TWO

Anton watched from the king's balcony as the barge of the uldia receded. King Vidori had already turned away, to confer with his military chief, Romang, and a dozen nobles.

“She didn't come out,” Nick said, watching the barge enter one of the canals, barely clearing the width of it. “That might have been lacking in respect to the First Dassa,” he said, referring to one of the king's titles. The uldia and the judipon, the Second and Third Dassa, were the other great Powers of the region—in competition with the king, Nick had said, suggesting at the same time that Anton might play them off against each other. If the king still refused to allow access to the Quadi site.

“Maybe we should pay a social call on the woman,” Nick said, keeping his voice low, referring to the Second Dassa, the person they called Oleel.

But Anton's goals at the moment were more narrow. The problem of Zhen, for instance. The problem of the confiscation of their weapons. “Vidori could interpret that as a threat,” he said.

“Maybe that's a message he needs to get, Captain.”

Anton knew Nick was itching to break free of the king's compound. They all were. But Vidori was asking for patience, to give the Dassa people time to get used to the idea of visitors. Especially visitors like them.

The king turned to them, motioning for them to join him inside. As Anton and Nick left the veranda, the servants closed the screens, finely woven, but sturdy. Outside, a light rain had resumed.

Anton noticed that the table had only two chairs drawn up. “I don't think you're invited, Nick,” Anton said.

“Aristocrat to aristocrat, then,” Nick said, grinning, making it hard to take offense. Anton remembered Nick saying he'd be here to help him, that day when Bailey named him captain. But from the first day he and his friend had seen things differently. They were all second-guessing him, and no one more than Anton himself, who'd never looked for the job.

Nick left, along with Romang and the nobles. On a small stand was the king's private telephone, self-consciously placed within reach. It might have been a work of art, with its porcelain housing cast in a delicate pattern, typical of the miniature style the Dassa so prized. The voice box clicked now and then as though clearing its throat to say something.

Vidori was gesturing at the table. “We will present a meal,” he said.

Facing the king, Anton wondered where to begin. It would be rude to come to the point. Release Zhen. She'll stay with me, not in your prison. They'd taken Zhen for her safety, Shim, the king's apologist, had said. Strangling us with silk, Anton thought again.

He waited for Vidori to lead off.

Like most Dassa men, Vidori wore his long hair clasped at the back of his head. It was slicked back so hard it shone. At his ears hung the crescent pendants, in black, the king's color, and at his waist, an intricately carved pistol, a reminder that this kingdom was at war. He was old enough to have a mature daughter, the Princess Joon, but was still remarkably handsome, with deeply bronze skin, always closely shaven. The women were often striking, yet they were not quite … feminine. Their bodies were trim and flat, almost boyish. Except for the hoda, some of whom appeared heavy-breasted and -hipped. The fact of female slaves was one of a long and growing list of issues that disturbed the crew and laced Anton's path with political and moral hazards.

Vidori began, “I regret that your Bailey could not be found.” He spoke, as always, with a rich, though neutral voice.

“Bailey will join us next time, Vidori-rah. Along with Zhen, I hope.”

The king let that lie. “Here is a meal,” he said, gesturing to the table.

Indeed, food lay heaped on trays, with no utensils or plates. Anton took a chair as Vidori seated himself. There had been audiences with the king before, but never to share food. He wished there were not that additional array of protocol to navigate.

Vidori crossed his legs, sitting relaxed. “I have a report on your air barge, Anton. No one has tried approaching it. My guard keeps it secure.”

The king was making a special effort to say his name correctly. He had given up on Zhen, referring to her as Sen.

“Thank you, rahi,” Anton said, using the honorific. ‘After the attack on Zhen and Bailey, I am concerned about…” He searched for the Dassa word for sabotage, but settled for mischief.

Vidori waved this off. “The craft is secure.”

Secure, yes. In the name of security, Vidori was holding them virtual prisoners. For their own sakes, or for some hidden reason? The king's motives were not the only thing hidden to him. This world, Neshar. This region of the rivers, the Olagong, as they called it. Where, in all this forest and river land, was what they had come for? Bailey continued to say it was the hoda; but the palace estimated their population at some twelve thousand individuals, too few to help the Earth reestablish a healthy population. Even—which was unthinkable, given the hoda role here—if they agreed to travel to Earth, and if enough ships could be provided for transport. No, the hoda were not the answer.

“The flooding continues,” Anton said, pursuing his concern over the shuttle.

“Not enough to touch the craft. Nor will the rivers rise so high.” The king looked in the direction of the flooded plaza. “When the Sodesh retreats, the Voi march. We have either flooding or battles. Which do you prefer, Anton?”

“I am more at home with battles, Vidori-rah.”

Vidori seemed pleased at this. “A man like myself. With enemies.” He gestured at the plate of food. “The guest eats first.”

“Ah.” Anton looked over the piles of garish fruit, choosing a piece of what he assumed was pineapple. Oddly, it was pineapple. On a planet where it should not be.

Through the wood floors a gush of water could be heard, evidence of the extensive plumbing system of the palace. The Dassa were fastidious about water. Half the energies of the palace seemed focused on repair and extensions of the ceramic pipe system, here in this society that had developed the river lands’ rich clay deposits, with the harder-to-mine metals of the world a rarity. The fact that even their six-barrel pistols were partially composed of ceramics showed they had fairly well-developed ceramic alloy technology.

“What enemy tried to attack my crew, Vidori-rah?”

The king took a neon slice of fruit from the platter, chewing thoughtfully. “Someone who fears what you are: a powerful, far-traveling race who bear their young. The idea is abhorrent.” He smiled. “I, however, am open-minded.” He sipped from a cup of wine, a fine blue wine of the palace reserve. “I have enemies, too. There are barbarians who covet the Olagong, our braided lands. Their lands are cold, their children few.”

To Vidori, it was self-evident that cold variums meant poor yields. A warm varium, the science team estimated, produced only one birth per thousand swims. Apparently the Voi envied that number.

The king went on, “The barbarians would have what we have. That is the nature of our war. Your arrival coincides with this circumstance.”

“Which circumstance, rahi?”

“Of the lowering of the Sodesh, and the advance of our enemies. Of course, there are many sizes of problems.”

“I hope our arrival is not such a problem,” Anton said.

“Some see that it is. I am not one of those.” He reached for a handful of berries. “But the captain must learn to respect walk.”

Nick was right. Smashing that screen had impressed the Dassa. They looked at him as though he might go plowing through a wall at any moment.

“We have caused you some inconvenience,” Anton said. “Our arrival, and the attempt on Zhen's life …”

The king's pleasant expression fled, replaced with a neutral face.

Anton pushed on: “But I would welcome the opportunity to protect Zhen myself. If you would return her to my quarters and also my weapon and my crew's hand weapons.” There, he'd gotten it all in. He locked gazes with Vidori, rude or not.

“Sen …,” the king said. “Thankfully, she was not murdered.”

“We are grateful for the skill and bravery of your guards that night, Vidori-rah. However …”

“She is a hoda,” the king said through a mouthful of food.

“She is a member of my crew. A valued chancellor. She is not a slave.”

“She is born to bear.” Vidori shrugged. “A hoda.”

“My people bear children in our way We have great respect for Zhen, and that she is born to bear.” It was necessary to make this point clear.

“Yes, but you are in the Olagong now, Captain.”

“We are not Dassa.”

“We did wonder what you are.” He had, at their last meeting, been especially confused by the human concept of disease—of the humans’ lack of pri, as Vidori had called it, which translated, Anton thought, to life force.

Vidori was watching him closely. “Captain, I will tell you a story. There is a bird of legend, called the ashi, with feathers the color of this meal you see before you. Long ago, before we had fallen into disrespect, the feathers were highly prized, and woven into fine clothes. The ashi cared for the chicks, flightless for the first weeks of life. Some years, if the river receded early, and the lands returned prematurely, the predators could walk the land bridges and ravage the young ashi. They cared little for the promise of the plumage, but devoured the chicks, just like this platter of food. These predators were vile creatures with no sense of beauty or respect. So the ashi prayed for high rivers, and so did the people who wished to see the ashi in flight.” He paused. “Thus our expression, ‘May the rivers swell’ ”

Anton nodded. “The Voi are such vile creatures?”

“Problems come in all sizes. Some are Dassa.” His dark eyes met Anton's, holding his gaze, then broke contact, signaling for the servants to remove the platter.

When the table was empty, Vidori stood and went to a corner of the room where a series of reed boxes lined the floor. He opened one, removing another, smaller reed box. He brought it back and set it in the middle of the table.

“You have studied the Olagong, thankfully,” he said. “You know that we have three powers, and that among them are the Second Dassa and the Third Dassa—the uldia andthejudipon.”

Yes, Nick had pieced it together: The king presided over only one of the three realms. Each of the three powers claimed a river for its symbolic domain, and for its official palace. These rivers, the Puldar, Amalang, and Nool, flowed into the Sodesh, considered the braided sum of all rivers.

The king went on, “Together, the Three uphold the Olagong and all the traditional ways. But when the river recedes, there is a time when—problems—may occur.”

If those problems were individual Dassa, they would likely be the uldia or the judipon. “Someone could take advantage of vulnerable times,” Anton replied. “While the palace is preoccupied with the outside threat.”

The king looked intently at him. “Thankfully, I have not said so.”

But he had said so, between the lines, implying also the need for Anton's security.

The king was looking out the open veranda wall, where the rain had resumed its lush cascade. “Your chancellor Sen is in danger among us, among those Dassa less open-minded than I. But I will return her to you, since you wish it,” he said. He glanced sharply back at Anton. “You will be responsible if she suffers harm. See that she is circumspect about being seen in the pavilion, and never alone.”

“Thank you, Vidori-rah.” It was a small victory, and a gratifying one.

The king turned his attention to the reed box. Unfastening the closure ring, the king opened the lid, revealing a liner of vibrant silk. Nested inside was Anton's side arm.

“For use against the enemies you can see. I return this to you, and you may wear it.” His eyes flicked to Anton. “The rest I keep until such time as you choose to return to your great ship.”

Anton had just been given Zhen, his weapon, and an assurance of his freedom to leave. It was all unexpected, and yet not all that he needed. “Vidori-rah,” he pushed on, “I am not ungrateful. But as I have requested before, my people wish to view the Quadi site. The ruins.”

Vidori paused. “I have said, this is on uldia land. The uldia would not welcome you there.”

“It is necessary, rahi. For my mission.”

“Give me time, Anton. I have said, the river is receding.” At Anton's frown, he added: “Perhaps I am not clear, Captain. The ruins are underwater just now, in flood season. Did you know?”

Underwater. No, he hadn't known.

A swish of a wall opening. The two of them turned.

Standing in the opening was a woman of astonishing beauty. She was dressed in a vibrant blue silk jacket and a long skirt. The Princess Joon.

“Oh, you are busy, Father,” she said. She looked at Anton, smiling briefly. “Thank you, I will leave.”

Vidori smiled broadly for the first time since Anton had known him. “No, you must join us.” He gestured her into the room, with a sweep of his hand commanding her to come forward.

After a moment's hesitation, she approached, her gown rustling. She was tall, as tall as her father and Anton. She looked at the pistol, lying there. “If it is war you speak of, Father, I will have nothing to say. I will embarrass myself in front of the captain.”

“Thankfully, Joon, we are finished with the Voi for now.”

“Thankfully,” she repeated. She turned a bold gaze on Anton.

He tried to keep from staring at her. He bowed. “Princess Joon, my thanks.”

She nodded, then turned to her father. “He speaks so well, Vidori-rah!”

The king's retort was immediate: “He is the captain of a great ship, Joon. Do not patronize.”

Her face wavered. “I am sorry, Father.”

Anton started to assure her that no offense had been taken, but Joon was focused on her father.

Vidori softened. “No harm, no harm.” His hand came onto her shoulder. She stood before him, composing herself. She looked at her father, and the look seemed not quite what it should be. Nor her father's look.

Anton turned from them to the open veranda, to the drowned plaza outside, where the river system would soon retreat, leaving it and the Dassa lands clear—and perhaps more dangerous. He wished he did not know what he did about relations between some Dassa daughters and some fathers. Between some Dassa mothers and sons.

The fruit dinner sat uneasily in his stomach, one thing warring with another.

He accepted the weapon box from the king's hands.

Joon turned to him. “You must visit at my pavilion, Captain.”

“I will, thank you, Lady.”

Anton took his leave. He wasn't sure what would happen next between father and daughter, or even if anything would, but he judged it an excellent time to leave. Gripping the box, he departed the king's suite of rooms, more or less satisfied. He had the gun; he had Zhen. And the king had implied that they might visit the Quadi ruins when the rivers returned to their banks. Anton took that as a promise.

He walked away feeling as though he had just run an obstacle course, blindfolded. He thought Captain Darrow would have emerged from this meeting with more to show for himself. But the man was dead, damn him.

Nick Venning sat in the canoe, watching the paddles dip as the Dassa soldiers sped them along the middle of the river. All other craft gave way before them, and the current was with them, speeding their trip. Rain fell, denting the gray river to a swath of hammered steel. The canoe the king provided had a roof on it, supported by poles. They were all soaking wet anyway, but it kept the deluge off.

Behind him, Nick heard Zhen's complaints, though she was riding in a small screened-in cabin. She grumbled just loud enough for him to hear: “… cooped up for weeks in this stinking place and now can't see a stinking thing.”

She hated going abroad covertly, and hated having Nick for an escort, although Anton had pushed hard for this trip to the shuttle for her to conduct diagnostics. He'd put Nick in charge, but without a side arm. Anton Prados kept their sole weapon for himself.

Nick turned halfway around. “Want me to continue my travelogue, or you just feel like venting?” He thought he'd done a good job describing what he saw of the submerged delta system: bits of bridges, trees, islets. But Zhen was in a mood.

“I want to vent.”

“Fine, then. Knock yourself out.”

He was tired of talking anyway, when there was so much to see. Through the downpour, he could just make out the larger world of Vidori's kingdom, his city called Lolo—although it was like no city he'd ever seen, and still wasn't seeing, it being seasonally drowned. Plying this tributary, the Puldar, were hundreds of skiffs and larger canoes, going about their business of trading and traveling, unfazed by the rain and the obstacle course of submerged objects.

In the prow of his canoe sat two other individuals: a Dassa noblewoman, back straight as a broom handle, and behind her a hoda, huddled and miserable. These would be Zhen's test subjects once they reached the shuttle. He was sure no one had bothered to tell the hoda woman where she was going and why. He would have done so, but he was separated from her by the three soldiers propelling the craft forward.

They passed a skiff laden with crates of fruit. On top of this cargo, a Dassa man and woman lay with each other, his hand roaming freely over her, and her moans carrying an unwelcome glimpse of high passion. Unwelcome, but Nick stared. It was difficult not to, though the crew had seen this kind of careless display before.

Zhen poked her head out of the tent. “Don't act like a country boy” she said, following his gaze.

“I'm not.” But, the thing was, this Dassa man was bringing the woman to climax, it seemed, simply by touching her legs. No Dassa in the vicinity paid the slightest attention.

“You're staring,” Zhen said. “Don't be an idiot.”

The canoe was out of range now. Thankfully, Nick thought, picking up the Dassa saying. He truly would have chosen not to be confronted with Dassa intimate moments. But it wasn't as though the Dassa were looking for an audience; they simply had no boundaries. They were free of shame—and, some of the crew said, decency. Free as they were in this respect, the act of swimming in the variums— every morning, no less—had become so culturally charged that release was assured in those brief dips. It was intriguing. Disturbing. That the getting of children began in so stark, so lonely a manner.

Zhen growled, “I suppose you're in anthropological heaven.”

He let that pass. Normally quiet and eerily focused on business, Zhen had a mean tongue when in a bad mood. He wondered that the old woman had chosen her for the mission. But Zhen was a big-time scholar, with a reputation in microbial biology.

“Goddamn muddy hells, answer me, Venning.”

Cai Zhen called everyone by their last name, since she went by hers.

“Keep your nose in the tent,” he answered. “I wouldn't want our crew virgin to get excited.” He couldn't imagine Zhen doing it with anyone, publicly or privately.

“Up yours, Venning.”

He let her have the last word, and that seemed to satisfy her for now.

The Puldar tributary—braid was a better translation from the Dassa—was here defined by huts hugging the banks, hundreds of houses on stilts, some leaning against each other for support, as though their legs had gone wobbly. Most were humble affairs, single-story huts that were not much more than boxes. Some were connected by rope bridges or continuous porches. Underneath them coursed the Puldar, still a full meter from the wood floors. It was at its zenith, the Dassa said, or they would not be so relaxed about the flooding. Carried along the current were masses of leaves, algae, dead birds, and limbs of trees, which the boaters nimbly dodged, nearly crashing into each other in the process. The middle of the river was for nobles, and in this trough Nick's canoe sped along.

The effortless movement of people and goods on the river system was just one example of the harmony and sustainability of the Olagong. Also, in Nick's view, there was the political stability of the Three Powers, the efficient distribution of wealth, the absence of poverty, the well-being of all children, and apparent freedom from disease. It was perhaps because of this ideal life that the concept of religion had never taken hold. The closest the Dassa came to worship was a sense of veneration for the rivers on which their lives depended. But even the rivers were not so much sacred as treasured. On the other side of the ledger, there was the chronic state of war, or at least unrest along the borders, and the fact that all this prosperity could in large part be attributed to slavery, an institution based on both race and gender in an inescapable linkage of social role and reproductive mode.

After a while Nick had the urge for company again, even Zhen's. “So what do you think you're going to find? With the imaging.” He waited to see if Zhen would hurl a stone or just converse.

“I try not to guess, Venning. It's called science.”

“Sure you do. It's called a hypothesis.”

“OK, my hypothesis is that one of them has a uterus and one of them doesn't.”

“Can't you tell by a, what is it—pelvic exam? You did those, right?”

“Yeeees,” Zhen said, as though winding up.

“And you thought that the hoda, at least, has one.”

“Need a visual to be sure.”

A dead monkey floated by. Though it looked like an Earth monkey, it had broad webs of skin between its limbs, which served for brief glides in the tree canopy. Its arms were extraordinarily long, used for brachiating from limb to limb. A quasi-monkey then. They'd also seen quasi-river rats, with eyes, ears, and nostrils on the top of their heads so they could swim while searching for food. However, other local specimens were dead-on for Earth counterparts: mangrove, palmyra, mahogany, banyan. This did tend to be the case with plants more than animals.

The ship's science team theorized that the animals, if raised up from genetic information taken from the Dark Cloud, were mutated. There would have been extensive damage to the data in the Cloud, perhaps from radiation. Some of those mutations would have been beneficial. Or they might have been intentional on the part of the beings who sent the Message. The old race, now vanished. The theory of the Quadi could be myth, but the team was treating it seriously. Someone had put satellites in orbit.

If these beings had raised up the creatures of this world—from DNA code—then they might also believe that humans could do so. So they might have preserved the code as code. Somewhere. Presumably they would also have provided the scientific knowledge to bring the code to life— perhaps by describing some version of the Dassa variums. This was the direction of the science team's current thinking. Of course, it would all be more simple if the hoda represented a people that could mix with Earth populations, which was why Bailey liked that theory.

“So,” Nick continued, “if the hoda have uteruses… uteri?” Zhen didn't grace the question with a response. “If the hoda have them, then we might have hit the jackpot.”

“Jackpot? You think you're going to marry a hoda and bring her back with you? Or load up the ark full of Vidori's personal slaves and take ‘em home, like a cargo or something?”

“No, nothing like that…”

“Then how exactly might we have hit the jackpot, Lieutenant?”

“I hadn't thought that far. If we could reproduce with the hoda, it would be a beginning, that's all. Instead of all the damn endings we've had on ship, at home, you name it. That's all I'm saying—I'm not trying to solve everything, or turn this into a goddamn kung fu match.” He bit his tongue. Zhen loved to have people go off on her. It was what she lived for.

She peeked her head out of the curtain, her eyes as hard as ball bearings. “The Dassa won't let the hoda have babies, will they? It's against the goddamn law. Forbidden. If that's the jackpot, then we're shit out of luck.” She yanked the curtain shut.

That was Zhen for you. The woman would never trade ideas with someone in the soft sciences. She was oriented to data, as he was to people, so she discounted him. Like Anton, lately. So changed from the days of studies and grueling preparation at the academy, when Anton coached him in math and Nick returned the favor in linguistics. Changed since the day the old lady handed Anton the position without giving Nick a chance to argue his qualifications. She couldn't get past his background—all blue-collar, no refinement.

Meanwhile Anton was right at home eating state dinners and hobnobbing with the privileged; it was the life he was born to before he finally severed the apron strings and struck out on his own. Now he'd gotten up a friendship with Vidori. Anton would start at the top of the power pyramid and work down; it was hard-wired into him, though Anton, despising his father as he did, would be the first to deny it and say he wanted to be just plain military. But just plain military would not by any stretch of the imagination describe Anton Prados.

It described Nick Venning, though.

They turned out of the Puldar byway into the great River Sodesh, where the sky and water blurred into one gray swath for as far as Nick could see. Here, the boats thinned out. Larger craft plied the giant waterway, barges and long canoes, many with thatch roofs held up by poles and bearing on top the cargoes of the braided lands. Some looked like they could not possibly remain upright, as tall and narrow as they were, but the Dassa were nothing if not water-born, and Nick gave up worrying they would tip over.

Nick saw that the hoda woman had laid out a small meal for her mistress, balancing the pink fruit on her knees to serve as a table. She leaned toward her mistress as the woman spoke to her, and then the hoda answered in sign, bringing a laugh from the noblewoman. It looked like the two might be friends on an outing. Except that one could not speak, and was a slave.

Nick wanted to know what the status of the hoda might be among the society of women known as the uldia. Slavery would be a complicated system; there would be factions and subtle differences in attitudes. The mission needed a captain with a wider perspective. Someone with a vision, who could see patterns and connections. That was what leaders did. It was what Captain Darrow would have done, God rest his soul.

The shuttle was intact, carefully guarded by a contingent of the king's guard. No doubt Vidori was eager to prevent it from falling into Voi hands.

It was eerie to be back in the shuttle after so long in the wood and water world of the Olagong. The noblewoman and the hoda stared around themselves at the metal environs, with its tangle of pipes and conduits.

Since Zhen wasn't yet a decent speaker of the Dassa language, she had Nick explain to the women what the procedure would be. He did his best, having memorized the anatomical terms in their language. Then Zhen took the women by the arm and led them into the exam room.

Nick sorted through his locker, cramming necessities into a stuff sack—at Anton's orders, leaving behind anything that was or might be construed as a weapon. That meant leaving behind the miniature scout drone. It operated within a limited range, anyway, its main utility being advance scouting in a combat situation. Vidori wouldn't be told about such a device, since they intended to steer clear of escalating the warfare here.

After an hour, Zhen emerged from the lab with the two Dassa women.

“Well?” he asked in English.

To his surprise, Zhen answered him simply, clinically. “The hoda has all her physiology intact.” She glanced at the noblewoman. “The other has only a vestigial uterus. Nonfunctional.”

So, then. The Dassa didn't reproduce—normally. They'd said they didn't. But this settled it. There were variums here, somewhere. Tended by the uldia. He realized that he'd been hoping it was a communication error or a myth.

Zhen was thinking out loud. “Question is, how do we get two types of Dassa?”

At Nick's blank look, she went on, “Some of the science team think it happened with a reversion mutation. Now that we know there are two kinds of Dassa reproduction, I think the hoda are definitely revertants. It's one way it could make sense.”

“Revertants?”

Zhen was indulging him. “Yeah, revertants. The way that works is, the Dassa reproductive system is, let's say, controlled by a knockout gene that was inserted into the middle of a key gene that regulates uterus formation. So the varium gene can direct, and is compatible with, the whole Dassa reproductive strategy. But if the inserted DNA is naturally unstable to some extent, then it is occasionally excised back out of the gene by a reversion mutation, thus knocking out the first gene's function. Happens all the time in genetic research, where we can alter mice by inserting a gene and blocking its readout into protein, like if a genetically altered red-eyed fruit fly gives rise to an offspring that has the original black eyes.”

Nick frowned. “I don't think revertants is a very good name, though. Sounds creepy.”

“How about Homo sapiens, then? The hoda are Homo sapiens.”

Nick's face must have showed how sweet that news sounded. “That's great,” he said.

Zhen narrowed her eyes. “Don't applaud yet. We've still got a few problems.” She moved to the hoda woman and took her by the arm, leading her to stand in front of Nick.

The hoda was staring up at Nick, as though she thought she'd done something wrong.

Zhen said, “Tell her to open her mouth.”

“You tell her, Zhen—you're supposed to be learning Dassa.”

Zhen turned to the hoda. “Open up the mouth.”

The hoda did so, revealing a small mouth that was healthy in all respects save one. Instead of tapering, the end of her tongue was flat, where it had been sheared off. A puckered red line demarcated the fluted ridge where the incision had been made.

“That,” Zhen said bitterly, “is what the Dassa think of people like us. So how much do you think they're going to care about our problems?”

Nick had seen enough. “You can close your mouth,” he whispered to the hoda, and she did so, with a look of gratitude. It made him sick to see such a look on her face, when he'd done nothing for her, could do nothing for her.

Standing at the hatchway, and taking no notice of all this, the noblewoman was adjusting her auburn hair in her elaborate bun.

“We are not among friends here,” Zhen said. “Of course, they only mutilate girls, so you don't have anything to worry about, Venning.”

But Nick was plenty worried, even about Zhen. She had a wicked tongue. Sooner or later, someone in the Olagong was bound to notice.