Hazel was all right. A surge of relief swept through her. When that girl had left wherever Hazel was, to go to maternity-or was Hazel in maternity? Brun shook her head; she could not keep track of time. It was hot, or it was cold, daylight or dark; that was all she knew. But Hazel was all right, less time ago than Brun knew for sure. If only she knew where.

Several days passed before the girl sat down beside her again to nurse her baby.

"They call her Patience now," the girl said. "It's a good name for her 'cause she never makes trouble. She's real quiet and works hard. Prima says they'll be able to marry her as a third wife for sure, maybe even a second, even though she can't sew good. They been trainin' her for market girl, and she goes there by herself now." A wistful note in that soft voice-had this girl wanted to go to market? By now Brun was sure the girl was retarded; no one would let her go out alone for other reasons than the restrictions on women. "But she doesn't have your yellow hair," the girl said, staring at it with frank admiration. "And she won't talk about the stars, 'cause Prima said not to."

Brun could have strangled her, for having a voice and not saying what Brun really needed to know.

She picked up a twin and removed from his mouth the pebble he'd put there. She could not feel any affection for them, but she wasn't about to let a child-any child-choke to death.

"She don't look big enough to have babies, though," the girl said, petting her own child. "And her blood's not regular yet. The master says-"

"Hush, you!" One of the women in charge came by and tapped the girl on the head. "You're not here to gossip about what your master says. You want your tongue pulled?"

The girl's mouth snapped shut, and she clambered out of the chair, holding her baby to her.

The woman shook her head at Brun. "She's simple, she is. Can't remember from day to day what the rules are, poor thing. We have to keep an eye on her, so's she doesn't get herself in trouble. If she gets in the habit of talking about her master here, even to you, she might do it back at her house and then they'd have to punish her. Best nip it in the bud." She patted Brun's head, almost affectionately. "That is pretty hair, though. Might win you a chance at wifing, when you've borne your three. Just you give me a nod, if the girl starts talking about men's doings again, like a good girl, eh?" Brun nodded. As long as they'd let the girl talk to her.

The girl avoided Brun for days. But late one evening, she slipped into Brun's room.

"She don't scare me," she said, clearly untruthfully. "I'm from Ranger Bowie's house; he's the only one can mute me. They can't. And he wouldn't, long as I don't argue or nothing. Telling you about Patience isn't arguing. It's explaining. Explaining is fine as long as it's not men."

Brun smiled, a smile that seemed to crack her face. How long had it been since she last smiled?

"I wish they hadn't muted you," the girl said. "I'd sure like to know what it's like out there . .

. Patience, she won't tell me about it." She stopped, listening, then crept closer. "I wisht I had your hair," she said, and put out a hand to stroke it. Then she turned and vanished into the dark corridor.

Brun traced what she'd heard on the wall, fixing it in her mind, as she once would have repeated it aloud. Ranger Bowie. What an odd name. She didn't remember the men using any name like that on the ship . . . had they even called each other by name?

The nondescript man in the checked shirt bellied up to the bar and ordered. Beside him, two men were talking about the Captain's choice of policy.

"Well, we're free men but I don't see any call to stomp in an ant bed. It's my right, but I'm not stupid enough-"

"You're calling the Captain stupid?"

"I'm saying that taking outlander women for our own needs is one thing, but taking that one-and then bragging about it-is just asking for trouble."

"It proves we're strong." That speaker turned to the man in the checked shirt. "And what's your opinion, brother?"

He smiled. "I heard she had yellow hair."

The first speaker snorted. "Everbody knows that. They're hoping she'll put her hair on her babes."

Someone down the bar leaned forward. "You talkin' about that gal from space? The yellow-haired slut? She had twins, did you hear? One redhead, one dark. Odds on, they're double-fathered."

"No!" The man in the checked shirt widened his eyes, the perfect picture of a country bumpkin in for one of the festivals.

"I'd bet on it. She won't be out for another two months, though. They say the twins need her milk longer, being smaller."

"Ah. I'd hoped."

The other men looked at each other, sly grins twitching their mouths. This one probably had only one wife, and her homely as a tree.

"Well, who wouldn't? Don't get that many blondes, do we? Put your name on the list, is all I can say. They're showing her now, if you want to see if it's worth the tax."

"Before I put down on the list, believe I will."

"Crockett Street Nursery, then."

He was not the only one who wanted to see the outworlder blonde mute, who had birthed twins.

They'd been confirmed fraternal and double-fathered, which meant she might throw twins again. A woman who could drop two eggs at a time was even more desirable. He took his number, and when it was called pushed into the room with the others in that group.

At first he wasn't sure. He had been shown pictures-moving and still-of Brun in childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. Closeups, distance shots, everything. He had thought nothing could

disguise her. But the yellow-haired woman before him was not the same Brun-if it was Brun at all.

Her slender strength was reshaped now-her body blurred and broadened with the children she'd carried, her breasts heavy with milk. She stood heavily, arms hanging by her sides. Her yellow hair was long, lank, nothing like the lively tousled curls in the pictures. Her blue eyes were duller, almost gray. But his practiced eye noted what was not concealed . . . the bone structure of her face, her shoulders, the exact shape of her fingers and toes. This had to be the woman he sought. He looked for the RE tattoo, but the short wrap such women were allowed during a showing covered the area where it might have been.

Two guards stood with her, their staves held to prevent the men from touching her.

"Devil's own," one of the men near him muttered.

"Satan's snare," said another. "Good thing they muted her."

"Yup. But the babies look strong." The babies were on display as well, naked cherubs in a playpen.

They grinned toothlessly at the watching men.

"Not worth it to me," said a black-haired man, and spat on the floor. "I'm not risking my soul for that." He pushed past the others and walked out.

Another laughed. "There speaks a man without the tax. She was just as wicked afore he looked at her."

"And it's our duty to convert the heathen," said another. "I reckon another couple of birthings'll convert her."

"What-you'll bid for her wifing?"

"Might do. Might do worse."

"Might do better . . ." They chatted on. Brun stared past them. Why didn't she lower her gaze, he wondered, the way the other women did. Then he knew why . . . she was neither virgin nor wife, and the worst had happened already. What could they do to her now? He shivered, and the man next to him glanced over.

"What is it, brother?"

"Nothing."

Hazel's duties as a servant required her to go into the street each day with the garbage. When she had demonstrated that she would perform this task exactly as directed, looking neither to right nor left, even when unaccompanied, Prima decided to try her out as a market girl. She was still clumsy in her sewing; she would be more marketable for other skills. As near as she could tell, from what she dared let the girl tell her about the abominable behavior of those outworld heathens, the girl had been among merchants and traders all her life.

So, first in the company of Mellowtongue, Hazel went to the market to carry home those items which the garden did not produce. She was required to look at the ground two paces before her, and carry the basket at waist height, and speak to no one, not even if spoken to. Mellowtongue answered those inquiries which must be answered. Hazel performed exactly as ordered, on that and all the trips that followed.

The first time she was sent out alone, for just one item, she was watched, from a distance, by one of the other servant women, one too senior to be a market girl, but reliable in her gossip. She went directly to the correct stall, waited with head down until the stallkeeper called her house name, and held out the basket and payment without looking up. She was sent again, and then again, and then-in company with the head cook-learned to haggle respectfully with the stallkeepers.