“For one who claims no skills in diplomacy you were most eloquent,” she murmured as his feet tangled in the discarded breeks and he fell sideways, head lost in the shirt;

  A muffled grunt was her only answer until he struggled free of the garment. He pushed it aside and wriggled farther onto the bed, grinning. “You think so?”

  “Aye,” she said gravely, “and you must be tired for it.”

  “Not too tired,” he answered, reaching for her.

  She stepped toward the couch and his hands found her hips, drawing her toward him until her knees met the side and she fell forward, onto him.

  “In feet, not much tired at all,” he whispered throatily, mouth against her neck.

  Wynett shuddered deliciously and turned her face down to meet his exploring lips. “Nor,” she gasped, “am I.”

  Derwen Pars had been a fisherman all his life, as had his father and his before him. His earliest memory of the Idre was of lying on a warm blanket nested in a coil of rope, the smell of fish about him, and his father lifting him out over the prow of the boat to dangle above the blue water, gurgling as wavelets splashed his bare feet. More clearly he could recall the first time he had taken active part in his father’s venture, nervous that he might fail and delighted when Verran Pars declared him a fisherman bom, as they hauled in the net filled with the small silvery blue fish called pardes. He had not yet reached his tenth year then, but thereafter he accompanied Verran each day and, once he was deemed old enough, each night the little boat put out.

  In thirty years Derwen Pars had come to know the Idre and her bounty as well as any of his calling. He knew her calm and when she was storm-whipped; knew her currents and her moods; when and where the shoals of parde would run, and where to cast a line for the great dark red savve. He had seen his father drown when their boat turned turtle in a spring floodtide and refused to let that tragedy deter him from pursuing the only life he knew, or wanted to know. He had taken his father’s place then, refurbishing the damaged craft and ignoring his mother’s pleas that he seek some safer occupation. Instead, he had become the finest fisherman in Drisse, purchasing a fine, stone-built house large enough to contain both his mother and his new wife, later the three children, none of whom—to his carefully hidden disappointment—showed any aptitude for the watery life. He had taken each one out on the river and finally agreed to their becoming something other than fisherfolk, which pleased their grandmother, whose tolerance of the river had turned to distinct antipathy after Verran’s drowning, and was not altogether to his wife’s dislike, for while she loved her husband she did not share his regard for the great waterway, and prayed regularly in the little chapel at the center of the small town that the Lady guard him while he plied his trade.

  So far it seemed her prayers were heard, for Derwen was a wealthy man, so successful that he now owned two boats, both new, and employed two hired men to man the larger Volalle while he preferred to work alone in the Verr ana that he had named for his father.

  On this night, with the half-full moon bright enough in a clear sky, the Idre shining silver as his mother’s hair and the pocheta running north in shoals large as any he had seen, he had both boats out, the largest of his nets strung between diem to catch the succulent fish. Gille Oman and Festyn Lewal crewed the Volalle, drifting her on a sheet anchor as Derwen manuevered the Verrana into position with a single stem sweep, spreading the skein wide to enmesh the northbound acquatics. He watched the master line cautiously, shipping his oar and tossing out his own anchor as the heavy cable reached the correct tension, settling on the stem boards as he waited for the fish to come to him. Farther out, and both up-and downriver, he could see the hunt outlines of other craft as they positioned their nets, dark bulks against the argent filigree of the water. It would, he calculated, be a profitable night for all of Drisse’s rivermen, but he was most confident of his own catch, for he was certain he had picked the best spot—and laid his claim before the rest—to enmesh the heart of the shoal.

  Now he could rest for a while, letting the net fill before he sculled the Verrana round to meet the Volalle and the hard labor of hauling in began. Tomorrow, he thought, after the catch was gutted, he would divide it and take the larger boat over to the Keshi bank, where the horsemen would pay handsomely for such a delicacy. The prospect pleased him and he thought that with the proceeds he would buy his wife the cabinet she admired in Lari Suttoth’s workshop. He stretched, flexing muscles only a little wearied by the long row out, and looked up at the moon. Soon; soon they would come to him: it was merely a question of waiting patiently for the Idre to yield up her bounty.

  He reached between his outspread legs with one eye still on the bobbing corks of the net and found the waterproof sack that lay there, deftly working the cord loose from the neck and bringing out a slab of pale goat’s milk cheese. The big knife he wore sliced a chunk from the slab with the skill of habit, his hand lifting it to his mouth without his eyes moving from the net, and he began to chew, savoring the pungent taste. He cut a second slice and sheathed the knife, replacing the cheese and tugging the drawstrings of the sack tight. He swallowed and drank a mouthful of the thick, dark ale his village brewed, then began to chew on the second morsel of cheese.

  Then, abruptly, he choked it down, leaning forward with his eyes fixed disbelievingly on the corks. They no longer bobbed on the gentle wash of die Idre, but stretched in a taut line, shaping a vee that pointed, not north as it should when the pocheta struck, but south. He cursed softly, thinking that some drifting piece of debris had snagged his net, though he could see nothing that suggested flotsam, and moved amidships to set a hand on the master line. His curse became a grunt of surprise as he felt the line vibrate beneath his fingers, then a cry of amazement as the corks disappeared beneath the surface and the line coiled beneath the thwart ran out with a speed that no shoal of pocheta could produce. Nor any fish he knew of was his final thought before the cable snapped tight against its fastening and he felt the Verrana tilt under the pressure, the planks beneath his feet no longer secure footing, but a dangerously angled platform.

  Water splashed inboard and Derwen Pars shouted as he felt his craft spilled from under him, the Idre enfolding him in a cold, wet embrace. For an instant panic gripped him and he sucked water into his lungs, icy needles probing his throat and nasal passages as he fought for breath. Then instinct overcame the panic and he was striking for the surface, head plunging into moonlit air, his eyes blinking clear in time to see the Volalle spun about and turtled just as his father’s boat had gone down so long ago. Save now there was no floodtide to explain the capsizement. With the time-stretched clarity that danger brings he saw Gille Oman and Festyn Lewal leap from the turning boat into the river and heard through their frightened shouting the twanging snap of the net cable, like some gigantic harp string breaking.

  And then raw terror gripped him, freezing him so that his legs ceased their paddling and he was suddenly sunk, the shock of submergement reactivating his body and bringing him back to the surface in time for his eyes to confirm what had so terrified him.

  A great dark hulk rose from the water, blacker than the night, a neck thick as a flit man’s waist supporting a triangular head on which eyes glowed with an awful fire above a mouth that was all serrated, angular teeth, surrounded by wavering tendrils that seemed possessed of their own life. It rose up and up, the net trailing like a shroud, until it hung above the foundered Volalle, seeming for a moment to be suspended in the air, then crashing down to shatter the craft with its bulk.

  Water swirled, a whirlpool forming as the thing submerged, then the head appeared again and Festyn Lewal screamed once as the cruel teeth fastened about his waist and he went under. Derwen felt his stomach chum as half the man bobbed back to the surface, then was gone into the ghastly maw. He began to swim in the direction of Drisse, but saw that the monster lay between him and the shore and turned his course just as the creature’s head swung round, the weirdly glowing eyes fixing on Gille Oman, seeming to bathe the unfortunate man in rubescent light. Oman held a knife in his right hand, and he raised it against the thing as the great head descended. He might as well have struck a pin against a rock, for the jaws gaped and took him in whole, the fangs grinding against his yielding flesh, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat. The bile that had risen in Derwen’s stomach found its way to his mouth as he saw his friend swallowed and he flailed helplessly in the water, choking and spitting.

  The leviathan snaked its serpentine neck in his direction and the massive bulk flowed effortlessly beneath the churning waves, the wedge of the skull building a foam crest that cut arrow-straight toward Derwen. Briefly he saw the silver of that crest incarnadined, the blood of his crew darkening the Idre’s surface. Then all he saw were the rows of teeth and the pulsing pink throat behind them, the tendrils that stretched out, slimy and gray as putrescent flesh, and the glowing, awful eyes.

  The teeth closed and Derwen Pars was gone, the Verrana smashed to matchwood as the monster carried the man down, leaving behind only wreckage and oily slicks of blood that drifted south, wavering memories of three lives.

  All about was confusion, Derwen’s fellow fishermen sculling their craft in close to see what had happened. None were sure, for none had been near, their attention caught only by the screaming, and by the time they arrived there was only floating timber left. Their own catches went forgotten as they quartered the river, lanterns lit and voices hailing the survivors they never found. Finally, as dawn paled the sky and the eastern horizon grew pink, they gave up the search and turned back to Drisse, congregating in their usual waterside tavern to debate who should carry word to the missing men’s widows. When that was decided, and all had compared their stories, delegations went to each household with the tragic news. After that they went to the chapel to seek enlightenment of the Sisters there, but as all they were able to tell the Sisters was that they had heard screams and found the wreckage of two boats, no men either live or drowned, the Sisters could shed little light on the strange incident. They recorded it, as was their wont, and prayed for the souls of the dead, but in Drisse it remained a mystery.

  Brannoc turned back the sleeve of his leaf green shirt with a! dramatic flourish and shook the dice in the cup of his dark- skinned hand. They rolled across the polished oak of the table and stuttered to a halt with threes showing on both cubes. White teeth flashed as the dark man grinned, reaching to scoop up the small pile of coins that lay beside a pewter flagon of pale yellow wine.

  Tepshen Lahl’s face remained enigmatic as he took the dice and threw five, reaching into the pouch on his belt to extract another coin that he tossed toward his companion. Brannoc caught it in midair, his grin becoming wider still, until it seemed it must split his face.

  “Enough?” he enquired mildly. “Or do you remain bent on rendering yourself destitute?”

  Tepshen grunted and took the flagon, tilting it above his cup to spill the wine brimful into the container. He lifted the cup, not a drop falling from the rim, and drank, his eyes calm on Brannoc’s face.

  “The best of three,” he challenged as he set the cup down.

  “And the stakes?” Brannoc emptied his own cup and filled it afresh.

  Tepshen shrugged, dropping coins. Brannoc studied them a moment, then nodded. “Very well.”

  He shook the dice and tossed a seven. Tepshen threw nine, though his expression did not change as the former wolf’s- head snorted and scooped up the ivory cubes. A three followed and Brannoc laughed, then stopped as the easterner matched it. He threw six and began to chuckle again. Then stopped again as Tepshen rolled two sixes and reached across the table to retrieve what he had bet, his jet eyes glinting as he faced Brannoc and said, “And what you owe me, barbarian.”

  Brannoc shook his head, extracting coins from the stack at his elbow and counting diem carefully onto the table.

  “That is everything I won from you.”

  Tepshen nodded sagely, die corners of his mouth curving slightly as he remarked, “A battle is not won until the last blow falls.”

  “Eastern wisdom?” asked Brannoc lazily, tilting his chair back so that the midmoming sun shining into the secluded courtyard struck his face, lightening the tan from the color of aged oak to a more polished sheen.

  “Common sense.”

  Tepshen rose to his feet, fluid as a cat, and with the same feline grace fastidiously smoothed the loose-cut frontage of his shirt as he stepped from the shadow of the colonnades that supported the tiled roof of the portico spanning one wall of the yard. Sunlight gleamed on his oiled queue, striking blue from the black, though it seemed to meld with his yellow skin as though the flesh absorbed the radiance. He stretched his arms wide, turning slowly around, his eyes traveling casually over the stuccoed walls and the blank rectangles of the windows.

  Brannoc scratched at the tangle of dark hair exposed by his open shirtfront, yawning prodigiously, the shells and feathers woven into his hair fluttering with the motion. A hunt beading of sweat decorated his brow for it was very warm in the courtyard, the vaulting walls of the palace buildings trapping the heat, the white plaster that covered them reflecting it, even the smooth slabs of granite that formed the floor seeming to radiate it back, and he was more accustomed to the cooler climes of the north. He watched Tepshen Lahl execute one economic circle, seeing how the dropping arms fell close to the swordbelt about the kyo’s waist, the left thumb hooking instinctively over the scabbard of the longsword, resting against the guard where it might instantly loose the blade from the retaining sheath.

  “He is safe enough here.” He smiled. “And if I guess aright, still abed.”

  Tepshen ducked his head once in acknowledgment, but his hand remained close to his sword as he returned to his chair.

  “Do you ever relax?” Brannoc added as the smaller man sat down.

  “I am.” Tepshen’s smile was fleeting, not from disapproval, but rather because he seldom smiled, his wide-cheeked face being of a naturally solemn set.

  Unlike Brannoc’s, which was mobile and given easily to the laughter that now rang from his unde mouth, startling the sparrows that hopped about the table into flight.

  “Perhaps we are too relaxed,” he ventured, more for the sake of making conversation to fill the empty afternoon than any real belief in his words. Besides, he found it amusing to bait the easterner a little, fascinated by Tepshen’s stoic attitude to whatever crossed his path. He knew himself to be volatile, and the differences in their attitudes intrigued him. Tepshen Lahl intrigued him, he thought as he waited for the sallow-featured man to reply—-or not, for Tepshen did not always deign to answer what he considered frivolous—and the fact that he counted this enigmatic easterner his friend was a source of wonder. There was a kinship of spirit, he knew; that had been recognized between them when first they met in High Fort, when Bedyr Caitin sought his guidance into the Beltrevan. Neither gave his friendship easily, but once given it was a lasting loyalty, and in those early days he had known that Tepshen would not hesitate to kill him had he proved false. Nor, having witnessed the kyo’s skill with a blade, did he doubt that he would be the loser in the fight: he was adept at swordwork—better than almost any—but Tepshen Lahl was a master and Brannoc doubted there was anyone, save perhaps Kedryn himself, who could best the man.

  It had been that perilous journey into the forests that had first forged their friendship, for it was during that trip he had recognized his own loyalty to Kedryn, and that in itself was strange, for the Prince of Tamur had been little more than a boy then and Brannoc had considered him at first to be more liability than asset. That opinion had altered radically over the ensuing months until the half-breed’s regard for Kedryn was scarcely less than the easterner’s. It was as though the young man exercised some power of which he was scarcely aware, for while he was definitely a likable fellow he did nothing to ingratiate himself, save, it occurred to Brannoc, be himself. Yet he had felt drawn to Kedryn, and when Bedyr had come asking his help in finding the blinded youth in the vastness of the northern woodlands he had not hesitated; nor when Kedryn, his sight regained, had announced his intention of sailing south to Andurel to combat the Messenger had it occurred to Brannoc to do anything but go with him. Thinking about it now, cloistered comfortably in a yard of the White Palace with the spring sun warm on his face and swallows twittering overhead, a flagon of fine Galichian wine to hand, it seemed a trifle odd that he had so readily sailed into the teeth of Ashar’s wrath. At the time it had seemed only natural, yet Brannoc was, by nature, a cautious man. That was, he decided, the effect Kedryn had on people, and mayhap Tepshen had recognized the spell and seen in Brannoc a kindred spirit, for it was without question that Tepshen would lay down his life for the young man.

  Whatever, the half-breed thought, the cause is not important; the friendship is.

  “Too much comfort softens a man.”

  The kyo’s voice interrupted Brannoc’s musings and he cocked his head a little, anticipating some further extrapolation. When none was offered he asked, “Do you think we grow soft? Would you rather we had war?”

  Tepshen shook his head, and for a moment Brannoc wondered if he saw doubt in the dark eyes.

  “No, not war. But Kedryn has kingly concerns to occupy him. You and I, though, we are neither diplomats nor courtiers. We have no place in this peaceful city.”

  Brannoc shrugged expressively, his heavy brows drawing together. “After Kedryn takes the High Throne we shall be free. And I have the impression our young king-to-be has little intention of spending more time than he need here. Has he not established the notion of that? With this council formed he seems bent on traveling to Estrevan.”

  “And I shall go with him,” nodded Tepshen.

  “Mayhap I, too,” murmured Brannoc, thinking suddenly that he would be mightily loath to part from this company of friends.