"She tried kinder persuasions first and I denied her. Now, she seeks to remind me of her strength." His shoulders sagged suddenly and his fingers closed tightly around the broken spider. "I had thought I had a day. . .."

  "A day?" Corbinye glanced up at the sky, ran the equation to transfer sun position into Shiptime and shook her head again. "Do you dice with comets, too?"

  This time the laugh was sweeter. "Grant me grace: My master is barely two years dead, and I do not wish to sell myself to another."

  "In that case, cousin, you must put yourself out of this madwoman's way. My ship awaits—we can lift within the hour."

  Too large a wager, and a clumsy cast, besides. Corbinye silently cursed herself, as his easiness fled and his eyes grew colder.

  "I have my own resources, thank you." He hesitated; thawed a fraction. "I owe you much, for the rescue of my house, and for the warning you bring. Payment is returned in kind: Go down to your ship and leave here. Lift within the hour."

  "Anjemalti—"

  "Corbinye." He came forward, laid his hand upon her arm and looked directly into her eyes. "Corbinye, the Vornet is too massive an opponent—even for you—and there is scant honor in fighting them. The captain you came to find died twenty Standards ago. You have done a service for Gem ser Edreth, who is a thief, but honorable enough, in his way. Take thanks for the service and get yourself gone from the danger." The grip on her arm tightened; vanished. "Do it."

  She hesitated; touched his sleeve. "At least your kiss."

  The blue eyes were frozen; the controlled voice nearly a shout. "I am not your captain!"

  "We are kin!" she insisted and dared to lean a little closer. "Besides, I find you pleasing. What harm a kiss?"

  But he had backed away with a headshake, so that play was ill-made, too. Though she wondered, as she watched him leave, whether it had been a play at all.

  Chapter Ten

  DETAINED, the 'gram read; DINNER AND DANCING NEXT WEEK? LS.

  And so much for the purpose that had brought him to the beam office. He crumpled the 'gram and tossed it into the waste chute. If Linzer and Dart were 'detained' until next week, there was no power that Gem ser Edreth knew of that would fetch them one heartbeat sooner.

  A glance at the shipboard told him what he already knew: Lady Ro had lifted that morning; no other ship with which he had influence was in port. Idly, he wondered which was Corbinye's; and put speculation firmly aside.

  He stepped out into the cool dusk of Third Noon and filled his lungs with damp air.

  "Damn."

  Well, Linzer had been late once before—with very good cause, as it had turned out, and not to his blame that Edreth had died of the delay. It was now up to Edreth's apprentice to see that he did not die of this new delay.

  Obviously, it was not prudent to return to his house, though he grieved for the spiders abandoned there. A pair rode in his pockets, always; and new tools were easily acquired. It would also be foolish to try to draw money from his account, though his purse was distressingly flat.

  So then, first order of business—money. Second, a place to stay for a few days. Third, to while the time before Dart gained port, another try at Mordra El Theman's vase. Yes, and perhaps a word in Shilban's ear, as well, that he might take what precautions he would against the Vornet.

  * * *

  "A what!" Saxony Belaconto stared at Chel, who quailed before the disbelief and anger in her eyes. From his station at the door, Vylar grinned and admired Saxony's ass. Quite a nice one it was, too, and very energetic in bed.

  But—"A woman, Ms. Belaconto," Remee was insisting. "Looked like the thief, a little—blond hair sticking out all over her head, and eyes like—like—" she fumbled and Chel took it up.

  "Glowed," he said, succinctly. "Her eyes glowed in the dark. Like a cat."

  "You two—idiots," Saxony grated, with, Vylar thought, astonishing restraint, "want me to believe that Gem ser Edreth, who has never brought so much as a songbird to his house, is keeping a knife-wielding floozy—"

  "Cousin," Chel corrected.

  Saxony's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What did you say?"

  "Said she was his cousin," Chel elaborated and turned to his partner. "You remember, Rem—called us roaches, and wanted to know who the hell we thought we were, coming into her cousin's house and busting up his stuff."

  "That's right." Remee nodded. "Thought she looked like him."

  "The lady," murmured Vylar, "seems to be an accurate judge of character, at least."

  Saxony's eyes scraped over him once before returning to the bullteam. "You'll know her again, this cousin?"

  "Yes, Ms. Belaconto," Remee said, with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. Vylar frowned: Rem was always ready for a scrap; apparently the knife-wielding floozy had made an impression.

  "I'd know her," Chel said, Chel-like, and likely thinking no more about it than that.

  Saxony nodded, walked over to the window and stared out, no doubt considering this sudden cousin. No doubt thinking that at last here was the handle on the thief, when they'd all been convinced he was smooth as blastglass.

  "Vylar."

  He straightened, with just the hint of a heel-click. "Ms. Belaconto."

  "Bring her." She turned from the window; waved a hand at the bullteam. "Take them and as many others as you need. Use whatever force you must. But I want that woman and I want her now." She smiled, and Vylar felt cold feet run down his spine. "Imagine, Gem ser Edreth has a cousin."

  * * *

  She lost him in UpTown among the thronging Grounders, and took herself over to a park, to sit in the sun and think it out.

  Corbinye was fond of parks: This one, with the fountain splashing and glittering and surrounded by weedy flowers, reminded her of the Conservatory from which Gardenspot took its name. She perched on the back of a bench, put her feet on the seat and sighed.

  "A fine, foolish botch you've made of it," she grumbled to herself, pitching a bit of quartz into the fountain. Though, in justice to herself, there was nothing different she could have done. Honor did not allow her to stand by and watch while Grounder criminals ripped apart the homeplace of any of the Crew. That they dared use their destructive arts against the Captain's own home—

  She sighed again and threw a second pebble angrily into the spray. "Not that he acts as much like a Captain as that . . ." Yet still, he was of the Ship, blood and bone, and the very stubbornness and independence that currently frustrated her proved his lineage more surely than any gene map.

  A breath of wind dashed fountain-spray into her face and she reached up to push the hair out of her face. Overlong, the stuff was: nearly the length of four of her fingers, held together. Anjemalti wore his hair Grounder-style, down to the shoulder and caught back with a ribbon, which she found oddly pleasing. Her own she was used to having cropped close to her head in the way of the Crew.

  She stood abruptly, casting the rest of the quartz-bits in a scintillant handful. Always it came back to that! The Crew and Anjemalti. Anjemalti and the Crew. Consistently he had denied his heritage; sought to drive her away—even now, he sent her from his enemies, whom they should meet shoulder-to-shoulder.

  He had damned the Ship.

  And yet—the Tomorrow Log. She herself had read the entry, written on real paper, ancient ink-marks faded, but still legible. She had borne witness to the execution of Indemion Kristefyon, though the death of a Captain was not for everyone to see. She had tracked a name and a prophecy through years and numberless deceits to her goal.

  Only to find her goal an attractive young man with nothing of the god about him, and his own business to attend to.

  If only the Log had been more specific! But she only knew that the offspring of the Captain Who Died Beforetime would bring the Ship from some terrible danger, to safety and a greater future.

  Little enough to offer, even to one not raised as a Grounder, and bitter, besides.

  Corbinye flung off across the park. She paused at the edge of a carpet of grass with the sun beating down upon her head, watching a group of children playing a game involving a ball and a great deal of rushing about and shouting.

  Abruptly, she shivered, remembering the misshapen little body; the grave gentleness of the Medic as he explained it to her, while the birth-drug still lent some cushion to the pain—"Too deformed to live. It's a mercy; and he will be sent on his way with due honor, as a member of the Crew should be."

  The ball escaped its gaggle of playmates; came bouncing raggedly across the grass, one small person in pursuit. Corbinye scooped the sphere up and held it out, smiling. The girl hesitated, small eyes stretched to their limit. Then her face cleared; she smiled and dove forward to snatch the ball away. "Thank you, lady!" she called, already on her way back to her mates.

  "You are welcome, child," Corbinye said softly and shook her head. "If only Anjemalti were so easily won."

  * * *

  He moved within the crowded Third Evening, groomed to a fault, pale hair tied smoothly back with a ribbon that matched both the blue of his eyes and that of his wide-sleeved shirt. Jewels winked between his hands, at wrist and throat—enough to proclaim him a person of means; too few to draw the eyes and interest of the curious.

  He spiraled through the crowd, occasionally leaving it to place a wager or take a bit of wine at a casino or bar. If anyone noted his partiality for very crowded spaces, that person would no doubt also note his youth, and subscribe the choice of crowds to the youthful lust for experience.

  In time, his spiraling path took him near the less-favored, less-crowded emporiums of pleasure, and he slipped down a side-way, keeping pace with the shadowed shadow of himself. He came at length to a dim doorway and paused for a moment to look about and to listen.

  Silence. Emptiness in all directions. He laid his hand upon the door and was admitted almost at once.

  * * *

  An hour later, a clerk in the last hotel between UpTown and Old looked up from her desk and frowned. "Well?"

  The young man smiled apologetically and smoothed slim, ringless hands down his faded and carefully-patched brown tunic. "I need a room for tonight—for as many as two nights," he said meekly. "If—?"

  The clerk's frown darkened, though, really, there was nothing to frown at—merely a shabby and no doubt respectable boy, his fair hair tied neatly back with a fraying blue ribbon and his boots in need of polish.

  "We require cash in advance," she said. "If you want two nights, you pay for two nights. If you pay for two nights and only want one, you don't get any money back. Understand?"

  "I understand," he answered and took a tentative step forward. "Do you have a room?"

  She gave him a sharp look. "Just you?"

  "Just me, mistress," he said gravely and she snorted.

  "All right, then. One qua covers both nights."

  He produced the coin from a flat and much-scuffed leather purse, and laid it on the counter, though his hand showed a tendency to linger in a way that the clerk knew all too well. She sighed, frown fading.

  "What's your name?"

  "Mel Boryonda."

  She tapped in the information. "Address?"

  He looked confused and a little abashed and she sighed again, typed in "Visitor", brought up the grid and handed him the card.

  "Third floor, room sixteen. The lift's broken, but there's stairs right beside it. Put the card in the doorslot red side up to let you in, yellow side up to lock you in. No visitors, no food in the room, no pets. All understood?"

  "Yes, mistress." He slipped the card from her fingers and bowed, slightly and stiffly, as if such courtesy was new to him. The clerk smiled, a little. "We're right on the edge of OldTown here," she told him, though she usually didn't bother, "and that's not such a great neighborhood. Best thing might be for you to put off any errands you've got until First Morning."

  He bowed again, still stiffly, and subjected the keycard to serious scrutiny. "Red to open, yellow to seal."

  "Right."

  "Good night, then, mistress." And he was gone, boot heels clicking on the concrete floor.

  * * *

  He was not at Kayje's Concourse; he was not at Milbrun's Tavern; he was not at Three-of-a-Kind.

  The Curiosity Shop was full to the doors; the registrar an older man with hungry eyes. Five qua bought a look at his log—Anjemalti was not inside.

  One by one, she went to the places he frequented and came at last to the edge of UpTown and stood staring at the scant lights below. A man and a woman lurched past, linked by arms about each other's waist. Corbinye tensed as the man brushed her arm, smelled the liquor on his breath and let them go without comment.

  It was possible that he had returned to his house. He was of Captain's lineage, after all, and common wisdom only one in the constellation of factors he must consider. How if he sought to decoy this other Captain into a trap? How if he chose to demonstrate that her show of strength was beneath his notice? To force her to reevaluate her position? Was it not true, should Anjemalti behave as if he had the entire Crew at his back, that this other Captain might wonder, and reconsider—and possibly withdraw?

  Such things were not unknown. Corbinye had read the Logs as part of her schooling; and it seemed to her that many of the struggles between the great Captains of the past were merely games of fabrication and nerve, with the Captain whose nerve failed first yielding to the terms of the other.

  Very possible, these things recalled, that Anjemalti had returned to his homeplace, Corbinye conceded. It only remained for her to determine how best to serve him in this play.

  Were I the other Captain, she thought, leaning elbows on the rail and frowning at the city below; and thought I knew my enemy to be alone, I might risk the trap; the slender chance of a hundred armed crewmen awaiting their Captain's word. Yes, she thought, remembering the tenor of the rival Captain's crew members; yes, I might well take that chance. And move to crush him.

  It was if a hand closed round her chest, then, squeezing heart and lungs, so that one pounded and the other labored. Corbinye straightened, licking her lips, remembering Indemion Kristefyon's face as he took The Knife from the First Mate's hand; the proud, unrepentant eyes as he reversed it for the stroke, so full of life it seemed he could never die.

  But he had, bare moments later, by his own hand and The Knife, as even a rogue Captain might die, re-joining the Crew by the act, and buried, with honor, as one of their own.

  Of a certainty, Anjemalti had gone home, too proud to take his cousin's aid, to try some mad ploy against a Captain who kept rogues and wanton destroyers among her crew.

  Deliberately, she started down the 'Ramp, swearing under her breath, and did not hear the footsteps pacing her until she was halfway to the street.

  She slowed, and the steps behind slowed, as well; she increased her pace, and they increased. Corbinye swore again; and abruptly grinned. If it was footpads, intent on overtaking her at street-level, they were about to partake of a new experience. The ill-lit street was all to her advantage, and her skill with the sorl-knife was legend, even among the deadly fighters of the Crew. The delay chafed, of course, but it need not be so long a delay as that.

  So thinking, she leapt forward, running the last meters to the flat; charged into the deeper shadows and spun, knife out, to face the two clattering to catch her.

  The woman was familiar—one of the destroyers she had routed from Anjemalti's house—and only moderately dangerous. But her mate in this endeavor was another matter entirely. Lean, supple, and canny, he dropped into a crouch, ready to take a charge, but offering no immediate threat. Corbinye slipped back a step, keeping him in her eye: No sudden rush at this one, who looked to know the business as well as she did. She damned the delay once more, then brought all of her attention to the current circumstance.

  "We don't want to hurt you," the man said unexpectedly, and Corbinye grinned, moving the knife in invitation.

  He moved his head in an abbreviated shake. "Saxony Belaconto wants to see you. Nothing to—"

  "Saxony Belaconto may see me in hell," Corbinye told him, "whether you chose to fight or tuck your tail under and crawl home to lick her boots."

  The woman grunted at that and made a move—quickly controlled as Corbinye glanced her way. The man grinned, but neither moved closer nor stepped back.

  "Just a little chat, miss, that's all," he said, persuasively, though she still did not credit him a coward. "There's no need for any of us to bleed over it. Put the knife away and walk with us and—"

  She heard it then, the reason for his talkativeness: Two sets of footsteps were moving softly toward them from her right; another set from her left. Corbinye jumped, scored a glancing kick off the woman's head; snapped into a roll and came up, knife leading, lunging for his throat.