The Sekoi stopped and folded its arms.

“There must be millions here!” Solon stared down in consternation. “Surely all your tribes? This is like a migration.”

“Almost all.” The slits in the creature’s eyes were black and narrow. It turned. “Now listen to me, keepers. I’ve brought you here because the Watch must be shaken off and because my people may know something to help our search. I cannot promise that, but it may be.” It smiled complacently. “So I will do all the speaking here. You, Galen, would be far too impatient. And your sense-lines, I think, will not help you.”

They knew that already. Of all the great host in front of them, Raffi had not the ghost of a feeling. The sense-lines told him the land was empty. It was a terrible deception. It made him feel blind.

Galen nodded, tying his black hair back. “You know best. But we should hurry.”

They scrambled down among the outlying booths. Sekoi of all colors wandered out to stare at them, tall and starved-looking in the flame light and shadows, the silken gaudy fabrics of their tents flapping in the wind. As they threaded deeper into the vast encampment, Raffi wondered where the children were. You never saw any. The Sekoi hid them as carefully as their gold.

Awnings rose above them now; great rippling hangings of precious satins brilliantly colored, gold and turquoise and purple. In front of each tent was a tall pole, painted with stripes and odd angular signs that might be letters, running downwards. Bells hung here and there, chiming softly as the wind stirred them. Above all there were the owls, hundreds of them; gray owls and long-eared, ice-owls and three-toed—even ink-owls, perched everywhere, on tent pegs, on wooden rails, or just swooping in out of the dark, silent as moths under the tassels and silks.

The Sekoi walked ahead and Galen followed, nearly as tall, his dark coat making him a gaunt shadow among the fires. The camp smelled of trodden grass and smoke. It was crowded but strangely quiet. Solon looked around at the watching faces in avid curiosity, but Marco seemed oddly intimidated; he carried his crossbow, even unloaded, as if it were some comfort.

“Are you sure this isn’t some sort of trap?” he muttered, glancing back.

Solon smiled kindly at him. “Nervous, my son?”

“Holiness, I’m scared stiff. There are thousands of them.”

“They want nothing from us.”

“Gold.” Marco nursed the bow. “They’d do anything for gold. Mind you”—he grinned at Raffi—“so would I.”

Raffi didn’t smile. “So how much will you get for the Coronet?” he asked sourly.

Marco stared, his grin fading. After a moment he said, “That was hard, Raffi. You’re getting like your master.”

Raffi felt a flicker of shame. Until he remembered Carys. “She’s not the spy,” he said sullenly. “So who’s left?”

The bald man had no time to retort. They had come to an enormous pavilion, the biggest structure in the maze of silks by far. It was made of some deep crimson fabric, and all its sides hung in elaborate folded shapes, rising to three high pinnacles where owls perched silent under rippling pennants.

The Sekoi turned. “Leave everything outside. Especially that bow.”

Galen tossed the stick and pack down. Raffi did the same. Marco looked distinctly rebellious.

“Come on, old friend,” Solon murmured. “No one will threaten us.”

“You’d better be right.” Marco dumped the bow ungraciously. “This lot scare me more than the Watch.”

Galen glared at him darkly. “Maybe you should stay outside.” It was the first time he had spoken to Marco since the observatory.

The bald man shook his head. “Oh no. You don’t lose me that easily.”

The Sekoi gave an impatient mew. “We’re late. This way.”

It led them inside.

The first thing that struck Raffi was the scent. It was so sweet, a delicious sweetness of honey or sugared cakes. They walked on luxurious woven rugs and soft carpets that silenced their tread. Around them the walls and high ceiling rippled crimson. Small lamps sputtered on bronze stands; on a rail in the very center of the room an ancient gray owl slumbered, one eye slitted to watch them come.

“No one here,” Marco whispered.

“Yes there is.” The Sekoi said something to the owl in the Tongue. It hooted, long and low, and with a speed that startled Raffi, its wings opened and it swooped soundlessly out through an opening in the roof.

“Sit down,” the Sekoi said graciously.

There were cushions, thick and glossy. Solon sank among them in relief. “What luxury. And what happens now?”

“Food.” The Sekoi winked at Raffi. “We’re a hospitable race.”

When it came it was fruit, as he’d known it would be, but huge bowls of it, carried by an immensely strong Sekoi with pure white fur, its eyes amber and curious. Raffi was too hungry to wait; he ate berries and apples and the delicious soft flesh of the mavros eagerly, and drank the pale sherbet waters with Solon, debating about which was the best. Galen picked at the fruit, watching Marco, who said nothing and prowled uneasily.

Until the Karamax walked in.

There were seven of them, all tall and all masked. The masks were elaborate, covering the upper half of the face, made of satin and adorned with bizarre slashes of gold, with feathers and strange painted symbols. The eyes of the creatures behind them were amber and gold.

Galen went to move but the Sekoi glared at him and stood up, a tall, elegant figure. It began to speak urgently in the Tongue, its long fingers gesturing, and the seven Karamax sat on the cushions listening, their eyes flickering to the Starmen.

It bothered Raffi that he could feel nothing of them. He had grown to depend on the awen-field more than he’d realized.

The story took a long time. Finally the Sekoi fell silent.

The Karamax gazed at each other. Then the tallest, a red-furred creature dressed in yellow and blue, stood up. Its voice was female, and it spoke so they could all understand. “We have relived this tale with interest. We welcome you, keepers, and share our sorrows for your losses. Your enemies are our enemies. However, I fear there is little we can do except give you shelter. This relic our friend speaks of is unknown to us and we have no interest in such devices. The Makers’ power we acknowledge freely, but they are not our Makers . . .”

Galen leaped up, irritated. “Are you sure?” His voice was bitter with disappointment.

The Sekoi waved him back, alarmed. The Karamax seemed to stiffen.

“We have had this argument before,” the red-furred one said gently. “The Makers . . .”

Galen waved impatiently. “Not that! Are you sure you know nothing of the Coronet? Surely, in one of your many stories . . .”

“Nothing.”

Solon was on his feet too. “This is bitterly disappointing for us.”

“I know it. And for us too the weather is a cause of much disquiet,” the Karamax said smoothly, “but . . .” It stopped.

Outside the door-curtain loud voices were raised, one insistent, others angry. Suddenly the curtain was twitched aside, and two huge Sekoi marched in. Between them, struggling and furious, was a girl with soaked hair, the red dye almost washed out of it.

“Carys!” Raffi leaped up in delight.

The Sekoi gave a snarl of wrath. “You!”

“Yes, me!” She grinned at it, triumphant. “I told you no cage would hold me. I suppose they’ve already given you their excuses, Galen? Tried to fob you off with a pack of lies?”

He came forward and caught her arm. “What are you talking about, Carys?”

She laughed, scornful, shaking free of the sentinels. “Don’t you see? The Coronet is gold, isn’t it? Gold! So they’ve got it. It’s part of their Great Hoard, Galen, probably the most precious part. The Sekoi have the Coronet. They’ve had it for centuries.”

Astonished, he stared at her. “How do you know?”

She had looked forward to this. She drew herself up and grinned at him, enjoying it.

“Flain told me,” she said.