Hold! What was that noise?

  Ears straining, she leaned forward in the chair, hands gripping the armrests. The sound came again, from the library just beyond the closed door. A sound like—wind, perhaps, or—

  She stood in the doorway of the Stone Study, with no memory of having risen from her chair or opened the door, staring into the library—knowing that she had carefully taken her shot, and that her victim had fallen thusly. There.

  As she stared, her library began to . . . disappear. Spirals of dust rose as shelves long filled with books and precious papers emptied themselves with a hazy burping noise. The shelves shook and flexed as their burdens went . . . elsewhere, leaving the dust of paper and people to dance briefly in the slanting light, and settle.

  There had been blood, and enough of it to make her gag. Her purpose strong in her heart, she had checked her work and found it potent, before calling for assistance.

  Now, there was no sign of blood. There was a mark on the ceiling which might have been new, there, but then the house had a long history, and Chi herself might once have thrown a bottle to make that mark.

  Her Nin—Her Nin's corpse—was gone; and so were the books that had filled the shelves on the west wall. As she watched, the books on the east wall disappeared shelf by shelf. She folded her hands together, tightly, and wondered if she, too, would disappear in some dusty spiral.

  Well, then. She had requested aid from a dramliz. It might be said that she had known better.

  The ladder Her Nin had died on shivered. It creaked; the rails that had steadied it twanged—and the ladder was gone. Next, the chair he had last sat in phlumphed elsewhere. The near empty bottle of jade, the table, the cloth napkins with the tree-and-dragon embroidered in silk. Gone, gone, gone.

  She moved then, deliberately, her steps echoing as she made a hasty inspection. There were no beds in the bedrooms, no linens in the bathroom, no rugs on the floors.

  Had she been less sure of the world and of her place in it, Lady Kareen might have felt more than a shiver. Indeed, had she another acquaintance to hand she might have been tempted to admit awe or even a tingling of fear. The dramliz were a force to be reckoned with, even when doing your bidding.

  The door to the Stone Study stood open still; the furnishings within untouched.

  She fled into that comfort; then, too energized to sit, opened the door to the servant's closet.

  She had as a rule not used the closet as a passageway, even as a child, being somewhat uncomfortable with the closeness of it. Later though, there had times she had been set to minding Daav and Er Thom when a tutor was not to hand. They, of course, had delighted in the cramped space, the flour-dusted aprons, and the endless opportunities afforded to spring out at those who searched for them, laughing uproariously, as if it were all a very good game.

  Daav in particular had had a gift for being someplace else: in the servant's closet here, if not in the kitchen, and if not in the kitchen, in the the capacious pantry with its huge bags of rare imported flours and mysterious bins, boxes, tins, freezers, and even a stasis box snugged into the stone wall that formed the other boundary of this room, the wall that was the wine cellar itself. More than once she had been forced to transit the closet in order to extract both of her unwelcome charges from the divertissement of foodstuffs arriving from below.

  Chi, though, was wont to use the closet often at parties, and not merely to check on the timing of the next remove.

  Kareen sniffed—why was it that a delm of Korval should have felt it better to avoid a guest than to act entirely properly and deal as necessary? But there, that had never been her own condition, and Delms must face both necessity and Code in their proper moments.

  The staff jackets and aprons in the closet smelled inevitably of the baking as she inched through; Kareen, and Chi before her, always insisted on fresh breads and a choice of rolls and pastries. Until Daav's exuberance ruined a perfect cake the old cook had joked that he could qualify as an assistant chef if ever he wished to, just by his observations of the kitchen staff.

  That had been just before the day when she had been in search of them both—again—only to have Er Thom burst upon her, crying out that Daav was going to be recycled, grabbing her by the sleeve and pulling her along at a chancy run, explaining in gulps that there hadn't been room in the dumbwaiter for both of them, so Daav had gone first, cramming himself amid an untidy clutter of outgoing bins and boxes—and it had been a very near thing, indeed, to convince Cook to call down and stop the loading until the heir could be recovered, sticky, be-floured, and grinning, from the recyclables.

  Kareen stepped out of the passage, even more confining to one of adult proportions. The kitchen felt less than homelike to her, lacking people and preparation for the next meal. Not even a rumble of a bread maker breaking the silence. She glanced at the clock above the main console and bit her lip, the third and final ticket—the ticket she had never thought to need—heavy in her pocket.

  The kitchen equipment stood ready, and there beside the service intercom and food consoles was the small staff room, door festooned with traditional paper contacts affixed at what must be traditional angles: lists of vendors, private numbers of on call staff and notes of travel times, transit routes, and taxi numbers, scribbled on it . . . but there, Cook came from a traditional clan and was classically trained.

  There was a modest view through the kitchen window, and through the privacy screen she saw to the north two of the vehicles she had been concerned with, and clustered about them the several unknowns who stood as if they had every right to interfere with Code, custom—and life.

  She leaned hard against the window then, recalling that the windows let no sight out. Just as well that, for her tears had started again. The Scholar, after all, had been an honorable man, until this misjudgment. Had he not spoken freely he might now stand at the side of his co-conspirators.

  With that bracing thought she straightened. The intercom over Cook's station burbled, and Jeeves spoke.

  "Lady Kareen, Miss Anthora has removed those things other than yourself. Please advise on your circumstances and locations of watchers."

  Circumstances?

  She licked her lips, glancing again through the window.

  Circumstances.

  "Flaran cha'menthi, Jeeves. " She paused, drew a breath, and began.

  "I arrived in my own vehicle—the landau, of course—with sufficient time to prepare for today's meeting, which began promptly and ended the same. Until approached by the scholar I saw nothing at first glance untoward, though I was afterward reminded that there had been several vehicles about when I arrived—yet this is not unexpected, being so close to the lake on such a fine day. Those vehicles were still in place when I made my way to leave; random people where there are no random people; workmen doing the same work they had been doing when I arrived, grounds people I had never seen before. Additionally, there were vehicles unfamiliar to me in several of the parking lanes closest to my own, occupied.

  "That was at the front entrance. Feeling visible, I returned to our own halls, and attempted to leave by the back entrance, generally used by our staff, and also where there is access to the unit's own runabout. There, I saw a vehicle parked in such a way as to block my garage and there was someone pruning a bush one never prunes.

  "At the moment I have several weapons upon me; I have replaced the charge in my pocket gun and it is fully loaded. I have . . ."

  "Cousin," came Anthora's breathy voice, sounding calm enough considering circumstances and the fey work she'd been performing.

  "Anthora."

  "Cousin, I am at the end of the removals I can perform directly. A living person such as yourself is not as easy to translate through walls as is furniture."

  Kareen bowed sagely to the air, relieved that she, too, was not to merely disappear into an unmarked ether.

  "I understand. One works as necessity dictates."

  A pause, then, "Of course. I regret to report, however, that necessity is becoming strained. I am arranging a diversion, but it appears that the emergency exits are also covered by the placement of the vehicles you mention."

  "Indeed. Might I inquire about the nature of the . . ."

  A most discreet musical tone sounded. Kareen recognized the annunciator at the front door.

  "I will ignore this intrusion for the moment. Surely you hear it."

  "I do. Jeeves will relay . . ."

  Another tone sounded: the annunciator at the service entrance.

  Her Nin's associates, Kareen thought her heartbeat suddenly loud in her ears, had become bored with waiting.

  "Lady Kareen," Jeeves said politely, "we ask if you have thoughts on the matter to hand?"

  "Yes," she said, moving quickly back to the closet. A tuque came to her hand; she yanked it savagely over her hair, and snatched up a white jacket, the tree-and-dragon embroidered on the pocket. "I will need a vehicle at my milliner's, to transport me to my next appointment." She paused at the service console, pressed a series of numerals and passed on. "If you have your diversion to hand, for the love of the gods, release it!"

  "Now!" Anthora's voice came, though whether in answer or in direction to Jeeves, Kareen was unsure.

  Nor did it matter.

  She was across the kitchen, the hideaway she had used to take the life of her oldest and dearest friend in her right hand. With her left, she slapped the button—and reeled back a step as the door slid away and the interior of the dumbwaiter was revealed.

  It was much smaller than she had recalled, nor was she an adventure-blind boy with a child's understanding of danger.

  The front door caroled again, chiding her for leaving guests languishing on her doorstep.

  She thought that they would not ring a third time.

  Teeth drilling her lower lip, she pushed herself into the tiny space, crouching in a most undignified manner, her knees practically in her ears and every muscle protesting. She extended an arm and clumsily slapped at the wall, hitting the button on the third try, barely snatching her hand inside before the doors snapped closed.

  * * *

  She would, she decided, tell Daav alone of this, if he lived and if he inquired. Else it was good to have secrets, after all.

  The motion was abrupt, jerky, and her stomach, already at risk from the day's bloody adventure, nearly gave up its wine and pastry. Darkness engulfed her; the drop seemed both precipitous and overlong, the racket of machinery an assault upon her ears. She hung on desperately against nausea and vertigo, the twomping sound and shock of the stop all the more unsettling for the continued darkness. Had the mechanism malfunctioned? Was she trapped here, in this small space, in the dark—and above! A noise! Had they broken down her door already? How long would it take them to—

  A breath, now! she counseled herself, panting in the dark. A breath!

  Think!

  She groped, skinning knuckles on wire mesh, tearing a nail as she found the latch, and pushed. It resisted. She felt a rumble—certainly the thing wasn't moving again?

  But there, no, the gate opened suddenly, spilling her out of the compartment, her gun-hand striking gritty crete with flinching force, and a knee close behind. Some switch sensed her, and light flared, nearly blinding in actinic purity. She thrust her gun into her pocket, and kept her hand on it.

  The room was painted white. Ahead a platform, empty save for some pallets and a motorized hand-truck. A door, at the far end of the platform. Again the rumble, vibrating in her chest as she hurried toward the door, hating to trust in the luck, hoping that they had not yet set anyone to watching—

  She hit the bar. The door popped open, and immediately swung back toward her face, slammed by the wind.

  Kareen caught the door on her shoulder, and pushed out into a bewilderment of winds, a rush of rain so heavy it seemed that the lake itself had been upended.

  Pausing inside the slender vestibule, she took another breath, and gathered her wits.

  There was a flight she must make, and those who wished her not to make.

  "Flaran cha'menthi," she muttered, and stepped forward into the storm.

  The wind tore, snatching the tuque, and she flailed for a disoriented moment before snatching it back and holding it to her head. Sodden locks of hair straggled into her eyes, and the sturdy baker's jacket was soaked through.

  There!

  Light beams fought the abnormal weather; the blue cab sat quietly, near the usual service doors.

  Beating against the wind she pressed onward; the driver or some sensor sliding the door to admit her. If there were others she could not see them.

  Within, in livery, a wide-eyed taxi-attendant spoke in rapid familiar Low Liaden, "Are you all in? I've never in my life seen a storm come up like this in Solcintra. You'll need a good stiff drink to dry you out after this. . ."

  It was the tuque that saved her, dripping collected water in her eyes.

  Yes. She wore the white tuque and livery of her own. Korval's livery.

  "I'll have one," she said, answering also in the Low Tongue, though she had to her knowledge never seen the man before, much less counted him an intimate, "as time permits. There's a rush of work needs done first!"

  "Oh aye," agreed the driver, "there's always a rush of work."

  Mortification set in as she looked at the cab rate info.

  "I've come away without payment," she admitted.

  The driver—her rescuer—laughed, allowing the cab to accelerate into the gloom.

  "Address?"

  "But . . ."

  "Not a regular for this house, eh? We'll just invoice at end of the relumma, like always. Korval'll pay, just like they always do. Code and Balance. Korval don't play games with their name, is what I think!"

  The car stuttered across some standing water, and if the driver saw her sag into the seat, shaking, likely he thought it was because she needed that drink to fend off the dampness.

  She looked into the camera feeding her image to the driver.

  "Yes," she managed, her voice shaking slightly—but he would surely put that, too, down to chill—"that's what I think as well."

  She closed her eyes then and leaned back, the gun weighing in one pocket, the tickets in another.

  Flaran cha'menthi.

  Dragon Tide

  The promise of morning was brushing the sea as Stregalaar stirred, the down of his forewing barely tickling his outer eyelids, the light barely touching his consciousness.

  A breeze was up but fitful, not yet fully streaming in from the ocean, still burdened with upland-scent from the river coursing into the sea nearly below his branch. Later would come the salty-freshness as both tide and breeze turned and then he would know if his day was spent best scavenging in the hills or fishing along the curling beach-froth.

  His usual foraging choice was along the waves, although some days, especially if he woke early like today, he'd have a wanderlust and find his wings set for hills and heights, allowing the sea breeze to waft him as high as the clouds. Those days he'd sight a distant grove and glide there, or perhaps to the one beyond that or the one beyond that.

  Again came the awareness of some tiny movement, some minute shifting of weight or a motion he had not made, as when a sharp wind might tug at wings on high.

  He opened his eyes more fully then, his neck and head still, wings yet locked, the down fringing his vision momentarily.

  Something—not the light on the horizon and not the breeze—had woken him. He listened; it wasn't the usual wind warning that the groves of green-kin might rattle to each other across the fields and ravines, though it held a faint tinge of that, and it was of the green-kin.

  On the rumpled breeze now came the smell of ground creature fear. Not enough to excite the muscles that made his jaw twitch, not enough to make him turn to find the source. A distant mutter from the tallest tree on the hill-crest suggested that one of the other wing-folk also sensed something, but in the breeze was no message other than unease. Perhaps that tree, already lit with full greening light, was already starting its peculiar morning evictions. Not all trees were so populated that they needed to chase their dragons away to preserve pod and leaf.

  His own home-tree, the Laar, was still in green slumber, and there was no current need for morning evictions—if ever there had been!—for Stregalaar was the only regular resident now that his ancient cousins had flown their final trip into the oceanic mists. Some days—most often at morning tide and sunset—he yearned for company and wished one of the ground-browsing grove youngsters might stay and use his juvenile bedding now that he'd taken up the top nest, as was his right and duty as Tree-Master.