CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

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RAIN WILD
TRADERS

“Because anything out of the ordinary rattles me, that’s why,” Grandma snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Malta’s mother said in a neutral voice. “I was only asking.” She stood behind Grandmother at her vanity table, pinning up her hair for her. She didn’t sound sorry, she sounded weary of Grandma’s eternal irritability. Malta didn’t blame her. Malta was sick of them both being so crabby. It seemed to her that all they focused on was the sad side of life, the worrying parts. Tonight there was a big gathering of Old Traders and they were taking Malta with them. Malta had spent most of the afternoon arranging her hair and trying on her new robe. But here were her mother and grandmother, just dressing at the last minute, and acting as if the whole thing were some worrisome chore instead of a chance to get out and see people and talk. She just couldn’t understand them.

“Are you ready yet?” she nudged them. She didn’t want to be the last one to get there. There would be a lot of talking tonight, a Rain Wild and Trader business discussion her mother had said. She couldn’t see why her mother and grandmother found that so distressing. No doubt that would be sit-still-and-try-not-to-be-bored time. Malta wanted to arrive while there was still talking and greeting and refreshments being offered. Then maybe she could find Delo and sit with her. It was stupid that it was taking them so long to get ready. They should have each had a servant to assist with dressing hair and laying out garments and all the rest of it. Every other Trader family had such servants. But no, Grandma insisted that they could no longer afford them and Mama had agreed. And when Malta had argued they had made her sit down with a big stack of tally sticks and receipts and try to make sense of them in one of the ledger books. She had muddled the page, and Grandma made her copy it over. And then they had wanted to sit around and talk about what the numbers meant and why the numbers said they couldn’t have servants anymore, only Nana and Rache. Malta would be very glad when Papa got back. She was sure there was something they were missing. It made no sense to her. How could they suddenly be poor? Nothing else had changed. Yet there they were, in robes at least two years old, dressing one another’s hair and snipping at each other as they did it. “Can we go soon?” she asked again. She didn’t know why they wouldn’t answer.

“Does it look like we can go soon?” her mother demanded. “Malta, please try to be useful instead of driving me mad. Go and see if Trader Restart’s carriage has arrived.”

“Oh, not him!” Malta protested. “Please, please tell me we are not riding with him in that smelly old carriage of his. Mother, the doors don’t even stay shut or open properly. I am going to be so humiliated if we have to go with—”

“Malta, go and see if the carriage is here,” her grandmother tersely commanded her. As if her mother had not already said it.

Malta sighed and stalked off. By the time they got there, the food and drink would be gone and everyone would be seated on the council benches. If she had to go and sit through a whole council meeting, she at least wanted to be there for the fun part. As she walked down the hall, she wondered if Delo would even be there. Cerwin would. His family had been treating him like an adult for years. Maybe Delo would be there, and if she was, Malta could find a way to get permission to sit with her. It would be easy to get Delo to sit next to her brother. She hadn’t seen Cerwin since the day Mother had insisted on showing him around the garden room. But that didn’t mean that Cerwin was no longer interested.

At that thought, she made a quick side trip to the water closet. There was a small looking-glass there. The light was not good, but Malta still smiled at what she saw. She had swept her dark hair up from her face, braiding it and then securing it to the crown of her head. Artless tendrils danced on her forehead and brushed the tops of her cheeks. They still would allow her only flowers as adornments, but she had chosen the last tiny roses that still bloomed in the garden room. They were a deep red, with a heady sweet fragrance. Her robe for this evening was very simple, but at least it was not a little girl’s frock. It was a Trader’s robe, such as all the Traders wore to such meetings. Hers was a deep magenta, almost the same shade as the roses in her hair. It was traditionally the Vestrit color. Malta would have preferred a blue, but the magenta did look good on her. And at least it was new.

She’d never had a Trader’s robe before. In a way, they were stuffy garments, round necklines, ankle length, belted at the waist like a monk’s robe. She admired the shining black leather of her wide belt, the stylized initial that formed the buckle. She had cinched it tight, to better emphasize the swell of her hips and to pull the fabric tauter over her breasts. Papa was right. She did have a woman’s shape already; why should she not have a woman’s clothes and privileges? Well, it was only a matter of time before he was back, and then things would change around here. His trading would go well, he’d come home with pockets full of money, and then he would hear of how she had been mistreated and cheated of her promised gown and …

“Malta!” Her mother jerked the door open. “What are you doing in here? Everyone is waiting for you. Get your cloak and hurry up!”

“Is the carriage here?” she asked her mother’s back as she hurried after her.

“Yes,” Mama replied with asperity. “And Trader Restart has been standing beside it waiting for us.”

“Well, why didn’t he knock or ring the bell or …”

“He did,” her mother snapped. “But as usual, you were off in some daydream of your own.”

“Do I have to wear my cloak? We’ll be in the carriage and then the hall, and my old cloak looks stupid with my new robe.”

“It’s cold out. Wear your cloak. And, please, try to remember your manners tonight. Pay attention to what is said. The Rain Wild families don’t ask for an audience of all the Old Traders without good cause. I have no doubt that whatever is said tonight will affect the fates of us all. And remember that the Rain Wild folk are kin to us. Don’t stare, have your best manners and …”

“Yes, Mother.” The same lecture she had already delivered six times at least today. Did she think Malta was deaf, or stupid? Hadn’t she been told ever since she was born that they were kin to the Rain Wild families? That reminded her. As they went out the door past a stern-faced Nana, Malta began, “I’ve heard that the Rain Wild folk have a new ware. Flame jewels. I heard that the beads are clear as raindrops, but there are small tongues of flames that dance in each one.”

Her mother did not even answer. “Thank you so much for waiting, Davad. And this is so far out of your way as well,” she was saying to the dumpy little man.

He beamed at her mother, his face shining with pleasure and grease as he helped her up into the carriage. Malta didn’t say a word to him and managed to hop in before he could touch her arm. She hadn’t forgotten nor forgiven him for her last carriage ride. Her mother had settled in next to her grandmother. Oh, they couldn’t expect her to sit next to Trader Restart. It was just too disgusting. “May I sit in the middle?” she said, and managed to squeeze herself in between them. “Mother, about the flame jewels …” she began hopefully, but Trader Restart started speaking as if she weren’t even there.

“All settled? Well, here we go, then. Now, I shall have to sit by the door here to hold it shut, I’m afraid. I told my man to see to having the catch repaired, but when I ordered the carriage out tonight, I found it had not been done yet. It’s enough to drive one mad. What is the good of having servants if they pay no attention when you tell them to do something? It’s almost enough to make a man wish for slavery here in Bingtown. A slave knows that his master’s goodwill is his only hope of comfort and well-being, and it makes him pay attention to his orders.”

And on and on and on, all the way to Trader Concourse. Trader Restart talked and her mother and grandmother listened. At most they only politely differed with him even though she had heard her grandmother say a hundred times that she thought slavery would ruin Bingtown. Not that Malta agreed with her. She was sure Papa would not have become involved with it if it were not profitable. Still, she thought it was rather spineless, the way her grandmother said one thing at home, and then didn’t stand up for her views with Restart. The strongest thing she said was, “Davad, I have only to imagine myself a slave to know that it is wrong.” As if that were some final argument. Malta was thoroughly bored with the whole discussion long before the carriage stopped. And she still hadn’t managed to finish telling her mother about the flame jewels.

But at least they weren’t the last ones to arrive. Not quite. It took every bit of self-control Malta could muster to sit still while Restart fumbled with the faulty door-catch, and then maneuvered himself out the opening. She followed right away, stepping nimbly down before he could take her hand in his moist, meaty palm. The man made her want to go and wash.

“Malta!” her mother called to her sharply as she started up the walk. She didn’t even lower her voice as she said, “Wait there. We shall all go in together.”

Malta folded her lips and breathed out once through her nose. She did it on purpose: her mother enjoyed publicly speaking to her as if she were still a child. She waited for them, but when they caught up with her, she purposely lagged behind, not so far that her mother would call her, but far enough that she wasn’t quite with them and Trader Restart.

The Trader Concourse was dark. Well, not entirely, but certainly not lit as it had been for the Harvest Ball. A mere two torches burned to illuminate the pathway, and the windows of the hall showed dimly through shutter cracks. That was probably because this meeting had been called by the Rain Wild families. They did not enjoy light, or so it was said. Delo said it was something about their eyes, but Malta suspected that if they all were as ugly as the one she had seen, they just didn’t want everyone looking at them. Warty. That was how she had heard them described. Warty and deformed. A little shiver ran up her spine. She wondered how many of them would be here tonight.

Another carriage rattled up behind Davad’s just as his coachman clucked to his horses. It was an old style of carriage, with heavy lace panels obscuring the windows. Malta lagged to see who would get out of it. In the dim light, she had to peer to see the crest on the door. It was unfamiliar, not an Old Trader crest. That meant they had to be Rain Wild. No one else would dare to be here tonight. She walked on, but could not resist glancing over her shoulder to see who would get out. A family disembarked, six figures, all cloaked and hooded in dark colors. But as each stepped out, the touch of gloved hand to collar or cuff set tiny amber, red and orange lights to flickering at each location. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and then she realized what they were. Flame jewels. Malta halted where she stood. Oh, the rumors of them could not do them justice. She caught her breath and stared. The closer they came, the more magnificent they were.

“Malta?” She heard the warning in her mother’s voice.

“Good evening.” It was a husky woman’s voice that came from within the shadowed depths of the hood. And now Malta could see that the hood was veiled with a curtain of lace as well. What could be so hideous, as to need hiding even in darkness? The flame jewels she wore were scarlet, weighing down the edges of her veil. She was dimly aware of hurried footsteps behind her, the soft susurrus of fabric. She startled when her mother spoke right at her elbow. “Good evening. I am Keffria, of the Vestrit Trader family.”

“Jani of the Rain Wild’s Khuprus gives you greeting,” the hooded woman replied.

“May I present my daughter, Malta Haven of the Vestrit family?”

“You may indeed.” The woman’s voice was a cultured purr. Malta belatedly remembered to bow. The woman chuckled approvingly. When she spoke, it was to Malta’s mother. “I do not believe I have seen her at a Gathering before. Has she just entered society?”

“In truth, this is her first Gathering. She has not been presented yet. Her grandmother and I believe she must learn the duties and responsibilities of a Trader woman before she is presented as one.” In contrast to Jani, her mother’s voice was courteous and hasty, as if correcting a wrong impression.

“Ah. That does sound like Ronica Vestrit. And I do approve of such philosophy. I fear it is becoming rarer in Bingtown these days.” Her tone smooth and rich as cream now.

“Your flame jewels are beautiful,” Malta blurted out. “Are they very expensive?” Even as she said it, she heard how childish she sounded.

“Malta!” her mother rebuked her.

But the Rain Wild woman chuckled throatily. “Actually, the scarlets are the most common and the easiest to awaken. But I still love them best. Red is such a rich color. The greens and blues are rarer far, and much harder to stir. And so, of course, they are the ones we charge most dearly for. The flame jewels are the exclusive province of the Khuprus, of course.”

“Of course,” her mother replied. “It is quite thrilling to see this new addition to the Khuprus merchandise. The rumors of them have not done them justice.” Her mother glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, dear! We have delayed you, I fear. We should probably all go in lest they begin without us.”

“Oh, they will wait on me, I am certain,” Jani Khuprus observed heavily. “It is at my behest we are all gathered here. But you are right, there is no courtesy in keeping others waiting. Keffria, young Malta. A pleasure to speak with you both.”

“Our pleasure,” her mother demurred, and stepped aside deferentially to allow the hooded woman to precede her. As her mother took her arm, she gripped it just a fraction tighter than was comfortable. “Oh, Malta,” she sighed in rebuke, and then firmly escorted her in. Just within the doors of the Trader Concourse, Grandmother awaited them. Her lips were folded tightly. She curtsied deeply to Jani Khuprus as she passed, then turned wide eyes on Malta and her mother.

Her mother waited a few moments to be sure Jani Khuprus was out of earshot, then hissed, “She presented herself to her!”

“Oh, Malta,” her grandmother groaned. Sometimes Malta felt her name was a sort of club. Almost any time either of them said it, they expressed anger or disgust or impatience with the world. She hung her cloak on a peg, then turned with a shrug.

“I just wanted to see her flame jewels,” she tried to explain, but as usual, neither of them was listening to her. Instead they hurried her inside the hall. It was dimly lit with tall standing branches of tapers. A third of the space had been given over to an elevated stage. The floor that she had always seen cleared for dancing was now lined with rows of chairs. And it was as she had feared. They were late. The tables of food were picked over and folk were either seated already or seeking their seats. “Can I go and sit with Delo?” she asked hastily.

“Delo Trell is not here,” Grandmother pointed out acidly. “Her parents had the good sense to leave her at home. Which is where I wish you were, also.”

“I didn’t ask to come,” Malta replied, even as her mother said, “Mother!” in rebuke. A few moments later, Malta found herself seated between them at the end of a long row of cushioned chairs. Davad Restart sat at the very end. There was an elderly couple in front of them, a pox-scarred man and his pregnant wife behind them, and on the other side of Mama were two heavy-jowled brothers. They weren’t even interesting to look at. By sitting up tall and craning her head, she finally found Cerwin Trell. He was six rows in front of them, and almost at the opposite end of the row. There were empty seats behind the Trells. She was sure her mother had deliberately chosen to seat her so far away.

“Sit still and pay attention,” her grandmother hissed.

Malta sighed and slumped back in her seat. Up front, Trader Trentor was midway through a long invocation to Sa. It seemed to be a long list of everything that had ever gone wrong for any of the Trader families. Instead of being angry that Sa had let such things befall them, he groveled along about how Sa always came to their aid. If it had been Krion instead of his uncle, perhaps it would have been interesting. In the seats reserved for the Rain Wild Traders, several cowled heads were bent forward. She wondered if they were already dozing.

After the invocation, there was the speech of welcome by Trader Drur. It repeated the same tired litany. All were kin, all were Traders, ancient oaths and bonds, loyalty and unity, blood and kin. Malta found a flaw in the weave of her new robe. It was right at the edge of her knee. When she tried to point it out to her mother, she looked annoyed and made a shushing motion with her hand. When Drur finally resumed his seat and Jani Khuprus came forward, Malta sat up and leaned forward.

The Rain Wild Trader had taken off her heavy outer cloak and hood but her features were still obscured. She wore a lighter mantle of ivory, also hooded, and the lace veil that covered her face was actually a part of that garment. The flame jewels still shone as brilliantly and had lost none of their effect in the dimly lit room. As she spoke, her veiled face often turned to different corners of the room. Whenever she turned her head, the veil moved, and the flame gems flared up more brightly. There were fifteen of them, all as glistening red as pomegranate kernels, but about the size of shelled almonds. She couldn’t wait to tell Delo that she had seen them up close and even spoken to Jani Khuprus about them.

The matriarchal woman suddenly lifted both hands and voice, and Malta focused on what she was saying. “We can no longer wait and hope. None of us can afford to do so. For if we do, our secrets shall be secrets no longer. Had not the river protected us, eating their ship to splinters as they fled, we would have been forced to kill them all ourselves. Bingtown Traders! How could this have happened to us? What has become of your vows? Tonight you listen to Jani Khuprus, but be assured I speak for all the Rain Wild Traders. This was more than a threat we faced.”

She paused. A long silence filled the Concourse. Then a mutter of voices rose. Malta assumed she was finished. She leaned over to her mother, and whispered, “I’m going to go get something to drink.”

“Sit still and be silent!” her grandmother hissed at both of them. There were deep lines of tension in her brow and around her mouth. Her mother didn’t say a word. Malta sat back with a sigh.

One of the jowly brothers to their left rose abruptly. “Trader Khuprus!” he called out. When all heads turned to him, he asked simply, “What do you expect us to do?”

“Keep your promises!” Jani Khuprus snapped. Then, in a slightly milder tone, as if her own reply had surprised her, she added, “We must remain united. We must send representatives to the Satrap. For obvious reasons, they cannot come from Rain Wild families. But we would stand united with you in the message.”

“And that message would be?” someone queried from another part of the hall.

“I’m really thirsty,” Malta whispered. Her mother frowned at her.

“We must demand the Satrap honor our original covenant. We must demand he call back these so called New Traders, and cede back to us any lands he has deeded them.”

“And if he refuses?” This from a Trader woman in the back of the hall.

Jani Khuprus shifted uneasily. She did not want to answer the question. “Let us first ask him to honor the word of his forebears. We have never even asked him. We have complained and grumbled amongst ourselves, we have disputed individual claims. But not once have we stood up as a people and said, ‘Honor your word if you expect us to honor ours.’ ”

“And if he refuses?” the woman repeated steadily.

Jani Khuprus lifted her gloved hands and then let them fall back to her sides. “Then he is without honor,” she said in a quiet voice that still carried to every part of the hall. “What have the Traders to do with those who are without honor? If he fails in his word, then we should withdraw ours. Stop sending him tribute. Market our goods wherever we please, rather than funneling the best of them through Jamaillia.” In an even quieter voice, she said, “Drive out the New Traders. Rule ourselves.”

A cacophony of voices broke out, some raised in outrage, others shrill with fear, and still others roaring their approval. At the end of the row, Davad Restart stood suddenly. “Hear me!” he shouted, and when no one paid attention, he climbed up on top of his chair, where he balanced ponderously. “HEAR ME!” he roared out, a surprising sound from such an ineffectual man. All eyes turned to him and the babble died down.

“This is madness,” he announced. “Think what will happen next. He won’t let Bingtown go that easily. The Satrap will send ship-loads of soldiers. He will confiscate our holdings. He will deed them over to the New Traders, and make slaves of our families. No. We must work with the New Traders. Give them, not all, but enough to make them content. Make them a part of us, as we did with the Three-Ships Immigrants. I’m not saying we should teach them all we know, or that they should be allowed to trade with Rain Wild Traders, but …”

“Then what are you saying, Restart?” someone demanded angrily from the back of the hall. “As long as you’re speaking for your New Trader friends, just how much do they want of us?”

Someone else chimed in, “If the Satrap were interested in sending ships up the Inside Passage, he’d have cleaned out the pirates long ago. They say the old patrol galleys are rotting at their quays, for lack of taxes to man them or repair them. All the money goes for the Satrap to entertain himself. He cares nothing about the serpents and pirates that devour our trade. All he cares is that he be amused. The Satrap is no threat to us. Why should we bother with demands. Let’s just run these New Traders off ourselves. We don’t need Jamaillia!”

“Then where would we sell our goods? All the richest trade is to the south, unless you want to deal with the northern barbarians.”

“That’s another thing. The pirates. The old covenant said the Satrap would protect us from sea marauders. If we’re making demands, we should tell him that—”

“We do need Jamaillia! What are we without Jamaillia? Jamaillia is poetry and art and music, Jamaillia is our mother culture. You can’t cut off trade there and still—”

“And the serpents! The damn slavers draw the serpents, we should demand that slavers be outlawed from the Inside Passage—”

“We are an honorable folk. Even if the Satrap cannot recall how to keep his word, we are still bound by—”

“—will take our homes and lands and make slaves of us all. We’ll be right back where our forebears were, exiles and criminals, with no hope of reprieve.”

“We should set up our own patrol ships, to start with. Not just to keep New Traders away from the mouth of the Rain Wild, but to hunt serpents and pirates as well. Yes, and to make clear to Chalced once and for all that the Rain Wild River is not their border, but that their control stops at Hover Inlet. They’ve been pushing—”

“You’d have us in two wars at once then, battling both Chalced and Jamaillia! That’s stupid. Remember, were it not for Jamaillia and the Satrap, Chalced would have tried to overrun us years ago. That’s what we risk if we cut ourselves free of Jamaillia. War with Chalced!”

“War? Who speaks of war? All we need to ask is that the Satrap Cosgo keep the promises that Satrap Esclepius made to us!”

Once more the hall erupted with a chorus of angry voices. Traders stood on their chairs, or shouted from where they stood. Malta couldn’t make sense of any of it. She doubted anyone could. “Mother,” she whispered pleadingly. “I am dying of thirst! And it’s so stuffy in here. Can I just go outside for a breath of air?”

“Not now!” her mother snapped.

“Malta, shut up,” her grandmother added. She didn’t even look at her, she seemed to be trying to follow a conversation between two men three rows ahead of them.

“Please,” Jani Khuprus was calling from the stage. “Hear me, please! Please!” As the babble died down, she spoke more quietly, forcing folk to be silent to hear her. “This is our biggest danger. We quarrel among ourselves. We speak with many voices, and so the Satrap heeds none of them. We need a strong group of people to take our words to the Satrap, and we must be united and sincere in what we say. One strong voice he must heed, but as long as we tear at one another like …”

“I have to use the back house,” Malta whispered. There. That was something they never argued with. Her grandmother gave a disapproving shake of her head, but they let her go. Davad Restart was so intent on what Jani Khuprus was saying he scarcely noticed her slip past him.

She stopped at the refreshment table to pour herself a glass of wine. She was not the only one to have left her seat. In different parts of the hall, knots of folk were forming and talking, all but ignoring the Rain Wild Trader. Some folk were arguing amongst themselves, others nodding in mutual agreement with her words. Almost everyone there was substantially older than she was. She looked for Cerwin Trell, but he was still seated with his family and appeared to be avidly interested in what was going on. Politics. Privately Malta believed that if everyone just ignored them, life would go on as it always had. The arguments would probably last the rest of the evening and spoil the party. She sighed and took her wine with her as she stepped outside into the crisp winter night.

It was full dark now. The footpath torches had burned down. Above the icy winter stars sparkled. She glanced up at them now and thought of flame jewels. The blues and the greens were the rarest. She couldn’t wait to tell Delo that. She knew how she would say it, as if it were something she just assumed that everyone knew. Delo was the best for sharing such things with, because Delo was a hopeless gossip. She’d repeat it to everyone. Hadn’t she spread word among all the girls about Malta’s green gown? Of course, she had also told them about Davad Restart making Malta go home. She’d been an idiot to tell Delo the whole truth, but she’d been so mad, she just had to talk to someone. And tonight would make up for that embarrassment. She wouldn’t tell Delo how bored she had been, only that she had stood outside and chatted with Jani Khuprus herself about flame jewels. She strolled down past the coaches, sipping at her wine. Some of the coachmen sat within the carriages, out of the cold, while others hunched on the boxes. Some few had gathered at the corner of the drive to gossip amongst themselves, and probably share a sip or two from a flask.

She walked almost to the end of the drive, past Davad’s coach and then the Rain Wild’s one. She’d left her ratty old cloak inside and was starting to feel the chill of the evening. She held her arms close to her chest, resolving not to spill wine down her front, and strolled on. She stopped to examine the crest on a coach door. It was a silly one, a rooster wearing a crown. “Khuprus,” she said to herself, and lightly traced it with a finger, committing it to memory. The metal glowed briefly in her finger’s wake, and she realized the crest was made of jidzin. It was not as popular now as it once was. Some of the older street performers still made their cymbals and finger-chimes from jidzin. The metal shimmered whenever it was struck. It was a wonderful treat to the eyes, but in reality brass sounded better. Still, it was one more thing to tell Delo. She strolled idly on, and imagined how she would phrase it. “Odd, to think how a human touch sets off both jidzin and flame jewels,” she ventured aloud. No, that wasn’t quite it. She needed a more dramatic statement than that.

Almost beside her, a blue eye winked into existence. She stepped back hastily, then peered again. Someone was standing there, leaning against the Khuprus coach. The blue glow was a jewel fastened at his throat. He was a slight figure, heavily cloaked in the Rain Wild style. His neck was swathed in a scarf, his face veiled like a woman’s. He was probably their coachman. “Good evening,” she said boldly, to cover up her momentary surprise, and started to walk by him.

“Actually,” he said in a quiet voice, “it needn’t be a human touch. Any motion can set them flaring, once they’ve been wakened. See?” He extended a gloved hand towards her, then gave his wrist a shake. Two small blue gems popped into evidence on his cuff. Malta had to stop and stare. It was not a pale blue, but a deep sapphire blue that danced alone in the darkness.

“I thought the blues and greens were the rarest and most valuable,” she observed. She took a sip of the wine she still carried. That seemed more polite than asking how a coachman came to have such things.

“They are,” he admitted easily. “But these are very small ones. And slightly flawed, I am afraid. They were chipped in the recovery process.” He shrugged. She saw the movement in the rise and fall of the gem at his throat. “They probably won’t burn long. No more than a year or two. But I couldn’t bear to see them thrown away.”

“Of course not!” Malta exclaimed, almost scandalized. Flame jewels thrown away? Shocking. “You say they burn? Are they hot, then?”

He laughed, a soft chuckle. “Oh, not in the ordinary way. Here. Touch one.” Again he extended his arm towards her.

She unwrapped her arms from around herself to extend a timid finger. She tapped one cautiously. No. It did not burn. Emboldened, she touched it again. It was smooth and cool like glass, although she could feel a tiny nick in one place. She touched the other one, then wrapped her arms around herself again. “They’re beautiful,” she said, and shivered. “It’s freezing out here. I’d better go back inside.”

“No, don’t … I mean … Are you cold?”

“A little. I left my cloak inside.” She turned to go.

“Here. Take mine.” He had stood up straight and was unfastening his cloak.

“Oh, thank you, but I’m fine. I couldn’t take your cloak from you. I just need to get back inside.” The very thought of his cloak from his warty back touching her flesh made her chill deepen. She hurried away, but he followed her.

“Here. Try just my scarf, then. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s amazingly warm. Here. Do try it.” He had it off, flame gem and all, and when she turned, he draped it over her arm. It was amazingly warm, but what stopped her from flinging it back at him was the blue flame jewel winking up at her.

“Oh,” she said. To wear one, even for just a few moments … that was too great an opportunity to pass by. She could always take a bath when she got home. “Would you hold this, please?” she asked him, and held out the wineglass. He took it from her and she wasted no time in draping the scarf around her neck and shoulders. He had been wearing it like a muffler, but its airy knit could be shaken out until it was nearly a shawl. And it was warm, very warm. She arranged it so that the blue jewel rested between her breasts. She looked down at it. “It’s so beautiful. It’s like … I don’t know what it’s like.”

“Some things are only like themselves. Some beauty is incomparable,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she agreed, staring into the stone’s depth.

After a moment, he reminded her, “Your wine?”

“Oh.” She frowned to herself. “I don’t want it anymore. You may have it, if you wish.”

“I may?” There was a tone of both amusement and surprise in his voice. As if some delicate balance between them had just shifted in his favor.

She was momentarily flustered by it. “I mean, if you want it …”

“Oh, I do,” he assured her. The veil that covered his face was split. He was deft at slipping the glass through, and he drained the wine off with a practiced toss. He held the emptied glass up to the starlight and gazed at it for a moment. She felt that he glanced at her before he slipped the glass up his sleeve. “A keepsake,” he suggested. For the first time, Malta realized that he was older than she and perhaps their conversation was not quite proper, that all of these casual exchanges might be taken to mean something deeper. Nice girls did not stand about in the dark chatting with strange coachmen.

“I had best go inside. My mother will be wondering where I am,” she excused herself.

“No doubt,” he murmured his assent, and again that amusement was there. She began to feel just a tiny bit afraid of him. No. Not afraid. Wary. He seemed to sense it, for when she tried to walk away, he followed her. He actually walked beside her, as if he were escorting her. She was halfway afraid he would follow her right into the Concourse, but he stopped at the door.

“I need something from you, before you go,” he suddenly requested.

“Of course.” She lifted her hands to the scarf.

“Your name.”

She stood very still. Had he forgotten she was wearing his scarf with the flame jewel on it? If he had, she wasn’t going to remind him. Oh, she wouldn’t keep it. Not forever, just long enough to show Delo.

“Malta,” she told him. Enough of a name that he could find out who had his scarf when he recalled it. Not so much that he could recover it too quickly.

“Malta …” he let it hang, prompting her. She pretended not to understand. “I see,” he said after a moment. “Malta. Good evening, then, Malta.”

“Good evening.” She turned and hurried through the great doors of the hall. Once within, she hastily removed the scarf and jewel. Whatever the scarf was woven of, it was fine as gossamer. When she bunched it in her hands, it was small enough to fit completely inside the pocket sewn into her cloak. She stowed it there. Then, with a small smile of satisfaction, she returned to the hall. Folk in there were still taking turns at speeches. Covenants, compromises, rebellions, slavery, war, embargoes. She was sick of it all. She just wished they would give up and be quiet so her mother would take her home, where she could admire the flame jewel in the privacy of her own room.

         

The rest of the tangle did not seem to sense that anything was amiss. Sessurea, perhaps, was a bit uneasy, but the others were content. Food was plentiful and easily obtained, the atmosphere of this Plenty was warm, and the new salts woke exciting colors in the fresh skins that their shedding revealed. They shed frequently, for the feeding was rich and growth was easy. Perhaps, Shreever thought discontentedly, that was all the others had ever sought. Perhaps they thought this indolent life of feeding and shedding was rebirth. She did not.

She knew Maulkin sought far more than this. The rest of the tangle was short-sighted not to perceive Maulkin’s anxiety and distress. North he had led them, following the shadow of the provider. Several times he had halted at warm flows of un-briny water, tasting and tasting yet again the strange atmospheres. The others had always wanted to hasten after the provider. Once Sessurea had shocked them by extending his ruff and challenging their passage to halt them in their foolish following. But moments later, Maulkin had closed his jaws in bafflement, and left the warm flow, to once more take his place in the provider’s shadow.

Shreever had not been overly distressed when the provider had halted and Maulkin had been content to stay near it. Who was she to question one who had the memories of the ancients? But when the provider had reversed its path to go south, and Maulkin had bid them follow it yet again, she had become anxious. Something, she felt, was not right. Sessurea seemed to share her unease.

They glimpsed other tangles, following other providers. All seemed content and well fed. At such times, Shreever wondered if the fault were in her. Perhaps she had dreamed of too much, perhaps she had taken the holy lore too literally. But then she would mark how distracted Maulkin was, even in the midst of feeding. While the others snapped and gorged, he would abruptly cease feeding and hang motionless, jaws wide, gills pumping as he quested for some elusive scent. And often, when the provider had halted for a time and the others of the tangle were resting, Maulkin would rise, nearly to the Lack, to begin a twining dance with lidded eyes. At such times, Sessurea watched him almost as closely as she did. Over and over again their leader knotted his body and then flowed through the knot, sensitizing the entire length of his skin to all the atmosphere could tell him. He would trumpet lightly and fitfully to himself, snatches of nonsense interspersed with holy lore. Sometimes he would lift his head above the Plenty and into the Lack, and then let himself sink again, muttering of the lights, the lights.

Shreever could endure it no longer. She let him dance until exhaustion began to dim his false-eyes. In a slow wavering of weariness, he began to drift toward the bottom. Ruff slack and unchallenging, she approached his descent and matched it. “Maulkin,” she bugled quietly. “Has your vision failed? Are we lost?”

He unlidded his eyes to stare at her. Almost lazily he looped a loose coil around her, drawing her down to tangle with him in the soft muck. “Not merely a place,” he told her almost dreamily. “It is a time as well. And not just a time and a place, but a tangle. A tangle such as has not been gathered since ancient times. I can almost scent a One Who Remembers.”

Shreever shivered her coils, trying to read his memory. “Maulkin. Are not you One Who Remembers?”

“I?” His eyes were lidding again. “No. Not completely. I can almost remember. I know there is a place, and a time, and a tangle. When I experience them, I will know them without question. We are close, very close, Shreever. We must persevere and not doubt. So often the time has come and gone, and we have missed it. I fear that if we miss it yet again, all our memories of the ancient times will fade, and we will never be as we were.”

“And what were we?” she asked, simply to hear him confirm it.

“We were the masters, moving freely through both the Lack and the Plenty. All that one knew, everyone knew, and all shared the memories of all time, from the beginning. We were powerful and wise, respected and revered by all the lesser creatures of mind.”

“And then what happened?” Shreever asked the rote question.

“The time came to be re-shaped. To mingle the essences of our very bodies, and thus to create new beings, partaking of new vitality and new strengths. It was time to perform the ancient cycling of joining and sundering, and growing yet again. It was time to renew our bodies.”

“And what will happen next?” she completed her part of the ritual.

“All will come together at the time and the place of the gathering. All memory shall be shared again, all that was held safe by one shall be given back to all. The journey to rebirth shall be completed, and we shall rise in triumph once more.”

“So it shall be,” Sessurea confirmed from nearby in the tangle. “So it shall be.”