"This," said the Director, "is serious."
A subdued knot of scholars had gathered around him, away from those who still lined the rail chattering like excited children. Kirien and Ashe had joined the circle, the latter hooded, an iron-shod staff in her hand. Listening from the rail, hoping to escape notice, Jame flinched as the Director turned his scarred face toward her; however, when he stared over her head, unblinking, full into the sun, she suddenly realized that he was blind.
"Ashe tells me that we're in the middle of the Dry Salt Sea," he said. "Urakarn is west of us, below the horizon but still dangerously close. I needn't remind you what happened the last time Kencyr fell into Karnid hands."
The group stirred uneasily, remembering. It had only been some dozen years ago, after all, during the long confusion after Ganth's fall. Without a Knorth Heir to lead the Southern Host, Caineron had secured the post for his favorite son, Genjar, who in turn had tried to further his own political ambitions by attacking the Karnid stronghold.
" 'Black rock on the dry sea's edge,' " Ashe suddenly chanted, her harsh voice like stones grating together.
" 'How many your dungeons swallowed. How few came out again.' "
Tori went in, Jame thought, and came out, with the marks of Karnid torture on his hands and soul. He must have been about her age then, if not younger. Strange. She remembered so clearly the child he had been and had met him again now as a man; but what had that boy been like, who had faced the horrors of Urakarn and barely survived them?
Ashe's song had stilled the chatter by the rail. What if the weirding stranded them here? They could see it stretching away to the east and north, a great cloud plain rosy with sunset light. Clearly, it had reached its farthest mark and now must either dissipate or withdraw. Which, and how soon? No one knew.
Jame slipped down the southeast corner stair, hopefully on Brier's heels. At least, when she had turned again to look, the Kendar had disappeared, and there weren't all that many ways for her to go.
High time that she also found Jorin. It occurred to her now that she hadn't looked for the ounce in the most obvious place. Sure enough, there in the infirmary he was, curled up asleep on Aerulan's tapestry lap. There too was Graykin, fretfully awake.
"Yellow isn't exactly your color," she said, regarding the half-healed bruises on his face, "but it's better than black and blue. Kindrie tells me that you may even have enough Kencyr blood to grow some new teeth."
"Fine," muttered the Southron, without looking at her.
Behind the mask, Jame's eyebrows rose. "If you're having second thoughts about serving me . . . ."
"It isn't that! You gave me a job to do, something to guard . . . and I failed."
"Oh." She sat down on the foot of his pallet. "Listen, Gray: it isn't important. I don't want that damned book anyway. If it wants me, it will find some way to come crawling back. I never meant to saddle you with it all winter, in any event."
He was glaring at her now. "Oh, so it's not important, is it? How nice to know that I starved, froze, and got beaten up by Caineron's thugs for no good reason. But that doesn't matter. What does is that you gave me an assignment—however stupid—and I failed."
"I see. What we're really talking about here is your pride."
"My pride?" He drew himself up, indignant, clutching the blanket to his bony chest. "How about yours? You're a great lady, aren't you? The Highlord's own sister! You shouldn't run around dressed like a . . . a Tastigon flash-blade. You've got me now . . . ."
". . . to keep my hands clean," Jame finished. "You've said that before. Let's get something clear, here and now: if you do serve me, my hands are only as clean as yours. I'm serious, Gray. Too many of my house have tried to hide behind Honor's Paradox, from Master Gerridon on down. But you should be serious too. Look: I'm in no position to offer you security, protection, or even a crust of bread every other week. The way things are going, I probably never will be."
But Graykin was shaking his head. "You'll have power," he said stubbornly. "You must. Nothing stops you."
There was a scratch on the door and Rue entered, scowling. "You were asking about Ten," she said in her abrupt way. "Well, it's not right. Someone's got to be told, orders or no."
Jame stood up, a ripple of apprehension down her spine. "You said before that there was trouble. What?"
"Nothing, at first. The captain thought we'd been caught out in the weirding and carried along with it, the same as she was. Then someone says something to her Ten—I think it was Vant—and the next thing we know our Ten is on the mat . . . ."
"Wait a minute. This would be Captain Hawthorn, correct? Who is she, anyway?"
"You know," said Rue, impatiently. "You were talking to her outside the library."
"I was?" Light dawned. "She's the Brandan captain, with her cadet ten-command, escorting Lady Brenwyr. All right, Rue. I just didn't know her name before now. So, Brier is on the mat . . . ."
". . . and the captain asks her, flat out, if she ignored standing orders to take us back to Tentir when it started to weird up. 'Yes, Ran,' says Ten, wooden-like. You know her way. Did she in fact take us south, away from safety? 'Yes, Ran.' Why? 'No excuse, Ran.' "
"She didn't say anything about me or Restormir?"
"Not a word. Maybe we cadets should have, but like Vant says, we're already midden-deep in trouble, and how will it help Ten anyway? So Hawthorn says, 'You've endangered your squad, apparently without reason. You're relieved of command.' Ten's an outsider, like me. This will ruin her, and it's not fair!"
"It damn well isn't," said Jame. "Hawthorn is a reasonable woman, though. She'll understand if I explain, if she isn't still too mad at me to listen."
"She may understand," said Rue, sounding doubtful, "but it may not help. You didn't see, did you? When Ten left the deck, she went down the outer stair to the desert. I don't think she means to come back."
After that Rue left, relieved at having vented her feelings to someone, although plainly not expecting Jame to do anything but listen.
"Thought a lot of herself, that Iron-thorn did," said Graykin, with ill-concealed satisfaction. "And she was a Caineron born and bred, whatever oaths she's sworn since. You don't need the likes of her, lady."
"Jealous, Gray?" Jame asked absent-mindedly, not noticing him flinch.
She was wondering if she should leave her heavy d'hen behind. No. Without its protection, she felt naked; and besides, the sun was setting. Water? A good drink should suffice. The Southron watched with growing alarm as she drained a flask left for his use.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. "You don't . . . you can't intend to go after her!"
"Don't I?" said Jame. "Can't I?"
She regarded Jorin and Aerulan. Blind ounce and dead girl seemed to look back at her hopefully.
"I think not. Still . . . . Down, kitten."
Shooed off the banner, Jorin stood by making sounds of protest as she rolled it up and slung it across her back.
"You can't!" said Graykin again, more shrilly. "Any minute now, this floating mad-house is going to snap back toward the Riverland. I over heard people up on the deck say so! I-I won't let you go. I'll call Captain Hawthorn . . . ."
The next moment he had curled back like a frightened spider, all knees and elbows, as the other bent over him. The back of one black sheathed finger lightly traced the line of his jaw and hooked under his chin, jarring it back with sudden pain. Silver eyes locked with his own.
"Oh no, little man, oh no. Never come between me and my honor. Never. Understand?"
"Y-yes . . . ."
The gloved hand patted his bruised cheek lightly, a panther's tap. "Good boy. Now sleep for awhile."
The door opened, closed. Graykin drew a deep, shuddering breath in the humming silence. "Be damned if I will," he muttered, shaken but defiant, trying to rally. "Be damned . . . ."
. . . and toppled over sideways, asleep before he hit the floor.