CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
THE STORM

“Malta! Delo! You should not be just wandering about. It is nearly time for you to be presented.” Her mother sounded both exasperated and amused as she added, “Delo, I saw your mother just a few moments ago, and she was looking for you over by the fountain. Malta, you come with me!”

They had both taken refuge behind one of the columns by the entrance, and had been spying on the late arrivals to the ball. Kitten, they agreed, had the finest dress; it was a pity she had not the figure for the neckline she had chosen. Tritta Redof had a headdress that was far too big for her, but her fan was exquisite. Krion Trentor had put on weight since he had begun courting Riell Krell, and had lost his melancholy poetic face. How had they ever thought he was handsome? Roed Caern was as dark and dangerous as ever. Delo had near swooned at the sight of him, but oddly enough, Malta had caught herself thinking that his shoulders were not nearly as wide as Reyn’s.

Veiled and hooded Rain Wild folk arrived to mingle with their Bingtown counterparts. Malta looked in vain for Reyn. “How will you know him when he gets here? They all look the same, muffled like that,” Delo complained. In a line worthy of the girl she had been last year, Malta sighed back, “Oh, I shall know him, never fear. My heart always leaps at the sight of him.” For a moment Delo had stared at her wide-eyed, and then they had both broken down in gales of smothered laughter. As they whispered and spied, all the spring’s awkwardness between them was forgotten. Delo had assured Malta that the fabric of her dress was far richer than anything that could be bought nowadays, and that the cut of it suited her tiny waist quite well, while Malta had sworn that Delo did not have thick ankles, and that even if she did, no one could see them tonight anyway. It was as girlish and gay as she had felt in a long time. As Malta obediently followed her mother away, she wondered that she had ever wanted to leave such things behind and become a woman.

A screen trellised with flowers provided an alcove for the young women to be presented tonight. The fathers who would present them and then escort them into the Concourse for the first dance shifted restlessly outside, while within anxious mamas made last-minute adjustments to hair and hemlines. They had drawn lots, and it seemed the hand of fate that she would be presented last. Girl after girl was led away. Malta felt as if she could not get enough breath. As Keffria tugged a few stray hairs up and into place, she whispered to Malta, “Reyn has not arrived yet. I suppose he was delayed because the Kendry arrived so late. Do you want me to tell Davad to take the first dance with you?”

Malta looked at her mother in horror, but to her shock, Keffria grinned wickedly. “I thought that might remind you that there are worse things than having to stand alone during the first dance of your formal presentation.”

“I shall wait it out and think of Papa,” Malta assured her. Her mother’s eyes shimmered suddenly with tears, and then Keffria was tugging at the neck of her gown, saying, “Now be calm, keep your head up, mind your skirts and oh, it’s your turn now!” The last words came out as a half-sob. Malta was suddenly blinking away tears of her own. Half-blinded by them, she stepped from behind the screen, to take her place in the circle of torchlight at the top of the stairs.

“Malta Vestrit, the daughter of Kyle Haven and Keffria Vestrit, is presented now to the Bingtown Traders and the Rain Wild Traders. Malta Vestrit.”

For a moment, she was angered because they named her by her Trader name. Did not they think her father was good enough for their company? Then she accepted it as the Bingtown way. She would do him proud. He might not be here to extend an arm to her and descend the steps with her, but she would walk as his daughter. Head up, but eyes cast down, she sank in a slow curtsey to the assembled folk. As she came back up, she lifted her eyes. For a moment, the people seemed far too numerous, the stairs too many and too steep. She thought she might faint and go tumbling down them. Then she took a deeper breath and began her slow descent to the floor.

Below her on the dance floor, the other girls and their papas awaited her in a half circle. It was her time, and her moment. She wanted it to last forever, and yet, as she reached the bottom of the stair, she felt grateful. As she joined the line of young women and their fathers, she lifted her eyes to look about the room. The folk of Bingtown and the Rain Wild displayed themselves in their finest clothes. Many were not so prosperous in years past, and it showed. Yet they all carried themselves proudly, and smiled at this latest crop of eligible young women. She did not see Reyn. Soon the music would strike up, and the young girls would be whirled away to it. She would be left standing alone while they danced. It fit so well with all the rest of her life, she thought bitterly. Then the impossible happened.

Things became worse.

On the dais across the room, wedged into a chair between a pale young man and the head of the Bingtown Council, sat Davad Restart. Rather, she devoutly wished he had been sitting. He had half stood up, to lean across the table and frantically waggle his fingers at her. In an agony of humiliation, she lifted her hand slightly and waved her fingers at him. He didn’t stop. Instead, once he was sure she had seen him, he made frantic gestures for her to cross the empty dance floor and come up to the dais. Malta was dying. She longed to faint, but could not. The leader of the musicians, who was awaiting the signal from the dais to begin the music, looked puzzled. At last, she realized she had no other choice. This nightmarish moment would not be over until she had left the safety of the other young women and their papas and crossed the vast expanse of the empty floor alone and presented herself to Davad to hear his congratulations.

So be it.

She drew a deep breath, took one glance at her grandmother’s shocked white face, and then began her slow crossing of the dance floor. She would not hurry. That would be even more unseemly. She kept her head up, and lifted her skirts to allow them to float across the polished floor. She tried to smile as if this were something she had expected, as if it were a perfectly normal part of her presentation. She fixed her eyes on Davad and recalled the dead pig stuck in his carriage window. She managed to keep the smile, despite the roaring in her ears. Then she was standing before the dais. At that moment, she suddenly realized that the pale young man seated next to Davad must be the Satrap of all Jamaillia.

She had just been humiliated before the Satrap of all Jamaillia and two of his Companions. The elegant women of the court were looking down at her in tolerant condescension. Now she would faint. Instead, some sort of instinct took over. She sank down before the dais in a low curtsey. Through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard Davad say enthusiastically, “This is the young woman I told you about. Malta Vestrit of the Bingtown Traders. Is not she the fairest young blossom you have ever seen?”

Malta could not rise. If she stood now, she would have to look at their faces. Here she crouched, in her pieced-together gown and her made-over slippers and—

“You did not exaggerate at all, Trader Restart. But why is this sweet flower unaccompanied?” Jamaillian accent, and a languid tone. The Satrap himself spoke of her.

The leader of the Bingtown Council took pity on her and signaled the musicians. The tentative opening notes of the music suddenly flowed through the hall. Behind her, proud fathers escorted their daughters onto the dance floor. The thought of it suddenly was anger instead of pain. She came to her feet and lifted her eyes to meet the Satrap’s indulgent stare. She spoke out clearly in answer to his question.

“I am alone, Magnadon Satrap, because my father has been taken by pirates. Pirates that your Chalcedean patrol vessels did nothing to stop.”

The other people on the dais gasped. The Satrap dared to smile at her. “I see this little one has the spark of spirit to match her beauty,” he observed. As the hot flush colored Malta’s cheeks, he added, “And at last I have met one Bingtown Trader who admits that the Chalcedean galleys are simply my patrol vessels.” One of his Companions chuckled throatily at this cleverness, but the Bingtown Council did not look amused.

Her temper got the better of her. “I shall concede that, sir, if you will concede they are ineffective. They have left my family bereft of both our ship and my father.”

The Satrap of all Jamaillia rose to his feet. He would order her dragged off and killed now, she decided. Behind her, in the room, the musicians played on and the couples whirled. She waited for him to summon guards. Instead, he announced, “Well, as you blame me for your father’s absence, there is only one way I can rectify this.”

She could not believe her ears. Could it really be this simple? Ask for it, and get it? Breathlessly, she whispered, “You will command your ships to rescue him?”

His laugh rang out through the music. “Certainly. That is their purpose, you know. But not right this moment. For now, I shall do my best to correct this tragic situation by taking his place on the dance floor with you.”

He rose from his place on the dais. One of his Companions looked shocked; the other horrified. Malta turned her eyes to Davad Restart, but there was no help there. He was beaming at her fondly and proudly. When her eyes met his, he nodded swift encouragement. The faces of the Bingtown Council members were carefully blank. What was she to do?

The Satrap was leaving his seat, and now he was descending the steps to the dance floor. He was taller than she and very lean, his skin so aristocratically white as to be almost pallid. His clothing was unlike any she had ever seen on a man; it was soft and flowing, in pastel hues. His pale blue trousers were cuffed tight to his ankles above his low soft shoes. The loose folds of his saffron shirt shawled about his throat and shoulders. As he came closer to her, she could smell him, foreign smells, a strange perfume, a clinging smokiness on his breath. Then the most powerful man in the world bowed to her and held out his hand for hers.

She was frozen.

“It’s all right, Malta, you may dance with him,” Davad Restart announced benignly. He chuckled to the others on the dais. “Such a shy and sheltered little thing she is. She scarcely dares touch his hand.”

His words gave her the power to move. She felt cold and yet tingly as she set her hand in his. The Satrap’s hand was very soft as it closed around hers. To her shock, he set his other hand on the back of her hips and drew her body closer to his. “This is how we dance this measure in Jamaillia,” he told her. His breath was warm on her upturned face. There was so little space left between them she feared he would feel her heart beating. He led her into the dance.

For five steps, she was awkward, off balance, moving behind the measure. Then suddenly the music caught her, and it was as easy as if she were holding Rache’s hands and moving to her count around the morning room. The other dancers, the brightly lit room, even the music faded around them. There existed only this man and the motion as their bodies kept time together. She had to look up to see him. He smiled down at her.

“You are so tiny, like a child. Or a lovely little doll. The fragrance of your hair is like flowers.”

She could think of no reply to such compliments, not even to thank him. All her coquetry had been erased from her mind. She tried to speak, but could only ask, “Will you truly send your ships to rescue my father?”

He raised one thin eyebrow. “Certainly. Why shouldn’t I?”

She lowered her eyes, then closed them. The music and his body leading hers were all she needed. “It seems too easy.” She shook her head, a tiny motion. “After all we have endured …”

He gave a small laugh, high as a woman’s. “Tell me, little bird. Have you lived all your life in Bingtown?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then. You tell me. What can you really know of how the world works?” Suddenly, he drew her even closer, so that her breasts almost brushed his chest. She gasped and stepped back from him, stumbling out of rhythm with the music. He caught the step easily and kept her moving.

“Are you shy, little bird?” he asked merrily, but his hand tightened on hers almost cruelly.

The music had ended. He let go of her hand. When she glanced around, she heard the murmur of many-footed rumors running. All eyes looked toward them, although none quite stared. He bowed to her, deeply and graciously. As she sank into a curtsey, he breathed, “Perhaps we should speak later about rescuing your father. Perhaps you can better convey to me just how important it might be to you.”

She could not rise. Were his words a threat? Because she had stepped away from his touch, he would not send the ships to rescue her father? She wanted to cry out after him to wait, wait. But he had already turned away from her. A Bingtown matron with her own daughter beside her had claimed his attention. Behind her, the music was starting again. She managed finally to rise from her curtsey. She felt as if all the air had been knocked out of her. She had to get off the dance floor.

She walked between the couples unseeingly. She caught a glimpse of Cerwin Trell; he seemed to be coming toward her, but she could not bear that just now. She hurried on, searching the crowd for her mother, her grandmother, even her little brother. All she wanted was some safe refuge for a few moments until she could gather herself. Had she just destroyed her father’s chance of swift rescue? Had she made a fool of herself before all of Bingtown?

A touch on her arm made her gasp. She recoiled from it as she turned to see who it was. He was veiled, hooded and gloved like any other Rain Wilder, but she knew it was Reyn. No one but he could take the secretive garb of a Rain Wilder and turn it to such elegance. His veil was black lace, but gilt and silver cat’s eyes outlined where his eyes would be. The hood that covered his hair and the back of his neck was secured with an elaborately folded cravat of shimmering white silk. His soft white shirt and black trousers revealed as much of his physique as his veil and hood concealed of his features. The breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his chest were accentuated by his slim waist and narrow hips. His light dancing boots were filigreed with silver and gilt to match his veil. He held a glass of wine toward her. Softly he said, “You are pale as snow. Do you need this?”

“I want my mother,” she said stupidly. To make it worse, she repeated it more desperately. “I want my mother.”

Reyn’s whole stance stiffened. “What did he say to you? Did he hurt you?”

“No. No. I just … I want my mother. Now.”

“Of course.” As if it were the most normal of behaviors, he tapped a passing Trader on the shoulder and handed him the glass of wine. Reyn turned back to Malta. “This way.” He did not offer her his arm or try to touch her in any way. Did he sense that just now she could not have tolerated it? Instead, he gestured gracefully with a gloved hand, and then walked slightly in front of her, parting the crowd for her. Folk stared after them curiously.

Keffria came swiftly through the crowd, as if she had been seeking her. “Oh, Malta,” she cried out in a low voice, and Malta braced herself for the inevitable recrimination. Instead her mother went on, “I was so worried, but you handled yourself beautifully. Whatever was Davad thinking? I was trying to get to you after you danced and he dared to catch hold of my arm and advise me to tell you to come to him, that he could see you got another dance with the Satrap.”

Malta was trembling all over. “Mother. He said he would send ships to rescue Papa. But then—” She faltered, and suddenly wished she had said nothing. Why tell her mother? It would have to be her own decision.

How important was it to her that her father be rescued? She knew exactly what he had insinuated to her. It was unmistakable. The choice was hers. If she was the one who would have to pay the price, did not the decision belong to her alone?

“And you believed him?” Reyn butted in incredulously. “Malta, he was toying with you. How could he toss out such an offer as if it were a bit of flattery? The man has no compunctions at all, no ethics. You are barely more than a girl, and he torments you like this … I should kill him.”

“I am not a girl,” Malta asserted coldly. Girls did not have to face decisions such as this. “If you believe I am such a child, where are your ethics in courting me?” She hardly knew what she was saying. She needed to be alone somewhere, to think about what the Satrap had offered, and what he had implied the price was. Her tongue flew on without her mind. “Or is this how you seek to make your claim exclusive, the first time another man shows an interest in me?”

Her mother caught her breath sharply. Her eyes flitted from Reyn to Malta. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and fled their lovers’ quarrel. Malta scarcely noticed her going. A moment ago, she had longed for her. Now she knew her mother could not help her with this.

Reyn actually took a half-step backwards. The silence quivered like a bowstring between them. Abruptly he sketched a bow toward her. “I beg your pardon, Malta Vestrit.” She actually heard him swallow. “You are a woman, not a child. But you are a woman newly admitted to society, with little experience in the ways of low men. I thought only to protect you.” He turned his veiled face to watch the dancers as they moved through the formal steps of a multi-partnered dance. His voice lowered as he added, “I know that rescuing your father is foremost in your thoughts. It is a vulnerability in you just now. It was cruel of him to offer to help you.”

“Odd. I thought it was cruel of you to refuse me when I begged your help. I now see you intended to be kind.” She heard the icy scorn in her own voice and recognized it. This is how my father quarrels with my mother, she thought, turning her own words against her. Something in her wanted to stop this, but she did not know how. She needed to think, she needed time to think, and instead everything just kept happening. The only presentation ball she would ever have was whirling on around her, she might be able to get the Satrap to save her father, and instead of all the other girls watching enviously as her elegant beau danced with her, she was standing here having a stupid quarrel with him. It wasn’t fair!

“I did not intend to be kind. I intended to be truthful,” he said quietly. The music had ended. The dancers were leaving the floor or securing new partners. Reyn’s words fell in the silence, not loudly, but enough that several heads turned their way. Malta sensed that he was as uncomfortably aware of the attention as she was. She tried to put a small smile on her face, as if his words were some kind of a witticism, but her cheeks felt hot and stiff. At that moment, someone cleared his throat behind her. She turned her head.

Cerwin Trell swept a low bow to her. “Would you allow me the next dance?” There was a small challenge in his voice, almost as if the words were directed to Reyn rather than to her. Reyn took it up.

“Malta Vestrit and I were sharing a conversation,” he pointed out in a dangerously pleasant voice.

“I see,” Cerwin retorted, his voice equally controlled. “I thought she might more enjoy sharing a dance with me.”

The first strains of the music threaded through the hall. Folk were staring at them. Without asking her, Reyn took her hand in his. “We were just about to dance,” he informed Cerwin. His other hand caught her waist, and as easily as if he lifted a child, he suddenly whirled her into the dance.

It was a spirited tune, and she found she could either dance or stumble awkwardly after his grip on her hand. She chose to dance. She quickly caught up a finger-pinch of her skirts to display her lively feet, and then deliberately embellished the sprightly dance. He met her challenge without missing a beat, and suddenly it took every bit of her concentration to match herself to him. For a moment, she was aware of the effort, and then they moved as one. Couples who had been stealing peeks at them suddenly moved aside to cede them more of the dance floor. She caught a fleeting glimpse of her grandmother as Reyn twirled her through a step. The old woman was smiling fiercely at her. She found, with surprise, that she herself was smiling in genuine pleasure. Her skirts floated as he turned her through the elaborate steps. His touch on her waist was sure and strong. She became aware of his scent, and was not sure if it was a perfume he wore or the musk of his skin. It did not displease her. She was almost aware of the admiring looks from the spectators at the ball, but Reyn was at the center of her thoughts. Without quite intending to, she closed her fingers firmly on his, and his grip on her hand strengthened in response. Her heart lifted unexpectedly.

“Malta.” It was only her name he spoke. It was not an apology for anything, but it was an affirmation of all he felt for her. A wave of feeling washed through her in response. She suddenly perceived that the incident with the Satrap was separate entirely from what was between herself and Reyn. It had been her error to even mention it in his presence. It had nothing to do with him or with her relationship with him. She should have known it would only upset him. At this moment, for now, neither of them had to think about anything outside of what they were together. That was the language of this dance. For this space of time, they moved perfectly together and understood each other. That was what she should be savoring.

“Reyn,” she conceded, and smiled up at him. The quarrel was swept away by their moving feet, trodden down and forgotten. Too soon the music was ending and he spun her gracefully through the closing measure, then caught her briefly in his arms to halt her movement. It caught her breath as well. “When we move together, like this,” she whispered shyly. “I almost feel we are destined to always move as one.”

He held her a moment longer in his arms than was strictly proper. It set her heart to racing. She could not see his eyes, but she knew he looked down into her face. He spoke softly. “All you have to do, my dear, is trust me to lead you in your steps,” he told her indulgently.

His patronizing words popped the bubble he had created around them. She stepped free of his embrace, to drop him a very formal curtsey. “I thank you for the pleasure of the dance, sir,” she told him coolly. “You will excuse me now.” As she rose, she nodded a farewell to him. She turned and walked away as if she knew where she was going. From the corner of her eye, she saw him start to come after her, only to have a Rain Wild man hasten up to him and catch him by the arm. Whatever the man wanted of him seemed more important than his pursuit of her. He halted and turned to him. Fine. She kept walking. The agitation in her heart would not let her stand still. Why did he have to spoil everything like that? Why did he have to say such condescending words to her?

She could not see anyone she knew. Not her mother or grandmother, not a girl of her acquaintance, not even Davad Restart. She saw the Satrap, surrounded by a circle of Bingtown society matrons. She could scarcely intrude on that group. The musicians had struck up another tune. She moved toward a table laden with wine and glasses. It would have been more proper for a young man to bring her refreshment. It was suddenly so awkward to be alone. She imagined that every eye in the room tracked her solitary movement.

She was almost there when Cerwin stepped in front of her. She had to stop to keep from bumping into him. “Perhaps we can dance now?” he asked gently.

She hesitated. It would anger Reyn or perhaps fill him with jealousy. But she no longer wished to play such games. This was complicated enough without that. As if Cerwin sensed her reservations, he nodded somberly to the dance floor. “It did not take him so long to decide on a new partner.”

In disbelief, she turned to see what he indicated. Her heart stood still in her chest. Reyn moved gracefully through the languid dance steps with one of the Satrap’s Companions in his arms. It was not even the beautiful one. It was the unadorned woman in the cream gown that he held close and listened to so attentively.

“No,” Cerwin whispered. “Don’t stare. Put your head up and look at me. Smile. And off we go.”

With a frozen little smile, she set her hand in his. He gathered her in and they moved out onto the dance floor with all the grace of two dogs circling one another. His dance stride was short after matching herself to Reyn. She felt like she lurched about in his arms. He seemed blissfully unaware of this awkwardness. Instead, he smiled down at her. “At last, I find you in my arms,” he said softly. “I thought my dreams would never come true. Yet here you are, presented as a woman! And that Rain Wild fool has cast you aside for someone he can never hope to possess. Ah, my Malta. Your hair gleams so that it dazzles me. The fragrance of your hair intoxicates me. I could never dream to possess a more precious treasure than your tiny hand in mine.”

The compliments rained down on her. She set her teeth in a smile and endured them. She tried not to watch Reyn dance with the other woman. His veil made it hard to tell, but it seemed that she had captured his attention completely. Not once did his head turn in her direction.

She had lost him. That simply, that quickly. One tart word too many, and the man was gone. She actually felt as if her heart had been tugged out of her chest, leaving only an empty space. Foolishness. She had not even decided whether or not she loved him. So that could not be it. No. It was that he had claimed to love her, and she had foolishly believed him. Obviously, he had lied to her. It was only injured pride that she felt, she was sure of it. It was only that she felt angry because he had made a fool of her. Why should she care at all? She was right now dancing in the arms of another man, a very handsome man who obviously doted on her. She didn’t need Reyn. She had never even seen his face; how could she love him?

She felt suddenly dizzy as she glimpsed Reyn bending his head, to speak to the Companion more privately. The woman answered earnestly and at length. Malta nearly stumbled, and Cerwin tightened his grip on her. He was uttering some nonsense about how pink her lips were. What in Sa’s name did he expect her to reply to such inanity? Should she compliment his teeth, or the cut of his shirt? She actually heard herself say, “You look very handsome tonight, Cerwin. Your family must be proud of you.”

He smiled as if she had praised him to the stars. “Such words from your lips mean so much to me,” he assured her.

The music ended. He reluctantly released her and she stepped back from him. Her traitorous eyes sought out Reyn. He bowed low over the Companion’s hand, and then gestured toward the doors that led out into the lantern-lit garden and walks of the Traders’ Concourse. She tried to find some hardness or resolve to cling to, but all she felt was the desolation of her soul.

“May I bring you some wine?” Cerwin asked her.

“Please. I should like to sit down for a while.”

“Of course.” He offered his arm to escort her.

When Grag gripped Reyn’s arm, Reyn had spun to face him and nearly struck him. “Not now! Let me go!” he protested. Malta was walking away from him. That milky-skinned Trell boy was cutting hastily through the crowd to reach her. This was no time for a friendly word on the dance floor.

But Grag gripped his arm more tightly and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “One of the Satrap’s Companions just danced with me.”

“That’s wonderful. I hope it was the pretty one. Now let go.” He craned his neck trying to follow her progress through the crowd.

“No. You should ask her for the next dance. I want you to hear for yourself what she told me. Afterwards, come and find me in the gardens, near the pin oak on the east walk. We need to decide who else to tell, and what actions to take.”

Grag’s voice was taut with tension. Reyn didn’t want this now. He attempted levity. “I need to speak to Malta first. Then we’ll discuss burning warehouses.”

Grag didn’t release him. “It’s not a jest, Reyn. It won’t wait. I fear we may be too late already. There’s a conspiracy against the Satrap.”

“Go join it,” Reyn advised him in annoyance. How could he think about politics just now? Malta was hurt. He could almost feel her pain himself, it was so intense. He had hurt her and now she was wandering through the crowd like a lost kitten. He needed to speak to her. She was so vulnerable.

“The Chalcedeans and some of his own nobles plan to kill him. Bingtown will take the blame for it. They’ll raze us to the ground, with the blessings of all Jamaillia. Please, Reyn. It has to be now. Go and ask her to dance. I have to find my mother and sisters and ask them to start arranging for some of the other Traders to meet us outside. Go ask her. She’s in the plain cream-colored gown, over by the high dais. Please.”

Malta had vanished. Reyn shot Grag a look that he seemed to feel even through his veil. The Trader’s son let go of Reyn’s arm. He shrugged his shoulders then gave an angry shake of his head. Grag hastened away.

Slowly, his heart sinking inside him, Reyn turned and made his way toward the Satrap’s Companion. She was watching for him. As he approached, she made some witty remark to the woman she was conversing with, nodded and began to move away. He intercepted her and gave her a short bow. “Would you honor me with a dance, Companion?”

“Certainly. It would give me great pleasure,” she replied formally. She lifted her hand and he took it in his gloved one. The first strains of the music began. It was a slow melody, traditionally a lovers’ dance. It would give couples both old and young an excuse to hold one another as they moved slowly to the dreamlike music. He could be taking Malta in his arms right now, soothing her hurt and his own. Instead, he found himself matched with a Jamaillian woman nearly as tall as himself. She made an excellent dance partner for him, graceful and light-footed. Somehow that only made it worse. He waited for her to speak.

“Did your cousin pass on my warning to you?” she finally asked.

Her directness shocked him. He strove to be contained. “Not really. He merely said you had told him something interesting, something he wished me to hear for myself.” He put quizzical concern in his voice, nothing more.

She gave an impatient snort. “I fear we have no time for tiptoeing about like this. It occurred to me on the way here tonight that this would be the perfect time for them to put their plot in motion. Here you are, all gathered together, Bingtown Traders and Rain Wild Traders, with the Satrap in your midst. All know how strong the feelings run against the New Traders and the Satrap’s Bingtown policies. What better time to set off a riot? In the confusion, the Satrap and his Companions will be killed. Then the Chalcedeans can move with just anger to punish you all.”

“A nasty little scene. But who does it profit? Why?” His voice said he found it improbable.

“It profits those who banded together to plan it. The Jamaillian nobles are tired of a self-indulgent boy who knows nothing of ruling except how to spend the treasury on himself. Chalced gains Bingtown for its own province, to plunder as it pleases. They have long claimed that this territory of the Cursed Shores was rightfully theirs.”

“Jamaillia would be foolish to give Bingtown up to Chalced. What other province yields such a rich harvest to the Satrapy?”

“Perhaps they believe it is better to yield Bingtown as part of a bargain than to simply lose it to the Chalcedeans as a conquest of war. Chalced grows stronger and more warlike. Internal strife and Northland raiders paralyzed the Six Duchies for years. That kingdom used to keep Chalced occupied. In the years since the Red Ship Wars, the Six Duchies have been occupied with rebuilding. Chalced has become a powerful nation, rich with slaves and ambition. They push to the north, in border skirmishes. But they also look south. To Bingtown and its rich trade. And the Rain Wild River lands.”

“Lands?” Reyn gave a snort of contempt. “There is so little …” He halted his words abruptly, recalling to whom he was speaking. “They are fools,” he finished succinctly.

“On the ship, coming here—” For a moment, the woman seemed to have sudden difficulty speaking, as if she could not catch her breath. “I was held captive for a time in the captain’s quarters.” He waited, then leaned closer to capture her soft words. “There were charts in his room. Bingtown Harbor. The mouth of the Rain Wild River. Why else would he have such things, if he did not intend to use them?”

“The Rain Wild River protects its own,” Reyn declared boldly. “We have nothing to fear. The secret ways of the river are known to none but our own.”

“But tonight, there are many of you here. Representatives from many Rain Wild families, I am told. If they were taken hostage in the plundering of Bingtown, can you be sure that none of them would reveal your Rain Wild secrets?”

Her logic was relentless. Suddenly, small inconsistencies made sense. Why else allow the Kendry through the blockade and into the harbor? “They would have allies among the New Traders here,” he said half-aloud, thinking of all the new folk who had just come ashore as well. “People whose ties to the slave trade in Chalced are as strong or stronger than their links to Jamaillia. People who have lived amongst us and learned enough of our ways to know that both Bingtown Traders and Rain Wild Traders would be gathered here tonight.”

“If I were you, I would not be positive that there were not such folk among the Bingtown Old Traders as well,” she pointed out quietly.

A trickle of cold suspicion ran through him. Davad Restart. Of course. “If you knew of this plot, why did you come to Bingtown?” he demanded of her.

“Obviously, if I had known, I would not have come,” she retorted. “I have only this evening gathered enough of the pieces to grasp the whole picture. I am telling you this not only because I do not wish to die, but because I do not wish to see Bingtown fall. All my life, Bingtown has been the center of my studies. I have always wanted to come here: it is the city of my dreams. So I connived and begged to get the Satrap to allow me to come. Now that I am here, I do not want to be a witness to its death throes, any more than I want to die here before I have fully comprehended its wonders.”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Act before they do. Take the Satrap and his Companions hostage, yes, but keep us safe. Alive, he is a bargaining chip. Dead, he is the spark that ignites the fire of war. Not all the Jamaillian nobles can be involved in this. Send a message out somehow, to alert those who are loyal to the Satrapy. Tell them what is transpiring here. They will mount an effort to aid you, if you promise to return Cosgo unharmed. There will be war with Chalced, but eventually, there is always war with Chalced. Take the time I have given you by this warning, and secure the town as best you can. Gather supplies; hide your children and families. Get word to the folk up the Rain Wild River.”

He was incredulous. “But you say it is most likely that they will act tonight. There is no time for any of that!”

“You are wasting time dancing with me now,” she pointed out acidly. “You should be getting the word out right now. I suspect there will be incidents in the streets tonight. Fires, brawls, whatever it will take to ignite riots in the city. It will spread out to the ships in the harbor. Someone, intentionally or by accident, will give the Chalcedeans an excuse to attack. Perhaps they will simply receive a message that the Satrap has been killed.” She looked unerringly into his veiled eyes. “By morning light, Bingtown will be burning.”

The music was ending. As he and his partner slowed and then stopped, it seemed prophetic. He stood a moment in the silence, her hand still in his. Then he stepped away from her with a bow. “The others are gathering outside, in the gardens. We should join them,” he suggested. He gestured to the door.

As if someone had literally tugged his heartstrings, he turned and looked across the room. Malta. Walking away with her hand on Cerwin Trell’s arm. He could not simply leave the gathering like this, not without a word. He turned back to Companion Serilla. “Just outside the doorway, there is a pathway that goes to the east. It isn’t far and the lanterns will all be lit tonight. Will you be comfortable, walking alone? I shall join you as quickly as I can.”

Her look said it was unforgivably rude. But she said, “I am sure I shall be fine. Do you think you will be long?”

“I hope not,” he assured her. He did not wait to see what she would think of such a vague answer. He bowed again and left her by the door. The music was starting again, but he cut swiftly across the dance floor, narrowly avoiding the whirling couples. He found Malta sitting alone. When he stood before her, she looked up quickly. The sudden light of hope in her eyes could not quench the fear that was there. “Reyn—” she began, but he cut her off before she could apologize.

“I have to go somewhere. It’s very important. I may not be back this evening. You’ll have to understand.”

“Not be back … where? Where are you going? What is so important?”

“I can’t tell you. You’ll have to trust me, just now.” He paused. “I’d like you to go home as soon as possible. Would you do that for me?”

“Go home? Just leave my presentation ball and go home while you go and do “something more important’? Reyn, this is impossible. The meal has not been shared, the gifts of our kinship have not been offered—Reyn, we’ve only shared one dance! How can you do this to me? I’ve looked forward to this all my life, and now you say I should hurry home, because you’ve found something more important to do?”

“Malta, please understand! This isn’t something I chose. Fate doesn’t respect our wishes. Now … I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” He longed to tell her. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. It was her family’s connection to Davad Restart that worried him. If Davad was a traitor, it was important that he believe their plot was still secret. What Malta did not know, she could not accidentally betray.

She looked up at him and her eyes flashed darkly. “I think I know exactly what it is that is more important to you than I am. I wish you joy of it.” She looked aside from him. “Good evening, Reyn Khuprus.”

She was dismissing him, as if he were a recalcitrant servant. He doubted she would heed his advice to go home. He stood still in an agony of indecision.

“Excuse me.”

The jostle was deliberate. Reyn turned. Cerwin Trell glowered at him. He held two glasses of wine. For a moment, Reyn’s control teetered in the balance. Then something like despair clutched his heart. There wasn’t time. He could stay and pursue this squabble now, but it could not be resolved. If he stayed, by morning they might all be dead.

The hardest part of turning and walking away was knowing that by morning they might all be dead, no matter what he did. He did not look back at all. If Malta had looked stricken, he would have had to return to her. If she had been simpering at Trell, he would have had to kill the boy. No time. Never any time to live his own life. He left the Traders’ Concourse and plunged into the torch-tattered darkness outside.

Malta danced three more times with Cerwin. He seemed blithely unaware of how her feet dragged through the steps. After her effortless grace in Reyn’s arms, dancing with Cerwin seemed an awkward physical effort. She could not quite match his step or the beat of the music. The adoring compliments he showered upon her rattled against her nerves like hailstones. She could hardly stand to look into his earnest, boyish face. All the life and beauty had gone out of the ball. The whole gathering seemed diminished by Reyn’s departure. It suddenly seemed there were fewer couples on the dance floor, less laughter and talk in the room.

Bleakness welled up from the bottom of her soul, inundating her again. She could recall that she had been briefly happy earlier today, but the memory seemed shallow and false. As the music faded, it was a relief to see her mother at the edge of the dance floor, gesturing unobtrusively for Malta to come to her.

“My mother summons me. I’m afraid I have to go.”

Cerwin stepped back from her, but caught both her hands in his. “Then I shall let you go, but only because I must, and I pray you, only for a brief time.” He bowed to her gravely.

“Cerwin Trell,” she acknowledged him, and then turned and left him.

Keffria’s face was solemn as her daughter approached her. The concern in her eyes didn’t change, but she managed a smile as she asked, “Have you had a good time, Malta?”

How to answer that? “It has not been what I expected,” she replied truthfully.

“I don’t think anyone’s presentation ball is quite what one expects.” She reached for Malta’s hand. “I hate to ask this of you, but I think we should leave soon.”

“Leave?” Malta asked in confusion. “But why? There is still the shared meal, the presentation of the gifts—”

“Hush,” Keffria bid her. “Malta, look around you. Tell me what you see.”

She glanced about herself hastily, then perused the room more carefully. In a low voice she asked, “Where have all the Rain Wild Traders gone?”

“I don’t know. A number of Bingtown Traders have vanished as well, without any explanation or any farewell. Grandmother and I fear there is some trouble afoot. I went outside for a breath of air, and I smelled smoke. The blockade of the harbor has increased tension in the city. We fear a riot or outbreak of some kind.” Keffria looked slowly about the room. She kept the calm smile on her face as if she discussed the ball with Malta. “We feel we would all be safer at home.”

“But,” Malta began and then fell silent. It was hopeless. All joy and light had gone out of the evening anyway. To stay here would just extend the death throes of her dream. “I shall do as you think best,” she abruptly conceded. “I suppose I should tell Delo farewell.”

“I think her mother already took her home. I saw Trader Trell speaking to his son just a moment ago, and now I do not see Cerwin either. They’ll understand.”

“Well, I don’t,” Malta replied sourly.

Her mother shook her head. “I am sorry for you. It is hard to see you come of age in such troubled times. I feel you are being cheated of all the things we dreamed you would do. But there is nothing I can do to change it.”

“I know that feeling,” Malta said, more to herself than to her mother. “Sometimes I feel completely helpless. As if there is nothing I can do to change any of the bad things. Other times, I fear I am simply too cowardly to try.”

Keffria smiled a genuine smile. “Cowardly is the last word I would use to describe you,” she said fondly.

“How will we get home? The hired coach will not be back for hours.”

“Grandmother is talking to Davad Restart. She will ask if his coach could take us home. It would not take long. It would be back long before the ball is scheduled to end.”

Grandmother came hastening up to them. “Davad is reluctant to see us leave, but he has agreed to loan us the use of his coach.” She scowled suddenly. “But there is a condition on it. He demands that Malta come and bid the Satrap farewell before she leaves. I told him I thought that improper and putting herself forward, but he insists on it. I feel we have no time to argue. The sooner we are home, the safer we shall be. Now, where has Selden got off to?”

“He was with the Daw boys a moment ago. I’ll find him.” Keffria abruptly sounded both weary and harassed. “Malta, do you mind? Grandmother will be with you, so you needn’t be afraid.”

Malta suddenly wondered how much they had deduced about her earlier encounter with the Satrap. “I’m not afraid,” she retorted. “Shall we meet you outside?”

“I suppose that will work. I’ll go and find Selden.”

As she and her grandmother crossed the floor, Ronica Vestrit spoke. “I think we shall host a tea ten days from now. The group of women presented this year is not large. Shall we invite them all?”

Malta was startled. “A tea? At our home?”

“In the garden, I think. We should be able to trim it up decently. Now that the berries are ripening, we could make little tarts to serve. In my day, such little tea parties often had a theme.” Grandmother smiled to herself. “My mother held one for me, in which everything was lavender or violet. We ate tiny candied violets, and sugar cakes tinted purple with blueberry juice and the tea was flavored with lavender. I thought it tasted dreadful, but the idea of it was so lovely I didn’t mind.” She chuckled aloud.

Grandmother was trying to make her feel better. “Our lavender is blooming very well this year,” Malta pointed out with an effort. “If we are deliberately old-fashioned, then no one will remark if we use the old lace tablecloths and doilies. And the old china, perhaps.” She tried to smile.

“Oh, Malta, this has all been so unfair to you,” Grandmother began. Then, “Chin up; cheery smile. Here comes Davad.”

He bore down on them like a big gander in a poultry yard. “Well, I do think it is tragic, just tragic, to hurry this sweet girl home like this. Is her headache truly that bad?”

“Devastating,” Malta replied quickly. So that had been her grandmother’s ruse. “I am not accustomed to such late hours, you know,” she added sweetly. “I told Grandmother I only wished to bid you good night and thank you for your kind offer of your coach. Then we shall be on our way.”

“Oh, my poor little sugarplum! Surely, you will at least bid the Satrap good evening. After all, I have already told him you must leave, and I’ve come to escort you while you say good-bye.”

That sealed her doom. No gracious way out. “I suppose I could manage it,” Malta said faintly. She set her hand on Davad’s arm, and he hastened her across the room to the high dais, with Ronica Vestrit hurrying after them.

“Here she is, Magnadon Satrap,” Davad announced grandly before Malta had even caught her breath. He did not seem to notice that he had interrupted a conversation Trader Daw was having with the Satrap.

The Satrap turned a languorous glance on Malta. “So I see,” he said slowly. His eyes moved over her casually. “Such a shame you must leave so soon. We have had only the briefest of conversations, and on such an important topic.”

Malta could think of nothing to say. She had sunk into a deep curtsey the moment the Satrap deigned to notice her. Now Davad rather ungracefully took her arm and hauled her to her feet again. The act made her appear clumsy; she felt the blood rush to her face. “Aren’t you going to tell him good night?” Davad prompted her as if she were a backward child.

“I wish you a good evening, Magnadon Satrap. I thank you for the honor of your dance.” There. That was dutiful and correct. Then, before she could forbid herself the hope, she added, “And I pray you will soon act on your offer to send rescue for my father.”

“I fear I may not be able to, sweet child. Trader Daw tells me there is some unrest down in the harbor tonight. Surely my patrol vessels must stay in Bingtown until it is subdued.”

Before Malta could decide if he expected an answer to that, he was turning to Davad. “Trader Restart, would you have your coach summoned? Trader Daw feels it might be safest for myself to leave the ball early. I shall be sorry not to witness all of your quaint festival, of course, but I see I am not the only one to prefer caution over entertainment.” His languid arm swept the ballroom. Malta glanced around reflexively. The crowd had thinned substantially, and many of those who remained were gathered in small anxious groups and talking. Only a few young couples still moved across the dance floor in apparently blissful ignorance.

Davad looked uncomfortable. “I beg your pardon, Magnadon Satrap. I had just promised Trader Vestrit and her family the use of my coach to get her safely home. But it will return quite swiftly, I promise you.”

The Satrap rose, stretching like a cat. “It will not need to, Trader Restart. Surely, you cannot have intended to send these women off by themselves? I shall accompany them to their home, to see them safely there. Perhaps young Malta and I shall have a chance this evening to continue our interrupted conversation.” The smile he gave her was a lazy one.

Her grandmother swept forward in a rustle of gown. She curtseyed low, near demanding that the Satrap recognize her. After a moment, he nodded at her irritably. “Lady,” he acknowledged in a flat voice.

She rose. “Magnadon Satrap, I am Malta’s grandmother, Ronica Vestrit. We would, of course, be honored to have you call upon us, but I fear our household is a very humble one. We could scarcely accommodate your visit tonight; at least, not in the manner in which you are no doubt accustomed to being welcomed. We would, of course—”

“My dear lady, the whole purpose of travel is to experience that which one is not accustomed to. I am sure I shall find your household accommodating. Davad, you will see to sending my personal servants over tonight, will you not? And my trunks and baggage.”

The way he spoke, it was not a request. Davad bobbed an acquiescent bow. “Certainly, my lord Magnadon. And—”

“Your coach is outside by now, surely. Let us take our leave. Trader Daw, bring Companion Kekki’s wrap and my cloak.”

Davad Restart made a last brave attempt. “Magnadon Satrap, I fear we shall be very crowded in the coach—”

“Not if you ride on top with the driver. Companion Serilla seems to have vanished. Be it upon her own head. If she will not attend me as she should, then she must bear the consequences. Let us leave.”

So saying, he rose from his seat on the dais, descended to the floor and set off for the main door. Davad hurried after him like a leaf caught in a ship’s wake. Malta exchanged a look with her grandmother and then they both followed. “What are we to do?” Malta whispered worriedly to her.

“We shall be courteous,” her grandmother assured her. “And no more than that,” she added in a dangerously low voice.

Outside, the night was mild and pleasant, save for a distinct odor of smoke on the breeze. The Concourse had no view of Bingtown proper. There was no way to tell what was on fire, or where, but just the smell of it put shivers up Malta’s back. Cloaks and wraps were brought hastily and the coach came around. Ignoring his own Companion, the Satrap took Malta’s arm and assisted her into the coach first. He followed her and sat down by her on the ample seat. He gave Davad a look. “You will have to ride up top with the driver, Trader Restart. Otherwise, we shall be unforgivably crowded. Ah, yes, Kekki, you shall sit here, on the other side of me.”

That left the opposite seat for her grandmother, mother and Selden. Malta felt wedged in the corner, for the Satrap sat uncomfortably close to her, his thigh nearly brushing hers. She tried not to look alarmed, but folded her hands modestly in her lap and gazed out the window. She was suddenly exhausted. She desired nothing so much as to be alone. The coach rocked as Davad climbed up awkwardly to take a seat next to the coachman. It took a while for him to settle and then the driver spoke to the horses. The coach moved out smoothly, leaving behind the lights and the music. As the darkness closed around them and the sound of the ball dwindled, the driver kept the horses to a sedate pace. No one spoke inside the coach. It seemed to fill with the night. The overloaded coach creaked companionably as its wheels rumbled over the cobbled road. It was not peace but numbness that settled over Malta. All the merriment and life had been left far behind them now. She feared she might doze off.

Companion Kekki broke the silence. “This summer celebration was very interesting to me. I am so pleased that I could witness it.”

Her vapid words hung in the air, then Ronica exclaimed, “By Sa’s breath! Look at the harbor!”

There was a break in the trees lining the road. Atop the coach, both Davad and the coachman swore in disbelief. Malta stared. It seemed as if the whole harbor were on fire, for the flames were reflected in the water and doubled there. It was not just a warehouse or two; the entire waterfront seemed to be burning, as well as several of the ships. Malta stared in horror, scarcely hearing the exclamations and speculation of the others. Well she knew that only fire could kill a liveship. Had the Chalcedeans known that as well? Were the ships that battled the flames out near the mouth of the harbor liveships or the ships and galleys the Satrap and his party had come on? But they had only that brief glimpse and the distance was too great to be sure what she had seen.

“Perhaps we should go down there and see for ourselves,” the Satrap suggested boldly. He raised his voice. “Coachman! Take us down to the harbor!”

“Are you mad?” Ronica exclaimed, heedless of whom she addressed. “That is no place for Selden or Malta just now. Take us home first, then do as you will!”

Before the Satrap could reply, the coach gave a lurch as the coachman whipped up his horses. As blackness closed around them once more, Ronica exclaimed, “What can Davad be thinking, to travel at such a pace in the darkness? Davad? Davad, what are we doing?”

There was no direct reply to her query, only muffled shouts exchanged atop the coach. Then Malta thought she heard another voice. She seized the windowsill and leaned out of it. Behind them, in the darkness, she thought she caught a glimpse of something. “I think some horsemen are coming up behind us quickly. Perhaps Davad is just trying to get out of their way.”

“They must be drunk, to gallop their horses at night on this road,” Keffria exclaimed in disgust. Selden was climbing up on the seat, trying to get to the window to look out. “Sit down, child! You’re trampling my dress,” she exclaimed in annoyance. Suddenly Selden was thrown to the floor as the coachman cracked his whip and the horses suddenly surged forward against their harness. The coach rocked heavily now, shifting them back and forth against one another as it swayed. If they had not been packed so tightly together, they would have been sliding about inside the coach.

“Don’t lean against the doors!” her mother commanded her wildly, while Ronica cried out, “Davad! Make him slow the horses! Davad!”

As Malta clung desperately to the windowsill to keep from being thrown about, she glimpsed sudden movement outside it. A horse and rider had pulled abreast of them. “Yield!” he shouted. “Halt and yield to us, and no one will be hurt!”

“Highwaymen!” Kekki exclaimed in horror.

“In Bingtown?” Ronica retorted. “Never!”

Yet now there was another horse and rider on the other side of the coach. Malta glimpsed him, and then she heard the driver shout something. A wheel bumped wildly, and she was thrown against the side of the coach as it slewed to one side. For an instant, it seemed to recover. All would be well, she told herself, and then the opposite side of the coach simply sank with an abrupt lurch. She was flung hard against the Satrap who sprawled against Companion Kekki. Incredibly, she was falling sideways, and then the roof of the coach was somehow almost under her. A door flew open beside her. She heard a scream, a terrible scream and saw a sudden great flash of white light.

“Davad is dead.” Ronica Vestrit spoke the words so calmly, she could hardly believe it was her own voice. She had come across his body in the darkness, groping her way up the steep and uneven slope toward the road. She knew it was Davad by the heavy embroidery on his jacket. She was glad it was too dark to see his body. The heavy warm stillness and the stickiness of blood were overwhelming enough. She could find no pulse at his throat, only blood. There was no whisper of breath. She believed from the drenching of blood down the back of his jacket that his skull had been crushed, but she could not bring herself to touch him anymore. She crawled away from him.

“Keffria! Malta! Selden!” She called the names wildly but without strength. Nothing made sense. Above her, she could see the bulk of the coach between her and the uneven light of torches. There were voices up there, and people moving in the darkness. Maybe her children were up there.

The hillside was steep and brushy. She could not clearly recall how she had gotten out of the coach. She could not understand how she could be so far away from it. Had she been thrown clear?

Then to her ears came Keffria’s voice. She wailed, “Mama, mama!” just as she had used to call when she was a child and tormented by nightmares.

“I’m coming!” Ronica called. Prickly bushes caught at her and she fell again. The entire left half of her body stung as if she had lost the skin off it. But that could be managed, that could be ignored, forgiven and forgotten, if she could just find the children. She fell again.

It seemed to take a long time to get up. Had she fainted? She could see nothing at all now, not the coach, nor the flickering light. Had there been people moving about or had she imagined that? She listened hard. There. A sound, a squeaking of breath, or weeping. She scrabbled toward it.

In the darkness, she found Keffria by touch. The squeaking had been her sobbing. She cried out when Ronica touched her, then clutched at her wordlessly. Little Selden was in her lap. The boy was curled in a tight little ball. The tension of his muscles told Ronica that he was alive. “Is he hurt?” were her first words to her daughter.

“I don’t know. He won’t speak. I can’t find any blood.”

“Selden, come here. Come to Grandma.” He did not resist her but he did not try to come to her. She felt the boy over. No blood, nor did he cry out at her touch. He simply huddled, shivering. She gave him back to Keffria. For a miracle, neither of them seemed seriously injured. Keffria had some broken fingers, but more than that she could not tell, nor could Ronica see. The trees were too dense. No moonlight or starlight reached them to help them search.

“Malta?” Ronica asked at last. She would not mention Davad before Selden.

“I haven’t found her yet. I heard the others, at first. Then I called … I thought I heard you, but you didn’t come. Malta never answered.”

“Come. Let’s get back up to the road. Perhaps she is there.”

In the dark, she more felt than saw Keffria nod. “Help me with Selden,” she said.

Ronica hardened her voice. “Selden. Mama and I cannot carry you. You are too big a boy for that. Remember how you helped with the buckets, the day the ships first came? You were brave then. Now you must be brave again. Come. Take my hand. Stand up.”

He did not react at first. Nonetheless, she took his hand and tugged at it. “Come, Selden. Get up. Take your mother’s good hand. You’re strong. You can help us both get up this hill.”

Very slowly, the child unfolded himself. Each of them took a hand, and between the two of them, they hauled him up the hill. Keffria carried her injured hand curled to her chest. No one spoke much, except words of encouragement to the boy interspersed with calling Malta’s name. No one replied. The noise they made had stilled the night birds. The only sounds were those they made themselves.

The coach lay on its side. Here, closer to the road, the trees were thinner and starlight reached through to the ground. It showed Ronica the end of her world in shades of black and white. One dead horse was still tangled in its traces. Between the coach and the road uphill of it, the saplings were bent and snapped.

They searched all around the coach. Neither of them spoke of what they were really doing. They searched the ground for Malta’s body, feeling about in the dark. After a time, Keffria said, “She might have been trapped inside the coach.”

The coach lay on its side on the steep slope, with its roof pointing downhill. The coachman’s booted feet stuck out from under it. Ronica and Keffria both noticed them, but neither pointed them out to the other. Selden had seen enough tonight. He did not need to be shown that. He did not need to wonder, as they did, if Malta’s body was under there, too. Ronica guessed that the coach had rolled at least twice before coming to rest. Even now, it did not look stable. “Be careful,” she cautioned her daughter in a low voice. “It may slide further down the hill.”

“I’ll be careful,” Keffria promised uselessly. Then she clambered slowly up the undercarriage of the coach. She gasped once as her injured hand slipped. She lay on the side of the vehicle, looking in the window. “I can’t see a thing,” she called down to them. “I’ll have to climb down inside it.”

Ronica listened to her wrestle with the door. She managed to drag it open. Then she sat on the edge of the opening for a moment, before lowering herself inside. Ronica heard her sharp exclamation of horror. “I stepped on her,” Keffria wailed. “Oh, my baby, my baby.”

The silence stretched all the way to the stars and back. Then Keffria began to sob. “Oh, Mother, she’s breathing! She’s alive, Malta’s alive!”