Apparently, while drunk, his hatred of Zak overcame his prejudice against foreigners. I suppose I look more like a Thane than anything else, Shkai'ra thought.

"Do you know das your friend is one of the vitch folk?" he continued, leaning closer. Firelight flickered over his heavy craggy features, picked out detail: oil-sheen on light-brown hair and pitted skin, broken blood vessels beneath one eye. His hair was long, gathered into a topknot at one side of his head."They can turn on you," he snapped his fingers. "Just like das.

Is better das they be all given to the fire, or river."

Shkai'ra leaned over and laid a confidential hand on the Thane's arm.

"Thanks, friend," she said with a smile. Her hand kneaded his forearm slightly; thick and blocky, but the muscle was softening.

He had that build, ox-strong in youth but falling into sagging fat in middle age for lack of exercise. Shkai'ra's fingers tightened, and she touched the tip of her tongue lingeringly to her lower lip.

"But it's so hard to find any who'll company us cannibals for long. You seem a fine, healthy sort. Firm fleshed, yes ..." Her eyes glittered suddenly in the shadowed corner.

His eyes widened. A thin, papery voice whispering, 'Old Father gives us food.' He tore himself free, stumbling backward.

"Ah, don't go, " Shkai'ra crooned.

The Thane turned and almost ran for the door; the frozen stares of half the Vurm's patrons were on them. A cold draft around her ankles told the Kommanza that Megan was back. She abandoned the pretense and laughed, the shrill, high-pitched mocking giggle of her folk. The Thane's pasty color gave way to a bright flush that started with his cheeks and spread to neck and ears. Still laughing, she pulled out a leather strap, wrapped it around her knuckles and began stropping her dagger on it. After a moment of silence the Aeniri at the central table led a bellow of mirth that spread until the inn's commonroom rocked with it, foreigners leaning to ask their companions what the joke was; the far corners joined in for the laughter's sake.

The Thane swung around, his hands making grasping motions; yellow teeth bared unconsciously. Megan slipped up beside the Kommanza and laid a hand on her shoulder; the tall woman bent her head to rub her cheek on the knuckles. Puzzled, the Zak smoothed the white lock at her temple. "Don't I know..."

she began.

The Thane paled even more. "You're-" he began to blurt, clenched his teeth with an effort. He wheeled and plunged into the darkness beyond the main door."What's the joke?" Megan looked after the departed Thane.

"He knew me." Shkai'ra leaned close and whispered in her ear.

Megan's face lit with a smile and she laughed. "Na... A Thane, too! Lots of eating taboos, Thanes; not as bad as Hriis, but nearly. Dog-sucking sheepherders deserve all they get." She leaned against Shkai'ra and sobered. "We'd best hope that Ivahn has the answers that Vhsant ran off with. If I'd had half a brain I'd have realized he'd take off with half of the books and the strongbox."

Shkai'ra yawned. "I'm for bed."

"Aren't you always? I'll come and tuck you in."

STAADT.

ONE DAY'S JOURNEY NORTH OF BRAHVNIKI.

TENTH IRON CYCLE, MID-AFTERNOON.

Piatr hadn't thought it was possible to hate a child of twelve so thoroughly.

"Clown," she said. "Goatfoot. Make me laugh, limper." She was close to him, her body close enough for him to feel its heat in the late autumn air of the garden. Feel it through the short girl-child tunic she wore; unsuitable for one her age, by Thane standards, but her mother refused to acknowledge the passing years, and her father was above giving thought to a mere female not yet marriageable. She stared at him, wondering why she felt so miserable.

I can make him do anything I want. He doesn't like me. I don't like him, either. I can't make him like me. He's a Zak.

Nobody likes them. I'm glad he doesn't like me; nobody... I'm Schotter's daughter. They better like me. I won't yell at them because they make me angry. Mother says a lady never has to raise her voice. People follow her commands to the letter-but she slaps 'Talia all the time. And calls her names. She picked Pishka up from the path where he was lying, ignoring his whine, and sat down on the garden bench, cuddling the lapdog.

She frowned, swinging her feet. It was just so hard,sometimes. Trying to be good; they kept saying that she shouldn't be lazy, but every time she tried to do anything somebody yelled at her. Sulky, she cast a glower at her brother from the corner of her eye. Francosz didn't have any problems; Pa was always doing things with him. He never got told to sit still or not swing his arms or climb trees, and Pa had said that after he braided his hair he could take a trip upriver on the trading boat, or even overseas to Selina.

It's like the stories, she thought. They all say it's such a big thing to be a lady, but all the ladies get to do is wait while someone goes off and rescues them or something. I'm always waiting, why do I always feel tired? she thought.

My mother's a lady though, even if that nasty Adelfrau said she wasn't. She was right to be mad and throw the teapot, Pa shouldn't have yelled and made her cry. I'm going to make her proud of me. I'm going to be so good that she likes me. She'll see -I wish . . . She loves me-she says so all the time.

Her gaze returned to the clown. Pa had given him to her. Pa gives me lots of nice things.

That was the only time Pa noticed her. Sometimes she broke things, because then he'd... see her again. He just pretended to be angry, then gave her something else, and said she'd be a fine Lord's Lady someday. That made Mother angry, though...

But she had to be careful not to break things too soon. Her eyes sharpened on the Zak clown.

Fortunate, the thought ghosted through Piatr's mind as he capered, trying to make her smile, that she's so young.

Otherwise they'd have me cut. Not that she would have tempted him, pretty as she was, even if his taste ran to children. He winced at the thought. Lady of Life, I'd rather couple with one of the DragonLords shirrush-lau.

Springing nimbly in the air, he vaulted onto his hands. His feet wove in the air, the left his own, the right a cloven hair hoof strapped onto a stump that ended a handsbreadth above the ankle. It fitted badly, chafing; not like the one the Captain hadhad made for him.

"Ah, great one," he said, deliberately exaggerating his Zak accent. Groveling in the tones of their rivals always pleased a Thane, even Thane children. Prancing, he could see the faces of the others grouped around him; the two children of the house, a cousin from a distant branch of the family, their companions, slaves. Francosz, the heir of the house, peacocking in the tunic, breeches and daggerbelt of a Thanish adult. Fourteenth birthday, Piatr thought. It bore remembering; Schotter's son would be eager to prove his manhood.

"See how I leap to my feet in joy beauty of Greatesty Lady," he burbled, the clown's makeup mixing and running on his face and lean body. "Feet? Hands?" He pretended to study them, lifting one palm, then the other, then both; fell on his face, bounced to his feet, miming panic as the goathoof flew out in an exaggerated curve and he crashed down on his backside, widening his eyes and rubbing his head with one palm.

"Awe of Greatesty Beauty turns poor Zak clumsy!" The patter and the act were wearing thin, after a year. A year since Habiku had stranded him in Staadt, leaving a debt that Thanish law would levy against any of the Zingos Teik's crew.

He picked up a handful of the gravel path stones beneath him and began to juggle them with his feet, kicking them higher and higher. "See, even stones dance for joy at chance to serve!"

The girl yawned and settled back on the bench, feeding the dog sweets. It yipped and snatched the pastries, fawning on her, snuffling through its flattened nose.

Francosz watched for a moment, then began pitching fruit rinds to break the clown's concentration.

This is boring, the young Thane thought sullenly. I shouldn't have to play with Sova any more; she's just a baby, and a girl.

Pa should remember that I'm a man now, or nearly. He flexed an arm complacently, feeling the buildup of muscle from sword practice.But Pa had told him to "go and play", as if he weren't old enough to go on the trip to Selina next season. He bit his lip.

Sometimes Pa... forgot things he'd promised. A memory forced its way into his mind: leaving Aenir'sford after his father had been convicted by the merchant's court. The household winding through the muddy streets to the docks, past faces indifferent or jeering; his mother had taken a thrown cowflop on the side of her head and had hysterics. Pa had slapped her right there in the street, and told him to get back with the children when he tried to ride beside him and help. The Thane manor-lord had put them up, but when Pa went down to dinner he'd been told by the butler that the master was not receiving that day and Pa had hit Mother again. That was all right, Pa had said she was only a woman, but I wish he wouldn't hit her, but he's my father.

Pa's enemies have been after him, all his life, Francosz thought,and smiled. Now that I'm a man, he'll have someone he can trust, not like those others that have always betrayed him, and we'll show them now. But I hope he remembers about the trip to Selina. His eyes returned to the clown and he threw another piece of fruit rind.

Piatr caught the tough skin in his mouth and chewed with noisy relish, singing nonsense songs around it. The lapdog is fed better, he thought, far better. There had been little food lately, and less sleep.

A youth spent as a wandering tumbler, years in the rigging of a riverboat, had given him wells of endurance surprising for his slight build. They were nearing exhaustion now, and he saw the gracious swaying of the garden trees through a haze; trees taller than the metal-tipped walls of the courtyard. Easy to climb, but how far could a one-footed slave in clown's motley run?

If he were lucky they would only cut off his other foot.

"You bore me, clown." Schotter's son stood by him. The boy reached out and batted the pebbles away. "As a toy, you disappoint me." His mouth puckered and he pulled at the hair that was not quite long enough to be gathered into the scalpknot of a man. "Perhaps it would be more fun to drown you in thepool."

The clown's one of those; one of the Zak that threw us out. I don't care if it was an Aeniri council, it was the Zaks fault. I'll make him pay for that.

Piatr bounced to his knees in exaggerated supplication but his breath caught. There was a vicious, curious note to the question this time, as if the boy were considering it. He was too tired to concentrate his small Gift to influence harm away from himself, too tired to do anything but talk.

"Lord, you only wish is my life. Shall I drown myself?" He paused. "But then who would my gracious Lord have to play with?" Francosz smiled, turning away. It made him feel better when the clown grovelled.

"I'll think about it," he said, and lashed out viciously with one foot. Piatr dropped flat under it, then-oh sweet Lady of Winter, the last time I didn't take one of his blows-I don't think I could stand a beating.

"Children." The mistress of the house swept through the hedge gate, followed by her tiring slave. "Come, come, dears.

Send your nasty fool away and come talk to me." Her voice was warm and honeyed but none of this reached her eyes.

Piatr bowed deeply and limped off. Perhaps he could find a few moments' sleep.

Chapter Four.

BRAHVNIKI, A THANISH MANOR JUST NORTH OF.

THE WALLS.

TENTH IRON CYCLE, FIFTH DAY, MORNING.

Schotter Valders'sen settled comfortably into the heavy horsehide chair behind his desk and let his eyes rove around the chamber he had made his office. The furniture was Thane, massive, the fumed oak frames thickly covered in carving. The cushions were bulging-tight horsehair. Cupboards on the walls bore accountbooks and a lifetime's collection of knick-knacks.Pride of place went to an elaborate curlicued beer mug with a hinged, peaked top; family legend said that the ancestors had borne it in the migration out of the west that had brought the Thanes to the banks of the Brezhan.

Like most manors along the river, his house was stone-built, centering around a courtyard and presenting blank outer walls to blizzards and summer sun alike. He scowled at the gravel paths, topiaries and flowerbanks of the garden, a legacy from the Brahvniki merchant he had bought it from; likewise native were the inner walls of whiteglaze terracotta, unornamented save for edging of indigo blue. Was that her, last night? The city is buzzing with rumours. Vhsant had disappeared and Yareslav hadn't sent word of anything else amiss at the counting house.

No. I sold the little bitch myself for Vhsant, to another slaver going to the Lannic coast, outside the Mitvald. Guaranteed. I'm worrying for nothing.

All those Zak look alike anyway. It took three discreet taps on his door to rouse him.

"Vat? " he rasped, looking up from an account for fine Yeoli stoneware. It would be higher priced once Arko moved east and tried to incorporate Yeola-e into the Empire, with its tariff policy; which was likely since the mountain peoples king, Fourth Whatever-his-name-was (he could never pronounce those slithering names, even the famous ones) was missing and presumed dead. They ought to have taken better care of someone they needed so much. More than worth the capital tied up in storage... Another knock brought him back from speculation.

"A messenger from the Benaiat, master," his counting-clerk replied, bowing.

"Two hours past sunrise?" he asked in surprise. "Hmmm, let him wait a while. Vat could that heathen pig want vid me?"

"Perhaps to congratulate you, master," the clerk said. His thin face kept its expressionless melancholy, but the Adams apple bobbed in his throat. At the merchant's puzzled look he continued: "On your safe... escape... from the Knotted Worm lastnight, master."

The clerk bowed and closed the door with a soft sighing of heavy, close-fitting wood. That was possible because sheer incomprehension froze Schotter to his chair for the time it would have taken to count thirty. Then the heavy face purpled; he rose, the chair crashing to the flags behind him, starting around the desk with his mouth opening for a roar. A roar that never came; he turned and, overly careful, righted the chair and sank into it with a thump as he realized just what last night had cost him.

Zight, he thought heavily. Face. It was a Zak word, a concept that had spread downriver with the metal trade from that ingrown city of peculiar customs. He had been gulled and terrified, and in public; the loss of zight was tremendous.

Unbearable, if a clerk of his, eating from his table, could say it to his face.

His teeth ground together audibly, remembering the blonde woman's laughter, the fingers like slender metal bars digging into his arm. He had put it from his mind; what consequence what tavern scum did? Now he realized his mistake; sweat began to gather on his forehead under the topknot of his hair, and he felt it clammy on his flanks. This was not Thane territory; his people were not liked here, particularly not since the disastrous finale of Enkar's War three years ago.

Or the Wrath of Megan Thane'sdoom, that was what the Aeniri bards were calling it. At least we-I. I-rid us of that Zak bitch, he mused with a moment's satisfaction. The defeat at Aenir'sford had been her doing, and that failure had lead directly to the abortive attack on Brahvniki.

Doubtless she was scrubbing dishes in Farakistan, hoeing beans in Nubuah this very moment, or doing something even less pleasant even further away.

He pushed the pleasant thought aside. He had no personal popularity to compensate for a loss of face like last night's.

"Zight," he sighed aloud. The tale would be all over town bynow. Outfaced by a woman; the thought was bitter as seawater on an open sore. If that tale ever reached upriver to his homeland... But first matters first; he could not operate as a merchant anywhere on the river without face. Who would take him seriously? He thought of laughter behind palms, and began to sweat anew.

Ah, but there was another Zak custom; he could challenge.

Brahvniki courts accepted the validity of challenge. Not personally, of course; not to combat. He had fought, in the wars, and against bandits as any merchant must. But... there were those Schvait mercenaries, they owed him a favour...

He had begun to smile when the second knock came. "H'rei,"

he called. "Enter." The messenger from the Benai was one of the lay brothers, a small neat man with quiet mannerisms.

"Teik Valders'sen," he said, bowing his head slightly. The Thane purpled again. The bow was only barely respectful enough between equals; any less and it would have implied greater zight to lesser. "Vra," Schotter gritted, striving to control his temper.

To show his upset would cost him greater face. "How can this humble person aid your munificent establishment?" He exaggerated his humbleness to show his displeasure.

The Vra raised a hand in a noncommital gesture. He refused to be insulted by the Thane's rudeness in not offering him a seat, not that any of the chairs in this overpowering room would be comfortable. "In a very simple way, my son. The price and papers for the agency of the Sleeping Dragon Company, have I here, with instructions to buy."

"But, but the owner..."

"On the owner's instructions, Teik."

The Thane's mouth was opening and closing like a gaffed fish, soundless. How could Habiku do this to him? "But the owner, Habiku Smoothtongue, he..."

"No, no, my son," the monk cut in. "Not the proxy, the owner, Megan Whitlock." A ghost of a smile flitted over his impassiveface. "Fleet'sbane."

Two facts rose to the surface of the Thane's mind, like dead rats in a well. Without the expected profits from the Sleeping Dragon agency, he could not meet his notes-in Brahvniki, the last major port open to him on the Brezhan. It had been Megan Whitlock in the tavern with the barbarian, and not just a drunken memory. Megan Fleet'sbane, Megan Thanes-doom. A rictus of a smile appeared on his face. Ruined, he thought. I'm ruined, unless...

"I'm sure the papers are in order, Vra." He coughed behind his hand. "My clerk will see to the details." After the Zak bitch was dead, the agency would be his again, in time to meet his debts. As the monk was shown out of the room, the Thane began to rummage in his desk. The mercenaries wouldn't know till too late that he was going to pay to have them lose zight, and kill the Zak. If they hang for murder I'll be able to say I had nothing to do with it. I'll make up my oversight in selling her, even though she did bring me a very good price along with the young Aenir and the Ungishman in that deal.

His smile, this time, was genuine. Perhaps the family should come into the city to see his triumph. Yes, his heir would learn well by example.

BRAHVNIKI.

TENTH IRON CYCLE, FIFTH DAY, LATE AFTERNOON.

A muffled thump, then another rang from under the hull and Megan crawled out from beneath the vessel in drydock, dusting herself off. "There's dry rot in some of the belly-boards," she said, and sneezed. Wood dust from the ship being built in the next slip over drifted on the breeze, powdering everything with light-brown particles. "Other than that, Teik, she's sound."

"Dry rot! Never! Almost new she is! Seized not one season gone from Rithian sea-raiders and rebuilt for Rejinka patrol!"

The shipwright leaned over and spat into the water. "Sea-god hear me if I lie."Megan grinned. "He does. Yulai, if the thing were rotten to the water line and leaking from sixteen sprung seams, you'd swear by the Sea-god's testicles that she'd been built yesterday!"

The shipwright grinned and leaned on his adze.

"You know me too well, Megan. Still, for the price this ones good... if you need an arrowboat." Which not many merchant houses did, lay unspoken between them. Most river craft were built for freight, broad and beamy and worked by sail. This hull would carry seventy oar-pullers as well as the dozen crew needed to work the rigging; a complement that size ate profit and left scant room for cargo. But it left speed and fighting strength in plenty.

Megan turned again and ran a practiced eye up the length of the ship, making a decision.

"For that, yes. Replace the boards, repaint her... she'll do. "