Stealers` Sky

WEB WEAVERS by Lynn Abbey

Sanctuary had been quiet since Theron's loyalists pulled out. A hundred people, certainly no more than two hundred, had straggled through the new gates to begin the long journey back to Ranke. The ordinary citizen of Sanctuary didn't miss a single one of them. The ordinary citizen of Sanctuary hadn't yet guessed that the city had been cut adrift, to sink or swim on its own strengths. Men and women who had spent their lives complaining about the Empire scarcely noticed it was gone.

For the undermanned garrison, the calm was a blessing. They desperately needed time to reorganize, to recruit new men, to train them, and to test their informant networks in the absence of the Stepsons, the 3rd, and the Mageguild Hazards. A week passed, and another. A storm rolled in from the sea. It rained for three days running, and when the skies cleared, the towering yellow-grey clouds above desert had collapsed. Farmers came to the temples with their thanksgiving offerings.

Walegrin had been brevetted to full commander of the garrison in Critias's stead. It came as a surprise to him. He expected that dubious honor to fall on Zaibar's shoulders. Zaibar hadn't taken a drink in over a year, and he was much more familiar with the corridors of power than a shag-officer like Walegrin, who had spent his life on duty in one imperial backwater post after another. Walegrin was no happier about spending his days in an airless room hearing reports and giving orders than Critias had been. Whenever the opportunity arose, he assigned himself to a street patrol.

An opportunity arose when the square sails of a Beysib merchanter were sighted beyond the arms of the harbor.

Sanctuary's harbor was its hope for a prosperous future. Some ancient, forgotten god had amused himself (or, perhaps, herself) removing great bites of continental rock. The anchorage was deep and calm within the tricky rip-current that carried away the Red and White Foal sediments on every tide. Since the days of the Ilsigi settlers, seafaring men had shaken their heads: such a beautiful anchorage, and no good reason to use it.

Then Shupansea and her fellow exiles began tortuous, ongoing negotiations with their enemies back in what they called the Glorious Home. Progress was slow, all could not be forgiven, but-if the exiles longed for the luxuries of their past-a merchant or two could supply them-

The local merchants scented a fortune or two in the crates and coffers piled on the wharf for the staring Beysib clientele. They desperately wanted to want what the fish merchants were selling, but trade was proving difficult to establish. To mainland eyes, Beysib wares were strange, not intriguing; weird rather than exotic. Fortunately the urge to bargain transcended cultural, linguistic, and monetary boundaries. Each successive Beysib merchant vessel carried more cargo for the mainlanders to examine; each vessel was greeted by more mainland merchants.

They were lined up along the wharf before the Beysib ship cleared the offshore current. A sharp-witted merchant hoped to make a fortune before noon. Walegrin and Thrusher mingled with the noisy throng to make sure those fortunes were honest-merchant honest.

The Beysib ship came into the harbor with her galley oars shipped and her rust-colored sails stretched tight. She rode low in the water, but her lines showed speed despite her heavy holds and metal-clad bow. A catapult rose from her stem; she'd bum the sails of anything foolhardy enough to chase her. The exiles insisted that the ship, and her sisters, were their homeland's cargo vessels-lumbering relations of their warships. It might be that the fish-folk were lying through their staring eyes, but no Sanctuary sailor felt the urge to challenge them.

"Pirates each and every one of them. Barbarians," Thrusher muttered as Beysib sailors swarmed over the rigging as the ship drew alongside the wharf. "They think we're animals," Thrush continued. "They think we've got no souls because we don't have fish eyes like them. Don't think they've made a square deal with us since their first ship put in here. Stealin' us blind is what they're doing. I'll bet they're selling us garbage."

Walegrin grunted noncommittally; he wouldn't take his friend's bet. For all that he'd been bom a thrall, Thrusher was a snob. As far as the commander could tell, the Beysib were getting insect egg cases, uncured pelts, and barrels of swamp beer for such goods as caught a mainland eye. The Beysib might be selling garbage-Walegrin couldn't be surethe Sanctuary merchants definitely were.

The two soldiers broke up a fistfight between Beysib sailors and Sanctuary laborers. They fished a careless merchant out of the harbor. A redhaired Ilbarsi offered them a bribe of pickled passion fruit. A Rankan offered them pearls if they'd guard a certain triple-locked chest against all comers. They took the fruit, and took the Rankan to the palace lockup for stealing. The carnival was still going strong when they returned to the wharf.

A woman with a donkey cart blocked their way. The wharf could support a three-horse dray, but there were drainage gaps between the diagonally laid planks. The donkey was sweating in its harness; the woman was pulling the donkey; and the wheels were wedged into the gaps.

Walegrin nudged Thrusher. The woman had to be new in town. Only a stranger would lead the donkey along the wharf rather than across it, much less own a cart that could get both wheels stuck.

'"I don't understand it," the woman explained as the two men made a barrier between her and the unamused crowd. She was almost as frantic as the donkey.

"We'll get you out of here," Walegrin muttered. He took the woman's shawl and wrapped it over the donkey's eyes. Donkeys were smarter than horses, but not by much. "Never done this before, have you?"

"Why, no ... When the other ships came in, my brother-in-law was home ..."

Walegrin walked away to exchange places with Thrusher. He got a firm grip on the single axle, then nodded his head, lifted, and scuttled sideways as Thrush got the donkey moving.

"No! No! Not that way. I've got to get out to where they're unloading."

The two men exchanged an evening's conversation in a glance. The cart settled back onto its axle, free now, but still blocking traffic.

"The length of an axle is set by the prince's decree," Walegrin recited to the woman, who was, by then, in tears. "It's matched to the width of these planks and the width of the gap between them." He handed the shawl back to her. "This cart gets stuck out there and I'll have to impound it. I'll have to take it to the palace and it'll go to firewood unless you pay a fine of two soldats."

The woman's tears ceased; she turned pale enough to frighten the commander, There was no fine for women fainting on the wharf, but he had no desire to have his arms full of drooping femininity. To his immense relief she squared her shoulders and started breathing normally again.

"Is it permitted to tie a cart here-by the cobblestones?"

Walegrin nodded.

"Then I shall carry my goods myself. I cannot risk my brother-in-law's cart. I do not have two soldats."

It was the second time she'd referred to her brother-in-law, and both times she seemed to shrink as she uttered the words. She hadn't mentioned a father or a son, nor a brother or husband; not even a sister's husband. Walegrin looked at her with the beginnings of sympathy. Slaves had more rights than a childless widow cut off from her blood family. "I don't make the laws, goodwife," he said, taking another step toward her.

"I'll carry your goods back here for you."

For a moment it seemed she had been too broken by her misfortunes to take advantage of Walegrin's offer- Her eyes widened; they were blue. It was possible that, if she were not so thin and anxious, she'd be a handsome woman. It was hard to tell, and the commander was about to turn away when she made up her mind to accept his offer..

Since the Beysib traders and their mainland counterparts did not share a spoken language, bargaining was done with gestures. Factotums recorded the transaction in the appropriate languages on parchment, which was then torn and divided among the principals. In theory, there was no need for shouting, but the clamor along the wharf was guaranteed to give all but the deaf a headache.

Chests and bales were still coming off the ship, to be opened on the first empty patch of wharf the merchant encountered. There was no such thing as a clear path and the indigenous criminals were having a field day. Walegrin spotted a light-fingered youth in the act of lifting a sizable purse. Their eyes met, and the thief kept lifting. A half-dozen overflowing chest separated the law from the lawbreaker, and even if they hadn't, Walegrin had all he could do to keep up with the woman.

She strode past more gimcrack and gewgaw dealers than Walegrin cared to count. Personally, he saw nothing that would tempt him to crack his next egg. But he was a soldier; women were supposed to be different.

There was a hierarchy in the disorder. The frivolities which the fish judged most likely to please the natives were crammed together at the landward end of the wharf. The consignment goods destined for the exiles were more carefully displayed closer to the ship. Midway between them three silk sellers displayed bolts of cloth and finished garments.

Silk had been known since the Ilsigi Kingdom. Mainland silks were thick and brittle compared to the fiber the Beysib Empire produced in vast quantities. They took dye poorly and, in any event, not even the Ilsigi alchemists had conjured colors like those the Beysib set in their silks. They shimmered in the sunlight; any fool could see Beysib silks were worth their weight in gold.

Walegrin was not, therefore, surprised when the woman stopped to examine them, although how she thought she could buy silk when she was scared witless by a two-soldat fine was a question he couldn't answer. Why she would buy it was another puzzling question. For all its beauty, Beysib silk was not selling well in Sanctuary. It came in two equally impractical varieties: gossamer sheer that snagged and tore on a whisper and damasked over a horsehair foundation so stiff that the cloth supported itself.

Perhaps in the Beysib Empire, where it was both cool and dry the year around, such cloth could be made into wearable garments. In Sanctuary, a person could be noticed in Beysib silk, but never comfortable. It was comfort, more than any sense of propriety, that drew Shupansea and the other Beysib women out of their bare-breasted costumes and into traditional Rankene gowns.

The woman studied each length of fabric. She twisted it, and tugged it, and got down on her knees to examine the underside. The merchants began to get hopeful, then she started walking again.

"What are you looking for?" Walegrin protested as his companion neared the expensive end of the wharf. "It's not going to get any cheaper."

She looked at him as if he'd grown another head. *T haven't seen what I need," she announced, and kept moving.

Walegrin tossed a round-bottom jug back to its owner and scurried to catch up with her. They approached the stem gangplank. Beysibs were buying from Beysibs, wailing in their peculiar language over merchandise only a fish could find attractive. The woman was moving slower now. She stopped beside a greasy man hawking ceramic snakes and indicated that she wished to bargain.

The Beysib was almost as confused as the commander. The woman slashed her hand and shook her head as he lifted one garish reptile after another out of its case. Walegrin had a very crude understanding of the Beysin language, but if he had any hope of getting off the wharf before midday, he was going to have to intervene.

He confined the woman's gesturing hands in his own. "The man's shown you everything he's got. You keep pointing at empty boxes, and he keeps telling you that there's nothing in them to sell."

"You understand him ... ? Then, tell him I want to buy the dross."

"The what?"

"The dross ... Dross-the packing around his wretched statues!"

"Dross?"

Walegrin shook his head. He knew several fish words for garbage, a few of which would likely turn the merchant's bald scalp a brilliant shade of red. He knew the fish word for purchase-if buying a woman's time at a brothel was the same as buying something from a merchant. He opened his eyes as wide as he could and started talking. If his luck ran true to form he was about to create a scandal.

The merchant roared with laughter. He slapped his naked belly and turned the crimson color Walegrin had so hoped not to see. His eyes bugged out. "You joking."

Walegrin swallowed hard and, adding more gestures than he'd used the first time, tried again. He got the feeling that the greasy fish understood him well enough and that the third and fourth tries were simply for the amusement of the other Beysib who'd wandered over to watch the barbarian make a fool of himself.

The ceramics seller guessed that the game had gone on as long as it could. The gales of laughter ceased; he flashed his fingers twice and muttered koppit, which had become the generally accepted name for any of Sanctuary's myriad copper coins.

"Twenty copper bits," Walegrin told the woman.

"Now explain to him that I will pay him forty when he comes back next time, but that I can't pay him anything now,"

This time it took no effort at all for Walegrin to show whites all around his green eyes. "Lady, you must be out of your mind."

She was stung by his sarcasm, but clung to her dignity. "I am a weaver. When I have finished with his dross it will be worth a hundred times his twenty copper bits."

Walegrin dug into the pouch at his hip. "Fine. You can owe me. I'm not going to make a monkey out of myself telling your lunacy to this fish."

Irregular copper disks rained into the merchant's hands. He poured them into his coin coffer, then demanded a silver coin for the box the dross was in. Walegrin threw the coin so hard it bounced, and disappeared between the planks into the harbor. The fish revealed his painted teeth. Walegrin was more careful with the second coin. Walegrin picked up the box carefully; it would have cost another five coppers for rope to bind it shut.

"They throw this stuff into the harbor at the end of the day," the commander complained. "It's garbage. You've paid halfasoldat for garbage you could have fished out of the water tomorrow morning."

She would have preferred to whisper; she would have preferred not to reply at all, but he was her partner now and she felt she owed him an answer. "I know that, but once the salt water touches the dross, it's ruined."

"Lady-"

"Theudebourga. My name is Theudebourga."

Walegrin scowled. "Lady, how can you ruin garbage?"

Theudebourga proceeded to tell him. The wharf was still crowded; they had to go slowly. By the time they had returned to the cart Walegrin knew more about the pernicious effects ofseawater on garbage than he'd wanted to know. Thrusher took one look at the pair of them and instinctively knew to ask no questions until after the box was loaded and the woman on her way.

"The Vulgar Unicorn's probably serving by now," the hawk-faced man suggested. "You look like you could use something to take the taste from your mouth."

The commander allowed himself to be led from the wharf in silence. The Vulgar Unicorn was open, but it was undergoing one of its infrequent cleanings. The shutters and doors were wide open, the common room was awash with sunlight, and workmen were busily repairing a month of damage. The two soldiers kept going until they found themselves beyond the Maze.

Once the Shambles had been as rough a neighborhood as the Maze, though without the Maze's perverse reputation. Later it had swarmed with the dead, the half-dead, and the other assorted leftovers of Sanctuary's magic troubles. Now it was the quarter where newcomers made their homes in abandoned buildings. It was factious enough that the soldiers knew it as well as they knew the Maze, but there were also signs of prosperity. Well-fed children in carefully mended clothes played games beside their mothers, who created gardens wherever sunlight touched the ground.

Not all these diligent women were from way beyond Sanctuary's newly painted walls. Some had been widowed in the years of chaos, some had seized their opportunity and exchanged the Promise of Heaven or the Street of Red Lanterns for ordinary domesticity. Walegrin knew most of them by name, and a few of them much better, but it was understood these days in Sanctuary that you didn't talk about the past without invitation.

The Tinker's Knob was typical of Shambles taverns: salvaged from the wreckage, it had a lingering charred odor, and a cellar no one cared to enter after sundown. Its sole claim to fame, and the inspiration for its name, came from a hammered plaque depicting the exploits of a singularly well endowed tinker.

Walegrin looked right past it.

"Want to talk?" Thrusher asked, pushing a wooden mug across the table.

The commander shook his head, but the skeleton of the story rose out of him. "What's happening to this place?" he asked rhetorically. "An honest soldier helps a foolish woman buy garbage from a merchant whose ancestors were snakes and fish."

Thrusher shook his head. "You could've left when the orders came. You could still leave," he stated the obvious.

Walegrin drained his mug and poured another from the pitcher. He hadn't seriously considered throwing his lot in with the Stepsons when they left. In three years he could convert his officer's commission into a tidy pile of gold and enough land to support a handful of heirs. All his adult life he'd been planning for that conversion. Yet he stayed in Sanctuary where there was no guarantee the Torch or the prince would acknowledge the years he'd spent in the Empire's service.

"Damn your eyes-this is my porking home!" He slammed the mug against the table somewhat more forcefully than he'd'intended. The entire room went wary. Thrusher sat back in his chair, taking careful measure of his commander between cautious sips of ale.

There was no doubt the last few years had aged Walegrin. Gods knew, those years aged everyone they hadn't killed. Age had softened the angles of the commander's face, giving it the semblance of wisdom without compromising its strength. He was a good deal calmer than he'd been before leading his men back to the city of his birth with the secret of Enlibar steel almost five years ago.

Thrusher reckoned he might head north to the capital himself if the haunted, self-cursed Walegrin reappeared-and with that reckoning, the lieutenant got a handle on his friend's problem.

"Women, eh? The woman on the wharf?"

Walegrin grunted and spun his mug between his fingers. He preferred not to talk about women. His father had been killed because of a woman -killed and thoroughly cursed. Walegrin wasn't certain that he'd inherited the curse; his half-sister, Illyra, said he hadn't. But even S'danzo Sight couldn't say for certain where ordinary bad luck left off and a curse began.

For Walegrin, the dividing line between luck and curse ran straight through Chenaya Vigeles. Chenaya was the sort of woman a poor man dreams about: beautiful and wealthy, sensual and wealthy, eager and wealthy. When Molin Torchholder said the palace needed eyes and ears at the sprawling Vigeles estate, Walegrin volunteered. Even then Chenaya had a reputation that would have given a wiser man pause. And that led to the question: Was it bad luck or stupidity that catalyzed a curse?

Chenaya took a fancy to him, much as a breeder fancies a particular bull or stallion at the stalls. She'd taken him to her bedroom and given him experiences he could never afford on the Street of Red Lanterns. For a week, maybe two, but certainly no more than a month, Walegnn dwelt in heaven. Then Chenaya figured out just whom her lover worked for. Molin Torchholder's distrust of his niece was a paltry thing compared to Chenaya's hatred of her uncle. A lesser woman might have killed him while he lay defenseless in her bed, but not Chenaya.

The battle lines were drawn and Walegnn of the garrison was both weapon and battlefield. When Chenaya was finally driven from the cityno thanks to the Torch-Walegrin forswore the company of women. He'd need to take a wife when he converted his commission, but a wife was not necessarily the same as a woman. She's back.

The word came a month ago, in the midst of the awkward investigation into the midnight assassination of the Torch's estranged wife and Chenaya's father.

Be my eyes, my ears, again.

This time Walegrin risked his carefully nurtured patronage with Sanctuary's most powerful bureaucrat. She'll kill me, he'd argued, which, though true, wasn't the real reason he feared Land's End. He knew he wouldn't mind dying if she took him upstairs first. The Torch hadn't pressed the issue, and Chenaya had yet to cross Walegrin's path, but the commander couldn't talk to a woman without thinking about Chenaya. He was as jumpy as a cat on a griddle.

Thrusher knew about Chenaya. There wasn't a man in Sanctuary who didn't know something about the legendary Chenaya. Thrusher even knew about Walegrin and Chenaya. He'd asked for details at the beginning, and, after receiving a florid description of experiences he would never know himself, lost interest. He didn't know how Chenaya haunted Walegrin's idle thoughts; he couldn't imagine confounding Chenaya with a timid, scrawny weaver.

They finished the pitcher and returned to their patrolling. Their camaraderie was broken for the moment. The afternoon was an endless succession of circuits along the wharf and past the customs and storage houses. The big black ship had pulled in all but one of its hoists. The fish merchants were up at the palace making private transactions, but in general the fish stayed to themselves. Cross-culture brawls were the exception rather than the rule.

The big black ship might stay in the harbor a week or more, but after the first day few paid any attention to it. Walegrin returned to a commander's duties. Once a day he went over to the caravan gate to inspect whomever the other officers might have recruited. Walegrin pointed out that the recruit would receive the same wages as a soldier in the Rankan army-five soldats a month, less expenses-but he never said the recruit was, joining the Rankan army. Business wasn't brisk, but the ranks were starting to fill. The third watch, formerly made up largely of Zip and his semi-feral commandos, was reinstituted. The two existing watches were reorganized. Thrusher went to the new unit and Walegrin found himself training a wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant named Wedemir.

Wedemir was short and dark, like Thrusher, but with a round face and flat forehead that fairly shouted Wriggly. He gave his age as twenty-two, the same age Walegrin was when he jumped from soldier to officer. Walegrin judged that the man was young for his years. At the very least Wedemir wasn't burdened with the shield of distrust that Walegrin had carried through his teens and twenties. There was no faulting Wedemir's record. He'd been on the barricades through the worst of the anarchy and seen things, no doubt, that he'd never told his dose-knit family.

"My father's Lalo, the artist," the boy said defensively as he and Walegrin left the barracks on a get-acquainted patrol.

Walegrin grunted. Wedemir's mother was Gilla. His younger brother died in the False Plague Riots and his sister waited on the fish in the palace. Walegrin knew all that and more from the Torch's dossiers. For the moment, the commander was more interested in the movements of a woman coming from the Justice Hall toward the West Gate. He led Wedemir, still prattling about his family, toward the practice ground where Thrusher was explaining the difference between right and left to the newest recruits.

"I don't think they were ever very happy about me joining. Not that they'd ever say anything outright ... Well, my mother wouid, but not my father ..."

The woman turned. Walegrin caught a glimpse of her profile before Thrush's recruits came between them, not long enough to be sure if the woman was Chenaya or not. Probably not. Chenaya had little cause to come to the palace, and when she did she was usually dressed for war.

"Something wrong, Commander?" Wedemir asked.

Walegnn snapped to attention. He hadn't realized how much time he spent absorbed in his own thoughts until Wedemir had been glued to his side. Thrusher knew how to be invisible; Wedemir didn't. It wasn't the young man's fault, but it kept both of them from relaxing.

"Wait here, I want to get something from the tower room."

"Can't I get it for you?"

"Gods below, you're not my servant, you're an officer in the R-" Walegrin caught the untimely word on the tip of his tongue. Just that morning the prince had proclaimed a reduction in the hearth tax without once mentioning Ranke or the Emperor. Whatever they were officers of, it wasn't the Rankan army anymore. "Just slay here!"

Wedemir froze on the spot. Walegrin took the tower steps two at a time. What he wanted was another glimpse of that golden hair to tell him which way not to go with Wedemir. He leaned out over the railing. The men on duty looked with him and at him. The commander spotted his quarry arguing with a water seller. The angle was still bad; he couldn't see her face.

"What're you looking for?" one of the soldiers asked.

Walegrin gripped the rail with both hands and thought fast. "I was looking to see if there were crowds gathering anywhere. Problems. Disorderlies. Don't want to bore my new lieutenant."

"It's as quiet as a clam," the second soldier confirmed, still scanning from street to street. "Just the way you like it."

"But there's been complaints coming in all day from the Uptown. Something died, from the sound ... er, smelt of things. Nothing serious, though, an' it's not going anywhere so I haven't sent anyone," the first soldier added.

"Something died?" the commander asked.

"We had at least four people come down here since dawn to say that they can't stand the smell. We got nothing more than that. Nobody's seen what died, they just say it smells worse than the charnel house going fulltilt."

The golden-haired woman headed west. Uptown was east.

"We'll check it out."

Walegrin would have gone Uptown regardless of the gold-haired woman. The soldiers in the tower had been recruited from the men who came to Sanctuary to work on Molin's walls. To them, Uptown was just another quarter.

Wedemir's face tightened when Walegrin joined the words died and Uptown in the same sentence. Refiexively, the young man checked his weapons; just as reflexively, the fingers of his right hand made an Ilsigi wardsign. The commander didn't blame him, though he had no personal faith in gestures or amulets.

They went through the gate at a twenty-league pace. Urgency radiated from them, and the few people on the streets scuttled under the eaves to let them pass. The stench rose like a wall across Safe Haven.

"What died?" Wedemir asked, for although the odor was unlike anything in his experience it was profoundly organic and decayed.

Walegrin shrugged and adjusted his headband. Safe Haven was empty, all the windows were tightly shuttered. The commander could follow his nose, or he could trust his instincts. He chose his instincts and left the street for an alley and a flight of worn, stone steps. Wedemir was right behind him. Anyone who lived through that night would never forget this path.

They emerged in a burnt-out courtyard. The Peres house looked pretty much as it had since it burnt. Storms had tumbled a few more of the beams and a skeletal tree, but no one scavenged here for wood or charcoal. After the False Plague Riots there'd been a dozen burnt-out quarters; now only Peres remained. And would remain at least so long as anyone remembered.

A pillar of fire had surrounded the Peres house that night. It reached from the depths of hell to the heights of heaven. It illuminated a war between gods and demons, if not good and evil. Magic fueled it, and when it collapsed all magic was gone from Sanctuary. No one came straight out and said the Peres quarter was cursed,.or blessed, by what happened, but it was shunned.

The stench hovered over the ruins, neither stronger nor weaker than it had been on Safe Haven. Walegrin held his breath. He reached into his memory for the tricks of perception every soldier had been forced to learn when magic was rampant- He knelt down and squinted.

Scraggly weeds and nettles with nasty, velvet leaves grew in the ashes, just as a feral sort of magic was creeping back into Sanctuary. Beneath the notice of reputable farmers, or mages, but good enough for the desperate. And not the source of the death stench.

Wedemir hunkered down beside his commander. "Should we have the priests come and burn it off?"

"Probably." Walegrin got to his feet. "Looks harmless enough to me, but what do I know about these things, eh?"

Wedemir was wisely silent. "The other place?" he asked after a moment.

Heavy vines grew across the windows and doors of the home of the missing and presumed dead Tasfalen Lancothis. They reminded everyone who passed that this was a place not to be tampered with. The Peres quarter was where magic died; the Lancothis quarter was where it lingered. There had always been ghosts in Sanctuary. The problem with Lancothis was not that it was haunted, but that it leaked.

Unpleasant faces appeared in the windows of Lancothis. Strange sounds oozed through its crumbling plaster. Flashes of light in colors the mind cared not to remember shot through the holes in its roof. Rumors said the house wasn't haunted; it was a prison for whatever had lost the fight over at Peres. The priests of Us and Savankala professed not to know the truth. Those who did know hid that knowledge carefully.

"What's that?" Walegrin pointed to a second-story window where a tattered curtain waved in the harbor breeze. The vines around the window were broken. Withered leaves rustled in the breeze.

Walegrin frowned. He'd noticed the rupture right off, and hoped his new lieutenant was less observant. He'd sooner go to hell than into Lancothis. Someone would have to find out what had happened, but not him-not this afternoon-because whatever had happened here, it didn't stink. The breeze was clear and lightly scented with honeysuckle.

Gratefully choosing the lesser of two evils, Walegrin led the way back to Safe Haven, where they followed their noses instead of their assumptions. There were more false starts and dead ends, but finally they reached a house that made their guts heave and their eyes water. With one hand clapped over his face, Walegrin motioned for Wedemir to follow him into the courtyard.

The commander expected to see something vast and revolting; what he saw was an unhappy donkey and a high-wheeled cart, both unfortunately familiar.

Wedemir couldn't understand Walegrin's muttering. He lowered his hand from his face. "Wha ... ? Ough! Gods-" He hastily re-covered his mouth and lurched toward the archway, where he could be heard heaving.

An anger approaching mindless fury kept Walegrin breathing. He strode across the yard to the reeking midden. He kicked aside a bit of straw. His worst suspicions rolled into the sunlight. Filling his lungs with the foul air, Walegrin bellowed her name.

"Theudebourga!"

Silence. Wedemir rejoined the commander. He didn't recognize the name, but he shouted it anyway. The air wasn't going to kill him. and he wasn't going to be able to stop breathing it. The stench wasn't as noticeable now that he'd purged himself, rather like the numbness that follows an injury.

'Theu-de-bour-gaP

Walegrin grabbed a spar of firewood. He struck the iron rim of the cartwheel with such force that the firewood splintered and both men had to dodge the pieces. When they reopened their eyes a thin nervous woman stood in the archway, flanked by a passel of children and another woman holding an infant.

"What in the names of a thousand forgotten gods are you doing here?" Walegrin pointed the remnant of wood at the midden, Theudebourga's eyes were as wide as any Beysib's and her quivering voice seemed to come from somewhere in the next quarter. "Schapping."

Walegrin glanced at Wedemir, who shrugged and shook his head. "Tell me that again," the commander said in his best threatening tones. "I didn't understand you."

The woman with the infant looked at Theudebourga, as did the children, then they all eased away from her.

"Schapping," she whispered, scarcely louder than the first time.

"Make sense, woman." Walegrin took a step toward her. He'd never struck a woman in anger or the line of duty, but the temptation was growing very strong.

Theudebourga fell to her knees. "Schapping ... schapping ..."

Wedemir risked his life and closed his hand over the commander's upraised arm. "Beating her won't help. She sounds foreign. I don't think she understands you."

"She understood me well enough when she got me to buy this witches' brew for her."

Weemir released him. Sanctuary hadn't gotten so civilized that a man could stand on honor for a stranger. Theudebourga would have to stand for herself, which she did, scurrying over to the midden. She plunged her arm into the mess and came up with a fistful of sticky, stringy stuff. Holding it before her like a weapon or a shield, she advanced into Walegrin's reach.

"To make silk, you must schappe-get rid of the part of the cocoon that isn't silk."

In a comer of the commander's mind there was a mote of dusty knowledge whispering that silk didn't come into being as dyed, woven cloth, any more than wool or linen did. Wool came from sheep, and linen came from a plant, and silk ... ? Did silk come from a cocoon?

When he thought about it, the garbage they had bought on the wharf did look like cocoons all wadded together. But that goo hanging over her fingers like so much melted cheese or worse ... that couldn't possibly be silk.

"She's trying to make fools of us," Walegrin assured his lieutenant.

Wedemir wasn't so sure. He wasn't an artist like his father, but Lalo had taught him to keep an open mind about beauty. And Gilla, his mother, had taught him to keep an open mind about people. He extended his arm and allowed Theudebourga to drop the mess in his palm. It had a texture appropriate to its smell. Wedemir closed his eyes and remembered the few times he'd encountered real silk. He went past the slime and the stickiness to the fiber itself.

"I don't know, Commander Walegrin, but I think she's telling the truth."

Walegrin was, to say the least, unconvinced.

The other woman eased forward with her children and the infant. "Please, lord, I didn't know. Berge said we could make silk, and silk would make us rich. She said she learned how from her husband's people. I didn't know it would reek like this. It's not my fault. Punish her if you must. Take her away before my husband comes back. It's not my fault."

Walegrin didn't doubt Theudebourga was the driving force behind this debacle. Still, families shouldn't cast each other to the winds, or wolves, or soldiers. He scowled down at her, and the infant stared.

With a lamentable lack of tact Walegrin stared back. "It's almost a fish," slipped past his lips.

It was inevitable. In all other respects Beysib men were no different from any other. They frequented the Street of Red Lanterns and the Promise of Heaven. The marvel was that Walegrin had never seen a darkhaired, round-faced, staring child before.

The woman covered her baby's face with her shawl. Walegrin noticed that none of the other children had Beysib eyes. He looked at everything a second time. That wasn't dirt on their faces. Regrettably, it was all starting to make sense.

"When will your man be back?" he asked.

"Sundown, maybe later."

"Maybe never?"

The woman shook her head. "He'll be back. Dendorat comes back." A world of bitterness underlay her words.

"He'll beat you all when he finds this."

The commander's thoughts turned inward. It was easy to imagine Dendorat, because he could imagine himself feeling as Dendorat must feel. A man leaves his hearth and home to find a better life for them. He comes to the tail end of the Empire and, to his amazement, he finds a better life sweating on the walls of Sanctuary. He sends money to bring his wife and children to the promised land. The next thing he knows she's breeding, and he's the gods' happiest father waiting for a son who will never go hungry. But the son isn't his ...

What can he do? What else can he do? He turns against his wife. He begins to wonder about the other children hung about his neck like millstones. The doubts gnaw at his gut, driving him to despair. Maybe he never beat his wife before, but he beats her now because she wears the face of his pain ...

"Commander?"

Walegrin blinked. He wasn't half-S'danzo like his sister; he didn't have the Sight. But he'd wager next month's pay that he had the story right.

"Commander, what are we going to do?"

They were all looking at Walegrin. The commander knew what should be done. Of course, he was condemning these women and the children to misery, not to mention losing the money he had inadvertently invested in this lame scheme.

"You cannot do these things in the Uptown quarters," Walegrin explained apologetically, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Take rooms in the charnel quarters," he suggested, knowing the sorts who lived there. "Maybe they won't mind."

Theudebourga pointed at the courtyard well. "But we need fresh water."

She took Wedemir's hardening mess and washed it in the bucket. When she was finished the water wasn't fit to drink, but the white-gold fibers clinging to her wet fingers had begun to look like silk. She rubbed them dry in a comer of her shawl, then held them out for Walegrin to examine. The breeze in the courtyard wasn't enough.to rustle a left or turn a hair, but it was enough to lift the wisps out of her hands.

"Clean, clear, fresh water," Theudebourga said as her palms emptied. "Anything less-the schappe clings and the silk is ruined.

Wisps tangled in the stubble on the commander's upper lip. He twitched, blew, finally caught them in his fingers. Softer than a whore's breast, soft as silk ... Walegrin twirled them between thumb and forefinger, and let them spin away. He began to suspect he was throwing away a lot more than a few silver coins.

Wedemir interrupted again. "What can we do?"

Walegrin shook his head. The complaints they were getting about the smell would seem trivial when the gutters started running with Theudebourga's rinse water. He quoted from his mentor, Molin Torchholder: "We're guardians of the welfare of the city, not the guardians of any single citizen. There's nothing we can do." He turned to face Theudebourga. 'Tm truly sorry, but you can't do this schapping here."

"But it doesn't last," Theudebourga insisted. "Only another day ... Once the schappe is gone we must spin it into floss, then the floss has to be woven. Surely no one would complain about spinning and weaving?"

The commander shook his head. Beneath the tears and the pleadings and the wringing hands, this woman had the same temper as his Enlibar sword. Which, he decided, made it all the more important to stand firm.

"And when the weaving is finished, then you will sell the woven cloth," he continued for her. "And with your profits you'll bargain for more of this dross from the fish sellers. Then you'll make a bigger midden ... and a bigger midden again the time after that. And you'll say at the prince's court of justice that you've always done it. The garrison came and didn't stop you ...

"No, my lady, you won't catch me like that."

"It doesn't have to be like that," Wedemir objected.

"Don't go taking her part in this. I know what I'm talking about. When something's wrong, you stamp it out at the root. The longer you let it grow. the worse it gets." Walegrin continued to watch Theudebourga. None of this would be happening if he'd done his duty and impounded the damn donkey cart when he'd had the chance.

Theudebourga touched Walegrin's arm. "Please, don't abandon us; help us. You know I can do this. I learned this in Valtostin from my husband's family before the army came. We gathered broken cocoons in the spring, but the silk we made was never so fine as this will be. You believe me; I know you believe me."

Walegrin twisted away. It was easier to apprehend a murderer, or examine a corpse, than deal with a determined woman. "All right, until sundown tomorrow ... I can go along with that, but no weaving, no spinning. When I come back here tomorrow night I want to find this place empty. Do you understand, empty? If I can't report that I couldn't find a trace of you, I will personally take all of you and your possessions and your silk down to the Swamp of Night Secrets and leave you there. Just one more day to stink up the air and poison the water, and then you're gone, do you understand me?"

Theudebourga straightened her shawl and her back. "We understand."

Wedemir didn't, but he held his peace. He'd been a soldier long enough to know the difference between hard bargaining and an order. Still, when he and Walegrin were through the archway and beyond hearing, he demanded an explanation.

"Do you realize what you've done to them? Do you think this man, Dendorat, will leave because they say so? He'll beat them, if he doesn't kill them. And the silk ... The silk is good. Commander. Don't we care about what is good? They told me an officer must judge as well as follow orders. What do I do when I judge my orders to be wrong?"

Walegrin stopped short. There was nothing friendly in his expression when he faced the younger man. "If you're so concerned about right or wrong you should have apprenticed yourself to the magistrates. We're soldiers, Lieutenant Wedemir, we enforce the laws-the emphasis goes on force. No one loves a soldier. People don't think about us unless there's trouble somewhere. At best, we're useful bullies."

There was an uncomfortable silence while Wedemir searched for words that would not compromise him, or enrage the commander. "I guess it's a good thing that you've only got a few more years."

The commander resumed walking. They were at the harbor before he spoke again, weighing every word and hesitation. "It is my silver sitting in that midden, but that does not influence me; I counted it lost the moment it left me. I am not without sympathy. There is no question of the right of what they are doing, only that they are doing it in the wrong place. And I have done no wrong in forcing them to find a better place."

"What better place? Where could they go where they'd have what they needed, and there wouldn't be complaints? The chamels? Downwind? Could you see those women and children lasting three days Downwind?"

Wedemir thought his questions had obvious answers, but Walegrin scratched his ear and took them seriously.

"Well , . . They should be downwind, or at least not upwind ... They need clear water, but the water won't be clear when they get done with it, so they need a stream that goes straight to the rivers ... That puts them outside the walls in a villa. They don't have any money and that Theudebourga, she'd never put her mark on an indenture ... A patron. They'd have to find someone with a villa wKo'd tolerate the stench for a chance to get a bargain on the finished silk."

"Which villa would you suggest: Eagle's Nest? Jubal's old place now that the Stepsons are gone, or what about Land's End with Chenaya and her gladiators?" Wedemir drawled.

For generations these three estates had marked the end of Sanctuary and the beginning of the wilderness. Now they were all being worked again, each in a different way, but the meaning hadn't changed. At least the meaning hadn't changed for Wedemir. As far as he was concerned they remained equally inaccessible; he knew nothing of what had happened between Walegrin and Chenaya. So when the commander snarled that he'd see the women in hell first, the lieutenant knew only that he had crossed into dangerous territory.

"I promised my parents I'd visit them if I came close to home." It wasn't an absolute lie. Gilla was always glad to see her eldest son; and he had a sudden need of his family.

Walegrin understood. "I'll go on ahead. No need to catch up with me. You've learned enough for one afternoon, I think."

There was an ache in Wedemir's gut, as if he'd drunk one of Gilla's bitter purges. For a moment he felt cold and alone, then he headed up familiar streets to the just-barely-respectable quarter where his family had always lived. He sought a meaning for the commander's hostility. He was an intelligent youth with a lively imagination. It was impossible for him to guess the truth of the matter, but that didn't stop him from finding a satisfactory explanation: each estate he'd mentioned was bound to the past or the Rankan Empire. The silk workers would need a different sort of patron. By the time Gilla heard his thick-soled sandals on the stairs, Wedemir had his plan worked out.

Walegrin, in contrast, had no plan. He checked out the warehouses with a deliberately empty mind. He'd satisfied himself that the onus wasn't on his hands. His shoulders were relaxed when he crossed the empty caravan plaza on his way to the Bazaar. There was an emptiness in his gut-but that could be entirely attributed to hunger, and he knew just the remedy for that.

It was Sixthday-which was easier than remembering that is was also Eshi's Day, Spirit's Day, Sabellia's Day, or Somebody Else's Day-and on Sixthday, Walegrin ate dinner with Illyra and her family. There'd been times when he hadn't felt welcome here at all. Then last autumn, for no apparent reason, Dubro solemnly announced that his wife would be pleased to set a place for her brother at the week's-end table.

Their home had grown considerably over the years: a wall here, a roof there, a second anvil, and, most recently, a rebuilt forge with one bay for Dubro and a new one for his journeyman. Illyra's chamber with tasseled curtains stuck out to one side like an afterthought.

Illyra was happy, Walegrin told himself when he noticed that the curtains were roped tight, happier than she'd been when she sat in that airless room Seeing secrets for anyone who crossed the threshold. Hadn't she always said she couldn't See when she was happy? Illyra was happily surrounded by her family and neither he nor Dubro had to worry about what, or who, she Saw.

Walegrin didn't have to duck his head to enter this room, or worry that he'd break a stool when he sat down. Little Trevya saw him first and came racing across the hard-packed floor, her limp all but vanished. She shrieked as only a two-year-old could shriek when he scooped her into his arms. Trevya had always been fascinated by the bronze band across his forehead, but lately she'd discovered a more intriguing toy; the heavy straw-colored braids the band was supposed to confine.

"Want ride!" she trilled when she'd caught them in her fists. With a patient sigh he leaned forward and let her pull his head toward the ground.

"Again!" She gave the braids a demanding yank.

This is the last time, Walegrin thought as he straightened up. The little beggar's stronger than she thinks ... and getting heavier. But he was Still playing the game when Illyra came through the other doorway.

"Wale-why, you're all covered with spider silk!"

It was a tone they all knew and respected. Trevya dropped silently to the ground. Even the hammering outside stopped. Walegrin dusted his shoulders and arms. There was nothing clinging to them, of course. Against all probability, Illyra was Seeing.

"I stink of it, you mean," Walegrin stammered. "There was a problem over in Safe Haven. Some crazy newcomers fermenting cocoons in their courtyard. That's all."

Illyra gave a little shudder. The image vanished. She cocked her head to one shoulder. The image didn't return; but it had been a true Seeing, however much he wanted her to pretend it wasn't. "It's nothing to worry about," she assured him with an affectionate hug.

That was true. The little impulses that flashed across her mind weren't ominous. They were not always literally true, either-the S'danzo Sight often came wrapped in layers of meaning. Illyra might have let the vision go as both insignificant and obscure, but it meant something to her brother, and that had her curiosity aroused. It nagged at her throughout the meal; she was never more than half attentive in the conversation.

"I'm going to go after a crustade for dessert," she announced, knowing that she already had one secreted in her scrying chamber. She took her shawl and a copper half-bit from the pouch hanging by the door. "I'll be right back."

She was silhouetted in the sunset, then gone. The afterimage lingered in Walegrin's mind. Sunset. Sixthday. There wasn't a warm baker's oven in the Bazaar, nor anywhere else in Sanctuary. It took two days to braise a joint large enough to satisfy the men at her table. She never relied on last-minute inspirations or improvisations ...

Walegrin followed her out the door and around to the back where the ropes across her scrying chamber dangled.

"Tell me what you See."

He took her completely by surprise. The cards flew from her hands. They scattered across the room, onto the floor, and into the powders she used for her essences, but three fell neatly on the table where she did her work.

Illyra blushed; she began to dissemble. Walegrin's features composed themselves into his interrogator's face and she abandoned the effort before a half-dozen words were out of her mouth.

"I was curious," she admitted.

"I'm curious myself. What did you See?"

"I told you what I Saw. You were surrounded by spider silk. It shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow-"

"What did it mean, Lyra? What did it mean?"

The seeress looked away and caught sight of the cards on the table. The amashkiki, the spirits of the cards, supported her. Eagerly she adjusted their alignment. "Here ... The Lady of the Forest. The Lady of the Stones. Between them, the Fifth-"

"Ly-ra ... Do it right."

"No, no, this is right."

"It was an accident."

Illyra hunched her shoulders and thrust her jaw at her brother. "I do not have accidents," she hissed.

Momentarily chastened, Walegrin allowed her to continue with her explanation.

"I See good fortune, easily come by."

"Where? Where do you see that?" He prodded the cards. One Lady sat at a stone-weighted loom, the other was a spirit with cobweb wings, and the Fifth of Air was a scattering of petals floating away from a bouquet. "All I see is something trapped between two women!"

"What do you need me for if you know everything? Go ahead, you tell me what they mean,"

"Women surrounding me. Women weaving a web around me ... a trap. I don't see any 'good fortune* in that."

Illyra squinted. The tip of her tongue poked through her pursed lips. "I suppose ..." she agreed slowly. "I could See that. There is a woman in your life right now, and she is weaving something." She tapped her fingernail on the petals of the Fifth of Air. "But this is not an ill aspect." In her mind Illyra reached for another card; she Saw, and began to giggle.

"What? What's so bloody funny? Dammit, Illyra, this is my life you're laughing at, isn't it? You don't do this with your other querents, do you?"

Illyra shook her head and gradually regained her composure. He was right, of course. A S'danzo girl learned early not to laugh at her querents, regardless of their questions or her visions. Giggling ruined the mystery, and it was bad for business. She swallowed her laughter. "If you were one of my querents I would tell you that you must accommodate." She paused and swallowed again. "Yes, accommodate your good fortune."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The seeress lifted the edge of her shawl to cover the lower part of her face. "If a querent asked that, I would say: It will be made clear in time. Accommodate your fate, and you will find good fortune."

"And the women. What of the gods-be-damned women?"

"Woman. There is only one woman, Walegrin, I'm sure of that. I don't know about the woman. She is not here. These are not her cards. I cannot say if she will have good fortune or not."

The visionary spell was broken.The giddiness drained from Illyra's body- She sighed and began to collect her cards. Walegrin could feel the lightning charge dissipate.

"Accommodate," he repeated. "That word is supposed to have some especially profound meaning for me. You're telling me not to fight what happens, aren't you? Don't do anything at all. Don't get involved, don't care, don't worry. What happens, happens-"

Illyra stood up. "I didn't say that. I said accommodate your fate ... learn to live with it."

"Same difference."

She gathered the last of the cards. The Seeing had become part of memory where it lost most of its power. Nothing was guaranteed; memory could change over time. "Same difference," she agreed. "Will you stay for the crustade?" She lifted the bowl from the high shelf where she had kept it safe from inquiring eyes and fingers.

Like most superstitious people, Walegrin lived in a world where the supernatural tended to confirm, rather than challenge, his prejudices. He was willing to reach an accommodation with his fate, if accommodation meant that Theudebourga, her problems and her silk, could be exiled from his mind without shame or guilt.

The crustade was calling to him. "I'll stay," he said, taking the heavy bowl. "Wouldn't want to see it go to waste."

The heavens had clouded over by the time Walegrin hauled himself back to the officer's quarters inside the palace. A light rain began to fallIts gentle rhythm on the shutters, not to mention the aftereffects of a huge meal, sent the commander into a dreamless sleep. Godsfearing folk rose early on Seventhday; everyone else slept as late as possible. Walegrin's recent promotion entitled him to lie in bed until sunset if he so desired. He was not pleased when someone came pounding on his door well before midday.

Stark naked and surly, Walegrin cracked the door and braced it against his leg. "This had better be important," he snarled.

The recruit trembled. He restarted his story twice before mustering enough wit to explain that everyone who'd eaten dinner at the garrison mess was huddled up at the latrines. The duty officer couldn't take two steps without retching and there were only a handful of men who could climb (he ladder to the watchtower.

"Shit."

"Yes, sir," the recruit agreed.

Walegrin let the door go. When he'd lived in a barracks with nothing but a chest to hold his worldly goods, he'd always known where everything was. Now that he had a square room to call his own, chaos reigned among his possessions. He found his breeches and shirt on the floor where he'd left them, but the sandals ... Walegrin owned four of the ventilated boots, any two of which would make a satisfactory pair. One was usually visible, while the rest hid in the darkest corners where the commander suspected they consumed his wrist guards, which, at any rate, had disappeared completely. The Enlibar sword, at least, was where it belonged.

"Let's go," Walegrin said when he'd gotten the door latched behind him.

Physicians and mages were summoned to the privies where they decided that the epidemic had just about run its course. The afflicted were unimpressed, but Walegrin could see that most of them, while they'd be useless for a day or so, were already recovering. Only two men needed sickbeds, and one of them had been sick for a week.

The cook was dragged from the kitchens. He insisted the flux couldn't be his fault; the meat was rotten before he cooked it.

"Why did you cook it, if you knew it was rotten?"

The cook said it wasn't his job to question the meat the stewards provided. He was a cook. He insisted he'd done his job well: after all, the men hadn't complained while they were eating.

Walegrin had him flogged and tied to a post by the stables where the recovering men could offer sympathy, suggestions, and the occasional clot of horse manure.

The cook had a point; he didn't purchase the meat. Walegrin spent the rest of the afternoon looking for the guilty steward. Shunted from corridor to corridor on a stream of insincere apologies, the garrison commander was unable to wring a confession from any of the palace flunkies.

"Somebody paid for a carcass of rotten meat," Walegrin fumed when, in frustration, he made his way to Molin's workroom. "Somebody's responsible. and somebody other than that half-idiot of a cook should be punished."

"Should, should, should," the Torch chided from his chair. "How many times must I explain to you that should doesn't work in a palace?"

"It ought to."

"Suffice to say, the problem's been taken care of."

Walegrin wasn't grateful to have his work done for him. "You knew about it?"

"Let's just say it wasn't a single carcass, and I, myself, spent the night circling my chamber pot and cursing the stewards."

Molin Torchholder was a powerful man in Sanctuary, but not because he had the ear of his god. Walegrin expressed his skepticism.

"It wasn't difficult. I sent Hoxa down to read the provisions receipts.

One of the understewards is already under lock and key, and I've got the name of a place Downwind-"

"You might have let me know, my lord Molin."

Torchholder smiled pleasantly. "I couldn't find you." He pointed to his table; it was apparent that he did not feel up to standing or walking. "There ... Hoxa wrote it down for you. Take it as you leave."

Words could not adequately express Walegrin's feelings as he crumpled the vellum scrap into his pouch, and gestures would have gotten him hung. The sun was setting. He'd wasted the entire day; it was time to go on duty. Half the men didn't answer the roster call; dinner was predictably awful, then a squall blew up and settled into a steady rain. The only pleasant moment of the entire double-watch came when Wedemir announced that the raid on the Downwind abattoir had been a success. The men were drawing lots to see who would question the prisoners.

Wedemir lingered in the doorway. "Sir? About yesterday ... ? The silk workers, remember? I used your name-"

Walegrin paused and remembered. "Don't worry .about it."

"Did you go to see them?"

The commander shook his head. "If there's ever another complaint. I thought about it, Lieutenant. Everything works out for the best. I can accommodate a silk worker or two."

Wedemir's eyes widened, then he left. For a moment Walegrin was tempted to call him back, but the moment and the temptation passed. The night dragged toward midnight when Thrusher, still looking seedy at the edges, hauled himself up the ladder.

"You sure, Thrush?"

"Yeah, the air'll do me good. Get your sleep while you can."

Walegrin wasn't especially tired, but, as Thrusher said, a soldier learned to grab sleep when he could. He was yawning when he reached the stone-dark landing outside his room. He reached for the latchstring; it wasn't dangling where it should have been. Walegrin swore he'd pulled the string through when he shut the door, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd forgotten. He was on his knees wiggling a brass pin through the latch-hole when the door opened.

The commander gaped at Theudebourga, and she hid a yawn behind her fingers.

"I must have fallen asleep."

The commander remained on his knees. "You - . . ? What are you doing here?"

"I have nothing else to give you." She looked away. She might have been blushing, it was hard to tell in the lamplight. "You've been so kind to us."

"I have?" Walegrin got to his feet.

"When the Beysib came to get us this afternoon, they said that they were following your orders. In truth, I doubted you then, and feared for the worst as they loaded everything into a great cart. When they led us through the gates we thought we were being sent into exile. Dendorat was wild; they struck him on the head and lashed him to the cart. But they took us to a cottage and said we could pay the rent with finished silk."

Walegrin nodded, trying to recall what, exactly, Wedemir said before being assured that there was nothing to worry about.

Theudebourga did not notice his changing expression, "We haven't met Lady Kurrekai yet. Imagine, the cousin of Beysa Shupansea taking all of us under her wing. You must have been very persuasive ... I knew from that first moment on the wharf that you were not one to leave us to our fate."

"Theudebourga-"

"Berge. Call me Berge, it's easier on the ear and tongue." He didn't call her anything. She looked at him, at the shock and sourness on his face. "Dear gods-" She lunged for the stool where she had fallen asleep. Her workbag had fallen on its side, the drop-spindle had rolled across the floor. Frantically, she grabbed for both. The thread broke and the spindle rolled behind the chest. "What use has a man like you for a withered spinster?"

Walegrin heard that she was crying. He wanted her to stop. He wanted to tell her the truth, but his thoughts were whirling too fast to form the words he wanted to say. So Walegrin stood, blocking the doorway and feeling like an ox, while Theudebourga grew more shamed and hysterical.

"Please let me leave," she pleaded.

She had a death-grip on the sack. Wisps of unspun silk squeezed out and were tossed about on their breath. Walegrin felt them clinging to the stubble on his chin, to his eyebrows, and the tip of his nose. He became what Illyra had Seen. His thoughts froze around a single paradox: did the accommodation of good fortune lie in letting her stay, or letting her escape? What did he know about women anyway, except that the ones he got attracted to were no good for him?

Theudebourga hunched her shoulders and tried to sneak past. Her intentions were no match for Walegrin's reflexes-though the commander hadn't counted on having her so close he could feel her heartbeat.

"You don't have to leave." He lowered his arm. "You surprised me, that's all. It never occurred to me that the door would open one night and my woman would be there to greet me."

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not mocking you."

Walegrin pushed the door shut. Berge did not object-