interest you anymore. And you have the connec-
tions you want without the burden of a real wife."
"She's mine," Wethes said, and the expression in
his eyes was cold and acquisitive. "What's mine, I
keep. No one robs me or tricks me with impunity.
I'll keep her in chains for the insult she's done
me—chains of her own body. She'll do to breed a
dozen heirs, and they tell me no pregnant mage can
work her tricks while so burdened."
Kavin raised a sardonic eyebrow, but made no
further comment except to say, "I wouldn't believe
that particular peasant's tale if I were you—I've
had friends thought the same and didn't live to
admit they were wrong. Now, I suspect your next
question was going to be whether or not the Shin'a'in
might be able to get a hearing with the Council. It
might be possible—but who would believe a for-
eigner's tale of abduction against the word of the
wealthiest man in Mornedealth?"
"Put that way, I see no risk of any kind to us,"
Wethes put down the gold paper knife. "And cer-
tainly I wish above all to have this accomplished at
no risk of exposure. There are enough stories about
why I mew my wife up in the country as it is. I'd
rather no one ever discovered she's never been in
my possession at all. But how do we get her away
from her lover?"
"Just leave that—" Kavin smiled, well aware that
his slow smile was not particularly pleasant to look
on, "—to me."
Kethry woke with an aching head and a vile taste
in her mouth; lying on her side, tied hand and foot,
in total darkness. It hurt even to think, but she
forced herself to attempt to discipline her thoughts
and martial them into coherency, despite their ten-
dency to shred like spiderwebs in a high wind.
What had happened to her—where was she?
Think—it was so hard to think—it was like swim-
ming through treacle to put one thought after an-
other. Everything was fogged, and her only real
desire was to relax and pass back into oblivion.
Which meant she'd been drugged.
That made her angry; anger burned some of the
befuddlement away. And the resulting temporary
surge in control gave her enough to remember a
cleansing ritual.
Something like a candlemark later, she was still
tied hand and foot and lying in total darkness. But
the rest of the drug had been purged from her body
and she was at last clearheaded and ready to think—
and act. Now, what had happened?
She thought back to her last clear memory—
parting with her client for the day. It had been a
particularly fruitless session, but he had voiced
hopes for the morrow. There were supposed to be
two horse tamers from the North arriving in time
for beast-market day. Her client had been optimis-
tic, particularly over the rumored forest-hunters
they were said to be bringing. They had parted, she
with her day's wages safely in the hidden pocket of
her robe, he accompanied by his grooms.
And she'd started back to the inn by the usual
route.
But—now she had it!—there'd been a tangle of
carts blocking the Street of the Chandlers. The
carters had been swearing and brawling, laughingly
goaded on by a velvet-clad youth on his high-bred
palfrey who'd probably been the cause of the acci-
dent in the first place. She'd given up on seeing the
street cleared before supper, and had ducked into
an alley.
Then had come the sound of running behind her.
Before she could turn to see who it was, she was
shoved face-first against the rough wood of the wall,
and a sack was flung over her head. A dozen hands
pinned her against the alley wall while a sickly-
sweet smelling cloth was forced over her mouth
and nose. She had no chance to glimpse the faces of
her assailants, and oblivion had followed with the
first breath of whatever-it-was that had saturated
But for who had done this to her—oh, that she
knew without seeing their faces. It could only be
Kavin and his gang of ennobled toughs—and to pay
for it all, Wethes.
As if her thought had conjured him, the door to
her prison opened, and Wethes stood silhouetted
against the glare of light from the torch on the wall
of the hallway beyond him.
Terror overwhelmed her, terror so strong as to
take the place of the drug in befuddling her. She
could no longer think, only feel, and all she felt was
fear. He seemed to be five hundred feet tall, and
even more menacing than her nightmares painted
him.
"So," he laughed, looking down at her as she
tried to squirm farther away from him, "My little
bride returns at last to her loving husband."
"Damn, damn, damn!" Tarma cursed, and paced
the icy street outside the door of the Broken Sword;
exactly twenty paces east, then twenty west, then
twenty east again. It was past sunset: Kethry wasn't
back yet; she'd sent no word that she'd be late, and
that wasn't like her. And—
She suddenly went cold, then hot, then her head
spun dizzily. She clutched the lintel for support
while the street spun before her eyes. The door of
the inn opened, but she dared not try and move.
Her ears told her of booted feet approaching, yet
she was too giddy to even turn to see who it was.
"I'd ask if you had too much wine, except that I
didn't see you drink more than a mouthful or two
before you left the room," Justin spoke quietly, for
her ears alone, as he added his support to that of
the lintel. "Something's wrong?"
"Keth—something's happened to Keth—" Tarma
gasped for air.
"I know she's late, but—"
"The—bond, the she'enedran-oath we swore to each
other—it was Goddess-blessed. So if anything hap-
pens to one of us—"
"Ah—the other knows. Ikan and I have some-
thing of the kind, but we're spell-bound and we
had it done a-purpose; useful when scouting. Sit.
Put your head between your knees. I'll get Ikan. He
knows a bit more about leechcraft and magery than
I."
Tarma let him ease her down to the ice-covered
doorstep, and did as she was told. The frosted stone
was very cold beneath her rump, but the cold seemed
to shake some of the dizziness away, getting her
head down did a bit more. Just as her head began to
clear, there were returning footsteps, and two pairs
of booted feet appeared beside her.
"Drink this—" Ikan hunched on his heels beside
her as she cautiously raised her head; he was hold-
ing out a small wooden bottle, and his whole pos-
ture showed concern. "Just a swallow; it's only for
emergencies."
She took a gingerly mouthful, and w
as glad she'd
been cautious. The stuff burned all the way down
her gullet, but left a clear head and renewed energy
behind it.
"Goddess—oh, Goddess, I have to—" she started
to rise, but Justin's hands on her shoulders pre-
vented her.
"You have to stay right where you are. You want
to get yourself killed?" Ikan asked soberly. "You're
a professional, Shin'a'in—act like one."
"All right;" Justin said calmly, as she sank back
to the stone. "Something's happened to your oath-
sister. Any clue as to what—"
"—or who?" Ikan finished. "Or why? You're not
rich enough to ransom, and too new in Mornedealth
to have acquired enemies."
"Why and who—I've got a damn good idea," Tarma
replied grimly, and told them, in brief, Kethry's
history.
"Gods, how am I to get her away from them? I
one sword against what Wethes can hire?" she fin-
ished in despair. "Why, oh why didn't I listen to
her?"
"Kavin—Kavinestral—hmm," Justin mused. "Now
that sounds familiar."
"It bloody well should," Ikan replied, stoppering
his precious bottle tightly and tucking it inside his
tunic. "He heads the Blue faction."
"The—what?" Tarma blinked at him in bewilder-
ment.
"There are five factions among the wilder off-
spring of the Fifty; Blue, Green, Red, Yellow, and
Black. They started out as racing clubs, but it's
gotten down to a nastier level than that within the
last few years," Ikan told her. "Duels in plenty, one
or two deaths. Right now only two factions are
strong enough to matter; Blue and Green. Kavin
heads the Blues; a fellow called Helansevrith heads
Green. They've been eyeblinks away from each oth-
er's throats for years, and the only thing that has
kept them from taking each other on, is that Kavin
is essentially a coward. He'd rather get his follow-
ers to do his dirty work for him. He makes a big
pose of being a tough, but he's never personally
taken anyone out. Mostly that doesn't matter, since
he's got his followers convinced."
He stood up, offering his hand to Tarma. "I can
give you a quick guess who could find out where
Kethry is, because I know where Wethes won't take
her. He won't dare take her to his home, his ser-
vants would see and gossip. He won't risk that,
because the tale he's given out all these years is
that Kethry is very shy and has been staying in
seclusion on his country estate. No, he'll take her to
his private brothel; I know he has one, I just don't
know where. But Justin's got a friend who could
tell us."
"That she could—and be happy to. Any harm she
could bring that man would make her right glad."
Even in the dim light from the torch over the door
Tarma could see that Justin looked grim.
"How do you know all this about Wethes and
Kavin?" Tarma looked from one to the other of
them.
"Because, Swordlady," Ikan's mouth stretched in
something that bore very little resemblance to a
smile, "my name wasn't always Dryvale."
Kethry had wedged herself back into a corner of
her barren, stone-floored cell. Wethes stood over
her, candle-lantern in one hand, gloating. It was the
very worst of her nightmares come true.
"What's mine remains mine, dear wife," he
crowed. "You won't be given a second chance to
escape me. I bought you, and I intend to keep you."
He was enjoying every moment, was taking plea-
sure in her fright, just as he had taken pleasure in
her pain when he'd raped her.
Kethry was paralyzed with fear, her skin crawl-
ing at the bare presence of him in the same room
with her. What would she do if he touched her?
Her heart was pounding as if she'd been running
for miles. And she thought wildly that if he did
touch her, perhaps her heart would give out.
He bent and darted his hand forward suddenly,
as if intending to catch one of her arms, and she
gave a little mew of terror and involuntarily kicked
out at him with her bound feet.
His startled reaction took her completely by
surprise.
He jumped backward, eyes widening, hands shak-
ing so that the candle flame wavered. Fear was a
mask over his features—absolute and utter fear of
her. For one long moment he stared at her, and she
at him, hardly able to believe what her own eyes
were telling her.
He was afraid of her. For all his puffing and
threatening, he was afraid of her!
And in that moment she saw him for what he
was—an aging, paunchy, greedy coward. Any sign
of resistance in an adult woman obviously terrified
him.
She kicked out again, experimentally, and he
jumped back another pace.
Probably the only females he could dominate were
helpless children; probably that was why he chose
them for his pleasures. At this moment he was as
terrified of her as she had been of him.
And the nightmare-monster of her childhood re-
vealed itself to be a thing of old clothes stuffed
with straw.
Her fear of him evaporated, like a thing spun of
mist. Anger quickly replaced the fear; and while
fear paralyzed her magecraft, anger fed her pow-
ers. That she had been held in thrall for seven long
years by fear of this!
He saw the change from terror to rage on her
face; she could see his realization that she was no
longer cowed mirrored on his. He bit his lip and
stepped backward another three or four paces.
With three barked words she burned through the
ropes on her hands and feet. She rose swiftly to her
feet, shaking the bits off her wrists as she did so,
her eyes never once leaving his face.
"Kidnap me, will you?" she hissed at him, eyes
narrowed. "Drug me and leave me tied up, and
think you can use me as you did before—well, I've
grown up, even if you haven't. I've learned how to
deal with slime like you."
Wethes gulped, and backed up again.
"I'll teach you to mend your ways, you fat, slob-
bering bastard! I'll show you what it feels like to be
a victim!"
She pointed a finger at him, and miniature light-
ning leapt from it to his feet.
Wethes yelped, hopping from one foot to the other.
Kethry aimed her finger a bit higher.
"Let's see how you like being hurt."
He screeched, turned, and fled, slamming the
door behind him. Kethry was at it in an eyeblink,
clawing at it in frustration, for there was no handle
on this side. She screamed curses at him; in her
own tongue, then in Shin'a'in when that failed her,
pounding on the obdurate portal with both fists.
"Come back here, you half-breed son of a pig and
an ape! I'll wither your manhood like a fifty-year-
old sausage! Coward! Baby-raper! If I ever get my
hands on your neck, I'll wrap a rope around it and
spin you like a top! I'll peel your skull like a chest-
nut! Come back here!"
Finally her bruised fists recalled her to her senses.
She stopped beating senselessly on the thick wood
of the door, and rested for a moment, eyes closed as
she reined in her temper. Anger did feed her power,
but uncontrolled anger kept her from using it. She
considered the door, considered her options, then
acted.
A half-dozen spells later, her magic energies were
becoming exhausted; the wood of the door was black-
ened and splintered, and the floor before it warped,
but the door remained closed. It had been warded,
and by a mage who was her equal at the very least.
She used the last of her power to fuel a feeble
mage-light; it hovered over her head, illuminating
the barren cell in a soft blue radiance. She leaned
her back against the far wall and allowed herself to
slide down it, wearily. Wrapping her arms around
her tucked-up knees, she regarded the warded door
and planned her next move.
If Wethes could have seen the expression on her
face, he'd have died of fright on the spot.
Tarma had been expecting Justin's "friend" to be
a whore. Certainly she lived on a street where
every other door housed one or more who practiced
that trade—and the other doors led to shops that
catered to their needs or those of their customers.