He smiled fondly and squeezed her hand, raising it to his lips.

"We don't have to worry any more. The DragonLord has ruled in my favor in the matter of the House of the Sleeping Dragon. I have complete authority to spend the capital now, as well as the income."

Which was just as well, considering what he had been...

arranging, for the company. Great losses, tremendous losses, so unfortunate: for the books that the tax-assessors would see, at least, if not for the secret ledgers. The funds from the Karibal were becoming very helpful, there.

She nodded, lines of worry smoothing out on her brow. It was... declasse to be concerned with money. One instructed the steward, or the head of the household saw to it and varied the allowance for the women's quarters; that was the way of Tor Ench.

"You take much care for your Mar," she said, laying a gentle hand on his head. "Many young lords just come into their estate would forget to do so; you have a good heart, my son." She frowned. "It was very wise of..."-she made a moue; her one meeting with the founder of the House of the Sleeping Dragon had been a strained exercise in mutual incomprehension-"that woman, Megan, to consign all this to you rather than to her cousin. A woman should not concern herself with such matters whatever these Zak think." Another smile. "Unfortunate that sheshould meet with an accident; still, what can be expected when those of my sex venture into the harsh world beyond the protecting walls of their quarters?"

Habiku blinked. Could she suspect? No, the hazel eyes were calmly innocent. Better that things remain so, for her. She could never understand what he had done to get his hands on the capital of the Sleeping Dragon, or what he had begun in the early years to protect her from her stinking habit. He hated the odor of poppy resin that permeated her clothing. The Brotherhood ensured that she could only get a limited amount, the drug being fiercely addictive; a maintenance dosage, but though not enough to harm. At the beginning it had been their hold on him. As long as he did what they wanted they limited her supply. Now he was rising in power there as well, and soon she would be free of it. As soon as he was strong enough. He left his mother once more engrossed in her tapestry and climbed the stairs to his chambers where Lixa waited.

SLAF HIKARME, HABIKU'S ROOMS.

She lay under him, unresponsive, face dull and dead. He slapped her and when he failed to get a response again he took her anyway, thrusting heavily until, with a small, muffled sound, he arced and spasmed, still thrusting deep. And she lay there. He collapsed on top of her, seeing the long black hair twisted in his relaxing fists; he imagined a startlingly bright strand in it, like Whitlock's. He'd only had her once, and she'd been unconscious, drugged, and he needed her, had to have her. He pulled Lixa's head around and tried to imagine she was Whitlock.

He ignored the tolling of the bell by the door; the servants would deal with it.

Sweat trickled down his neck and fell on Lixa's cheek as he raised his head and looked down at her, hate in his eyes.

Threaten, punish, flog, nothing could make her respond anymore. "You aren't her, " he whispered. His fists tightened, pulling on the mass of hair, forcing her head back and forth.

"Show something, damn you," he whispered, then louder, "You're not her, but you're mine!"He pulled out of her and sat up, semen dribbling into the hair on his leg as he shuddered again, slightly. And she lay there.

"Bitch," he said, then pulled her up, hanging limp from his hands. A backhanded slap flung her into the heaped pillows of the bed. "Bitch!"

He scrambled for his robes as his door opened. Who- A DragonGuard from the Nest, walking past a valet torn between fear and an almost irresistible urge to protest.

Pure Zak face and build, tunic leather covered in steel plates lacquered black, rippling liquidly in the lamplight. Belt of jet circlets, long knives on each hip; a ceremonial helm of black steel tucked under one arm with the ruler's five-headed dragon symbol. A squire in grey carried his weapons, a quiver of short heavy darts and their throwing-stick of carved ivory; and a twofang, a double-headed spear. It was an insult to come carrying weapons, contempt on top of insult to have them carried by another. A parody of Zak court etiquette, a statement. You are a stranger, an alien, whose word is of no account: therefore I send a specialist in violence to deal with you. But only one, because you are of no account.

One of Ranion's own Guard, even the common soldiers well-born. Habiku frantically tried to think of some reason the DragonLord would suddenly take a personal interest in his life.

Whom had he offended? Avritha was still purring from last time.

"Smoothtongue, you are summoned, " the guard said in a bored voice. He strolled to the quilted mattress, his soft chamois boots silent, turned Lixa's bruised face to the light with one disinterested toe. Idly, he toyed with the long black braid of his hair; the squire stood motionless, a trained half-pace to the guard's left where he could stretch out his hand to take a weapon. A faint lift of brows above eyes the color of blackrock, commanding: Make yourself decent, naZak.

Ranion's jokes, Habiku thought as he wiped himself down sketchily before throwing on a robe offered by his valet. He could imagine the titters behind hands and fans if he arrived smellingof sex; Avritha would not be pleased, no. Ranion's jokes. The DragonLord held all their lives in his hands; now it pleased him to order his guard to be as insolent as possible. It was just to see what happened, the impulse of a nasty child who kicked open an ants' nest to see the tiny creatures scurry.

The little bastard has to push, and he can get away with it, Habiku thought, as he pushed his feet into wooden-soled street shoes. His father was a killer, but he killed as a snake does, for food or when threatened. This one is like a weasel; mad, and kills for the joy of it. Ranion's need for killing was coming on him more and more often, as if there was some secret frustration eating at the taproot of his soul. If only I could convince Avritha to bear a child off someone else for the sterile little bastard.

The half-Zak merchant prince cleared his throat. "To which court am I summoned, sir Guard?" he asked politely.

"Court, sir Merchant?" the guard said, turning and examining the fingers of his metal gauntlets. He closed the hand, the movement rippling like water across the cunningly jointed plates; F'talezonian metalwork was unmatched anywhere. "The mindspeaker at the Nest has a message; the DragonLord bids you there, to go about your business." He smiled, a patient, understanding expression. "It is a rare honor for one outside the Nest or the noble Houses to use the mindspeaker's talents, sir Merchant, ah, no, my small error, ClawPrince." The Claw was the F'talezonian unit of currency, but the ancient houses preferred to take their share from rents, property, land, rather than active commerce.

Koru, Habiku swore in a relief that was half rage. His own return bow was a masterpiece of understated courtesy. The DragonLord hasn't bothered to ask about the messages in iron cycles, not since the spring.

THE ABBEY OF SAEKRBERK BRAHVNIKI, EASTERN.

SHORE.

TENTH IRON CYCLE, FOURTH DAY.

"Zar Benaiat," Megan said, with the shadow of a bow.The breezeway flanked one wall of a courtyard garden, near the heart of the Benai. Warmth radiated from the bluish-gray stone walls, keeping greenness here after the outer fields had turned sear with frost. Fraosra moved between the long beds in red robes, readying them for winter.

"Captain. Megan, Honey-Giver be thanked that the rumors of your death were false," the Benaiat replied; his tone was businesslike and brisk, but the look he bent on Megan was warm. The light-brown eyes that perched over his beaked nose were shrewd; Shkai'ra was reminded of the curious gaze of a raven or fox. He was not a tall man, midway between the two women in height, very thin but not cadaverously so.

He dropped the trowel he carried into the basket of the Vra attending him, a dry rustle from the papery bulbs dug for the winter rising, and accepted a cloth to wipe his earthstained hands. Then he dropped some of his formality and reached out his hand to Megan.

"Thank you, my friend," she said and took his hand in both of hers, smiling, missing his startled look. Smiles were an expression Megan had seldom worn, before. Sixteen when she killed Sarngeld and took his ship, five short years to build the House of the Sleeping Dragon into a force to be reckoned with along the Brezhan, in all that time seldom more than an ironic twist of the lips; and she touched others even less, only when courtesy demanded and that with reluctance.

Shkai'ra saw the quickly hidden flash of surprise, and grinned to herself. She had had time to see the change in Megan, like the slow unfolding of a plant as winter relaxed its grip; all these old friends were seeing it suddenly, the changes of two years matched on the template of unaltered memories. They were making heavy weather of it.

"Vra Walatri," the Benaiat addressed the Vra still holding the basket. "Since the Captain and her friend have graciously come to visit, I will not sup with the Siblings." He turned to his guests.

You will accept a meal, I hope," he continued, letting go Megan's hand and turning to lead them under the stone arches toward his private chambers."Thank you, Ivahn," Megan said.

"For three then, Vra: in my rooms."

"Benaiat," the Monk bowed, before padding away on silent bare feet, without the whispery scuff of sandals.

"I am glad that your pride doesn't forbid a accepting a little hospitality," Ivahn said.

The Zak could feel his appraisal of their ragged clothes and weather-beaten skins. Shkai'ra hitched at the small wooden chest slung beneath her shoulder, a corner flashing through a rent in the soft brown wool of her cloak.

"Your charity honors the recipient." Megan spread her hand at her companion. "Ivahn, may I present Shkai'ra Mek Kermak's-kin shchi Akribhan."

The Benaiat's brows rose toward his hairline as he inclined his head to the tall red-blonde barbarian. Akribhan was a word of complex meanings in the high-Zakos tongue they had been speaking: "acknowledged lover" was only the first of them, with connotations of absolute trust, as close a commitment as could be, short of marriage; Megan had the reputation of a solitary, and this one was not even a Zak. Her plain tunic and breeches of wool and horsehide were commonplace enough, but the cast of the aquiline features was not of any tribe he knew. That saber...

a little like the Yeoli kraila, but different. Careful eyes noted the way she held it, left hand tilting the scabbard for the draw-and-strike.

A reaver, he thought. Her pale grey eyes were scanning his Benai with the automatic looter's appraisal of one born to raid and foray. One of the many I've spoken with, lately. These were troubled times, along the river and in the great world beyond.

An age is coming to an end, the abbot mused. An age of peace and prosperity, when wars were scuffles between neighbors and we thought the years would go on forever in their accustomed path. A new era dawned for the peoples about the Mitvald, and whether the change was for the better or the worse, its birth would be bloody.Unless an old man mistakes the creaking of his bones for earthquakes, he thought wryly. Then, aloud: "What magic did you use, Teik, to befriend this one who is as comfortable as a night-siren?"

"Oh, almost got her killed in various gruesome fashions. After that we were firm friends," Shkai'ra said lightly, with a flash of white teeth. Her Zak was fluent but careful, sprinkled with terms from the trade-pidgin; a F'talezonian accent, obviously learned from Megan. "Not a day's peace since we met, a true gift for trouble."

Trouble, hah." Megan snorted. "Ivahn, it follows her shadow,"

the Zak said, as they passed the polished wood of the door to the Abbot's study. It was plain, but the grain shone with a swirling grace that spoke of hours with cloth and wax.

"You will pardon me while I change my robe," the monk said, motioning toward the seats. They were of a piece with the rest of the corner room: simply made. For the rest there was a high desk, cluttered with papers; one wall held books, locked and hung from pegs in cases of oiled leather; on the other a tall, slender mandala was painted in bright colors against white stucco, crowned with the ever-present onion arch. South and east were pointed windows, open to the cooling air.

Shkai'ra went to one, looking down over sloping land.

Growing over slow centuries, the Benai had sprawled over the promontory that gave it birth; blue walls, white stone domes, slender minarets reached toward a sky darkening into night. The river and the city that had grown up under this buildings protection were at her back; ahead, land sloped downward more gently than the cliff they had climbed from the ferry. Along the horizon loomed the wildwood and swamp of the Brezhan delta.

She shifted her gaze southward. The sea was still the dark Svartzee blue-black she had found so curious, breaking froth-white on the small bay. A cluster of weathered buildings grouped around a wharf, fishing boats beached among spread nets. Trotting up from the wharf came a squad of horsemen, red light bright on their lanceheads and scale mail.Rich, she thought. Metal armor for common soldiers... no, guard-monks, Megan said. On the wall below, a monk swung a padded beam hung in slings against a bell taller than herself.

The sound hung in hazy air, bronze and mellow and lovely.

Megan came up behind her and drew in deep lungfuls of air, watching the lone monk, highlighted by the setting sun, the moon already showing coin-round. "Smells like home."

"This priest," Shkai'ra said quietly. "How far can you trust him?" Megan smiled, eyes hooded, watching the land through the open window.

"When I left," she said slowly, "he was one of the two frehmat, not blood-kin, whom I would have trusted with my knives."

Shkai'ra's lips puckered in a silent whistle, trust indeed.

"Before we give anything away..." Megan shook herself and turned away.

"Now who are you trying to teach?" She cocked a head toward the door. "He's coming. With one other."

The door opened again, readmitting the Benaiat, earthstained robe gone, replaced with one of red linen. The monk who followed looked for somewhere to set the large tray. The only place was the unsteady, sliding surface of papers on the desk. He placed it on the bench. "A moment, Zar, " he said.

It was only a while before he returned with a light table, and at the abbots nod, withdrew.

"Megan. Two years is a long time to search for a son." The bittersweet scent of kahfe filled the room as he poured three small cups, liquid thick and darker than earth. "You found him?"

"My son? Is that the story Habiku spread?"

"Either that or that you were dead. I chose to believe the former." Megan looked at him, shrugged as if she didn't care and turned away so he couldn't see that it affected her. That hecared...

"Ivahn... the kahfe grows cold. Today, I stand on courtesy and talk does not go with food."

"As you wish." The Benaiat pursed his lips thoughtfully.

The meal was quickly over, eaten in silence. Megan carefully picked up the tiny saltcellar and offered it to Ivahn, who looked at her, then accepted it and put down his cup. "You were not away, then, on a quest of your own. I suspected as much when the papers of agency were withdrawn."

The old man's sharp as a Warmaster's grace-knife, Shkai'ra thought. Megan ran a finger around the rim of her cup, the syrupy sweet flavor still on her lips. It was the one indulgence the Benaiat allowed himself. "No, Ivahn. Had I sought my son, he would be with me." She raised her eyes to him. "As you see, he isn't. I haven't changed that much, that I'd give up or abandon kin. I was wondering "about the papers when we cleaned up the counting house yesterday. Vhsant is gone and certain important books with him."

Shkai'ra reached over and took Megan's arm, raising it so that her cuff fell away from one wrist. The manacle scars were two years old now; thickened white tissue showed in twin bands around tendons of the Zak's wrists.

The Benaiat pursed his lips. "Habiku?" he said. "And Vhsant, obviously." He shook his head. "There was little I could do, even when Vhsant began engaging in... questionable activities." At her look he shrugged. "Large-scale slaving; from Thanish sources upriver, mostly outward bound to Laka, Tor Ench, even the Empire. Legal, quite legal, but as you know, the Benai has always refused participation; it was somewhat of a relief when Habiku revoked our agency." Brahvnikian trade-law required a local sponsor who would stand good for any unpaid and uncollectable debt of a firm based out of the city.

"Then... I've had suspicions, shall we say, of the origin of some of the goods Vhsant has been dealing with. Not through Brahvniki, but parcels acquired upriver; the Fraosra of theGuard suspect they originated on missing ships. That would be illegal, of course." The cities of the river valley lived by trade, but the river was long and much of it was wild, thousands of leagues of forest, marsh and hill; the basin it drained was mostly wild, and there were many navigable tributaries. Suspicion and hatred prevented the joint patrols that would be the only way to stamp out the river pirates once and for all, but the law-merchant everywhere forbade dealing in stolen cargo. The problem was enforcement.

Megan nodded. "There was nothing you could do, Ivahn," she said grimly.

"Nothing," the priest agreed. "Brahvnikis trade-treaty with F'talezon is quite specific as to whose domestic law covers ownership of single-capital firms based there; I could not violate that without permission of the Praetanu and would not if I could. Too many livelihoods depend on the metal trade. But now, one hopes, matters will be different. But... friendship compels me to be blunt, Megan. Here in Brahvniki there is no problem; you are owner of record, your identity can be sworn to by myself among others, we have received no communication revoking it.

Elsewhere, you will need resources to reestablish yourself.

Habiku has had the use and direction of your ships and business for some time now; even with the losses, there is still wealth enough to buy knives and shut mouths. Were your headquarters in Brahvniki... As you said, the Benai doesn't even have papers for your holdings here."

Megan took a deep breath. "I thought something like that when I couldn't find half of what I needed. Thank you for that information, my friend. Do you know who has them if Vhsant didn't just steal them?" she asked, deadly quiet. The company had taken five years of work and effort, a thing built from ruins and pain, her only hope for ever buying her son back...

"Schotter Valders'sen."

"A Thane?" Megan asked. Her right hand began a slow, unconscious rubbing at the scars on her left wrist.

"Late resident of Aenir'sford. Expelled for commercial fraud,as I recall."

Megan felt an anger take hold of her she had never thought to feel again, not after Sarngeld died. I listened to him scream, drove the knife into him again, blind rage, stop, stop moving, stop squealing, not human, die, I hate you but please die. I knifed him in the back. He tried to be my father so it would suit his Arkan soul that he use me any way he saw fit. He pulled my son, my Lixand, away from me though he clung to my chains with two-year-old hands and I screamed and cried and begged to keep him. Sarngeld chained me that day, to do that.

Hamstrung, knifed in the back, the blade going in with the sticky resistance of kitchen knife into raw chicken, grating on bones. I hated him for what he did to me, then hated him for not dying fast enough. Bleeding everywhere. I hated him and everything. The old anger deep and black and full of rot. What warmth she had in her eyes cooled and her face set.

"I remember. I was on the coalition of merchants that spoke to the court there." She glanced Shkai'ra's way, looking past her, then her eyes snapped into focus as she looked at the Kommanza. "Quicker to kill ones enemies," she said quietly.

"So I've always said, kh'eeredo."

Megan turned back to Ivahn. "Ivahn, would you take the agency back? Is there anything left to take back? Do you know?"

"Yes and yes and yes. Of course, all I know is hearsay." He got up, lifted a book free of the wall and unlocked it. "I can't afford to take sides, but somehow you happened to spy all of last year's revenues, before the papers were wrested from the Benai by the Zak courts, lying open on my desk." He handed the book to Megan. "I didn't see you." He turned his eyes to Shkai'ra. "I fear that your akribhan will need some assistance in repairing her state. It is good that heavier steel stands at her back."

Silence hung heavy for a hand of minutes, until Megan shut the book with a snap that would have been violent if it were not so carefully controlled. She closed her eyes a moment, and white lines of tension stood out around her mouth as she controlled herself. The anger disappeared."Ivahn, thank you. Habiku has sold the warehouse and is renting at twice the price. The timber trade is dealing in lumber for scrap, and the Laua, the weavers, no longer trade with us."

"Megan, it seems that the Benai is going to have a slight surplus of revenues this season cycle." The abbot tapped his lower lip with an index finger. "If necessary, a rather small loan could be arranged..."

Megan turned to Shkai'ra, her attempt at levity brittle. "A small loan, he says. To Ivahn, small means giving me the Benai."

She considered a moment. "Show him."

Shkai'ra shrugged and set the wooden box on the bench. It was Fehinnan, from the other shore of the Lannic, plain black wood with a fiber-ceramic combination lock. She covered the tiny dial with her palm and twisted four times.

"It is not entirely empty-handed we come," she said. "We have a small deposit for your establishment." The lid tipped back; Shkai'ra folded open the rack of trays within. "We traded the gains for high value and small weight."

Abbot Ivahn had steered the affairs of his cloister for many years; it was not poor, and levied a toll of trade between the sea and the Brezhan, which drained half a continent. His breath hissed between his teeth at the sight before him. There was a tray of cabochon-cut rubies, deep crimson sparkle in the light of the lantern and the setting sun. Rose-cut diamonds. A ring of sapphires, set in lapis lazuli, come six thousand miles west from the mines of Ph'astan, near the roof of the world, and more...

He scanned their hard-worn clothes again, looked at the grime worn into the knuckles of their hands, hair faded by sun and salt spray. "Wise," he said. "Very wise. In Brahvniki, I know personally of only four I would trust with this; I am one, you another, Teik Shkai'ra-" He nodded to her. "I'll trust Megan's judgment on the matter."

"Ivahn," Megan said. "Take my company back. I'm the owner.

No court is going to stop me from cleaning house, and no court has jurisdiction because I am not deceased. You can get yourmonks to prepare the parchments of Agency." After a moment: "Standard deposit interest, with letters of credit for upriver?"

"We'll be taking time and ready money to get a ship," Shkai'ra said. "A riverboat: small, fast, sound but not new. All found, Megan would know the details."

"And a crew, of course," Megan added.

Ivahn nodded, thoughtful. "All this will take some time." he said. "We have extensive banking business, but this will add a third to our loan capital. We must confer with other... No matter, your affairs may proceed at once. As for a crew, you will find hiring easy. Especially with so many of your former shipfolk looking for berths."

"Former shipfolk?' Megan began, then cut herself off.

"Enough. Tomorrow. Oh, Habiku," she continued softly, "how I long for the sight of your face."

MINDSPEAKER'S CHAMBERS DRAGON'SNEST,.

F'TALEZON.