"No. I consider all conversations with my patient, to which I am a party or observer, to be confidential. Until I know enough to make a different judgment, I'll treat them as such." He sighed. "I'm a doctor, Quia Kennerin, not a spy."

"I could get Hoku up here to browbeat you," she said.

Ozchan smiled. "Your doctor is frightening, but I think she'd understand my position."

Quilla walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The lights of Haven winked at her . She wondered how to make him understand without letting him know too much.

"This was Tabor's room," she said, "back when the refugees came from NewHome, before we built the other wing of the house."

He left the bed and stood beside her. He smelled of leather and ozone.

"Tabor is your husband?"

"Was my father upset when Hart came in?"

Ozchan laughed and touched her shoulder. "Why don't you ask Jason yourself?"

"He won't talk to me." She moved a step away, and Ozchan put his hands on the windowsill.

"He was tense," the doctor said. "He saw Hart coming in from the pad, so he wasn't surprised. But he was tense."

"Did Hart ask you to leave the room?"

"Is Tabor your husband?"

This time Quilla laughed. "No. He'd like to be, though. He's other things. Did Hart ask you to leave the room?"

"Can we haggle sitting down? It's more comfortable."

Quilla shook her head. He remained standing beside her.

"What other things?" he asked.

Quilla looked at him.

He grimaced. "Yes, Hart asked me to leave. I told him I had to stay to monitor some sedatives. He said he'd do it for me, but I said no."

Quilla tucked her hands in her armpits and considered. "Did you have to use sedatives?"

"Tabor's the twins' father, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"I wish you'd tell me what's going on," he said, dropping his bantering tone. "Jason's having a rough time of it, and it's very hard for me to decide on the proper course of treatment if I can't find out what's going to affect him, and how." He sat at the edge of the bed, his hands between his knees.

"And I don't mean about you and Tabor, either. He either was or is your lover, he's the twins' father, he lives here, but I don't know if he lives with you.

So what? But I have to know about Hart."

She crossed her arms over her breasts and looked out the window.

"I could ask around," he said.

"It wouldn't do you any good. There are only three people on this planet who know what happened, and none of us is likely to tell you."

"Damn it, I'm your father's doctor. I'm trained to take confidences. Do you think I'm some sort of gossip? I don't even know anyone on Aerie to gossip with. Hoku said Hart left when Meya was ten. That was, what, seven years ago?

He would have been around seventeen. What could a seventeen-year-old boy do?

Get someone pregnant? From what I've seen, that wouldn't bother anyone much."

"Dr. M'Kale. I run this planet. Jason runs shipping, Mish runs interface with Althing Green, and I run Aerie. It's the way things are. I know you must be frustrated not knowing every little thing about everything, but you're going to have to get used to it. There were some problems seven years ago; that's well known. Hart left abruptly, and that's also well known. He hasn't been back until today. Because of that, and of what happened seven years ago, and my father's condition, Hart's likely to upset Jason very much.

I don't want that to happen." She moved away from the window. "Jason may be your patient, but I'm the chief on this planet, and in this house. Until my father recovers, I'll stay the chief. You'd best keep that in mind."

"Is that a threat to fire me?" he said.

She shook her head. "No. Just an effort to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"About taking what's given to you, and leaving it at that."

She went out of the room before he had a chance to reply. The hallway was dark and quiet, and she stood still for a moment, thinking.

"Quilla?"

Tev Drake stepped out of his room. He wore a long, soft robe of fur, and in his hand he held a decanter.

"I was just about to have a nightcap," he said. "Will you join me?"

She shook her head.

"It's brandy from Charlemagne," he said and waved the bottle, as though to entice her. She wondered if he had listened at the door of Ozchan's room.

"Okay," she said. "But bring it downstairs. The living room's very comfortable." She turned before he could reply, and after a moment she heard him close his door and follow her down the hall.

A friend from Kroeber, Hart had called him. Yet he seemed a good deal older than Hart, far too old to be a student, and if he were a professor, Hart would have mentioned it. She turned on the lamps in the living room and rummaged through the cupboard for two glasses. The cupboard was fronted with polished metal; she watched Drake's reflection as he came into the room, his robe billowing around his legs. Tall? Not really, he simply gave the impression of being tall. Self-assured. Long-fingered, pale-eyed. Dark blond hair arranged in many careless curls around his pale, narrow face. An impression of careless wealth, and something more, a connection which flickered in her mind, but could not be pinned down. Sensuality? Hardness?

Drake sat on the couch before the fireplace and put the brandy on the table in front of him. Quilla set the glasses beside the decanter and sat in an easy chair. Drake poured the brandy, and when he gave her a glass his fingers rested on hers for a moment. They felt cool, hard, and powdered. She pulled her hand back and sipped at the liquor.

"It's very good," she said.

Drake smiled, thin lips taut against his teeth. "I made up my mind quite a while back that it's no use having anything that's not the best. Why bother, otherwise?"

"The best tends to be the most expensive."

"That's not a worry of mine." His fingers curved around the glass.

Large ring with a pale stone. Something in the stone seemed to move.

"No?"

"I spend most of my time looking for good things, and when I find them, I take them."

"Is that how you met Hart? By looking for the good things?"

Drake gestured. "Almost. I met your brother in a chip store. He had the last copy of a vidchip I wanted, and he argued me out of it so successfully that I bought him a drink. I'm not used to arguing for the things I want, and I'm not used to losing. Your brother was a refreshing novelty."

"You must have many friends," Quilla murmured.

"Friendship is not essential." He smiled again. "Your brother is my friend, I think that's sufficient. When he said he wanted to come home for a visit, I paid our ways. I enjoy doing things for my friends."

Quilla smiled without warmth. Hart had stopped writing to them for money about three years ago, and they had assumed that he'd been granted a scholarship or had found work. He wouldn't say. Was this another thing that Drake did for his friends?

"Two fares from Kroeber comes to quite a lot," Quilla said.

"Nothing, really. I was curious about Hart's family. He told me that his older sister was intelligent, but he didn't tell me that she was also beautiful."

Quilla gave him a long, cold look. "I'm not fond of sarcasm," she said.

Drake looked bewildered and spread his hands. Mim came into the room.

She looked at them and drew her eyebrows together.

"Turn the lights off when you're finished," she said.

"Of course," Drake said.

Mim gave him a look of suspicious disapproval and went out, closing the door behind her.

"Your servants are eccentric," he said.

"Mim's not a servant," Quilla said. "Hart's visit was unexpected."

"I thought we'd talked enough of your brother," Drake said. He leaned toward her, cradling the brandy glass in his palms. "I'd much rather talk about you."

"I wouldn't," Quilla said. "Are you a student, too?"

Drake sat back and laughed. Small music. "Oh, no, just bored. I've been taking a few courses, dabbling -- just to pass the time, really."

"And you came here for the same reason?"

"My dear, you needn't be so prickly. I came because Hart wanted to come, and to satisfy my curiosity. Hart is an interesting and complex man. I thought it would be fascinating to see what made him what he is, and how, and why. Origins are a hobby of mine."

"I hope you find some, then," she said. She put her glass down and stood.

"I think you ought to make an effort not to dislike me," Drake said, also rising. "There is more between us than your brother."

Quilla pulled the door open halfway and stopped. Drake stood watching her.

"Tev Drake," she said. "Of Albion-Drake. You own the company that buys our 'Zimania' sap."

Drake smiled, showing teeth. "You begin to understand," he said. "Good night, my dear."

Quilla gritted her teeth and went into the hallway. She heard the tinkle of glass on glass as Drake poured himself another brandy, and she went up the stairs. No use being angry. It's probably what he wanted. All these off-worlders arrive and, the next thing you know, it's the Courts of Althing Green, sniping and suggestions and spying and playing at word games. She glanced out the stairwell window. Both moons had set, and The Spiral hung low in the sky. Well past tien'al, and she had to be up at dawn. The house was dark and quiet, and the wooden boards creaked under her feet. She walked past Jason's room into the new wing and opened the door of the children's bedroom.

There were three forms in the bed -- she came closer. Meya lay between the twins, all of them curled around each other in a complication of arms and legs. Quilla frowned and straightened the covers. Jared said something grumpy in his sleep and put his face against Meya's shoulder.

Tabor, too, was asleep, sprawled diagonally across the bed. Quilla stripped and dropped her clothes in a pile on the floor, then slid between the covers and prodded him. He moved over and put his arms around her.

"Why so late?" he murmured.

"It's all right. Go to sleep We'll talk about it in the morning."

He made a noise of agreement and fell asleep again. She put her arm around his waist and her head against his neck. After staring into the darkness for a while, she slept.

"Jason? Father? Are you awake?"

Moonlight coming through the window lay in a square around Jason's head; his face was turned from the light and he breathed evenly. Hart touched his shoulder, then his cheek. Jason did not respond.

A small lamp sat on the table by the bed. Hart lit it and, in its wavering glow, studied the monitors and their controls. He turned a knob fractionally, then again. Jason muttered.

"Jason. Wake up."

Jason opened his eyes. They looked black in the dim light, until he turned his head toward the lamp; then they gleamed intensely blue.

"Dawn?" he said.

"No. Past midnight. I wanted to talk with you." Hart sat at the edge of the bed and took Jason's limp hand. "It's hard talking when there are other people around."

"Hard talking," Jason said. His face came more fully awake, and he watched Hart without expression.

"Is it the pain? Or the drugs?"

"Both." Jason pushed himself up on his good arm, and Hart rearranged the pillows so that he lay in them, half-sitting. "Why'd you come back?" Jason said.

"I heard about you. Wanted to see you again."

"Before it was too late?"

Hart shrugged, then smiled. "I guess I'm not too welcome here."

Jason looked down. "Long time back. You never came. Only wrote for money. Like you didn't want to be around us. Didn't want us around."

"For a while I didn't -- for about two or three years. I was angry. I thought you all hated me. I think some people still do."