Ilge had been facing forward. There had been no sound behind her, rather a movement of the air. She wheeled, saw only shadows as a cloud covered the moon, then the light shining from corpse-colored eyes, spidery arms and legs swarming over the rail and the bola trapped the lungful of air she drew to scream. Her hand was caught to her neck by the weapon; the night-lantern fell to the deck and broke, splashing oil that burst into flames.

They swarmed over her in silence. The other boat had taken two more of the deck crew, but there was still the last to betaken. And it must be done without sound, or they vould have to take the ship; very bad, to sink too many. Too many, and the Enemies might guess. They rushed forward, flanking where he was just turning. One of the Karibal, intent on prey, fell over Francosz who woke in tumbled confusion, sprawling on the planking. All he saw was the flicker, yelled, "Fire!", was clubbed into silence. Mikail shouted and went down. On the afterdeck, oil-flame sank into dry timber. The creatures dragged the two crew members with them as they fled.

"FIRE!" Below, the cry had been taken up. The boy felt unseen hands gripping him, thin but wire-strong; the world twisted by in bewilderment; he saw the Captain and Shkai'ra burst onto the deck just as he was pushed overboard.

His head cleared as he hit the water. Naked stick-men held him and dragged him into a boat.

"What..." and the smell hit him, thick and clutching. He gagged then, retched, vomiting helplessly as his hands were lashed together by the one that looked most human.

"Quick!" it snapped. "Row fast!" Behind the four rowers, another was clutching Ilge close to it. "Prettteeee... softpretteee.

Nice-nice," it crooned and stroked her. She was still unconscious.

He opened his mouth to scream in the hooded darkness of the boat. The human-like one hissed, and a fist clubbed him over the ear. "Quiet, Fresh-Meat."

The wards broke. Once set, they needed little attention; it was like walking while you sang, like breathing. The rupture was missing the last step and smashing a bare foot into a pit of broken glass; it was inhaling hot oil; it was a steel cord stretched between the ears snapping and rebounding off the inside of the skull. Megan's cry of pain was wordless as she convulsed in her sleep, clutching. The cry of "fire!" and Shkai'ra's shriek followed, as ten sharp steel nails closed on the Kommanza's back. Shkai'ra spun into the center of the cabin, the long dagger from under the pillow in her hand."-like sleeping with a rabid wolverine-" she half-snarled.

Then the narrow blonde head snapped up.

"Fire!" They plunged into the corridor. The crew were up and moving. A tar-soaked wooden ship, old and sun-dried, piled with bleached canvas, hempen rope like a slow-match; fire was the monster that would eat them. Shkai'ra hurdled Sova with a raking stride, bending her head to avoid the beam.

"UP, this is no zteafakaz drill, move, girl."

Megan clawed her way up the ladder, heedless of the solid smack of rungs under feet, hands that struck rather than gripped, throwing her body upward to burst through the open hatch. Mine! went through her as she landed crouching, the unnoticed chill roughening her bare skin. "My ship, my people-"

The last of the Karibal was disappearing over the rail as the Captain of the Zingas Vetri gained the quarterdeck. Two of her knives had come with her, the tips of the slim hilts gripped between knuckles to leave her free to grip; her right wrist twitched and the point was between thumb and fingers, hand cocked back over her shoulder, the motion oil-smooth and accurate. The creature was man-shaped; poised on the rail, she saw it jerk, spasm, arch backward to fall and drum its heels. As it fell, the second throw faded to a flip that put the hilt in her hand. She wheeled. The fire was a pool, spreading, licking at the base of the rear mast.

"Mateus!"

"Aye! Bucket chain read-"

"Not water, sand! That fire's oil, water will spread it. Sand first. Crew count-" The orders flowed, as smooth and hard-driven as the knife casts, the crew acting as the fingers of a hand. "-and I'll light the storm lamps."

"Teik Captain, do you think that's necessary?" Megan turned to her first mate, a blackness against the deeper black of the bank, darkness laced with the grey of rigging."It's tiring, but I want light to see what's out there. Finish that crew count!"

The slight Zak put both hands before her and began to hum, a sound that began deep in bone and spiralled up past hearing.

Her mind sank into the sound, expanded, grew conscious of the mast and stays as a pattern of contained, whirling energies.

Energies that could be tapped, pushed, manipulated. There were two spots on the cross-spar that were presensitized to her thought; costly, valuable in saved energy. Her hands snapped apart, stabbing to point at them. In answer, orange-red light glowed on the wood, witch-fire spreading to outline the furled sail and the heavy lines that anchored mast to fore and backstay.

Witch-fire that gave light but did not burn.

Her face set, she turned to Shkai'ra, holding the backlash of power at bay by the force of her will. Air and river and night supplied the power for the light, but her own body's energy must guide and control it. The moon was a dull-pearl glow behind low cloud, and she was suddenly conscious of the cold, a wind that bit on her bare skin and smelled of the iron damp that ran before an early winter storm. She shook her head. Behind her, the crew was killing the last of the oil-fire and there were more things to think about. The thing. The Kommanza had kept sensibly aside while the trained teamwork of the crew dealt with the fire. She had focused on a human enemy, or at least an enemy of flesh; she knelt by the form of the one Megan had killed, her round shield leaning against her shoulder. Cold iron dimpled her skin slightly, gathered hoarfrost that sparkled in the ruddy glow of the light.

"Ahi-a," the Kommanz said, examining the body. It was small, no more than 130 centimeters; male, and thin almost to emaciation. Shkai'ra wasn't fastidious, even now that she had left the ways of her homeland and taken to bathing more than once a month, but the curdled stink of it was enough to make her gag; worse than a battlefield three days old under hot sun.

The creature's face was covered in matted hair that might have been dirty blond under its coating oil, all except for the enormous eyes, now glazed, eyes of a night creature. Thin black lips were drawn back from sharp yellow teeth; bits of rottingmeat were caught in the beard, lumps of filth and excrement in the almost-pelt that covered its body. That was mold-white and naked, except for a leather belt and necklace of bones. Megan pulled her knife free, careful to touch only her dagger, clotting blood dribbling on the deck as it rolled to its back. "What... what is it?" one of the crew asked.

"A man," the Kommanz replied.

"Captain-" Piatr began. Sova interrupted; she'd been carefully not looking at the body, and had had time to look around.

"Francosz!" She called, then turned to Shkai'ra. "Khyd-hird,"

she whispered. "Teacher, where's my brother?"

"-the night watch are missing: all five, and the Thane brat."

"I know why," Shkai'ra said, lifting the corpse's necklace with a belaying pin. "These are human fingerbones, they've been charred and split-this leather, in the belt..." She looked up at Sova and didn't finish what she was going to say. Human leather . The Thane girl swallowed, choked, swallowed again. Shkai'ra continued, "So we know why they took the bodies..." She scanned the deck, her eyes narrowed; the witchlight was nearly as good as daylight.

"Not enough blood for them all to have been killed." The Thane girl felt the edges of her vision blacken and saliva run into her mouth; the world spun. The strength that stiffened her spine came from within: fainting won't help.

"We've got to... to find him!" she half shrieked. Megan looked up to where Danyai stood at the junction of mast and yard.

"Nothing, Captain! Water's bare as a baby's backside!" The crew shifted, their eyes pale in the glow of moon and storm light.

Her skull felt empty, like the water around them. Where had they gone? It was impossible.

"Where are they?" Clouds were thick across the moon's face, the sharp knife-edge of the frost riding the wind, rattling thesails. Her eyes swivelled from Sova's frightened face to the body, her arms hugging her bare torso against the wind. She tested her tiredness like the cautious probing of a tongue against a loose tooth.

Megan eased on her control of the light and it dimmed to a flicker, put out her hand to Sova's forehead. Storm light control easing. Thought-kin. Energy puddled in the living. From her hand, warmth. Color. Lifebeat speeded-close, closer-and matched. Blood knew blood. The girl's hands fell limp and she swayed slightly; Shkai'ra steadied her before she could fall.

Megan went rigid, her voice a harsh mutter. "Blood to blood, kin and kin. Find him, child. Feel with yourself. Find him. As if your hands could reach and touch his shoulder. Your brother. He teases you, makes fun of you, loves you as his little sister. See him-" her voice was speeding, "-lock of hair falling in his face when he laughs..." and had eerily taken on the rhythms of Sova's speech. Both their heads turned to Hanged Man's Rock.

"Down?" The Zak muttered. The strain was mounting, and the direction made no sense. Down? There was nothing there but the Rock, a solid kilometer of it. "Darkness," she murmured.

"Stink and moving..." The sensation came through. That was a boat, unmistakable, the fluid rocking surge; the panting rhythmic grunt of rowers... A hide boat, but why the... dimpled feeling of pressure where the boy's hand rested on hull-frame and covering? And the darkness was absolute, not night-dark but cave-black, absolute.

"It makes no sense!" she spat, coming to herself a little.

Shkai'ra watched the pointing hand. Her face was tight, immobile but somehow ugly with controlled passion, a winter rage that left her mind as clear as glass. "Try harder!" It was impossible for the attackers to have gotten out of sight anyway.

But a precise fix was their single hope. Her head turned to Megan. The Zak hadn't often heard Shkai'ra use the snarling rasp that was the command voice of a Kommanz aristocrat, but there was no mistaking it.

"Try harder, woman! That kinless little bastard is khyd of myherd, no maneater's going to split his bones for the marrow!

We're finding them and going a-rescue." Shkai'ra clamped control, and thought: or to avenge.

For a moment sheer fury almost snapped Megan from her concentration. She's got no right to command me, not on my own deck. The anger was unlike her companion; it was rooted in concern for the boy; the two of them had been together three years now, and still surprised one another. She breathed deep, caught hold of the manrauq and steadied it in her mind.

Steel-Sister, or no... Akribhan-Her lips tightened.

"Your suggestion has merit. Mateus, see that carrion pitched overboard." She firmed her link to Sova.

The girl's thought tightened, clamping the line to her brother. Francosz, brother. Dislike, love worry, Francosz, Francosz, Francosz-Megan was stretched to the limits of her strength, her mind pulling like a piece of heated caramel candy from a street vendor on Jahrand-day stretching thinner and thinner... She threw her head back, teeth showing, eyes blind and, unnoticed, the witchlight flared from red-orange to brilliant orange, lighting the water and swelling against the dark, stark shadow and bleaching light on the faces of the crew. Then yellow, a flicker of green-blue, violet and the color beyond that the eye cannot see. Her hand rose further, then dropped.

"Down," she gasped, throat straining to reach a strange voice, then dropping to Francosz's baritone. "Down, underwet notnice, they say. There, there, rockthroatswallows-where are they taking me? Help me khyd-hird, it stinks, Sova, Captain, Father, cave under stone. Cave. Cave in the rock. NNNOOOOOO!"

The Zak's eyes rolled back into her head, leaving only the white; shaking tension turned to bonelessness. Shkai'ra and Piatr were there as she struck the wood, easing the fall, while Norvanak steadied Sova.

"You did it," Shkai'ra said with quiet exultation. Then with quick concern, "She's going into shock-quick, blankets, gather below.""No... not yet. Down-in a cave. Entrance... there. Go, quickly, damn weakness..."

Shkai'ra eased the tiny form of her lover to the deck, feeling the shaking of the small, compact body. The witchlight faded; there was a hissing from the north, and the moon dimmed as denser cloud swept in. Stinging, the hard-driven sleet struck her back. For the briefest of moments she stroked Megan's hair.

"Well done, kh'eeredo-mi," she murmured, then straightened.

"Get her below," she repeated. "Warmth, something hot and sweet to drink when she can take it."

"I know how to treat overstrain!" Piatr snapped. Sova came up from below where she had disappeared when Megan's collapse had released her. She was trembling, stripped to her clout and shirt. Belted about that was the daggerbelt Shkai'ra had had made for her; she bore the Kommanza's weapon-harness and saber. Shkai'ra hesitated, then did not forbid. Kin-tie, she thought. The crew hesitated. "We're going after them, Mateus, aren't we?" a voice called.

"I'll go." Jimha stepped forward, then Yuri and Vodolac and Osman, who Habiku had cast off with no recourse in Volhinios.

Mateus inclined his head but said, "My duty. I must stay.

She'd kill me if I left the ship with her unable to command."

Shkai'ra nodded.

"Objections to who leads?" she snapped. "Good." Piatr began to speak, but she cut him off. "Your courage isn't in doubt. If you volunteer, your sanity is. The rest of you, get a weapon you can use in a confined space." She strapped the crossed belts over her chest and secured the saber to her back, stepping to the rail.

Water was black below. "Piatr..." She paused. The cabin-kid, Bocina, was just coming up with a wooden crock that she placed on the deck.

"It's butter," Piatr said. "Grease to protect you from the water." She hawked and spat.

"Good. Five minutes is all I'd have given us, in that." The volunteers were coating themselves from the crock while shespoke. "Breathe deep while you wait! Who's the best swimmer?

We'll need a scout."

They looked at each other. Vodolac stepped forward with a forced grin.

"I swim best; swim like a river otter, I used to dive-fish for lobster on coast when I was a lad."

Piatr greased Vodolac's back, then Shkai'ra's. His face was drawn and set. Shouldn't squeeze through my fingers like that.

Get it on her, not the crock or the deck.

"Don't forget the neck... All right, Vodolac: no heroics, just find out what's down there and back." He nodded, staring over the side as Osman slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.

Then he hopped to the rail and dived, scarcely even a splash in the sleet-dimpled water. Shkai'ra grunted: he did look to be the best. Her own water skills were good but no more, natural strength and wind compensating for a late start. No knowing if there was air within swimming reach of the cave entrance. No knowing at all, and drowning in the dark if they guessed wrong.

She felt Sova shivering beside her. "Hoi, wadiki," she said.

The flask came; she took one long swallow and passed it around.

"Just a little; a little makes you feel warmer, even if you aren't."

Water might not be her element, but she understood cold well enough. Stooping, she spoke quietly to Sova, holding the girl's eyes with hers. "Just remember what I showed you. That knife's long, and sharp. Remember Megan's lessons. To kill quickly with a knife you have to slash, less chance of losing it on a bone or a muscle-clamp, too." She felt the sleet sting even through the grease, soaking to the scalp, beating on her shoulders. "Keep your thumb on the guard, point down and cut backhand and up; across the belly if you can, or along an arm that's reaching for you. And don't think, just do, understand?"

Sova's face was still, but there was less wildness in her eyes.

And Vodolac broke surface, gasping.

"Just where the Captain said," he said. "Never would've got it without, there's an overhang-goes up once you're inside. Nosign of light."

Shkai'ra jerked a hand at Mateus. "A closed firepot," she said, hoping it would last the journey. "Torches." The things' eyes were huge, night-eyes; they would need a flame. It came, and one of the crewfolk hitched it to his knifebelt.

The Kommanza stepped to the rail. "Let's go," she said, and leapt.

Megan opened her eyes in time to see them go over the side, trying to rise on one elbow, shaking muscles too weak to hold her. She gritted her teeth and locked her elbows.

"I'm... I'm all right!"

"Aye, Captain," Piatr said but didn't move from his place, and caught her when she fell back, her mind flickering in and out of the minds of those she had just touched, with no control; contact raw, like a harsh brush on sensitive skin. Any touch was painful and clear as the Lady's Fountain.

I'm wet. It's dark and stinks. No Khyd-hird! Who's screaming? Alexa? No, get away! It bit me. There are more, get away... Child? Eyes in the dark. No don't touch me. He's still alive. No legs, one arm-he's staring at me. Don't touch me...

Sow! Captain! Khyd-hird! Aaah, no you little vermin get away from my ankles. I'm bleeding, getawaygetawaygetaway...

Uncontrolled, she slid away from Francosz's panic, spiralling into Sova.

I can't see in this. My skin hurts. My lungs hurt. With a snap and a jolt Megan tried to find her own body, looked out of eyes, felt her hands and legs and lungs dragging in foul air. Still in Sova. They looked around from the crouch they were in. A small cavern from the echoes. Dirt and crusted feces crumbled till her groping hands broke through to slime and then stone. They were in the shadow of one of the leather boats. She swallowed hard when she thought of what leather. Francosz. I'm afraid.

Then disgust caught at her throat, and the beginnings ofhysterical anger. The others were around her. She could see dimly now in the faint yellow glow of the creeping patches on the walls. With a sucking noise one near them dropped loose and blindly started creeping toward their warmth. She shoved a knuckle in her mouth and bit down on it, not noticing tears, and kept still. There was someone, somewhere, screaming. It echoed, and she didn't want to know where it came from.

Another wrench and Megan touched Shkai'ra, the rage almost comfortingly warm. Naik Zhaiz, she thought and gasped strength into her with every breath. Much longer tunnel... at least no damn alligators on my heels. Guard? Only one.

Interested in picking nits off his skin and watching... what? Ah, tunnel to a deeper hole. Zteafakaz echoes. Might be where he's looking . . . the leather... oily enough to burn? Light.

Then Megan was swinging in dizzying, nauseating circles around a darkness. "No, I have to SEE!" She said and struck out at it, at the smothering dark. "I can't, have to stay awake..."

"No you don't, here," a voice she should know said. "Don't throw off the blankets. Lie still."

The Karibal leader had thrown back the upper cover of the turtleboat with relief. The leather was very old; one day they would have to replace it. They would have to give shinies to the Enemy who came to the upper cave. He frowned. Why did the Enemy want shinies? He frowned again: hadn't the Enemies-who-give-good-things stopped coming, when one of the non-speakers was at the entrance and ate... His brow cleared.

No, that had been long ago; the new Enemies-who-give-good-things were still coming.

They had said to take the next ship to come alone and they would, once they had eaten. It was good to have more who remembered words. Old Father remembered words. He noticed one of the rowers whining and pulling at the coverings of one of the captured Pretties, making rocking motions as he fumbled and ripped. Another had a mouthful of a dead man's arm and was sawing clumsily beneath it with a rusted knife.

"No!" He said. "Take to the Pretty cave, for all Men. We share;Old Father said to share all thing. For we are Men!" He kicked the overeager eater. "Put on cloth! Old Father said to wear cloth.

Take Fresh-Meat to Meat Cave. Not start to eat! Fresh-Meat go bad!"

Proudly, he straightened. The low ceiling of the Boat Cave was comfort, home. From the low entrance came the excited cries of the little ones, and the makers. The huge pupils of his eyes expanded, away from the hurting brightness of the outside, with its bad-lights in the Up. Here the Up was dark, only the faint yellow gleam of the movegrows. Strutting, he walked into the Home Cave, followed by the others. It was long and twisting, always as wide as many Men, sometimes more. Vilelem halted before a niche, squatting; behind him gathered the boat-men, carrying the Fresh-Meat, the Now-Meats, the Pretties. He could smell the blood of the Now-Meats, rich and salty, smell the Pretties. In the niche was a skull, larger than the Men he knew, straighter. It had puzzled him, why Old Father's skull looked like an Enemy's... Below it was a sickle-sword, deep-eaten with rust; the pattern was years before.

"Old Father," he said.

Some of those behind him muttered the words; others grunted. There was a moan as one of the Pretties stirred. "Old Father, we be good," he recited in sing-song. "We quiet, no enemies find us. We remember we are Men."