SO MUCH FOR SPECULATION. TIMKA AND SKEEN GO ON WITH THEIR PLOTTING, IGNORANT OF THE INTRICATE WEB OF ACT AND EYE BEING SPUN ABOUT THEM.

In her night owl shape Timka circled high over the compound watching the guards and the servants settle into their nightly somnolence. A fan of light spread across the lawn that sloped to the oval pond, the fringes of that light skipped along the wind-teased ripples on its surface. Beside the ceremonial door to the main house, also near the edge of the light, half a dozen Funor guards squatted over a grid chalked on a paving stone and played stones and bones in finger flickering silence while they waited for their Char to march them home uphill. Forbidden to speak on duty, they’d evolved the finger signs and honed them until they approached the level of speech. Six guards, all true Funor, no mercenaries. Whoever was visiting Tod was one of the uphill Funor, either important or desiring to seem so; two was the usual number even after dark.

Though Skeen would yell it was foolish (but who was Skeen to inveigh against rash acts?), Timka gave in to the prodding of her curiosity and spiraled down to an open window in one of the upper floors, smiling inside as she acknowledged the change in her since Skeen winkled her out of her comfortable prison in the Poet’s house. She had resented that once, but no longer. She was alive as she hadn’t been in a long, long time, not since she fled the mountains and Telka’s spite, though she felt more pain now that the numbing was gone, felt the ache of being cut off from her kind. There were moments when she suffered a loneliness that seemed more than she could endure. Such moments generally came late at night when she woke for some cause or other and lay staring up into the dark; they never came when she was actually with her own; then she was usually so irritated at the Min she felt more kinship to Skeen than she did to any Min, however close by blood and belief. Insular, rigid, fearful, ossified—loving, gentle, tied deeply to the land in ways even the Skirrik who came closest to that tie could not experience or understand. Like three rounds, one placed over two, bits of her overlapped the Skeen world, other bits of her overlapped the Min world and bits of her touched neither. That’s my sigil, she thought, three mingled circles. She had begun to understand Skeen’s restlessness, her need to keep busy; when she was busy with immediate concerns all that other business about having no place to call her own was something she could ignore. More than ignore. Forget.

She aimed herself through the window, snapped her wings out once she was inside and curved to a soundless landing on a carpeted floor. A bedroom. Empty now, though there were noises outside, women talking, one laughing. Huge room; the one she, Skeen and Lipitero shared wouldn’t make a closet here. More voices, getting louder, the speakers coming toward her. She ruffled her feathers impatiently and peered about. Stupid choice, Tod’s own bedroom. Stupid. Go out and start over? No fuckin’ chance as Skeen would probably say. Unless I absolutely have to. She shifted to woffit and padded away from the hidden women. A door. Woffit’s large ears up and swiveling. No sounds outside. She shifted to Pallah, needing hands, squeezed the latch and eased the door open. Lifefire be blessed, old Tod didn’t like squeaks and kept his hinges oiled. She started to go back to woffit, then hesitated. Woffit eyes were dim, unreliable. Woffit nose was keen, but she needed to SEE. I’m going hunting, so I go as Hunter. She shifted to her cat-weasel shape, willing her splotchy fur high-summer dark, then went padding down the wide hall keeping close to the side, blending into embroidered hangings blowing gently in the drafts that prowled the halls with her. Ears twitching, her hunter’s eyes searching, her nose tasting the air, she teased out the pattern of the rooms. The big house was mostly empty, no children in it as far as she could tell, a few women. Slaves? Probably. From what she’d learned about Tod, he’d want no one he couldn’t control anywhere near him. His slaves would be sufficiently cowed to offer no threat. She left the halls and stood in the shadows at the top of a graceful spiraling ramp, whiskers twitching, tail jerking back and forth, irritation like heartburn in her middle.

In the Great Hall below servants were clearing way the remains of a sumptuous feast and a pair of semi-naked gauze-draped Balayar girls (they looked like twins) were moving along the table, getting in the way, helping themselves to tidbits off the plates, each clutching at a decanter of wine and drinking from it without bothering with glasses. The serving women worked patiently on, ignoring them as if drunken twelve-year-olds were a common thing in this place and perhaps they were.

Timka-cat fidgeted back and forth behind the elaborate grill that fenced off a sort of balcony that ran along the wall giving a concealed view of the hall. She could not go down to snoop on Tod and his guest as long as those women were working. She glided to the end of the balcony nearest the place where she could hear snatches of glittery music, settled in a corner and waited. Tinkly metallic sounds, pretty enough but irritating to her cat-ears. The soft clish-clash of the cleanup below was pleasanter but she was happy enough when it stopped. She crawled to the grill and looked down. The women were lifting the sections of table, carrying them to the edges of the Hall. They came back when that was done, lifted up the sleeping twins and carried them away. Ti-cat moved swiftly to the head of the ramp, but waited before she started down it. Within moments she was glad she had.

Two girls came back carrying a heavy tray laden with a steaming urn and etched crystal stemware. They crossed to the embroidered velvet arras that was pulled across the northwall of the Great Hall; the girl on the right carefully freed one hand and pushed the folds aside, baring an open archway. The music was abruptly louder. Moving with continued care the girls eased around the end of the arras, letting it fall into place behind them.

Timka dithered briefly, then darted to the ramp and oozed-down it as fast as she could without breaking silence. She flowed across the mosaic tiles to the west end of the arras, nosed it aside. Blank wall. Good. She dropped to her belly and edged along as if she stalked nervous rabbits in short grass until she reached a section of wall pierced and set with fans of stained glass. With the dimly lit Great Hall behind her and the heavy dark arras she felt safe enough to ease an eye past the edge of one of the fans.

Tod and his guest, a longhorn Funor, sat cradled in lounge chairs. Beside them a fire danced in the round throat of a free-standing hearth, its threads of smoke carried off by a funnel chimney hung above it. The serving girls were arranging the urn and goblets on a table between the chairs. The men ignored them as they watched torches being set on poles outside a long curved wall that was mostly glass. When the lawn was dancing with shadow and firelight, Tod clapped his hands. The musicians stopped their tinkle twang and filed out, all of them stocky Balayar women much older than the other servants. Or slaves. Whichever they were.

The serving girls moved on their knees to Tod’s side and knelt there, mute and pliant, waiting for whatever he chose to ask of them. Timka had done the same herself with the Poet and thought little of it then. A matter of surviving with a minimum of pain and fuss. Now her tail twitched and her muzzle flattened in a soundless snarl. The fit was brief and ended with a burst of silent laughter as she mocked herself. It all depends on where you’re watching from, eh, Ti? For those girls no doubt it was the same as it was for her. A bit of business in the art of surviving. No more than that. For all her understanding, though, a bad taste lingered in her mouth.

Tod sent the girls away with a flick of his hand. Timka edged her head under the arras and watched them stroll off across the hall and vanish into the back where the servant quarters were, stretching, rubbing at their necks, talking in whispers as they moved.

Ti-cat crawled nearer to the archway, flattened herself below the glass fans and pricked her ears to listen. Nothing. Her tail jerked against the arras with small thudding sounds. She raised her head. The men were looking out at the torchlit lawn, watching the musicians as they readied themselves. A few scattered notes, then a heavy driving beat from the drums, a fast hard counter from the cittern strings. A tall angular androgynous Pass-Through walked between two torch poles, took up the beat of the music, stamping in place on the grass, torso rippling, then began a splendidly barbaric dance.

“Oh, it’s not authentic,” Tod murmured, his peeping voice so very modest, “just a little entertainment I devised for your pleasure, Char Vassa Bassa.”

The uphill Funor had laid aside his cowl. Ti-cat could see the back of his neck, one ear and a bit of face. His half-meter horns were polished until they gleamed a dark ivory; gold and silver wire were inlaid into the tough substance, intricate whorls that outlined cartouches where bits of jade and pearl and chips of amethyst and emerald and ruby were shaped into rayed designs. A glittering opulent decoration to an otherwise undistinguished form. Fat jowly head, very white skin flushed roseate with wine and lust. He leaned toward Tod. “That dancer, is it as agile on a mattress as it is on the grass?”

Tod shrugged. “Too old for my tastes, too bony. So many more enticing come through here.…” A wave of a limp hand.

“You live in a paradise most men only dream of, Tod. Are there no men at all in your house?”

“Women are pliant creatures and adaptable,” Tod said. “They keep me comfortable, why not. My men walk the walls and watch from the guard towers, why should I have them here?”

Outside, the dance ended, the musicians and the dancer collected their gear and vanished round the side of the house.

“And woffits in the garden. No doubt there are woffits where I sit once you have gone up.” Vassa Bassa sounded blearily envious. “And a peaceful night, bedwarmers beside you, no fear your throat will be cut before the dawn breaks. Sometimes I think I should buy peace with that cow Pululvatit Grytta and go back to the Funor Plain where I have kin who’d guard me with their lives instead of spending those lives looking for a way to bleed my veins dry.” He gulped at the tepid wine and his neck got a degree redder while the ear that she could see was almost purple. “Heyya hai, I’d do it tomorrow had I the blood price. Tod, you Pallah don’t know what greed is; just wait till you come across a cow in spite, you’ll find out.” He grunted, squeezed his nape into accordion folds and gulped the lees of his wine, blew out a cloud of droplets, and settled back muttering to himself. “Not my fault he had air ’tween his horns. Every shorthorn plays rough games. We played rough games, so what? Wasn’t my fault he tried to play Fool without the Tapping and bashed the Ippy Lyta. Nearly got ME killed, that gimp brain.” He scowled uncertainly at the goblet, wrestled himself up and refilled it at the urn cock. The effort seemed to sober him. Head swaying, he peered at Tod. Ti-cat read hostility and alarm in what she could see of his face and the set of his body. Tod had the presence of mind to have his eyes shut and to produce a soft eeping snore. The Funor relaxed. He’s either dumb or very drunk, Timka thought; she watched him settle back and changed her mind. No, Ti, you don’t make that mistake or you’re the dumb one; maybe he’s not the brightest of the Funor, but he’s cunning or he wouldn’t be alive. No. Tod was giving him a way to save face and he took it because Tod’s too useful to him to throw away for such a little happening.

After a few more minutes of silence punctuated by Tod’s tactful snores, Vassa Bassa cleared his throat, flicked a fingernail against his goblet’s bowl, making it ring loudly. “Tod!”

Tod opened his eyes and sat up with a thousand apologies for his discourtesy.

Vassa Bassa brushed them off, showing his irritation, and turned the conversation to the reason he was there. “Word is you’ve a shipment due soon.”

“Not soon, Char. Tomorrow. The messenger bird came shortly before you did. Your timing, as usual, is impeccable, oh Char. Shipmaster Khorem will be tieing up a short while after the noon meal if all goes well.”

“Sent he a list of what he’s got?”

“In general terms, Char. Twelve fives of young Pallah studs, sturdy stock with years of work in them. And this is a coup indeed—Khorem got his hands on nine Skirrik dames old enough to be well-trained in their arts but young enough for heavy work. And three Skirrik pups guaranteed to be deft at sniffing out Min spies. Twelve twos of tender girls, a mix of Balayar and Pallah with three young Chalarosh bitches, defanged of course. Something else, what, what … ah! a handful of Aggitj extras. He took those on because they come from the orehills in the Backland and one is said to be an ore-sniffer, but I truly doubt that because no family would exile such an asset.”

“Unless they happened to be a family of ore-sniffers and too many of their kind would lessen their worth.”

“So wise, oh Char, then the report might be true. I will not guarantee it though, not without a trial of his skills. And it will be important to keep the presence of these Aggitj quiet. You know the Slukra, they squeal like rats and turn mean if they think you’re fooling with their cousins.”

Vassa Bassa snorted, gulped at his wine. “When will you be showing them?”

“I will have to polish them up a bit, settle the restive ones, work on them so they show well. No doubt I’ll have the first presentation next Pyaday.”

“Arrange a private showing, Tod. Next Tirday, no later.” Vassa Bassa reached into his robe, fumbled about a bit, lifted out a heavy pouch. He loosened the thongs, emptied the coins inside onto the floor, a ringing, clanking shower of gold, a ringing rattling outrun as coins that fell on edge rolled away and toppled over. Before the noise was finished, Vassa Bassa was on his feet, pulling his cowl over head and horns. He didn’t wait for an answer but stalked out. A moment later the ceremonial door slammed and he was bellowing his guard onto their feet.

The arrogance and ill will in that gesture didn’t begin to touch Tod. He lay smiling a little, his hands clasped over his stomach, until he heard the guard marching off, then he got to his feet and stumped heavily to the line of long windows. Drapes were tightly bunched at both ends, stiff, hieratic, fold packed against fold. He shook his wide sleeves back from his wrists, found the pull cords and began drawing the curtains over the windows. They flowed smoothly shut, heavy and dark, blocking the view from the garden. Whistling tweedle-weedle he came back, dropped to his knees and began collecting the coins. He weighed each, right hand left hand, tested each with a thumbnail filed to a point, ran a thumbpad around the rims. He looked supremely contented handling that gold, caressing it, stacking coin on coin into solid little piles. Vassa Bassa’s attempt to humiliate him hadn’t touched him because he had nothing but contempt for that uphill Funor; the heavy shining gold was all that mattered.

When he had retrieved all the coins, judged them and sorted them, he got to his feet and walked quickly to the archway, passing less than a meter from Ti-cat’s whiskers. A moment later she heard bars slam into their sockets at the ceremonial door, then he was back again, carrying a small silver tray. He stopped short of the arch. Again she eased her head under the arras, wanting to know what he was doing. He moved to the ramp, looked up it, made a circuit of the Great Hall, snooping in the corners, then he walked briskly to the arch, pushed the arras aside and was back in the parlor. He transferred the gold to the tray and carried it to a woven tapestry hanging on the east wall. He pushed the cloth aside (its rings rattled loudly enough for Timka to hear the noise and twitch at it), took a key from round his neck and opened the steel door the tapestry had concealed.

Timka watched him swing the door open, then she was edging back along the wall, getting clear of the arras. Lifefire alone knew how long he’d spend in there fondling his treasure; it was time to get out. She’d had all the luck she could expect in a single night.

“Sometimes I think it’s better to be lucky than smart. That was not smart, Ti.”

“It worked.”

“So it did.” Skeen looked grim, but couldn’t hold onto that sternness. She patted Timka in the middle of her glossy black curls. “It’s a good child, but if it does anything like that again, it’s going to get a spanking it won’t forget.”

Timka shifted suddenly to cat-weasel and snarled, then was Pallah again, giggling at the speed with which Skeen pulled her hand away.

Skeen sighed and shook her head. “Well, don’t make a habit of being that rash. As a corpse you’re no use at all.” She stretched out on the bed. “Djabo’s teeth, I wish Maggí would get here.”