She heard the whistling crack as one of her Aenir's swing-stone lassoes wrapped around a slaver. All I'm doing . . .

She leaped over the corpse, blocked a Lakan's short sword with the haft of the twofang; the hard wood turned the edge. The fire was flaring up, it shone on the greased black hair; she stepped to one side and swivelled the fang to slice across his blue-black hawk face, slashing across his throat. Blood glistened on his hairless chest like sweat. ... is fighting.

The stink of burning blood was thick, her ears were full of clang, batter, thump, an uncontrollable pain-shriek and the mingled fear and rage from the slaves, or the odd battle cry.

"Hai! Hai!" A slaver, a fair-skinned Schvait with a two-handed sword; it cut through her bosuns spearhaft and half through his neck.

"Grey Wolf!" A crewwoman behind him drove her twofang with both hands; it poked through the mountain man's leather corselet and tented it out in front. He dropped the sword and sank to his knees pawing at the inch of steel poking red throughthe bullhide.

The Slavemaster held a clear space around him, swinging a bloodied mace. His chain coat was close-linked and strong and hung past his knees; blades slithered from it, and the serrated iron head of his weapon punched into a skull with a wet tock.

Rilla dodged around another fight, saw Danake closing in with a knife flickering in each hand; a moment, and her hand could strip a dart and throwing-stick out of her quiver. The thumb-thick wood clacked into the groove of the stick; the dart point flickered in the firelight and sprouted from the Slavemaster's arm. He dropped the mace and Shyll had him, the thin, stiff smallsword bursting through his mail.

Shyll yelled, eyes wide with alarm; Rilla ducked, spun around to block one of the Mogh-iur's scimitars. The one in his other hand struck-no pain, no time-drove one fang at his foot. He leaped chest-high, fast as a Zak, kicked, struck her twofang; she tumbled out of his reach, back-rolling. There were Zingas Vryka fighters all around him but he moved like a blur, shrieking as he fought. A deckhand stumbled back, clutching his belly, and there was a sudden pause.

"Surrender," Rilla said, her voice a croak that left her astonished. "We offer quarter." He smiled, teeth white below a drooping black mustache.

"A bloody horse cock up the ass of your quarter," he called, turned and drove for the horses, whistling. A spotted stallion reared and tore its checkrein free from the line, striking with its forefeet; the Mogh-iur seemed to flow to the stallion's back. The animal wheeled, the great muscles of its haunches bunching.

Beside her Rilla heard more than saw a dart slip into its groove, the thrower's grunt of effort; the short javelin struck the fleeing Mogh-iur below one shoulder and hung, bouncing, as he fell forward to clasp his arms about the horse's neck. Hoofbeats vanished in the darkness.

Inu crashed back into the clearing, head held high, the spit dragging out of the pig he still held, his barks and growling muffled by his full mouth. A Thane, with Enchian rapier and parry-dagger, had Shyll pinned at the fire pit. The greathounddropped the pig and lunged, snarling. His jaws closed on the Thanes shoulder, crushing half his chest. The man had time to scream once before the dog shook him.

The horses and mules were milling as far as their lines would allow, one down and tangled, screaming, injured. The crew of the Grey Wolf, stopped, slowed, realizing there was no one left to fight, the slavers dead or surrendered. A crewman stepped to the shrieking horse and the noise drowned in a gurgle.

Rilla looked around at the mess she could more smell than see in the dark, the fire steaming, almost out, heard the dog's panting, someone moaning, and the tense silence of two hundred people caught between fear and the faint beginnings of hope.

The night isn't realty black, she thought distractedly, it's grey. I'm going into shock. "Sound off, who's hurt? Danake, pick two, get the strongbox. There should be about five thousand Claws' worth there."

"Aye, Captain. " With real enthusiasm; that was more than they needed to meet back wages, and to have the Zingas Vryka hauled out in the slipway for a refit. Their last few raids had brought more loss to Habiku than profit to them.

She pressed her arm against her ribs, sticking the cloth under the corselet to her wound, and walked over to the lean-to. Five thousand, she thought. Sailcloth, new rudder ropes, cordage, tallow, beans, bacon, arrows... Boryis had lit a torch from the glowing ember-bed of the slavers' fire; she raised it carefully as she ducked into the lean-to, mindful of the dry twig-wood above.

The tree trunk coffle was keeping them together, still. Round faces turned up to look at her, fire-washed, pale as moons, the remains of their brightly embroidered clothing ragged and muddy. They stank, the slavers evidently relying on a morning dip in the river to cure the lack of hygiene in the night. Children tugged at their mothers and were hushed; some of the adults were still ready to fight if given a chance, others were broken, staring at the dirt and grass between their feet.

"Anyone here speak Zak?" she asked, without much hope.

Silence, someone in the back sneezed. Rilla sighed and triedEnchian. It had been over a millenium and a half since the fall of Iyesi. Enchian was a living tongue only in the remnant kingdom of Tor Ench, but it was still the tongue of scholars, diplomats and traders.

"Paral-doi' laEnchais?" she said, slowly and distinctly.

A man in the rear rank stirred and half-rose, then sank under the weight of his bonds.

"Peutre 'npeu," he said: perhaps a little. She leaned on her twofang and studied him: stocky, middle-aged, with a few bedraggled feathers and shells still clinging to the remnants of his vest.

"I hight Yoz'f," he said, also with care. "Would'st thou, noble soldu, speak concerning the fate of these my folk?" He spoke in an archaic dialect, remarkably close to the ancient High Speech of Iyesi. Level blue eyes in the weathered face were uncowed; lash marks on his back, from those still raw red through yellow and blue bruises to half-healed lumps of scar.

"Genhomtn," she said, the address of respect. "Your people are free, but there is a town of enemies only three hours march to the east. We must move quickly and silently; can you keep your people from straggling? The children will find it hard. I cannot offer you safe passage anywhere on my ship and she is far upriver."

He translated to his people in a low voice. The Moryavska tongue was close enough to Zak that she could almost understand. Probably because I know already what hes saying.

A babble of voices rose, tears, anger and suspicion, hope, things one needed no language to understand; a few barked words brought silence. Yoz'f turned to her again. His eyes were wet, and she squirmed inwardly as he rose awkwardly to his knees.

"Yea, it shall be so, Zingas. Our land be blessed with many a bosky den, the hunter's path no stranger to us." Ochen, the ship's carpenter, came up and laid out his tools, took a chisel, set it against the wooden rod across the mouth of a Y-forked holding pole, looked at her. Rilla nodded at him and he had the first rodbroken in three strokes. The old man rose to his feet, touched his neck in wonder, then threw his arms aloft and prayed.

"Zingas," he said, coughed to clear his throat, and continued.

"To Boghdu and Iasos and Perkn, the Lion and the Twins, I call blessings ever on your name, your house and seed. All hope had been riven from us, ere thou earnest. At a wedding feast were we, when the Mogh-iur fell upon us" -several of the freed slaves paused to spit at the mention of the name-"and we were as babes, for at feast do the Moryavska love to drink deep. For this gift of life, what boon may we give? Ask, and if it is ours, it is thine."

She shrugged, and winced slightly as the motion tugged at the wound on her side, where the quilted padding beneath the leather armor was blood-bonded to the lips of the gash.

Genhomm Yoz'f, you owe me nothing; the man who sent the Mogh-iur against you is my enemy."

An oversimplification, the Mogh-iur kingdoms south of the Karpati Mountains were tributaries of Arko, and the Empire's tax was heavy. Slave raiding in the barbarian lands to the north, among people less trained in war, was one way of meeting the demands and staving off outright annexation; Habiku had merely given them another outlet, easier to reach than the traditional southern route to the Mitvald Sea. She continued: "My crew is looking to their supplies. See to your people, then come talk to me, please."

The tribesman drew himself up, held out a palm to stay her for a moment, spoke quickly with his people. Or a core of them that had gathered about him, young and still healthy. None of the broken ones, she noted, and some of the women were staring out at the corpses of the slavers with a disturbing intensity.

"I, Yoz'f son of Mar'ya and Broz'f, Lawman and godspeaker of Spisskaves, say that the honor of my people accepteth not this gift of freedom without a gift in return." He made a gesture, and ten of the younger Moryavska stepped forward. "Thine enemy is ours, and a debt of blood is owed. These youths and maidens arestrong and willing to learn, good hunters and fighters, with much to avenge. Thou shall be their lord."

Rilla blinked, opened her mouth and closed it again as the young Moryavska filed up to her. Yoz'f whispered in her ear, "Bread, salt and iron, Lady."

She nodded, cleared her throat, gave orders. The freed slaves bowed, tasted the hastily-scrounged flatbread and coarse salt, touched a blade of her twofang. When they began to recite their deeds, and their parentage and their parents' deeds, she cut the ceremony short.

"Danake!" The supercargo hurried up, hands bristling with lists. "These are ten new recruits. They don't speak any known language and they've never seen a ship except the hold of a slaver." The woman's mouth opened and closed. Did I look that silly? Rilla thought. Probably... "They can all hunt deer and farm, so they ought to make good crew... See to it!" She didn't let the sarcasm color her tone.

She nodded to Yoz'f and ducked outside, leaving the torch behind. The darkness was blessed relief. She leaned against a tree, the rough bark under her cheek. Koru, I'm tired. Megan, did you get this tired? How did you deal with all these people?

Dear Goddess, you shielded me from this but now I know it in bitter measure. There was a call from the crew rifling the supplies, the Slavemaster's personal hoard-Arkan money-chains, in silver. The joy of revenge is always so fleeting, why is it so flat in my mouth already? The wind whipped across the camp carrying the stench with it, bringing the heat of the day. She felt tears catch in the back of her throat, choked them back, then let them flow. Megan was-is always the one to control herself. As long as I don't sob, that'd hurt.

Lost some... too many. Too many friends. She felt a trickle work its way down past her belt. Koru grant that it's sweat. She sat down by the tree, feeling the burning thread its way all along her ribs. I wish I could just-pick a direction and leave all this mess behind. Koru, grant me rest. "Shyll," she called.

"Rilla?" His voice came from the horse lines."I'm on the sick list too. The Mogh-iur scratched me. " He was suddenly beside her out of the dark. She slapped irritably at his solicitous hands.

" 'S'all right, Rilla. Iczak! Get over here!" he shouted.

"Oh, go do something useful. I'm just nicked, not dying. Get moving before I bounce your ass all the way to Aenir'sford." She couldn't see his grin in the dark. But he didn't go away, staying to unlace her corselet instead. At least he didn't say "Megan'd want me to take care of you," she thought.

Iczak brought his kit to begin dressing the slash. Rilla tried to pull off her shirt, stopped as cloth caught and pulled, sending pain lacing through her chest. He tssked at her and used boiled water from his canteen to soften the dried blood. Inu crawled up to her, muzzle in the dirt, still dragging his pig. She winced as Iczak pressed a cloth to her ribs and leaned back against the bone and leather of his armored side, tugging on one of the dog's pointed white ears. "Bad dog," she said, trying to keep her mind off the twinges, listening to her crew, and Inu whined through a mouthful of pork.

AN ISLAND IN THE BREZHAN.

NORTH OF NARYSHKIV.

NEXT EVENING.

Well," Rilla Shadows'Shade said sourly, poking at the fire. It was small, smokeless, hidden by the roots of the toppled oak; stray droplets of sleet pelted down through the forest canopy and hissed on the coals. "We've made some gains, managed to be a bigger thorn in Habiku's foot, gained ten more on my side, even if they don't speak the language yet, and the Vryka is on her way to fetch us. Things could be worse... I don't really care if another Thanish town has a price on my head, but I hate to have my options shrinking like this. " A sigh. Things could be worse. "

"Yes. It could be winter," Shyll said, and smiled into her scowl, shadowed under the brown wool cowl of her cloak. She was tall for a Zak, three inches over four feet; even at twenty an ageless look was settling about her face, tracks of worry andstrain replacing the laughter lines. Glossy, dark brown hair spilled against the cloth, a contrast to his sunbleached tow. She set chin to knees and poked again with her stick, testing the leaf-wrapped roots cooking in the embers. The rain had come on the wind by the time the Moryavska had faded into the dark; bare branches rattled and sighed in the autumn forest, and the susurrus of the river held a promise of ice from the northern mountains.

We've made it back to the river, he thought. We even found a fishing boat to get us out here. He glanced into the dark, over to the other fire where the wounded huddled in their bandages.

Faster to have the fit trek back to the ship and then pick them all up. She's just worrying to worry.

It was no wonder though; the Zingas Vryka should have put in for them before sunset.

It hadn't been an easy two years since Megan disappeared.

The wandering life was well and good, until I met the two, Megan and Rilla. I wanted to settle a bit. Megan... she could never see that snake's twistings, no matter how I warned her.

You could see it in his eyes, something bent out of shape inside his head. Shit, she's not dead. She can't be. Stop thinking about her in the past tense. If she had been slain, Habiku would have shown the body or real proof, somehow.

Rilla was Zak to the core; F'talezon-born like her cousin. The Sleeping Dragon had been more than a trading company; it was to be the foundation of Megan's House, a shelter for the blood she and Rilla shared, and their descendants; and provide the wealth and power Megan would need to find the son sold away from her when she was a child herself, still bonded to that pervert Sarngeld. Kin and House were everything to a Zak; their lives were rooted in stone, however far they wandered. Watching what Habiku had made of that inheritance was a clawing bitterness to Rilla, despite all they did to reave parts of it back again.

The blond man leaned back comfortably against Inu, who still wore a slightly guilty air. He smiled again, knowing what was behind the washcloth-sized tongue that slurped over his ear, thethumping tail; I'm a good dog, boss, really, I was just so hungry ....

"We can always go into the town in disguise if we need to," he said, grinning. He had played this role with Megan also, a lightness in a spirit brooding and dour by nature.

"Disguise?" Rilla snorted. "With that shambling mountain of puppy forever at your heels?" She raked a maranth tuber out of the fire and the greathound's ear pricked. "Inu! No! You had a whole pig just yesterday!"

The dog sighed with sad-eyed resignation and laid his head back on his paws. Unwillingly, Rilla smiled; her eyes met Shyll's and that grew into a chuckle.

"You've got to admit, he was useful," Shyll said.

"Yes, but we didn't plan for him to attack their cookpit," Rilla said, then shook with silent laughter, until the bandaged slash along her ribs stopped her with a warning twinge. "I hope that the Moryavska get home without too much trouble."

"They're woodspeople, I doubt any Thane could catch them.

They're probably on their way straight back to the raids and border skirmishes with the Mogh-iur that got them caught in the first place. And," he continued slyly, "Thanish law holds the owner responsible for any damage they might do. Technically, they all belong to Habiku." It was unlikely that a Thane merchant court would be very sympathetic to the man; half-Zak was wholly damned, in their eyes, and no loophole in the law would help him with that.

"We don't have that many more places to run on the river,"

Rilla mused. "If he keeps pushing this hard we'll have to retreat up the Vechaslaf where it joins the Brezhan, which is too Thanish for my taste, or sell the ship and stick to land-reaving. I want to stab that bastard where it hurts!" The greathound lurched to his feet, head turned toward the river.

Shyll had just cracked open his tuber, blowing on it, nodding his agreement, when Inu's sudden movement jolted himforward. "What? Inu, down." Rilla had doused the fire by kicking dirt on it, and the walking wounded followed suit without needing to be told. Then, from the river, a hooded lamp shone and flickered. Once. Twice.

"That's the Vryka! Come on." Rilla stuffed the rest of the root in her mouth and whistled for the rest of her crew.

"But, but... Oh, damn! Why is dinner always interrupted! I didn't even get one bite." Shyll scrambled after.

"Mmph, youm." Rilla swallowed and tried again. "You can eat on board. Besides, get the coin changed and stashed away in Aenir-Seitch a couple of days from now and I don't have to think of selling my Vryka. Haul your beautiful behind down here!" Inu whuffed and plunged into the river, heading for the ship he knew, splashing them with icy water.

"Shit, dog... Why thank you, Rilla. The one woman in the world unaffected by my beauty..."

"Oh, hush. We are still in the midst of a tightening net, Shyll."

"You'll think of something. It's your job. Or Megan will handle it when she gets back." They both ignored the silence after he said that. When Megan gets back; not if. Never if. "Yes. When she gets back," Rilla said as she stepped into the jollyboat, touching her helmsman on the shoulder.

BRAHVNIKI, TAPROOM OF THE KCHNOTET VURM.

TENTH IRON CYCLE, THIRD DAY, EVENING.

Megan smiled. The man was a newcomer to the Vurm, and wavering between standing and using one of the newly built benches; finally he decided to risk pine tar on his clothing. That was a common hazard here; the Vurm went through a lot of furniture, and it did not pay to buy expensive seasoned wood for the customers to hit each other with. She and Shkai'ra sat on well-worn chairs in the warm corner of the taproom behind the angle of the main tile stove; there were advantages to being a regular, even if you had been away two years. She closed her eyesand inhaled deeply of the smell of home, ignoring the unwashed bodies and noticing instead the scent of new-laid fire, wood, mulled ale, the musty-earth odor of the brick the Vurm was built of and felt the smooth-worn wood under her hands.

"I still say my knives killed the spearbill before you put an arrow through its eye," she said amiably, taking a swig from her tankard. Brahvnikian beer, again. Barley brewed, with hops and fennel. Famous all along the Brezhan, and the cost increased with every mile upriver; in F'talezon at the head of navigation the prefetatla drank it, the elite. Megan looked into her mug and narrowed her lids in a smile that warmed the eyes without touching the lips. Brahvnikian merchants drank wine; beer was for the poor, the Vurm's fine brown-foam for the middle classes... and for export.

"Zoweitzum with that! You'd have been digging at its neck until the Gods came to eat the world!" Shkai'ra snorted and stretched her legs out in front of her. "All this just to come home! Huhn! We should have stayed in Iliizbuah. Not nearly so much trouble as you getting your revenge on what's his name."

"Habiku-"

"Ia."

"-And I'm sure you'd have looked lovely behind the bars of the priest's cage, spell-twisted into a Sniffer. You've been doing nothing but complain all the way from the mid-Lannic islands,"

Megan said.

"Complain? Me?"

"Dah. Oh, stop it." Megan stopped Shkai'ra's hand from roaming under the table. She looked down at the table.

"Why in Halya did that bastard sell me, instead of killing me outright?" She shook her head. "Habiku knew me, didn't he think I'd be back? Still wanted as much space as possible between me and him when I woke up with the dog-sucking headache that Gods Tears gives you."And the ache between my legs. The bastard used me while I was unconscious, or someone did.

"That customs clerk called you 'Fleet'sbane'. Was he just flattering you or what?" Shkai ra stretched one arm over her head as she asked, carefully casual, changing the subject. Megan looked embarrassed. "I didn't think anyone would remember after two and a half years." She drew a few circles in the spilled ale on the table. "During Enkar's war. The Thanish fleet was barricading Aenir'sford--that's about halfway to F'talezon-and my old River Lady . . . Well, we had a few things they needed...

so we broke the siege, my crew and I." Just like that, Shkai'ra thought, and raised an eyebrow at what Megan wasn't saying.

"Enkar was a fool and lost most of his force; retreated down through Rand and held one of their Princes as hostage for passage through the Gates.

"They ended up here and beat themselves against Brahvnild's walls and were finished here. " She sighed. "I guess the name just stuck and a lot of people blame me for what happened...

Thanes."

She pushed herself to her feet. "Time I returned the borrowed beer." She walked to the back past the empty raised platform for performers, with the steady care of someone slightly drunk and knowing it.

Shkai'ra watched as Megan disappeared through the curtained door to the jakes. Great change of topic, make her think of all the blood feuds she's got on her ass ... A whirl of chill air fluttered the brightly colored strips of woven linen as the outside door opened, losing itself in the smoky dimness of the taproom. The smaller dinner hearth crackled to her left, joining the larger glow from across the room to throw ruddy light on benches and trestle tables.

The outline was one with a dozen, dozen taverns she had seen in the years of exile; in spirit, at least. On this side of the Lannic, in the northeast corner of the Mitvald Sea, the details were utterly strange. There were sandy-robed Hriis who mingled only with Ieus clansmen, sipping wine and refusing to eat in the presence of unbelievers; dark, slight folk from the southerndeserts, caravaneers and merchants who only the very strong or very foolish attacked. Blond Arkans primly hiding their gloved hands, and dark-skinned Lakans with hair earrings; Yeolis gesticulating wildly, their steel wristlets flashing; Sinapland priests with square-cut beards or a strip shaven from brow to nape; Aenir, bright in baggy felt pantaloons, sashes, curl-toed riding boots.

Shkai'ra grinned and tilted the tarred leather of her stein.

Black shadow oozing, Ten-Knife crept from beneath the table, stalking the sliced meat that swam invitingly in its pink juices on a trestle an arm's length away. The blonde woman's hand snaked out to encircle the cat's throat.

"Nia," she said in her own tongue. "You've eaten enough today, imp of darkness." The stroking motion of her right hand led it naturally to the long bone grip of her curved sword.

Someone had been watching, and now he was making up his mind to approach; the sensation was too familiar to doubt.

The man she had sensed halted a confidential pace from her seat, which gave them a little privacy; the jutting whitewashed sidewall of the fireplace screened them from as much of the room as the mans back did not cover. A... Thane, Shkai'ra decided from Megan's description. Violently prejudiced against Zak. His hands were ritually scarred, and the last joint of his smaller fingers were missing. Stupidity, she mused. Her own folk knew better than to weaken a warrior's grip, and their training left the scars where they belonged; on the back, and in the mind.

"A vriendly warning to straenger," he said in the pidgin-Zak trade dialect, with a heavy accent, thick and guttural as if his native tongue was full with glottal stops and unvoiced vowels.