Watching the two crews scramble under Shkai'ra and Shyll's direction, training.

The ruins were old-Zak; Theocrat Meywidova's reign, eleven hundred years ago, she thought. The Aenir had put a bastion here, timber and earth on the stone foundations, but that fortress had been one of the first things burned out during the siege and not yet repaired; the Aenir felt safe, and had concentrated on housing and reequipping the harbor.

There was a certain melancholy to the shattered stone. No novelty: there was old-Zak work all up and down the Brezhan; Brahvniki itself had been founded by her people. Cycle on cycle, and each tide seemed to ebb further for the people who had sprung from F'talezon's riverside mountain.

So long ago, she thought. The Zaki empire stretched along the river to Brahvniki, east over the steppe, demanding tribute even of the Ryadn. West of the Moryavska tribes and north into the Salt Mountains.Little was left, a ribbon of territory on either side of the river for a few days' journey south of the city, a scattering of half-forgotten settlements in the northern woods.

Now we live in enclaves all along the river we once ruled, subject to other laws, dependent on the DragonLords waning power. We are still wanted for our skill but are feared for the manrauq. We dwindle; Zak are fallen as low as these stones.

She shook off the mood as Shkai'ra panted up, her quilted jacket opened with the heat of exercise.

"How are they shaping?" Megan asked.

"Not bad. In a standup fight of ranks in open country, drilled soldiers would slaughter them. But most of them're pretty fair individual fighters, some really good. Plenty of spirit, I've never seen a scratch warband with so little in the way of quarreling or discipline problems, and they're learning to work together. Good officers, too, even if they're new to the work on land; Shyll's got an eye for ground, and the blades will follow him with a smile, I think. For alley fighting or ambush work, they're very good indeed, and they'll be better still when we reach F'talezon in a month or so."

Megan nodded. "And I'm learning to handle a fight bigger than I can see," she said. Shkai'ra laughed, in the midst of rubbing a handful of snow over her flushed face.

"You're doing it a lot better than I could con a ship, kh'eeredo."

Shyll had come up while they were speaking. Shkai'ra raised her practice sword in casual salute and continued speaking to Megan: "Well, I'll run them back to town and meet you on the canal for that skate practice you were threatening. "She turned, leaped down six feet to the snow, waited a second while Sova scrambled down to follow, and trotted off into the ruins.

Shyll climbed up beside her, metal skate blades dangling from his left hand, ringing.

"Let the others finish, let's go test the ice," he grinned at her. If I didn't know better, she thought, I wouldn't think anything was wrong. She smiled back, sitting and patting the stone beside her.

"I haven't skated in so long, you'll be able to laugh at me stumbling," she said.

"Gods of the Dog, no!" He pretended to cringe. "Mock the Grrrreat Spit... ah, Whitlock?"

Inu panted up, spraying gouts of powdersnow into the air, scooping up mouthfuls of it, barking through them. Fishhook clung to his ruff, wings spread, ears back and eyes wide in a mixture of fear and excitement.

FRIENDYESGOODYESUCKPIAYRUNRUNRUN. The dog's thought was clear and sharp as ever; he braced its paws on the sides of the ruined tower and raised himself ten feet, almost enough to lick her foot with a reach of the washcloth tongue.

She had tried to summon the light on her hands the last night and found that the overstrain had knocked her powers back somewhat, it was more reddish than orange. Shyll settled beside her, and she tucked a hand into his arm and squeezed for a moment before taking the skate blades and running a leatherclad thumb over the edges.

"I remember the first metal pair I could afford, though wood and bone are almost as good."

"I remember you and Rilla teaching me." Shyll looked sideways at her. "She held me up from behindand you whirled around me. 'Showing me how it's done.' " He chuckled. "My seat has, at long last, forgiven you."

"Shyll." He turned and looked at her expectantly. She put her hand out to touch his arm. "I... I care for you, Shyll. I care for you too much to ask you to wait for my fear to ebb. I fight it, but to ask you to wait..."

"I'll wait." His face was somber. "Let me decide how long I'll wait. I'm too confused right now to make any decisions." A brief flash of smile. "Any sensible ones. I was thinking of leaving after everything was settled in F'talezon, but now I don't know. You-and Rilla too-are throwing a lot of things at me all at once. Don't worry, Megan, I won't do anything until I've thought about this a lot longer."

"All right, Shyll. I really haven't had time to talk to you alone. That's the problem with being the fishgutted 'hero.' Everyone wants to talk to you. " Poivrkin fluttered up from Inu's neck, his disappointed whine trailing after her. He wanted to be up there, too. The wingcat landed half on Shyll's lap, half on Megan's, mewing and proud of herself. "Even the animals." She scratched behind the orange ears.

"Penalty of becoming famous, Meganmi." He stood up and offered her his arm. "Let's go skate and get you back in practice."

FTALEZON.

SLAF KIVNIY, INNER CHAMBER.

The room was cool blue stone, carved out of the mountain near the Dragon'sNest, the original rock was left in its flowing, splashed shapes only somehow transformed from granite. In the center of the room, on a cushion covered in blue fox furs, a man in grey-striped black robes sat, staring into a mirror.His hair and beard were salt-and-pepper grey; it was a friendly enough face, squint-lines around the calculating eyes that showed little of the ruthlessness he was capable of.

The gilt frame he stared into was set with pearls. In the center, where silvered glass would normally be, was a paper-thin sheet of a bone mosaic, ranging from the delicately sliced skulls of mice, through the long, wide slabs of ivory cut from thighbones. He breathed on the surface and it cleared, bringing sound and vision into his echoing room.

"-There's really no probl-" Shkai'ra's feet shot forward on the ice and she landed on her back, arms spread. "Sheepshit," she said. Inu scrambled by, paws flailing and skaters dodging in the narrow confines of the canal; plumped to his belly, slid to a stop near Shkai'ra and began to lick her face. Grimly, she struggled up with the dog as a handhold; he came helpfully to his feet, and she rested her hand on his shoulder to steady herself...

This is my quarry? he thought. Habiku, you are a fool if you need to pay my fee for...ah.

-In the crowd of Aenir's townsfolk, young couples skating hand in hand, weaving lines of craft pupils yelling as they snaked by, holding on to each other's belts, sedate families pulling infants on sleds in the torchlight, Megan glided up, turned around, linked hands with Shkai'ra as she wobbled. "Here, akribhan, both our right feet together."

There was light enough to see both women clearly, from the great bonfire in the center of the ice, from lanterns strung from slipways and the masts of ships in the dry docks, and from the huge, ten-foot iron firebasket slung between the mouths of the steel dragons over the harbor mouth.- Still, the Blue Mage thought, All this fuss over aminor-powered witch? Or is the half-Zak ClawPrince hiding something from me?

He raised an eyebrow, watching the party on the ice.

How confident you must feel, Whitlock, to celebrate Shamballah's rising so openly in the midst of a House war. Perhaps you have the possibility of growing into my range of power, become a threat perhaps? If there was such a prospect, she showed no signs of it. He watched Inu break up a game of stick, watched Megan's friends throw her into a snowdrift, watched the drift be torn apart for ammunition for snowballs.

Well, Habiku. You are willing to overcome your well-known despite for the manrauq to enlist its aid, and you, or rather Avritha, are paying my fee.

Whitlock, we will see how well you like snow.

AENIR'SFORD.

ELEVENTH IRON CYCLE, EVENING TWENTY-SIXTH.

DAY.

"I would never have thought only ten people could throw Inu into a snowdrift," Shkai'ra said, shaking the last of the snow out of her jacket and re-donning it.

"I would never have thought any two people would pull me out from under a pile of crewfolk and then throw me in a fresh patch," Megan said. Then, "Ah, Rilla. The moon's up."

The other nodded. Zak were coming together on the ice where the enclave touched the harbor, a growing crowd of small, dark-clad folk from ship's crews or the enclave, with a thin scattering of true-friends from other breeds. The moon was near full, huge and bright, floating over the horizon and showing its curve as if the far hills and plains were only another country across the valley. Shamballah shone silver and clear in the sky near it, off the darkened quarter. Megan tucked her arm in Shkai'ra's and Rilla took Shyll with her: withSova between them they coasted to the edge of the crowd.

The teRyadn seemed to know what was going on, and dropped a hand on Sova's shoulder as they halted, bent to whisper in her ear: "This will be strange, but very beautiful, Sovee. Only a few naZak are allowed to be here." She looked up at him and nodded, her eyes huge with fear and wonder.

"Try not to jump, heart'sdear," Megan whispered up to Shkai'ra. "I know you hate spook-pushing but this is a celebration." A pause. "It's been a very long time since I welcomed Shamballah with my own people." Shkai'ra nodded silently, her gaze on the moon.

The Zak were all within arm's reach of each other, several hundred strong, with solemn-faced children as young as six holding their parents by the hand. The wind rose, whistling around the harbor, bringing the smells of snow, cocoa, the fire and the city with it, then faded. The torches had burned down, and the firebasket slung from the dragons was a red glow of half-dead coals. In the dark, in the silence, someone, a woman, whispered: "One such night was when the world died. We were out in the snow, and on the horizon, the Great Phoenix reached its beak out of the world and then even the snow burned."

"We live."

The answer was like the wind blowing through a grove of pines. Shkai'ra felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. It was as if the answer came from more Zak than could possibly be here on the ice or in the enclave, like a breath from further north.

"Once the Dark Lord decreed that all should starve, saying we were an evil empire, and a million deathswere nothing to him."

"We still live."

"Though the world died..." The lead voice died away and the answer came.

"We live."

A light bloomed among the Zak and spread, a steady unflickering yellow that came from everywhere and nowhere. Shkai'ra heard Shyll and Sova inhale sharply, like an echo of her wondering delight; it was as if they were at the center of a living flower, a flame without heat growing from the black ice, under the unwinking stars.

The light flowed out and up, growing more orange and red until finally Shkai'ra could see it being passed from hand to hand as if every Zak were holding a candle, but their hands were glowing with their own power; as each palm touched, the light flowed. Megan reached her hand to Rilla, whose color was a dim red.

As their palms touched, the older Zak's flared bright red-orange. In the circle there were one or two who glowed yellow, one green. When every Zak's hands were flaming Rilla held her hands to Shyll, smiling. He put his hand on hers and her color rose enough to cover his fingers. Megan held out her hand to Shkai'ra and Sova.

The Thane girl hesitated, reached out, laid her palm on the woman's and breathed a slow sigh as the light lapped over her fingers, an impalpable tingling.

Shkai'ra reached slowly, not from fear but in a calm exultation; the light seemed suddenly like the homelight seen through a storm, and yet a thing unbearably distant and remote. Her hand touched Megan's, felt the familiar callus and texture, yet changed and unique this moment.

For a dozen long breaths the light grew and shone under the paired eyes of Shamballah and the moon;then it died as gently as it had risen. Normal sound returned, but no voice was raised above a murmur as the Zak turned to one another, embraced their neighbors, wishing them another World's Birthday. The silence broke like an eggshell, hatching the season before the New Year, three iron cycles from now.

They linked arms, Megan, Shkai'ra, Rilla, Shyll and Sova; exchanged one long wordless look and turned to skate to their dwelling, moving in a slow dancer's rhythm.

Tomorrow, Megan thought. Tomorrow I'll think of the Cage.

F'TALEZON, THE DRAGON'SNEST.

DRAGONLADY AVRITHA'S RECEPTION CHAMBERS.

TWELFTH IRON CYCLE, FIFTEENTH DAY.

"Oh my, how careless of Habiku," Avritha murmured. "How very, very careless and foolish. A clever man, but he will do these things."

The woman who knelt on a cushion across from her was a vendor of tapestries. Her family had been deep enough in debt to see bankruptcy and the River Quarter beneath them; the Red Brotherhood held their notes and had emphatic means of collecting. The DragonLady had bought the paper, made a loan free of interest. The merchant had been in Avritha's service ever since, like many others, bought with money or gratitude or secrets known and shared. Information and orders moved with the tapestries now.

Avritha lifted the pot of chai from its rest; that was a platinum dragon, the mouth spouting a small oil-flame to keep the drink warm. She poured with a graceful turn of the wrist. "You are quite sure, Katrina?"

The merchant lifted the cup in the fingertips of both hands, waited for the ruler's lady to fill her own. "Well,you understand, ZingasSmiurg, the bird merely brought the rumours of the town. The ClawPrince Megan Whitlock was definitely attacked; servants of hers were killed, and her arrow-ship Zingas Vetri badly damaged."

Avritha nodded. So much was good; the Hand she had sent south on Smoothtongued urging had acted competently, given the short notice.

"Her cousin, Rilla Shadows'Shade, met her shortly after the attack, and showed her the documents. They discussed them in public, and made no attempt at secrecy: direct communications with the Thanish Oligarchs. Information on F'talezonian naval dispositions and court politics, including-" she sipped at the tea "-ah, unflattering appraisals of the DragonLord himself."

Very unfortunate, Avritha thought. The price of pampering you, my half-Zak love, has just risen somewhat above that which I am willing to pay.

Ranion was not yet quite ready to ignore the united opinion of F'talezon's warrior nobility and merchant princes; the Thanes had been a thorn in F'talezon's side since their arrival on the Brezhan broke the hegemony of the Theocrats, eight hundred years before. Besides being the worst persecutors of Zak living outside the power of the DragonLords, they were commercial rivals in every market. The Mutton-Eaters' star had been rising, these last few generations, until the disasters of their latest war with the Aenir; and those defeats had been largely due to Zak assistance.

One of the few things that Zak and Thane shared was a long memory for an injury. The Thanes would be eager to recoup their position, preferably at Zak expense to make the gain lasting; the Aenir could afford defeats, they were a numerous people. F'talezon's ruling classes were equally eager to see the Thanish power further weakened; the city was living on itscapital, hence needed strong leadership to avoid losses... which was one major reason the Upper City and the merchant ClawPrinces had accepted the DragonLords so long: at least an absolute monarchy maintained internal peace and kept outsiders from fishing in troubled Zak waters. They would not tolerate treason or weakness in the face of F'talezon's chief rivals; too much in the way of accumulated wealth and power was at stake.

Hence Ranion would not tolerate it. His power was absolute against any single magnate, but in jeopardy if they united to throw him off, and he was still sane enough to know it. He had been growing harder for her to control of late, even so.

And, to be sure, I must consider the city's interests as well. There would be no game if outlanders came to kick over the board, and however uncomfortable the Nest could be, penniless exile or a gibbet would be more unpleasant still. Katrina was a very minor ClawPrince indeed, but she was obviously expecting the DragonLady to do something. Mirrored several hundredfold, that expectation had power as real as the Dragon's.

"Thank you. You have served me well. I am grateful."

They bowed gravely, the agent's a trifle lower than the circumstances and respective ranks required.

"No thanks are needed, Woyvodaana. I remember, and my kin through me."

Avritha made a small gesture of dismissal.

"Nevertheless, thanks are given... Do you admire the service?"

"Of course. A recent piece, but the workmanship is superb. " Neither was crass enough to mention the value of the metal. "Vodywar II's reign? Mastersmith Bornovda? It reminds me of another by her.""Your taste is impeccable as always, Katrin, my dear.

Consider it yours. No, no protests! In your house, I know it will be appreciated as it ought, not lost in the clutter."

After the merchant-spy had left, Avritha sat for several minutes, making notes. On memory, not on paper: that had been darling Habiku's mistake. Then she rang a bell, summoned certain persons, gave orders.

"A pity," she sighed to the empty room when she was alone again. "Your lies were so convincing, my love, that it pleased me to believe them for a time." She shivered, drawing the costly, Rand-made jacket closer about her shoulders and clapping for more blackrock to be added to the brazier. There were two courtiers she knew, brothers, rivals for her. Rivals if they know their own interests, she added mentally. By now they hated each other, for the things she had forced each to do to the other to prove their devotion. It would be entertaining to invite them to her apartments together, and see how they competed in that.

As entertaining as anything. Her mind paused thoughtfully. Or as entertaining as anything is likely to be until Megan Whitlock arrives. Yes. There were definite possibilities in that; Ranion's interest might be aroused, which would be an added bonus. She would watch and wait; Habiku had probably taken her advice, and her money, to seek magical help, despite his fear-induced disbelief in the manrauq.

He might survive Whitlock yet, in which case it would be as well to begin distancing herself at once. If he did not... well, he would still serve her purpose one more time. His death would keep Ranion happy.

Chapter Nineteen.

AENIR'SFORDTWELFTH IRON CYCLE, SIXTH DAY.

Shkai'ra watched the shadow of a cloud racing down the blue-grey ice of the frozen Brezhan, turning the surface to a darker shade and then passing on upstream. There was very little snow on the river itself, a few hard thin rills, drifts along the banks where rock or an overhanging tree caught the wind. The sleds were backing and filing around the entrance to the harbor; they were drawn by shaggy little ponies, or teams of man-weight dogs-curl-tailed and sharp-nosed beasts like miniature versions of Inu. There had been time enough to work the draught animals and accustom them to each other, but formation work was still difficult.

The sleds themselves were heaped with neatly bundled supplies: grain and frozen fish for the stock, food for the humans, blankets, tents, spare rope, weapons, skates, tools, medicines, documents, money, maps... and the Cage, securely lashed to the center vehicle and burnished blinding bright. Most of the war party were squatting by their assigned sleds, bulky in their winter gear, loaded down with their packs and personal weapons; they would skate alongside and push, or haul on lines. Moshulu patted his hammer where it was lashed to the top of the sled. Shkai'ra tasted the feeling of the band, found it good, a tense, eager readiness, mixed with just enough apprehension to prevent sloppiness and boredom.

"A month to F'talezon," she said as she led her horse over to Megan. The roughened surface of its horseshoes made crick-crick sounds on the chipped ice of the harbor mouth.

There was a fair crowd gathered to see them off, waiting on the harbor ice; the last week had been frantic, last minute preparations once the central river froze hard, combined with just enough in the way of farewell feasting to avoid giving any important Aeniri irreparable offense. At that, they had had to be brusqueto keep the city council from turning the departure into an all-day matter of toasts and speeches. Formally, Megan Whitlock was simply returning to her home city to take up her affairs; that made this open preparation possible. The Aenir would be glad enough to see a friendly ClawPrince in F'talezon, but they would not make an open breech with DragonLord Ranion to do it.

Megan glanced up. "If we're lucky," she said. "The days are short, and we can expect a bad storm once a week at least, this early after freezeup. It calms down after Dagde Vroi, usually, although the ones you do get then are longer." Shkai'ra nodded, led her horse to check the pony sled near her. Dagde Vroi, the Days of Fools, was the Zak midwinter festival, a month-long carnival famous for no-holds-barred practical joking and for the number of births nine months later-and also clandestine settling of scores.

Megan turned to Boryis, who stood next to Haian and Yvar, who was well enough to sit on a sled to see them off. Rowing Boryis. Mara's Boryis. He'd decided to stay behind in Aenir'sford for the winter, then head south.

"Well, Boryis, there's still a space."

"No, Captain, respectfully, no." He looked down at his mitted hands. "It finishes here, for me." The eyes he raised to her were dry. "Mara wouldn't be dead, if we hadn't agreed to work for you and your House-" He held up one hand. "No, let me finish. We knew that we were getting involved in a blood feud, and took the risk.

I thought the worst risk was dying, but it wasn't. Any more of this is going to twist me. I've been hurt but I can still heal; any more is going to cripple me. That's all. I don't want to carry your House quarrel with me the rest of my life."

She shook her head at him. And let Habiku get away with what he's done? Never. "I see. I didn't understand, Boryis, and I don't really know if I do now, but it's your choice.""Captain, I understand that you have to clean up and get rid of him... He'll go on doing wickedness as long as he lives, it's his revenge on the world but... if you don't mind a bit of unasked advice... Please don't let it twist you too far."

"I won't, Boryis. Go well." She shrugged off what the man said and turned next to Feranden, the Haian physician. Yvar Monkeyfist was with him, his face still a ball of bandage; the healer was almost as thickly bundled, what showed of his brown skin looking a little grey with the cold. Megan smiled, remembering Haiu Menshir in the southern sea, forested slopes silver-green with olive trees or green-gold oranges, open-walled houses with windchimes ringing in the warm breezes. The wiry little man had come a long way from the Healer's Isle, but you found Haians in every town of consequence. Except F'talezon. Because of Ranion.