"Corbinye Faztherot," a voice murmured near her head. "Do you wake now?"

  She took her time replying, considering the nuance—a man's voice, gently respectful; and it named her. Corbinye Faztherot. She felt something shiver, deep within her painless lethargy. Corbinye Faztherot. She turned her head.

  The man was broad-shouldered and boxy; powerfully formed and not unpleasing. She wondered if he were a bed-partner, then lost the thought as he spoke to her again.

  "Corbinye Faztherot. Do your dreams still hold you?"

  "I am awake," she said, hearing how the languor lent depth to her slow, silken voice.

  "That is well," said the man, brown eyes frowning. He leaned close, so that she could smell the scent of him. "Do you know me?"

  "Shall I know you?" she returned, luxuriating in the power of her voice, that made the simple question into invitation. Something flickered across the man's face. It may have been annoyance.

  "You are still lost in the drug-dreams," he announced, and abruptly went away.

  Well, she thought, closing her eyes and nestling deeper into the soft bed, let him go. There are others.

  "Corbinye." This voice was also male, accompanied by a touch to her shoulder. She opened her eyes and stared into his—blue, wide, beautiful. Something else shivered within her inner fog. Shivered and broke through.

  "Anjemalti?"

  Relief showed in the eyes; there was a rearranging of the bed as he sat on the edge. "You're waking," he said. "That's good. Witness told me you'd lost your wits forever."

  "Lost my wits . . ." They were fast returning, so that she looked around her, at the Atrium below, and the luxurious room; at Anjemalti himself—and forgetfulness fled, to be replaced by horror.

  "You meddled with Crew's Judgment!" she cried and twisted against the prisoning softness.

  His face froze. "Your pardon, madam, but I saved your life."

  "Again!" She managed to sit up, never minding that the coverlet fell away from her shoulder. Never minding anything but the enormity of his action.

  "Anjemalti, listen to me, as you love your life." Her voice was low, throbbing with urgency. "You must give me to the Crew—plead ignorance of our ways—a child would hardly have seen Crew's Judgment—who could expect you to know? Return me, become known to the Ship, fulfill your destiny. It is your duty, what you were made for—" She reached, blindly, hardly knowing her own intent, and felt her hand captured in his.

  "Corbinye . . ." His face held a mix of emotion, of which she read exasperation and worry and stubbornness. "If it were possible to return you to the Crew, they would kill you, would they not? The medic gave me to understand that you are at the very least an interloper—a Grounder who has stolen Crew secrets—and at the very worst exactly what you claim to be—Crew in a Grounder body. A monster. Either way, you're only fit for the most horrible of deaths." Astonishingly, humor glinted.

  "Saxony Belaconto's investment all laid to waste? Pity on your enemies, cousin."

  She laughed, deep and throaty, head tipped back so that she felt the hair sweep her shoulder blades. "Gods forbid I should be so graceless!" She sobered abruptly, caught by his other words. "What medic was this?"

  Anjemalti shrugged. "Tornbel, did he call himself? I think that was the name."

  She stared at him. "You had Tornbel to physick a Grounder? Anjemalti—"

  "Well," he said judiciously, "I fear he required some persuasion, and even after tried to trick me—as if I can't tell one med unit from another." He shook his head and sighed. "I finally had enough and left him webbed to the operating table while we finished the repair on you." His eye moved then, flickering down and coming back up to her face, reflecting satisfaction.

  "I think we did quite a good job, considering the shape you were in when we found you." His face shifted again, showing anger. "Who was responsible for that, I wonder?"

  She stared at him dumbly, lips half-parted.

  "Crew's Judgment," he cried, suddenly savage. "You were thrown to the dogs by your own mother, to be torn and worried to bits; harried to death—"

  "It was half-done," she said then, soft-voiced with the truth. "Anjemalti. It—"

  "Half-done!" He pulled his hand from hers, snapping to his feet and staring down at her. She saw him close his eyes and take a deliberate breath. "More than half-done," he said, calmer. The internal injuries—" He opened his eyes and offered a wavering smile. "This body is not so tough as your Crew body, cousin. Forgive me."

  "No offense," she said absently, looking down at the perfectly-formed, perfectly-smooth hand. She had landed some blows—there should be scratches, bruised knuckles—she looked back at him. "I am still in—in Morela's body?"

  He met her gaze fully. "There is no Blue House here, Corbinye. But the medical units are quite up-to-date. Amazing. I congratulated Tornbel on his instruments, but he was less than gracious. A very rude man."

  She felt laughter rising again; managed to make it nothing more than a twitch of the lips. "I am sorry you did not find him congenial."

  "Oh, no fault of yours." Anjemalti waved a hand. "But we've established that your wits are with you. And since I am not, after all my efforts, inclined to return you to the mob to be tortured and murdered, I wonder if I might prevail upon you to join my bridge-crew. I don't scruple to tell you that I need a mate such as you, who is familiar with the byways of this damned warren."

  Horror rose again and she sat straight, the coverlet falling into her lap. "Anjemalti, what have you done?"

  "Done?" His eyebrows rose. "Nothing more than was being done, at the Ship's own slow pace. The acting captain assured me that I would be made known to the Ship and given access to all administrative data banks. But she is a busy woman, cousin, as I am sure you know, and her best time for completion of the ID was nearly a Standard week." He shrugged.

  "Well, you appreciate, after having come so far, and being the Captain-who-was-foretold, I could hardly wait so long to be made one with my Ship. In short," he glanced to the right, then looked back at her, "all life functions are presently being controlled through this suite. Acting Captain Faztherot is quite upset."

  "Anjemalti . . ."

  "You see why I need you," he said briskly. "And now I must excuse myself. There are clothes." He went across to the chest and pulled out dark slacks, a white shirt like his own—Administration's colors. He laid them over the edge of the bed.

  "Tornbel was especially furious over the color of your shirt, cousin. Apparently he feels red doesn't suit you. Come to the next room when you're ready."

  And he was gone that quickly, striding across the costly rug and vanishing through the door, leaving her to stare at the white shirt and finally put out a hand to take it up.

  Chapter Fifty

  The Trident of the Bindalche leaned against the wall, its rubies winking in the blare of light.

  Corbinye had cringed on the threshold, beholding that light, while the part of her that had been in training for First relentlessly tallied the expense, speculating which subsystems were shut down entirely, that their power might bleed here, unrecoverable, generating nothing but . . . light.

  The waste barely concerned her now: The screen Anjemalti had called up held more potent horrors.

  Life support systems for the Ship entire—air, gravity, light, humidity, temp—were now fed through this tiny subordinate screen in an antechamber of the Captain's Rooms.

  "Why life support?" she demanded after her first panicked scrolling; after she had gathered enough wits to run a check and pull out a detailed map of his meddlings.

  "It was most vulnerable," Anjemalti said, shrugging. "And, once subverted, the most easily defensible." He looked at her closely. "I needed to make a protection for you, until such time as you woke and directed me to return you to your death. I needed to show them that I was not without resources—that they mistook the case entirely, if they supposed me a witling—or still nine years old."

  "But—life support." She stared at the fortifications he had erected. "How long has this held?"

  "In its present form, a Ship's day," he said. "They have at it from time to time and modifications are required. Tedious. But, again, my play was for time—time for you to heal; time for them to learn a little about my mettle. It was my intention that the lessons learned would open the way for—more equitable dealing, with Acting Captain and with Crew."

  "They will never forgive you," she whispered. "Anjemalti, you held their lives hostage to the life of a Grounder. They will hate you."

  He looked half-amused. "Oh, come now. There's been no meddling with the backups—"

  "The backups are not to be trusted," she said, hating the truth even as she spoke it. "On many levels. One wrong move and you could kill the Ship—out of ignorance or out of malice. How can they forget that?" She shook her head and slid down in the chair, stretching her legs out before her, eyes still on the screen. "Have you spoken to my—to Acting Captain Faztherot?"

  "Several times. She has gone from promising me amnesty and my place aboard Ship, to advising me to add spin to the Garden and hurl myself to my death."

  She looked up. "She did not offer you the Knife?"

  "I doubt I'm worthy of it," he said, appearing nearly cheerful in the admission.

  Corbinye closed her eyes. "Anjemalti, you are not Crew."

  "I did try to tell you that," he said mildly. "Several times."

  "So you did." She sighed. "What's to do?"

  "An excellent question. We are here, where none of us are welcome. Two of us at least have pressing need to be elsewhere, and it seems better for everyone's health if all of us were gone quickly." He put his chin into the cup of his hand and rested his elbow on a knee. "What chance they'll give us Hyacinth and let us go?"

  "No score on that throw," she returned. "Truth told, I see no clean way out of the coil—and to suicide by hurling yourself to the floor of the Garden is no honor, Anjemalti, and unworthy of you."

  Startlement showed briefly in his eyes, hidden by an ironic seated bow. "My—"

  "Rogue Captain Anjemalti Kristefyon!" demanded the comlink perched precariously atop the screen. Anjemalti grinned, though Corbinye could detect no humor in that snarling voice.

  "You see what I put up with," he murmured and punched the button atop the link. "Now what?" he inquired of it.

  "You will surrender to the Crew the bitch-Grounder in your keeping. You will place yourself and your servant into the custody of Acting Captain Faztherot. You will do these things immediately."

  "Surely we've had this conversation?" Anjemalti said plaintively and Corbinye very barely stopped herself from laughing.

  Their communicant was less amused. "You are a danger to yourself and to your Crew. It is clear that your Grounder genes have caused you to become demented. The Acting Captain will determine whether it is possible for you to comprehend honor and, if so, will aid you in its attainment. Your name will be written in the Captain's Roster and future Crews will respect your memory." There was a hesitation.

  "No blame is attached to your infirmity. It is understood that this is the fault of Grounder genes. We are taught that Grounders are mad—and have seen ample evidence of this."

  "So instead of blaming me for putting the Ship in danger, we'll blame my mother, who ignored wisdom," Anjemalti said, suddenly tart. "Very good. To whom am I speaking—Siprian?"

  Another hesitation before a less assured, "Yes."

  "Very good," he said again. "Siprian, how many children have you?"

  "I—childre—? Well," she stammered into sense, "there is Veln. . .."

  "Yes—only Veln? A woman your age, with your abilities and rank—surely you were allowed another child?"

  "But she was born—twisted, Cap—Sir. Many of them are . . . Corbinye's was . . ." Silence.

  Anjemalti cocked his head, as if he could see the woman on the other end of the link. "And how many playmates has Veln, to run with him through the back corridors and explore the ductways?"

  "I—two, Cap—Sir. But Timin is lame and not much able in the ducts."

  "So—"

  "So," a new voice snapped over the link. "Will you surrender, Anjemalti Kristefyon, or will you force your Crew to rip you from your hiding hole?"

  "Acting Captain Faztherot," said Anjemalti. "I was just discussing that with my staff. Perhaps we could come to an accommodation."

  "Accommodation." Flatly unemotional.

  "No dishonor attached to that, is there? You bargain with Grounders as a matter of course—or did, within my lifetime. Surely you recall the way of it?"

  The comlink buzzed slightly, but from Mael Faztherot there was no reply.

  "No?" said Anjemalti lightly. "Then I will refresh your memory. You provide something that I desire, in return for obtaining something you desire from me. For instance, in this case, you desire me to relinquish control of the life support systems of this vessel and to be gone—permanently. I, on the other hand, am also possessed of a desire to be gone, and find that the care of the life support system grows tedious."

  "It would seem that our goals in this—accommodation—are remarkably alike," commented the comlink.

  "Ah, you see that! Excellent. Then you will also see that it is to everyone's advantage for the Ship to relinquish Hyacinth in full working order so that I, my first mate and my . . . historian may leave. In return for this, I shall give over control of the life support system and promise never to return to the Ship. My crew will promise likewise."

  "An accommodation with some charm to it," said the comlink and Corbinye sat up straight, voiceless in disbelief. "Let us consider whether it covers all points. For it is the Crew's right to dispose of the Grounder woman in—" Over the link's drone came a new sound, slight, quickly muffled, emanating from the ceiling.

  "The ducts." Corbinye was on her feet in one smooth motion, chair falling backward with a thump as she grabbed his arm, her eyes tracking the sound across the ceiling. "Anjemalti, they are coming through the ducts."

  Startlement flicked across his face, then he was up, sweeping the comlink to the floor, spinning to snatch up the Trident. "The Garden, quickly."

  But they were there—a line of lean wolf-figures, just within the shadow of the perimeter trees. Anjemalti exhaled a curse.

  "The hallway, I suppose?" He glanced down at Corbinye. "Or is there more honor in being trapped like a rat?"

  "The hallway," she said, around the hammering of her heart. "They will be there, too, but we must to the open someway. If they drop gas cylinders . . ."

  He looked up at the ceiling, noisy now, as if those who climbed knew their mission was discovered and only haste counted.

  "The hallway," he agreed. "Now."

  To her amazement, the door slid open to his hand. He stepped through first, and then she, and finally Witness, bearing a torch, his eyes glowing like river agates.

  They got as far as the Engineering Corridor, three short halls from the Captain's Rooms. And they were met by no mere ragtag group of subCrew but by Mael Faztherot and Siprian Telshovet and Ardornel Clevryon and three of the mid-rank, all bearing arms. Three of those arms took sight on Anjemalti, who bowed, with no little irony.

  "Acting Captain Faztherot. How nice to see you again."

  "Rogue Captain Kristefyon. Surrender your weapon and you will be escorted back to your rooms."

  "You are kind, ma'am, but in that case I would fear the fate of my companions."

  She bowed formally. "Of course. And it is certainly right and honorable that you be allowed to cut the throat of your own servant. We are not barbarians." She flicked a glance at the guards. "Escort Rogue Captain Kristefyon and his servant to the Captain's suite."

  Gem sighed. "An incomplete solution, ma'am—forgive me for saying so. The lady you do not acknowledge as Corbinye Faztherot is also my companion and I will not leave her to the mercies of your Crew. Who are barbarians."

  Mael Faztherot paled under her tan. "As I told you before, Rogue Captain, that—"

  "Is not my concern," he finished for her. "But I feel—most strongly—that it is—and you might just as well address me as Gem, or Master ser Edreth, you know. 'Rogue Captain' is neither accurate nor flattering."

  "That is a Grounder name," Ardornel Clevryon said, flat-voiced with loathing.

  "Indeed it is," Gem returned. "And a Grounder is what I am. A Grounder in a Crew body, which must be as blasphemous as one of the Crew wearing a Grounder body—no matter what duty forced upon her." He brought the Trident around and wrapped his hands about it, just behind the branching; leaned forward so that one tine lay against his cheek and looked into Mael Faztherot's eyes.