"That would be kindness," Anjemalti returned and Corbinye wondered at his soft-spokenness, he who had damned both Ship and Crew.

  He glanced around the ring of faces once more. "I am afraid that no one else—"

  "You don't know me, do you?" An imp stepped out of the crowd, hair spiky and clothing crumpled. Anjemalti looked down at him.

  "Veln Kristefyon," he said softly, and sketched a bow, still holding fast to Trident and light. "Cousin."

  The imp blinked, taken off-stride, then made a recover by pointing at the beacon. "Why do you need that?"

  "Because my eyes are poor," Anjemalti said. "Learn grace of other's failings."

  The boy blinked again, and opened his mouth to blurt who knew what other outrage. A woman reached out and gripped his shoulder. "Veln."

  He subsided and Anjemalti turned his attention to the woman. "Siprian Telshovet?"

  "The same." she returned composedly, though her face betrayed anxiety, and the fingers that gripped the boy showed white knuckles. "Navigation Chief."

  He nodded, caught her eyes. "My vendetta died with my uncle. Your record with me is as clean as the boy's."

  Relief flooded her face, and her grip on the boy loosened, but only slightly. "I hear you—Captain."

  "Is he the Captain?" demanded the irrepressible Veln and the question rustled the circle of Crew, but no one gave him answer. He pulled away from his mother's hands. "Where's cousin Corbinye?" he cried and Anjemalti stared down at him while Corbinye felt her heart stutter and her body soak with sudden sweat. She licked her lips.

  "Here," she croaked, and stiffened as a dozen pair of Crew eyes focused on her.

  I will not flinch, she told herself. I will not cry. I will not beg. I am Corbinye Faztherot, Worldwalker and Seeker for the—

  "That is not my daughter," said Mael Faztherot.

  In the rest of the bay, there was silence, broken abruptly by Veln, who ran across to where she stood, lock-kneed and short of breath, and stared up into her face.

  "Cousin Corbinye?" His own face was creased with distress and she longed to hug him, to reassure him.

  "Yes," she whispered, then cleared her throat. "Yes, Veln."

  He bit his lip, reached out a tentative hand and touched the braid, where it hung across her shoulder. "You look—" his eyes were double their normal size, and awash with tears. "You look—different."

  "I am different," she told him, and the voice was firm this time, falling naturally into the rhythm of the tale. "I was—beaten by thieves—and my old body—died. But on Henron there is a place called the Blue House, where they take the memories and the—soul—of one person and transfer those into a body empty of memories; riven of soul." She raised her eyes from the boy's face and looked to her mother, who stood, stone-faced and silent.

  "I am Corbinye Faztherot," she said, urgently, and hated herself for begging. "In everything but the body—"

  She stopped and dropped her head, grinding her teeth to deny the tears that welled, despite her will. More words were useless and worse than that.

  Mael Faztherot had turned her back.

  "Is this," Anjemalti inquired in the tone of false lightness he used when he wished to mortify his hearer, "how the Crew rewards loyalty? Is this the gratitude won by pursuing duty to death and beyond it? I am instructed, Acting Captain."

  Corbinye looked up, breath-caught. Mael Faztherot's face was rigid; lips pale.

  "I had been concerned," Anjemalti continued, still in that lightsome tone, "that my past would dishonor the Crew, since I was raised and trained a thief. I am relieved to find that these fears—"

  "Anjemalti!" Corbinye cried, hands up in front of her, fingers snaking about themselves in some alien gesture of distress. "Anjemalti, do not!"

  He turned to look at her, eyes fey in the flickering yellow light. "All you have done for them—your duty dispatched in every particular. And you ask me not to chide them, Corbinye? You ask me to bear insult the like of which no Grounder—or thief, either—would bear?"

  "They mean no insult to you," she said hastily. "You are welcomed. Anjemalti, it is nothing."

  "Nothing?" He stared. "Corbinye—"

  "It is nothing," Mael Faztherot announced forcefully. "It is a matter of Crew's Judgment—Captain Kristefyon. Nothing with which you need concern yourself. Nothing—administrative. I will be pleased to instruct you in these matters. The logs are complete; AdminComp shall be put at your disposal. It grieves me that this matter should distort your view of us, who have been away from home so long. We are indeed delighted to have you returned to us, and ready to step into your rightful place." She glanced around at the sober, worn faces. Here and there, one nodded, and there was a soft, "Aye, be welcome, Captain."

  "There is no need to keep you standing about in the dock," she finished briskly, gathering two—Zandora and Eil, it was, Corbinye saw—with her eye and she went forward and made to take Anjemalti's arm.

  He stepped back, gracefully avoiding her and instead placed the beacon into her outstretched hand. "Kind of you, ma'am. Though I am afraid this unit will require a recharge soon. As I said, my eyes are poor, and those of my associates—"

  "Certainly, we understand the difficulty," Mael said. "Recharging the beacon will be no problem. We might even bring some sections of the ship up to twilighting, if you command. I can show you the schematics. . .." Talking so, she turned him and the others fell in around, so that he must needs go with them, and Witness, as well—though that one did pause a moment to set his beacon gently upon the floor.

  Corbinye gritted her teeth and visualized the thought-patterns for forbearance and patience with adversity. Zandora came and stood by her right side. Eil grabbed her left arm, deliberately rough. Testing her.

  She stared into his face. "I know the way. cousin."

  She did not expect the slap and Zandora grabbed her so she could not dodge it.

  "I'm no kin to you, Grounder-bitch! Think you can steal our ways and kill our kin and feed us some crazed tale about transferring souls and have us give you the keys to the Ship?" He spat this time, and Zandora still held her so she couldn't wipe the cheek clean. She held the zens before her mind's eye and kept her muscles loose.

  Eil grinned and reached and wrapped the braid around his fist. He yanked, turning and marching briskly off in the instant that Zandora released her.

  She stayed afoot, having no taste for being dragged three levels on her face. She stayed afoot, and she did not cry.

  But she had to run to keep up with him. All the way to the brig.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  "Of course," said Acting Captain Faztherot, "there will be a period of readjustment, while AdminComp is keyed to yourself and the rest of Ship's systems are brought onto line. In a dozen shifts you should have most systems under your command."

  "A dozen shifts?" murmured Gem, doing the conversion in his head and being careful not to frown. A Standard week to assign and activate a password? Even several passwords, coupled with an ultimate override, should not take more than an hour or two. Why, he could do it himself in less than—

  "When the Ship accepts you," Mael Faztherot said sharply; "it accepts you blood and bone. Captain and Ship are one being; sharing soul." She looked at him closely. "Surely your mother spoke of these things to you?"

  "My mother," Gem reminded her softly, "died when I was eight years old. And afterwards my uncle spoke to me only to taunt me. I regret the circumstances which have caused these lamentable gaps in my education."

  "Certainly, certainly." Corbinye's mother gave back in a hasty embarrassment her daughter would have scorned. "The Logs are at your disposal and these mysteries are fully addressed within. As for this other . . ." She turned and tapped a series into the administrative computer's keypad, a pad so old, Gem saw, that the hard plastic keys were worn smooth, its symbols pounded into oblivion by generation upon generation of fingers. . ..

  "We will require a complete gene-reading, which will be submitted to the medical computer for verification. Once verified, the data is transferred to Captain's comp—administration—which informs all of its systems and subsystems. Administration runs the Ship entire, and it must keep up with its duties even as it acknowledges a new Captain. Hence the time-lag." She glanced sideways at him.

  "I have heard that Grounders have discovered the way of building multifunctional computing machines, which may solve countless problems at lightspeed, as well as maintain primary system tasks. This is very well for Grounders, but the Crew has well-served by this comp and we see no need to upgrade."

  She turned to look at him fully and he read both pride and anxiety in her face. "But I need not tell you," she said, "how it is to be Crew."

  "I may require reminding from time to time," Gem said carefully. "Recall that most of my years have been spent among Grounders and that I am used to certain—ahh—amenities."

  "It is certainly the Captain's privilege," Mael Faztherot said stiffly, turning her face aside, "to provide amenities, should he judge the Ship requires them." She shook her head sharply.

  "In the meantime," she said, coming to her feet and beckoning him brusquely to his. "We must have you to sick bay, so that the tests may be run and your initiation begun! This way. If you please, Captain."

  * * *

  The gene tests were astonishingly easy, the sick bay up to date and gleaming in a way wholly at variance with what he had thus far seen of the Ship.

  Afterward, there were meetings with this section chief and with that—though no inspections to be made; they were careful of that. He kept the Trident in his hand the whole time, and Witness perforce came behind, but every inquiry of Corbinye was cut off, derailed, ignored.

  Finally, he pled weariness, which was nearly true, and Mael Faztherot showed him to a spacious cabin, where one wall slid aside to let in the light and the odors of the Garden, and the furnishings were real wood and in good repair and the coverings on the bed were costly and sweet-smelling.

  "Thank you," Gem said, by way of dismissal. "This will do very well."

  Yet Mael Faztherot hesitated. "I know you are weary—and with every cause! But I would not be behind in any courtesy. Captain. Is there one from among us that I might send to you? Certainly, a roster will be made, as proper. But for this night, if one had caught your eye—"

  He blinked, remembered to keep his face bland. "I thank you for the thought, but I am most truly tired and would hardly be able to do my part. After the roster is made . . ."

  "Certainly," she said again, and nodded at the Witness. "I shall see your servant comfortably bedded."

  "No need," Gem said calmly. "He is accustomed to sleeping athwart the door, and I don't like to disappoint him."

  She looked at him suspiciously. "You have no need of such protections here, on your Ship and among your Crew."

  "But my friend is used to certain conditions and it is only courtesy to bow to them." He returned her gaze, eye for eye, finding it much easier than it ever had been with Corbinye.

  She broke contact first, bowing stiffly. "Very well. If the Captain will instruct me as to the hour of his waking—"

  "Let me call you when I wake," he cut her off. "I am exceedingly tired and still recovering from the effects of a wound. Best I get whatever rest my body demands, rather than undertake my new duties half-exhausted."

  Another bow, stiffer, if possible, than the first. "The Captain is wise. I am at his disposal at whatever hour. He need only press 'one' on the commboard." She pointed at the wall unit, with its numbered keypad and archaic earcup.

  Gem nodded. "I am in your debt, Acting Captain," he said, and saw her face ease somewhat. "Good-shift."

  "Good-shift, Captain," she returned and was finally gone.

  Witness went and sat on the floor, back pressed firmly against the door. Gem eyed him before going and laying the Trident carefully across the bed.

  "Insulted, Witness for the Telios?"

  "Indeed not, Anjemalti. One's own heart can but marvel at the wisdom you display." He settled himself more firmly against the door. "It seems to me that you are newly a man—barely beyond the Testing. And yet you are as canny as one with years of the hunt behind you." He smiled his sweet, predator's smile.

  "I speak from my own heart, understand—as a friend and a brother of the hunt. You yourself addressed me thus."

  "And so no insult is given," Gem concluded and stretched, hands over head and back arched; tensing every muscle and relaxing all at once. "But you are mistaken in me. I fear my testing is just commenced."

  There was a sound, slight in the quiet room; as if a sudden stream were gurgling over hidden rocks.

  Slow with amazement, Gem turned around.

  The Witness was laughing.

  "A jest worthy of a man," he said finally, raising a hand to wipe at his eyes.

  Gem sat carefully on the bed. "You must, of course, be the judge," he managed, then, back hunched against the open wall and any watchers in the garden below, he pulled his sleeve back from his wristlet and began playing his fingers across the tiny studs.

  Spiders began to appear, scurrying here and there upon their magical missions.

  Witness for the Telios leaned back against the door, well-pleased with the current shape of event.

  * * *

  It was dark.

  It had always been dark. And cold. And stale of air. There had never been anything else.

  Corbinye stretched high on her toes, trying to ease both the cramping of the arms chained above her head and the pain of her abundant bruises. Zandora and Eil had been no more gentle than they should have been and her returning three or a dozen responses to their tenderness had elicited even sterner measures.

  The blood had long since dried, stiffening the hair that covered her scraped and battered face. The red shirt they had torn from her—sacrilege that a Grounder be clad so!—and slapped and abused her breasts. Grounder-cow, they'd called her. But that hadn't been the worst.

  The dark was the worst—and they'd known it. Taunted her with her blindness, made noise in the dark so that she missed her strike again and again and was put on her face after all, eating metal, while the boots and the fists pounded her into unconsciousness.

  To waken in chains. Alone. In the dark.

  The tears burned her cheeks; she barely noticed them. Beaten by two of the Crew's ruffians, who were fit only for bullwork, who Corbinye Faztherot had bested effortlessly in every childhood trial. Hung up like meat, to drip blood and stare uselessly into the blackness, until such time as she was sent for, filthy, raving spectacle as she would no doubt be, to be stared at and vilified by the Crew entire before the final push into the Garden's composting unit and the tenderizers finished her.

  No burial in the stars for Grounders. Return to the dirt was fitting for those.

  Corbinye closed her eyes, or opened them. It barely mattered which.

  Except that, in the darkness, there was light.

  Tiny, amber spots of light, a mile or an inch across the infinite blackness, which disappeared and reappeared, one after the other—and then began to move.

  She licked swollen lips and tried to call out, but the lovely storyteller's voice was broken to bits; dust in the back of her bruised throat.

  Voiceless, she hung, watching the constant amber eyes grow larger until finally they reached her boot and she felt spider claws take hold of cloth and begin to climb.

  She tried to hang still; to not dislodge the tiny climber: Number Fifteen. Her last friend. She tried to hang still, but back, arm and shoulder muscles spasmed at once, so that she twisted in agony and tried to push higher on her toes to ease them and the legs went, and she howled with the shattered remains of the dancer's voice and bucked against chains, hitting her head a solid whack against the wall and sending herself back into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  There was light where she woke. Light and the smell of growing things; even a breeze and what might have been water-sounds. There were voices—elsewhere; softness covered her body. She lay as if upon a cloud. Floating, there was no pain.

  Carefully, in the astonishing absence of agony, she tried to remember who she was.

  For the instant, it eluded her, and it made no matter that it did. The ease of her body was enough—she could be anyone, any age, any name. There was no pain. And light was benediction, all around.

  In the light, she saw the trees and flowers beyond the edge of the cloud she floated upon. Closer looking diminished the cloud to a bed, silken covers shrouding her legs. Atop the silk lay a long, elegant hand, soft and pleasingly made, with pearly nails and golden skin. She flexed the fingers of the hand, establishing that it was hers, and lay back, deeply satisfied. She was a person who possessed a hand. It was enough.