3

Ogi called out, “Shipmate ahoy!” as he drew near to the faun’s cabin. The sun had only just set and he was quite visible as he came through the low shrubs and spindly trees, but life in a jotunn settlement like Durthing made caution second nature to a man—startle a jotunn and he might kill first and apologize later. Some would not apologize even then.

The hammering ceased, and a moment later Rap’s face appeared in the window, a homely face below a mop of brown hair like a tangle of dry ferns. He wiped his forehead with a bare arm.

“Got some carp,” Ogi yelled, holding them up. “And wine!”

“Wine? What’s the occasion?”

“Just thought a working man might like a break. “

The faun smiled his usual diffident little smile. “Great!” he shouted, and disappeared.

Ogi headed over to the fire pit and was pleased to discover a few live embers remaining. He added some twigs and blew up a flame. Then he settled on a boulder and made certain that the wine had survived the journey unharmed.

A gray bird flew in to perch on a twig and eye him with deep suspicion. There were rocks enough to seat at least a dozen more people, so whoever had built it must have had a large family . . . no, the shack was small, so he’d just enjoyed throwing big parties. It was a pleasant spot, though, set in a little dell and sheltered from the tropic sun by a couple of half-decent trees—in Durthing any worthwhile timber soon vanished into cooking fires—but too far from a spring to be a prime location; more private than most.

In a few minutes Rap came wandering out, pulling on a shirt. He was still comically modest about clothing, considering the complete absence of privacy in a sailor’s working life, but a good lad, steady beyond his years. In appearance he was pretty much straight faun, except for his hair and his size, and he had a faun’s disinclination to conform to social pressures. Like being cleanshaven, for instance. He was the only man on Stormdancer not trying to grow a floorbrush mustache like Gathmor’s. He was also the only man in Durthing who wore long pants all the time.

“One of them’s likely Petrel. She’s due. Don’t know the other.”

Ships arriving were always of interest, but the juvenile forest around Rap’s cabin blocked a clear view of the harbor. He, of course, could see through anything, but either the ships were still out of his range or he just didn’t care much. He sat down again and stared at the flickering flames in silence.

The swift tropical dark was settling in all around, and the birdcalls were fading away. Bright smoke and sparks and crackling fire . . . oversexed crickets racketing already . . . It was a pleasant night.

As Ogi cut off the fish heads, he tossed them over his shoulder for dogs or gnomes to find. Likewise, when he slit the bellies, he scraped out the guts on the dirt behind him. Quite likely there would be a gnome child or two hovering nearby already, drawn by the fire.

“Something wrong?” Ogi asked.

Rap had been staring fixedly at the flames. He smiled faintly and shrugged. ”Nothing you can help with.”

“Please yourself. But if you want to talk it out to a friend, I’m available. And despite what you may have been told ever since you were weaned, some imps can keep secrets.”

That brought the little smile again, briefly, and Ogi realized that the wide faun mouth almost never smiled more than that. “It’s just that I’m not finding it easy settling down here.” Yes, that was very odd.

“Durthing’s not perfect,” Ogi said loyally, “but there’s nowhere much better. You’ve gotten yourself a pretty fair house there for just the cost of a few days’ work, and there’s a very wide selection of girls. I know of lots who’d be willing to help you fill it with babies.”

Rap shuddered.

“You get used to the little pests,” Ogi said complacently. Uala had two now and another on the way already. Perhaps twins, the way she was bulging. ”At times they’re quite lovable. Don’t quote me.”

Rap went back to staring at flames.

There was a mystery even about the way the kid had gotten to Faerie in the first place, and it probably involved magic. Ogi was enough of a sailor to dislike talking about that. Still, it was curious.

Ogi often wondered whether that was just another of his odd ideas about propriety, or if he was touchy about his faun legs. There were a lot of things about him that puzzled Ogi. Already the fire was crackling nicely. Ogi began peeling onions. Rap settled on the next boulder, wiping his forehead again. ”Working too hard! Meant to go for a swim.” He hefted the wine jar an tilted his head for a long, hard swig—which was a pleasant surprise to the imp. Maybe getting him drunk tonight wouldn’t be the swine of a job they’d expected.

Rap lowered the flask with a gasp. “I’ll go later.”

“Hey, swimming in the dark . . . All right, smarty, you needn’t smirk like that! “ Ogi did not usually cluck like a mother hen, but young Rap was a newcomer to swimming. “So it’s not dangerous for you—but don’t go too soon after you’ve eaten, okay?” In any case, certain parties had plans for this sailor’s evening, and swimming was not among them. He’d get to those later. ”How’s the builder doing?”

“Come and see?” Rap asked shyly. He jumped up and led the way over to the little hovel he now called home. It was a lot more homelike than it had been two months before, and he proudly displayed his latest achievement, a shutter for the window. It would keep rain out, if not wind. He had no furniture yet except a hammock and a chair, although Ogi had often offered to lend him some money to get settled in. At suitable interest rates, of course.

As always, Ogi wondered why a faun jotunn hybrid had chosen an impish shack. In their homeland of Sysanasso, fauns lived in flimsy huts of wicker and thatch, and yet Rap had selected an ancient log cabin, built by some long-lost imp in this lonely dell. He had seemed surprised that his choice would surprise anyone, muttering something about his hometown being impish even if he wasn’t. To have picked somewhere less isolated would have seemed more friendly.

He had fixed the roof and made the place quite astonishingly clean. Ogi viewed, admired, and complimented. Then they headed back to the fire pit and the wine.

Ogi proposed a few toasts, and got some more of the wine into the kid that way. Then he pulled out the day’s catch and set to work cleaning them.

“Arrivals? “ Rap muttered, peering over his head, apparently at the stringy trees.

“A girl, was it?” he asked softly. “Or a dream?”

“A girl,” Rap told the fire, “but not the way you mean.”

“Son, I’ve tried every way there is,” Ogi said nostalgically. Rap wrinkled his wide faun nose. “A promise, then.”

“What sort of promise?”

Rap shot him a brief, cryptic glance. “A crazy one.” He took another swallow from the wine jar and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ”I don’t really want to be a sailor. There’s the nub.”

He wasn’t going to be very popular if Gathmor heard him talking like that. Or any jotunn, for that matter.

“Then you’re fooling all of us, buddy. There was talk you might be made coxswain’s mate when Larg got promoted.” Rap snorted disbelievingly and went back to leaning elbows on knees. He’d rowed to Faerie and back three times now. Men grew fast at his age, and he had a rower’s shoulders already. He was going to need those tonight—for a moment Ogi felt a gloating touch of avarice. Lovely gold! Then he wet a finger and flipped a drop of spit at the griddle. It hissed and danced satisfactorily. He threw on the onions and began buttering the fish with his dagger.

“Gathmor said he paid forty-six imperials for me and the goblin,” Rap murmured. “If I save all I can, how long would it take me to pay it off?”

“With interest, about thirty-nine hundred years.”

“Oh—that soon, you think?”

“Be realistic, Rap! If you were Gathmor, would you let you go? Your farsight’s beyond any price to him. He loves his ship, he’s responsible for his crew—he isn’t going to let you go. “

The faun sighed and fell silent.

His farsight talent made him unique, of course, and yet it was a freakish thing. Stormdancer had not needed it since his first voyage. His subsequent trips had been hard work, with too much rowing and not enough sailing, but completely uneventful.

And the lad had more to him than just an occult knack. He had the makings of a very fine sailor. He was competent and trustworthy. He never complained or picked fights. He did whatever he was told to do as if he were grateful for the opportunity. Even without his farsight, he was not a man Gathmor would readily let slip away. Almost all the unattached girls in Durthing were giving serious thought to the big faun, too.

“They say,” Ogi remarked, “that happiness is pretending you always wanted what you’re getting. “

Rap chuckled, but he kept his gaze on the flames.

Ogi began to feel worried. If the kid was out of sorts, then tonight’s operation might turn into a disaster. Before he could explore that possibility, Rap spoke.

“You’re an imp. Why d’you live among these maniacs?” Ogi twitched nervously. “I suggest you don’t say that word too loud, friend. And you shouldn’t ask questions like that here. “

“Oh! Sorry! Didn’t think.”

“It’s all right with me. I’ll just tell you to mind your own business—”

“But a jotunn would knock my head off,” Rap finished. “That’s what I meant.”

“And you don’t need to ask anyway. The only possible reason a non-jotunn would live here is that it’s pleasanter than the imperor’s jails. Come on, lad—it’s a great life! Space and freedom! Women? You don’t get women in jail unless you’re real rich. Enjoy it!”

None of which was true in Ogi’s case. He had never fallen afoul of the law, and he lived in Durthing simply because he loved the sea and loved being a sailor. Trouble was, the only possible explanation for that was much harder to talk about than a criminal past would have been. He knew his grandfather had died when jotunn raiders razed Kolvane; his father had been a posthumous baby. Although the family would never discuss the matter, and although Ogi himself was impishly short and broad and swarthy, he was quite certain that he must be one-quarter jotunn. To say so would greatly boost his standing in Durthing and among Stormdancer’s crew, but it would increase his risks, too, and the kidding would never end. Ogi was not enough of a jotunn to find such matters funny.

“But they are maniacs,” Rap muttered. “Kani’s still after me to go pick a fight with someone. Why, for the Good’s sake? I’ve shown I’ll defend myself!”

Ogi began flipping fish over with the point of his dagger. He hadn’t meant to raise the matter yet, and the kid wasn’t close to drunk. “Well, there’s a difference, Rap.”

“What sort of difference?”

He passed the wine. “Here—you’re not drinking your share! Yes, you’ve had a couple of fights. But they don’t really count.”

Rap put the jar down on the ground beside him and fixed a cold gaze on his companion. “Don’t count? Why not?”

The carp were done. Feeling his mouth watering already, Ogi began scooping them onto the platters with his dagger. At least he need not look his friend in the eye while doing so. He hoped they would still be friends tomorrow.

“You know the standings round here,. Rap. Lowest are the non-jotunn, like me. Especially me, ‘cause jotnar rank imps just barely above gnomes. Then the part jotunn, like you. Fauns are quite well thought of, actually—probably because they’re so pigheaded that they never know when they’re beaten—and you’re almost jotunn size, so you rate just below pure jotunn.” He waited, but got no comment. He worked more on the fish. “And then they have their own levels. Tops are the Nordland-born, like Brual—”

“And Kani’s a third-generation southerner and hates himself for it. So? So what are you getting at?”

“Well, I know a couple of guys decided to try you out. You did very well, too, but Dirp is a third-generation exile, like Kani, and old Hagmad is a second, and neither is much thought of as a fighter. Besides, they were just playing.”

“It didn’t feel like play,” Rap growled. “It bloody hurt!” Ogi had scraped the griddle clean. He had no option but to hand Rap his platter and meet his eye.

“Tell me the worst,” Rap said sourly. “I’ve lost my appetite already. “

Ogi sighed. “You want them off your back? Well, then, you’ve got to have a punch party with a full-blooded, Nordland-born jotunn. One of the good ones. ”

“Oh, great! I used to think Gathmor was bad—”

“I’m not finished. You’ve got to pick the quarrel, not him. Your fight, see? And you’ve got to make him mad. Really mad! We can’t settle for just a playful testing to see what’s in the uppity faun mongrel. You bait him till he’s one man-eating, homicidal, kill-crazy jotunn, who really wants to smash you. Then—no mercy! You beat him to a jelly.”

“You lost me right at the end there.”

“I’m serious, Rap. Eat up. More important—drink up! You’re new. They give new boys time, but you’ve got your rower’s arms now. You’re looking sort of ready, so you’re going to be measured soon. Today? Tomorrow? Best to pick your own match, right? The important thing is to try for the highest standing you can possibly hope to hold on to. In the end that’ll mean a lot less pain and blood than if they’re all using you for practice on the way up.”

Rap laid the platter aside and crossed his arms. “What’s your part in this?”

This was where Ogi could give the kid some good news. He spoke with his mouth full. “Important! I found out who Verg and that crazy Kani had picked out for you: Turbrok! Or even Radrik! Gods! They’d have gotten you maimed or killed.”

Rap put his elbows on his knees and scowled sideways at his companion. ”And you won’t?”

“Hope not. This fish is delicious. Try it—you need the strength. No, I took over, and you can trust me. Sure, I’ve been setting you up, Rap, I admit, but I know what I’m doing. “ Well, he was three-fourths sure he did. ”Setting me up?”

“Who suggested you take the charming Wulli to the dance?” Rap straightened, taut and furious. “You told me she wasn’t anyone’s girl! So did she!”

“Yes, well, she would. They do, here. But what I said was right, so far as I know. No engagements or understandings. How far have you got with her, by the way?”

“Mind your own Evil-begotten business!”

“Awright! But the previous dance she went to with Grindrog. He’s been at sea, so he hasn’t squired any ladies since.”

Rap groaned. He had turned pale, understandably; in fact his face held a sort of greenish tinge in the fire’s dancing glow. “So he’ll assume I’m muscling in?”

“Well, you are, in the way things are done here. Grindrog never dropped her, you see. His choice, never hers. And of course, she’s pure jotunn, and you’re not. Mongrels aren’t allowed near—”

“Bastard! But I should’ve thought of that, at least. God of Liars! You did set me up, you sneaky bunch of bastards! And I really don’t like her much. She’s all `Yes, Rap,’ `No, Rap,’ without an original thought in her head.”

Wulli was a mouth-wateringly sweet kid, about sixteen, with the sort of face and body that the sailors called a shipping hazard—breathtaking, in fact. No male jotunn would worry at all about her mental processes, pro or con.

“Maybe Grindrog doesn’t like her either. But that’s irrelevant.”

“Petrel? He’s bosun on Petrel?”

“Right. Don’t let your meal get cold—”

“About twenty-four, twenty-five? Twice my size, with a cast in one eye and his nose pushed over to the right? That one?”

“That’s him.”

“And Petrel just berthed. I suppose there’s no chance that he might not find out?”

“None whatsoever,” Ogi said complacently. “Kani’s making sure he gets the news right away, as soon as she beaches, while all his crewmates are still around to sympathize.”

Rap picked up his platter absentmindedly and began to eat, staring into the fire again. “I’ve saved up about half an imperial, Ogi. It’s on the rafter over the hammock. You and Kani are my best friends, and I d like you to share that. My boots are worth—”

“Oh, shut up! Do you think I’d do that to you?”

Rap glanced seaward. “Someone’s coming now. He’ll be here in a minute. Yes, it’s Kani, running. Coming to tell you that the trap’s set? So out with it—what’s the ploy?” He seemed to be taking this better than he had done a moment before.

“You can have one boot, and Kani the other.”

“Shut up! Listen—Grindrog hasn’t fought in over a year now! He challenged Rathkrun himself. Rathkrun put him to sleep for a week.”

Rap gulped, as if swallowing fish bones.

“But,” Ogi said triumphantly, “he hasn’t picked a fight since! Now I happened to notice him baiting a hook, last time he was in port. He held it right up here, on his left. Real close. And he’s right-handed! “

Rap chewed in thoughtful silence.

“Rathkrun kicked his head about quite a bit! Rap, I don’t think he can see worth a cod’s ankles! I’ve been watching him. He trips over things. He slobbers when he talks. And if you get him mad enough tonight, he’ll be fighting in the dark.”

“That’s cheating!”

Absurd! If the kid thought like that then he wasn’t old enough to be allowed out alone, certainly not in a jotunn communityand yet Ogi had half expected that objection.

“That’s partly why we snared you. You’ve got to go down there and drive him so wild that he’ll try to fight a seer in the dark. If he loses his jotunn temper, then you’ve got him.”

“Or the other way,” Rap said calmly, chewing, gazing levelly at Ogi—who was beginning to find that steady stare unnerving.

“You’ve got your shoulders now, Rap. You can deliver.”

“It isn’t going to work. Not for long. Everyone knows I have farsight, so if I win I’ll get a daylight challenge real soon, and you’re trying to rank a mule above hundreds of purebred jotnar . . . But I suppose the main thing is to live through tonight, isn’t it?”

He had some good points there, but tomorrow could look after itself. ”Right. Just get him so mad he can’t wait to get at you.”

“If I said that Wulli told me he couldn’t get it up for her, not even once . . . that would do it, wouldn’t it?”

Ogi’s forehead broke out in sweat at the thought of what that accusation would do to a drunken jotunn. “Just about. You may have her father to worry about tomorrow, but he’s pretty old.”

Rap threw his platter aside and wiped his mouth, as if he had reached a decision. Ogi held out the wine jug, but he shook his head.

“I’d rather be sober. “

“Oh, you’re weird! Sober, for Gods’ sake? Fight sober? Jotnar think that’s unmanly. That’s worse cheating than using farsight!”

In silence, Rap stood up and stretched. Apparently he’d accepted his destiny. Ogi had expected a much longer argument, and he began to wonder if this was a trick and the faun was planning to disappear into the woods. He certainly did not look like a tyro preparing to fight one of the top killers in Durthing.

Sounds of smashing shrubbery heralded the approach of Kani.

“You’re taking this very well,” Ogi said uneasily. Rap smiled, humorlessly. “It’ll be a pleasure.”

“Oh?” Ogi was dumbfounded.

The kid stepped closer, eyes glinting in the firelight. “What Wulli told me about Grindrog was something different. I’d have been tempted anyway, if I’d thought I had any chance at all. Now you say I have, and you’ve trapped me, so I have no choice. Fine! Friend Grindrog deserves to have his head kicked a few more times. And other things.”

Ogi opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“But we’ve got time to kill, haven’t we?” Rap said gently. “Id like to borrow some heavier boots from someone, and we must let Grindrog do his drinking and meditate on his troubles . . . mustn’t we?”

Suddenly, somehow, the faun had hold of Ogi’s shirt and was twisting it, hauling him right up off his seat and higher, up on tiptoe. And smiling. The first big smile all night. Not a cheerful smile, all teeth and much too close to Ogi’s nose.

“How much?” Rap demanded. “How much are you going to make if the faun mule beats the blind champion? Or is the blindness just a worm to hook me?”

“No, Rap. I really think he’s almost blind. And I was just about to talk about your share of my . . . our winnings . . . and—”

“And I may have time for a practice bout or two first!” Rap, of course, was half jotunn. It just didn’t show, usually. It showed now.

Ogi should have thought of that sooner.

The fist at his throat was choking him. His knees began to quiver. He could smell that jotunnish anger. Imps fought best when they had numbers on their side, and he was no great bruiser. He’d brawled a little when he first arrived, because he’d had to, and he was hefty enough, but usually he just groveled. Few jotnar in Durthing would even bother to jostle an imp.

“You and Kani and who else in this?”

Hefty or not, now Ogi had been lifted right into the air. The faun was holding him up one-handed, holding him close enough to stare right into those big faun eyes, and they were full of jotunn madness. He should certainly have thought of this possibility.

“You and Kani and who else?”

“Verg,” Ogi said with some difficulty.

“I’ll start with you, then—practice the jelly thing.” Ogi muttered a silent prayer to every God in the lists.

Kani burst into the circle of firelight, so breathless he could hardly speak. Obviously he had more on his mind than the proposed Rap—Grindrog contest, for he did not seem to notice the confrontation in progress. He gasped, pointed back over his shoulder, gasped again.

He said, “Orca! “

“What? “ Rap released Ogi, who dropped and staggered backward. By the time he had recovered his balance, Rap was gone in the darkness, the sounds of his progress through the shrubbery already growing fainter.

“Rap! Wait! Rap, that’s suicide!” The noises continued to move away. “Rap, we have no weapons! “ But obviously shouting was not going to stop the faun.

Orca?

Far, far more frightened now than he had been by the thought of a beating from Rap, Ogi took off after him, leaving the winded Kani to follow as best he could.

If he dared.

 

At the Oasis of Tall Cranes, Inos achieved the impossible. It started when Azak smiled to her as he strode by.

A smile from Azak was a fearsome sight. It displaced large quantities of copper-red hair. Since leaving Arakkaran he had let his beard grow in full, and it was a very full beard indeed. With his hook nose and scarlet djinn eyes, with his great height and unshakable arrogance, Azak was not a person easily overlooked.

For a moment Inos stood and watched him go, heading for the camel paddock; stalking along in his voluminous desert robes, one ruddy hand resting on the hilt of his scimitar. She sighed. Azak ak’Azakar was a problem. His proposals of marriage were becoming more frequent and more insistent every day, as the long journey neared its end. His logic was impeccable and his arguments unanswerable. Only sorcery could ever put her on the throne of her ancestors, the throne of Krasnegar. Only the wardens were permitted to use sorcery for political ends, and the Four would be much more likely to approve her petition if she had a competent husband at her side. Especially if he was a strong and proven ruler already. Like Azak.

A match foretold by the Gods.

The only flaw in this plan was that she did not feel ready to accept Azak as a husband, despite his obvious qualifications on all counts; despite the command of a God. She could not imagine him surviving the boredom of a Krasnegarian winter; and if the wardens refused to uphold her claim, she would then be faced with the alternative of being sultana of Arakkaran. That would not be the same thing at all.

As he vanished into the roaring melee of unloading camels, Inos returned to her immediate task, which was helping Kade erect the tent. Kade was waiting patiently, regarding her niece with faded old blue eyes—and a glimpse of those eyes could sometimes startle even Inos now, so accustomed was she to seeing only djinns around her.

“First Lionslayer seems remarkably relaxed,” Kade said. “Oh, I’m sure it takes more than a few brigands to frighten Azak . . . Now, which way is the wind blowing?”

But as the two of them set to work with practiced skill, Kade’s comment began to bubble in Inos’s mind like yeast in a beer vat. For weeks the women of the caravan had talked uneasily of the dangers of the Gauntlet. Here at the infamous Oasis of Tall Cranes, they were right in the middle of it, and most of them were visibly jumpy. The lionslayers’ wives muttered discreetly about their husbands’ ill temper, for the lionslayers were redeyed in more ways than one, standing watch all night and riding camel all day.

But Azak had been smiling?

Well, why not? No matter how the rest of the party had fretted, Azak had remained quite untroubled by the promised perils. Chuckling into his red bush of a beard, he had pointed out that Sheik Elkarath had traversed the Gauntlet many times unscathed. And of course Inos had known what he was hintingthat the old sheik could never be endangered by mere mundane bandits.

That must be what Kade was thinking at the moment, also. It just wasn’t something that could be said out loud, though. Kade had been unusually brash, or strong-willed, to say even as much as she had.

Inos glanced around at the gaunt, rubbly hills and the sharp peaks of the Progistes, dark against the setting sun like gigantic legionaries. There were no cranes in sight, tall or short, but then there had been no dragons at the Oasis of Three Dragons, either. The world had changed since place names were invented.

She scowled at the white cottages, the pampered trees, and even at the welcome little lake. Some long-forgotten sorcerer had dammed an intermittent stream to make this settlement possible. If the stories were true, he had thereby created a longlived aristocracy of highwaymen and caused the deaths of untold innocent travelers.

But not Elkarath.

She stared thoughtfully at her aunt, now busily hammering in a tent peg. Kade did not normally discuss the sheik, even in such oblique hints. Nor did Azak, or Inos herself. But she could recall a couple of times on the journey when the conversation had come close to the subject of magic—and both times had been late in the day, as now.

Her eyes went again to the forbidding barrier of mountains. Beyond them lay Thume, the Accursed Place. No one ever went there.

Did they? And so . . .

The temptation was irresistible. What did she have to lose? She drew a deep breath, ignoring the sudden thumping of her heart while cautiously glancing around to confirm that there was no one within earshot. In these trailing Zarkian costumes with their floppy hoods a woman never knew who might be creeping up on her, but the nearest tent on the right was already standing and obviously empty, its sides folded up to let the evening breeze sift through. The one on the left was being erected by a jabbering band of youngsters, the daughters of Sixth Lionslayer.

“A favor, Aunt?”

Kade looked up and nodded, her jotunnish blue eyes puzzled, and the rest of her invisible below yashmak and draperies.

“Tonight take your cue from me? No arguments?”

The blue eyes widened, then quickly narrowed in a frown. “You aren’t planning something impulsive, are you, dear?”

“Impulsive? Me? Of course not! But, please, Aunt? Trust me?”

“I always do, dear,” Kade said suspiciously.

Nevertheless, Inos knew she would cooperate. “Well, if you can spare me for a moment . . . I need a quick word with Jarthia.” She turned and trudged off between the trees.

She thought she almost approved of Tall Cranes, despite the sinister reputation of its inhabitants. Yet not long ago an isolated hamlet like this would have seemed squalid and pathetic to her. How fast one’s standards could change! Probably the Ullacarn place would feel like a grand city when she reached it, after so many lonely little desert settlements, most much smaller and more poverty-stricken than this. She did not yearn for grand cities. She would cheerfully have turned down a visit to Hub itself in place of a quiet afternoon in Krasnegar—dull, scruffy old Krasnegar!

Cheerfully she returned the greetings of familiar fellow travelers as she passed their tents, women and children with whom she had shared the ordeals of the Central Desert: thirst and killer heat and the terrors of a sandstorm. She should have brought a water jug as an excuse for this excursion. Kade was much better at carrying water on her head than she was. Patience had never been her strong suit.

Then she reached the tent of Fourth Lionslayer. Fourth would be engaged elsewhere, helping Azak oversee the unloading. His wife, Jarthia, was about the same age as Inos and admittedly striking, in a voluptuous djinnish way, with hair of deep chestnut and eyes as red as any Inos had ever seen. Shortly after the caravan had left Arakkaran, Jarthia had given birth to a large and healthy son. Now that her belly had flattened again and her breasts were still large with milk, her figure was even more lush than usual. None of that was visible at the moment, of course, or ever would be visible to any man except Fourth himself. He was elderly and utterly enslaved by his beautiful son-bearing wife, whose predecessors had produced only a double handful of daughters. All these factors found their place in Inos’s devious inspiration.

Kneeling on the rugs spread before her tent, Jarthia was lighting the brazier. Just another anonymously shrouded female, she looked up in wonder at the visitor, for this was the time of day when the women must rush to prepare the day’s meal for their hungry, hot, and hot-tempered menfolk.

“Mistress Harthak?” Jarthia murmured respectfully, and inscrutably. That was Inos’s current name, Azak’s choice. It was certainly better than the name he had bestowed upon Kade, which had unfortunate implications—at times the young sultan’s ferocious mien concealed a wicked sense of humor.

Mistress Harthak had not thought to prepare what she wanted to say. She mumbled some sort of greeting, then decided to sit down. She settled stiffly on the rug.

Jarthia’s surprise increased to became distrust. She muttered the customary welcome from, “My husband’s house is honored,” to the final offer of water.

Inos declined the water. “I was wondering,” she began, remembering to harden the Hubban accent she had cultivated so painstakingly at Kinvale, ”whether you were planning to visit the bathhouse this evening.”

Jarthia sat back and studied her visitor with unblinking red eyes. “The lionslayer insists. He is a very demanding husband.”

Inos doubted that. “Oh, that’s good . . . but not quite what I meant. Actually, I was more concerned about thali . . . if you had thought of playing thali this evening?”

Thali was a popular women’s game. Inos had played it at Kinvale a few times.

Jarthia was the caravan’s lady champion. Her hot gaze flashed briefly over the buildings on the far side of the pond and then returned to Inos. ”Possibly.” The women of Tall Cranes would certainly have more valuables to lose than those of more honest settlements.

“Oh, good. My aunt and I might like to join in, for a change.”

“Mistress Phattas and yourself are always welcome. “ Jarthia’s voice was becoming quite sinister with suspicion.

“Yes. Well . . . what I had in mind . . . actually . . .”

Inos really ought to have planned how best to say this. “What I had in mind actually was . . . was gambling, and . . . er, cheating?”

Favor the deceit:

When I consider life, ‘tis all a cheat;
Yet, fool with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay:
Tomorrow’s falser than the former day.

— Dryden, Aureng-Zebe