "Turn out the crew. Rig the forward boom for cargo hoist; it's a-" she paused to estimate "-ten times manweight load."

He blinked, shrugged and began to bellow. Most of the deckcrew were on board; they had duties of a sort during daytime, repairs with the rigging and gear, and stayed aboard while the rowing crew took liberty. Shkai'ra moved to the gangway railing to be out of the way, propping a leg on the rope to towel it and puzzling at the shrouded bulk. Francosz put the book down, said, "Keep on copying, Sovee," and came over next to Shkai'ra. The crew had readied the mainsail yard to use as a crane.

The parcel had a four corner tie already looped over the canvas; Piatr stumped to grab the hook as it jerked downward, leaned to fix it expertly in the center knot of the rig.

"Ease away!" he shouted. A half-dozen crew had the other end of the lift rope; it slid through their hands, coiling neatly at the feet of the last. Shkai'ra leaned her buttocks against one of the poles of the gangway railing, drying her feet and watching the way the outboard slack of the rope tightened. Another sailor had dashed past her with a coil of line and run a loop through the slack of the rig beneath the hook; she would control the movement from the dock. Two more had a holding line about the head of the boom, below the block.

I've commanded soldiers less disciplined, Shkai'ra thought.

Mateus raised his speaking-trumpet.

"Haul her free..."

The weight on the dock lifted, swayed, steadied.

"Haul away!"

The rope-gang bent to their work, quick regular underarm snatches at the rod-straight sisal cord; Shkai'ra could hear the rasp of their work-roughened palms on the scratchy surface. The load swung up to twice manheight over the railing and hung with its cover dangling.

"Warp her home!"

"Easy, easy!" shouted the sailor on the dock, as the boom moved slowly to come in line with the keel."Make fast on the stayline," Mateus called. The rope controlling the boom was stubbed to a bollard. "Slowly-ease her down!" Another squeal from the block, and the rope-gang's hands moved in unison to pay out the rope, like the many legs of a centipede moving in unison. The boards creaked as the load came to rest on the deck, still covered.

Megan came up the gangway with a quick, nervous rush.

Francosz edged away. He tapped Sova on the shoulder.

"All right, kh'eeredo, I give up: what is it?" Shkai'ra said.

The Zak halted, close enough to Shkai'ra that she had to lean back to clear the Kommanza's breasts and see her face.

"It's revenge," she said with a tight, glittering smile that left Shkai'ra feeling slightly alarmed; it was unlike the Megan she knew.

"Perfect revenge-it's an inspiration from the Dark Lord, Shkai'ra. You'll love it, even better than feeding him to dogs or hanging him under the waterfall by his armpits."

She whirled as the ropes came off. "Mateus, announcement.

Get everyone here. I'll need someone to translate into Rand.

Jump!" He didn't stop to ask any questions. Megan seized the ties to the covering over the mysterious package and snicked through them with her claws. The burlap fell away, exposing the gleaming steel bars of a cage.

There was no welding seam visible on it at all, as if it had grown into its shape, solid bottom, five feet tall, three feet wide, three feet long. The door was one side, tied shut because the brass pin wasn't in the lock. It was made to be hammered shut and never opened again.

"Habiku's six feet tall," Megan said. "Koru grant him many, many years of life." She pointed to the top of the cage, where a steel ring was welded to the bars. "It'll hang in the covered court of the House of the Sleeping Dragon. For years! And he'll still be alive!" Piatr grinned, and Tze, who had been carried up from belowdecks, made a thick, gobbling sound that Shkai'ra took amoment to identify as laughter.

Francosz froze at her shout, and Sova grabbed him around the shoulders. Great Gothumml, he thought, putting a protective arm around her shoulders and doing his best to ignore the unfamiliar sensation of his testicles trying to draw themselves back up inside.

"He... he must be a very bad man," Sova whispered.

"Nobody's bad enough to deserve that witch after him,"

Francosz said with conviction. He felt his sister stiffen and pull away slightly. "Hey," he whispered. "Don't let her fool you."

"You didn't see the lady Yvar brought in," Sova snapped.

Megan wheeled to the northeast, toward her home city; her hands were over her head, clawed, and a red-orange nimbus played about them. "I call ye forth, I call ye forth, I call ye forth."

She paused after the ritual summoning and the crew quieted; she closed her eyes.

"Habiku Smoothtongue!" she called, as if he could hear her.

"By Koru Vetri, I swear! You bring my revenge on you like Her winter! What have you done! I'm coming, Habiku Treacher. I know, I know each of your deeds; every one is recorded, every one will be held against you. Justice is coming, Habiku! If the Great Phoenix came again it would be better if you burned in Its fires than face me! Better for you if the sky fell on you, better for you if the earth swallowed you, better for you if you had never been born than to be alive in F'talezon when my foot touches that rock. I'm coming to you as one of the Dark Lord's Eagles!

Lie awake in your stolen bed, you filth, and wait!" She opened her eyes and gazed north.

Sova looked at the orangey light reflecting in Megan's eyes and steel claws. Maybe Franc's right, she thought, standing and twisting one foot over the other in discomfort. But she was so nice to me.

Megan's hands snapped down, the light going out. She looked down at the assembled crew. "You've heard, ' she said in ahoarse voice. "Hear me again. You all know. Hear my words.

Habiku Smoothtongue. I curse you living. I curse you dying. I curse you in sitting, in standing, in lying. I curse your footfall and the food that you eat. I curse you at home and in the street.

I curse your seed, and your source, your flesh. I and my kin-blood curse you till death." Her crew were mostly grinning.

Shkai'ra could hear the murmur of the Rand translation just finishing. Baiwun, she thought. A show like that will be all up and down the river faster than a horse can kick.

Megan said, "I call you to witness. Dismiss."

"Sure you don't want to want to come along?" Shkai'ra said.

She was dressing carefully, slipping a double-layered leather vest over her undershirt. The leather was thin and supple, but there were perforated bone buttons between the layers, enough to turn a knifeblade in a pinch but less cumbersome than real armor.

Chamois pants, long linen blouse dyed green, tooled boots and belt, saber, dagger, a well-filled pouch.

"No," Megan said shortly, sitting on the bed and staring moodily out the sterncastle windows. It was dusk, and the harbor was doubly dark as the sun vanished behind the rim of the crater and the huge bulk of the rock above them. The riding lights of the ships were coming on, yellow eyes winking against dark wood and stone and water; brighter lights showed where fishing boats were putting out, the lure-lamps at their bows. In those lights the first swirls of feathery snow spun.

Am I truly going mad? Megan lowered her head. No. I feel as though I'm made of cracked rock but I know exactly what I'm doing. He's going to pay. For my company, the loss of the time I could have taken to search for my son, for Mat, for Piatr, for Kat, for Tze and his wife and two sons, for all the lives he's maimed. He'll pay. For me. She leaned her head back against the wall, the odor of teak oil and glue strong where the wood had been repaired. I've got to hold myself together. With hate if nothing else. Her stomach twinged and she pressed a palm flat against it, breathing deep to try and force calm on herself.Shkai'ra said something. "Have a good time," the Zak replied and kept looking out the window.

"Don't worry, kh'eeredo," Shkai'ra said. No response. "Well just be out for a while." No response. "There are six river gar on the mast," she tried.