After that, Neeka was very glad that Lokos walked before her and Koominon behind, for it seemed that each patch of darkness, each shadow cast by the lamp was a skull-faced warrior in antique armor, skeletal hand gripping rusty sword or rotted spearshaft Under her breath, she breathed half-forgotten prayers to Christ, to His Holy Mother and to every other saint she could remember, temporarily forgetting that identical prayers for deliverance had availed her nothing those endless days and nights in that horrible cell in the fortress walls.

Down a flight of worn, stone steps lay a cellar, also stacked with bales and crates, but then what looked to be but a stretch of blank wall pivoted at the touch of Koominon's hand and swung shut behind them as silently as it had opened. They went a few paces along a narrow corridor, down another, steeper flight of stairs, these set at a right angle to the corridor, then along a wider passage to a bivalve door of verdigris-covered bronze. Koominon drew a dirk from beneath his cloak and tapped sharply with its steel ball-pommel on the green-crusted door in a distinct pattern of raps and pauses.

"Open your mind, child," Lokos mindspoke Neeka. "Lower your shield that they may be sure who and how many we are."

Neeka did so and, shortly, one of the high, broad doors swung back. Lokos led the way into another corridor, this one with a down-sloping floor and a clean tang of the sea about it. The ramp curved gradually to the left and, at the foot of it, was another bivalve bronze door. Both halves of the door swung open before them, flooding the sloping corridor with warmth and light from the torches, lamps and braziers within a large, oval chamber.

Out from a knot of soberly garbed men and a few women strode Komees Petros. Taking both of Neeka's small, cold hands in his large, warm ones, he bent stiffly from the waist and kissed the right one, but retained his hold when he stepped back, straightening.

"Neeka, until we investigated, none of us were aware that you were of noble birth, that your late father was an ahstoonohmos." He half turned to the group and added, "We have no such title here, not any longer, but we did in ancient times; ahstoonohmos is a hereditary office and its holder is the deputy to the lord of a city or a district, being roughly the equivalent of our vahrohneeskos, though an ahstoonohemos is salaried and does not actually hold land, as does a vahrohneeskos. This poor child's entire family died in an epidemic of summer fever. Her care and her dead father's office were both then assumed by his younger brother, her uncle; he gave her in marriage to a lowborn curdog of a priest, who then sold her to a ship captain and put about the word that she had deserted him."

The nobleman went on, giving a brief account of Neeka's nearly two years in Esmithpolisport. He was an accomplished raconteur. Consequently, there were few dry eyes amongst the throng when he was done.

Koominon had disappeared during the monologue. When he reappeared, he was cloaked in the vestments of a priest of the Old Ehleen Rite and all those present repaired to a canvas-enclosed section of the room for the religious service which always opened a full meeting of the membership. Then, while some members were preparing precooked food and others were laying boards on trestles and bringing chairs and stools from the enclosed area, a woman and three men—Komees Pehtros, among them—took Neeka aside and began teaching her the complicated hand grasps and signals, the childish-sounding passwords and the significance of the oaths she soon must swear.

The oaths were sworn before dinner. They were designed to be solemn and awe-inspiring to those who were deeply religious, but the nobility of the north could take religion or leave it alone, generally the latter, and Neeka's firsthand knowledge of the frankly mercenary philosophies of the Church and churchmen, gained from her brief marriage, had rendered her deeply irreligious. So, though she behaved as she assumed she was expected to behave, she actually found the oath-taking ceremony as childishly silly as the secret signs and words.

At dinner she was seated beside the woman who had earlier shared in her instruction, Lady Rohza Ahnthro-poheethees, widow of a former shipping magnate, scioness of a house of the petty nobility and a distant relative of the one-time ruling house of Karaleenos when still it had been an independent kingdom. As big and as powerful looking as Djoy Skriffen—with broad shoulders, slender hips, flat thighs and buttocks, very small breasts and a set of craggy features—Rohza affected masculine garb, right down to jackboots, hanger and dirk. She spoke loudly and often, shouting down the length of the table in her deep contralto, frequently slapping her thigh as she guffawed at her own and at others' witticisms.

There was something about the middle-aged woman that put Neeka's little white teeth edge to edge; not even the evil virtually oozing from Djoy Skriffen's very pores had so afflicted her. It was not that the brawny Rohza was cool or unkind to Neeka; indeed, the very reverse was the case—her attendance was so warm and constant that she seemed to Neeka more like a courting swain than a dinner companion. With almost every word she spoke to the girl, the woman's big hands were placed lingeringly on shoulder or knee, neck or arm. Such uncomforting familiarity prevented Neeka from truly enjoying her dinner, and, at future dinners, she saw to it that she had other dinner companions.

Though she was, of course, not privy to the meetings or decisions of the Heritage Council, Neeka could see nothing of a practical, political nature that was accomplished by ee Klirohnohmeea. It seemed little more than one of those secret fraternal organizations with which noble Ehleen society abounded in the north, in Kehnooryos Mahkedohnya, save only for the religious aspect which the northerners lacked and which, she shrewdly guessed, was a part of this group's format only because it was forbidden by law.

True, at almost every meeting of the full membership, certain hotheads loudly prated daydreams of armed uprisings against the hated Confederation, but a dream that sort of talk assuredly was, for very few of the members had had any sort of war training, and if the Heritage had any popular support in Esmithpolisport, Neeka was never able to discern it. A conversation one day with Komees Pehtros confirmed her suspicions.

"Engaging together in an illegal act tends to bind the membership more tightly together, Neeka. But were it entirely up to me, I'd do away with anything pertaining to the Old Faith, for I was a young ensign in the Nineteenth Infantry Regiment during the Great Rebellion and I personally witnessed the perverse extremes to which religious fanaticism can go. Faced with such, I can see why High Lord Milo had no choice but to proscribe the Ehleen Church and all its clergy. Indeed, child, I would have done the same in his place. Crucifixion, burning, even impalement was really too good for many of the black-robed animals."

"Even Koominon?" asked Neeka.

He shook his head. "Father Ahreestos, who calls himself Koominon, is truly a devout, good and humble man. That he, who never subscribed to the perversities which condemned his faith, was tarred with the same brushstroke is a tragedy. That he insisted on remaining in direst peril here is even more of a tragedy, for he could go far, could contribute much, were he to enship for a place wherein the Faith still is legal— Kehnooryos Mahkedohnya or Greeah Ehlahs. Here, he is living on borrowed time and, soon or late, will suffer a long, agonizing, messy death. And ee Klirohnohmeea will be in a large part responsible, for did he not have a congregation, he might depart for more salubrious climes."

"Then… then you must tell Master Lokos this," insisted Neeka. "Tell him quickly, for he is Koominon's friend. He will persuade him to leave."

Again the komees shook his head. "No, Neeka, Lokos will not. Lokos is a good man, a kind man, and completely lucid in most matters, but in affairs of ee Klirohnohmeea, he is a deranged fanatic." Seeing her horrified expression at hearing her master so maligned, he added, "Oh, it's not entirely his fault, Neeka. The tortures and mutilation to which he was subjected for his very small and inconsequential role in the Great Rebellion, and the sufferings and privations of his long imprisonment, addled him a bit, as they would have addled any man."

"Mutilation?" Neeka queried, puzzledly, for Lokos had a normal complement of fingers, toes, and ears; his face was scarred and his scalp, but so were those of most adult males, and she had naturally assumed that those scars and a limp noticeable in damp weather resulted from youthful warring or dueling.

The komees's lips firmed into a grim line. "Have you never wondered why a man who loves children and young people as much as Lokos never sired any of his own, Neeka? The reason is that he cannot. After they had flogged him until the white bone shone through the bloody tatters of flesh from his neck to his buttocks, they gelded him. That he survived such treatment at all is a miracle."

Wholly dedicated to never again being dependent upon anyone for her sustenance, Neeka applied every bit of her not inconsiderable intellect and her youthful vigor to her new craft. Within only three years' time, Master Lokos confessed in mingled pride and consternation that she had absorbed as much as or more than any other apprentice had done in twice the time. Thereafter, Neeka did much of the workaday compounding and distilling, leaving the master free to attend customers, instruct other apprentices and do the research and experiments which were his passion.

When she had read every book in his library written in either of the two languages she had mastered—Ehleeneekos and the various regional dialects of Mehrikan—Lokos taught her to read the flowing, cursive script called Ahrapsahbos, in which most modern medical texts were written by the justly famous Zahrtohgahn physicians.

Therefore, Neeka knew immediately just what the prism dangling from those black fingers was and just what it was for. Summoning the last ounce of will, she. fought back up, back out of the beautiful, sleepy world into which the scintillating prism and the soft, soothing words of the skilled man had drawn her.

"Sahlahmoo ahlaik," said Neeka, when she was certain she had regained her self-control. "Ahlahn wah sahlahn" When he made no reply to the greeting, she added, "Fehemtinee?"

Master Fahreed consciously lowered his eyebrows, unconsciously raised in surprise at hearing the Zahrtohgahn language spoken by this strange, sinister woman. Not many unbelievers expended the effort to learn the difficult, guttural tongue, which was why Zahrtohgahn physicians must, in addition to being accomplished mindspeakers, learn so many languages and dialects, since the Great Council of Masters might send a given physician and his apprentice to any one of a far-flung range of posts.

Big, white teeth glittered as he smiled. "Ywah, fehemt." Then he switched to fluent Ehleeneekos. "But if we wish to continue to understand each other, it were perhaps better we speak this tongue or Mehrikan, for," he smiled again, "noble as is your effort, your accent is atrocious."

Neeka shrugged and leaned back against the table. That is apt surprising to me, master. I have spoken your language but little, and that was years ago with one who possibly did not speak it well himself; but I have no difficulty in the reading or the writing of it"

She waved at the prism. "A Mookahdir, is it not? I have, of course, read the treatises of the Illustrious Master Wahdjeed al-Ahkisahee on the production and use of the Mookahdir, but this is the first one I have ever actually seen. You were attempting to send me a-journeying, were you not? May I ask why?"

Fahreed spoke bluntly, as was his wont. "I am sworn to exert my efforts toward the preservation of health and life. I was but attempting to make your death unnecessary." He sighed. "It is certainly but the Will of Ahlah, that I should fail."

"My death? What do you mean?" Neeka demanded a little louder than she meant to, feeling a cold prickling coursing the length of her spine.

"The rightful lord of this place, Sir Tim, feels you to be responsible for the senseless poisoning of his friend, Rai, the sergeant He is a man of action, not subtlety, and he would likely have run his broadsword through your body by now, had I not promised to neutralize the threat you present to him and to his lawful accession by other, less sanguineous, means. But now…" He sighed once more and drew from within his robes a small dagger with a thin, tapering, four* inch, double-edged blade of light-blue Zahrtohgahn steel.

Neeka saw certain death in the black man's quick, sure movements, and she felt apprehension but, oddly, no fear. She thought briefly of those instruments on the table behind her that might be utilized as a weapon, then mentally dismissed them all, for the physician was a tall man and no doubt strong and agile. The rigorous pre-apprentice training administered in the Emirate of Zahrtohgah eliminated those applicants weak or clumsy of body or slow of wit

In a friendly, conversational tone, she asked, "I thought you were sworn to preserve life and health, master? How can you justify my murder with that oath?" While speaking, Neeka realized that it was not a sham; she truly did feel a friendliness, almost a kinship, for the knife-armed man before her. That was why she did not scream or mindcall for help, for such would not save her life and might easily cost his as well. With real shock, she admitted to herself that die or no, she did not want to cost this man his life. She was tired of killing simply to stay alive; a quick, clean death seemed a pleasant prospect to her after these years of being forced to pervert and prostitute her craft and her person in virtual slavery to the cursed ee Klirohnohmeea.

Master Fahreed paused in his slow approach and frowned "I consider this an execution, woman, not a murder, for if you are of the guild I suspect you have violated oaths no less worthy or binding than mine own. Where do you prefer the knife—heart, throat, or brain? Fear not, there will be but a single, brief pain, if you cooperate with me."

Neeka began to fold down the front of her garments. "I did what I did because I then felt I had no choice—if I did not do what they bid me, I feared I would be returned to a certain coastal city for trial and probable execution. During the twelve years I have lived in this hall, I have shielded my own life behind the corpses of no less than five men who never had harmed me in any manner, simply because an evil, depraved lunatic of a woman demanded their deaths. But there will be no more deaths on my conscience, for my life is no longer precious to me."

She had bared her body to the waist, and now she lifted her left breast and leaned back again, steadying herself with an elbow on the worktable. She smiled and said, "You are doing the best and most proper thing, master, and I go willingly. Strike hard and true."

With a nod, the tall black man stepped close, felt until he found a spot that suited him, then placed the point of the knife where his fingers had been and thrust with controlled strength. The thin, needle-pointed blade entered easily, thin lines of blood welling up about the watered steel. Neeka gritted her teeth, forced herself not to flinch and thereby complicate or lengthen the man's job. She closed her eyes, thinking of her tragically wasted life. How different things might have been if only dear old Lokos had lived but one more year.

Chapter XIII

Tim had refused to await the Zahrtohgahn's return. Leaving AM, Giliahna, Mairee and the apprentice physician to look out for each other, he had stalked out, snarling, "If the bitch wants blood, I'll give her blood, though she may not like the color of the stuff I shed." He prowled the corridors and rooms of his dead father's hall, looking for prey.

Once divested of his porridge-caked clothing, Father Skahbros had not redressed himself, rather he had wrapped his pudgy body in a bath sheet, gathered up fresh clothing and padded down to the bath chambers in the north wing. And that was where his coldly raging nemesis found him… and dealt with him.

Tim paced back down the old, familiar hallway, his left hand on the well-worn basket hilt of his heavy broadsword. Through the pantries, into the winter kitchen. A burly cook—a kath-ahrohs by the cast of his dark-olive skin, black eyes and hair—gripping a big, greasy knife made at first to bar the passage of this apparent northern barbarian mercenary in patched boots and stained clothing. That was before he drew close enough to see that the stains were bright-red splashes of fresh blood, and to be chilled to his very marrow by the icy, murderous rage shining from those slitted blue eyes.

When he did not find Sir Geros in his cottage, Tim paused only long enough to tuck an antique but nicely balanced francisca—one of the old warrior's wall decorations—into his belt, then he headed directly across the rear courtyard to the stables. A row of paddocks adjoined the larger boxstalls, and in one of these he could see a pale-gray, black-maned and-tailed bulk that could be none save Steelsheen, his own warhorse. Alerted by the familiar sound of Tim's tread, the huge stallion turned from the manger of fragrant cloverhay and moved to the whitewashed bars. When Tim was close enough to recognize by sight, the horse whickered a greeting, stamping and nodding his scarred head in anticipation of a fondling.

As the man hugged and patted the pale cheeks, rubbing up and down the narrow stripe of glossy black hairs that bisected the animal's face, Steelsheen almost purred. But then the stallion scented the fresh, human blood, recalled the clank of Tim's weapons.

"Steel sheen was tired, my brother, but he is well rested now. Will we fight soon?" The horse mindspoke eagerly, unconsciously pawing at the earth of the paddock with one shod hoof.

"/ may have to fight," replied Tim. "But it will be afoot, my brother. Are there any warhorses in this place beside you and Red honey?"

Steelsheen snorted derisively. "There is one who thinks it is such, a gelding, one Tahkoos, but it really is only a sexless hunter of furry beasts and little tuskless pigs. At the bite of blade or point, such a creature would likely buck off its rider and run away. A war-trained stallion is pastured nearby, but he is old, his two-leg brother is dead and no one now rides him."

"Yes," replied Tim, "he must be—must have been—my sire's warhorse. Have you or Redhoney had trouble here?"

Steelsheen gave another derisive snort. "Only mares and geldings are within this place and all are frightened of me… of Redhoney, too, for all that she is only a mare." He tossed his raven mane. "The two-legs fear us, too, all save the one called Tahmahs. He respects us but no reek of fear is on him."

Tim reflected that he did not blame the other horses and the stablehands one damn bit. A fully trained warhorse was as dangerous as a stud bull, more dangerous, really, because of the added intelligence. No horse of merely average intelligence ever received full war training, which was one reason why they were so expensive and so treasured by their purchasers. Another reason was their unswerving loyally to the 'one man they considered a brother—warhorses had been known to stand, riderless, over the body of a dead or wounded rider and fight with teeth and flailing hooves until aid came or they were themselves slain.

"Whatever happens," he admonished the big horse, "you and Redhoney are to allow no man to mount you save me or my brother, Geros. Understood?"

"But what of our brother, Rai?" queried the gray.

"Our brother, Rai, is gone to Wind," answered Tim, soberly. "Tell Redhoney that I already have taken a partial vengeance for his killing, and I shortly will take the rest."

Tim found Master Tahmahs in a tackroom-cum-office. Only his silver-shot black hair stamped the horse master as having any trace of Ehleen blood. Otherwise, he might have been a clansman fresh from the Sea of Grass, with his wiry, slender build, fair skin and bright-blue eyes. He was industriously softening a new bridle when Tim entered. He glanced up, saw the visitor and the blood-splashed clothing and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"It's started then, my lord Tim? Good! How many dead so far?"

"Two," answered Tim shortly. "My sergeant, murdered by arrow poison and that thrice-damned outlaw priest the bitch was harboring—though he may not be dead yet. I doubt that he is; belly wounds don't kill quickly."

The horsemaster nodded. "But there're no wounds so agonizing. Yet I've heard no screams from the gelded bastard."

Tim laughed coldly. "Nor will you, not from him. I sliced out most of his treasonous tongue."

Tahmahs chuckled. "That will put a burr under her saddle for sure, my lord. I think she dotes on that priest damned near as much as on her tongue-sister or on that sad excuse of a man, Myron. But what will my lord have of me?"

"Please pardon my asking, but ten years is a long time away. Are you trained to arms, Master Tahmahs?"

Tahmahs grinned. "Twenty years a Confederation dragoon, my lord."

"Then I need you here at the hall," said Tim. "Is there a good rider among your men, one you can trust in all things?"

Tahmahs replied, "My youngest son, Divros. He is not yet fourteen or he would, like his brothers, be gone up to Goohm to enlist, but he is as big as me and near as strong and a better rider than I ever was."

"Call him here," snapped Tim, impatient to find Geros and start the action.

When the strapping boy stood before him, the young captain asked, "Divros, is your loyalty to me or to my father's widow?"

Tahmahs snorted. "No need to question that, my lord Tim. Four years ago that precious pair, Lord Myron and his bum-boy, found Divros alone and tried to strip and bugger him by force. Of course my lad fought, but what could a nine-year-old do against two lads near as big as I am? It was a near thing and they'd have had their unnatural way with him, had not your brother, Behrl, happened along and beaten Myron bloody and sobbing. So, you need have no doubts as to where the loyalties of me and mine lie."

"Very well, Divros, which is the fastest, strongest horse in the stables?" demanded Tim.

The boy did not hesitate. "Lord Myron's roan hunter, Tahkoos, my lord."

"Have you ever ridden him, Divros?"

The boy smiled. "Oh, yes, my lord. He says he likes me better than Lord Myron."

Tim nodded again. "Good. Saddle him and ride to Morguhn Hall, or until you find my half brother, Ahrkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn. Here," with effort, he wrenched the ruby ring from his finger, "hang this on a thong about your neck, under your shirt; show it only to Bili, as proof that you come from me.

"Tell the ahrkeethoheeks that matters here have progressed faster than we had thought or planned for. Tell him to send my company to me at the gallop. Tell him to alert the High Lords that far more than had been suspected is afoot here in Vawn. Tell him that real rebellion is probable unless we strike quickly and drastically. Warn him to not, under any circumstances, impart aught of this to Prince Zenos. Can you remember it all, boy?"

When the lad could repeat the various parts of the message to his satisfaction, Tim sent him off to saddle the gelding and turned back to Tahmahs.

"Do you have any weapons in the stables?"

Tahmahs nodded soberly. "Yes, my lord, Sir Geros secreted a nice little store in my keeping."

Then arm your son with at least a dirk and a spear; bow and saber, too, if he knows how to use them. No sense in burdening him and his mount with armor or target though. His job is to get to Lord Bili, not to stand and fight.

"Immediately Divros is on the road, turn all the other horses into the pasture. Not mine, though—I don't want him fighting with your king stallion. You might put Redhoney, the mare, in with Steelsheen. They wont harm each other, and as she has just lost her brother, she might be comforted by being nearer to a familiar horse.

"When you're done with that, round up Sergeant Mahrtuhn and his dragoons. They, you and any of your men you feel are loyal to me are to take as many weapons as you can carry, all the food you can find and at least one skin of water per man and come to the thoheek's suite. If anyone—anyone! —gets in your way, you have my leave to cut him down. Understood, Master Tahmahs?"

Tim and Geros found just what the young captain had suspected in the cellar armory—the racks and chests and cupboards were all nearly empty of weapons and armor.

"But, my 1… but, Tim, there be no place in this hall that such quantities of arms could have been hidden without me knowing of it from the few loyal ones, and that quickly."

"Just so," agreed Tim. Then he asked, "How long since you've been in any of the hall villages?"

"A month, at least, Tim, maybe two. It's Tonos, the major-domo's, part to deal with the villagers, him and the head cook, Myron's bumboy, Gaios."

"I caught that castrated goat of an Ehleen priest in the bath chamber and hung him up on a beam with his wrists lashed behind him while we… ahh, conversed. He told me some very interesting things. One of them is that for the last half-year, Mehleena's agents have been hiring bandits and gutter-scrapings from all over the Principate of Karaleenos, bringing them into this duchy surreptitiously and billeting them in the hall villages, at least a hundred of them that the priest knew of."

Geros looked stunned. "But why, Tim? She had no idea you were still alive until you rode in this morning."

Tim chuckled. "She knows the Sanderz Kindred have precious little liking for her and even less for Myron. Had I not come back, if they had chosen one of their own number to be chief of Sanderz, she was going to turn her pack loose against all the Sanderz Kindred, noble or not, and depend upon her cousin, Prince Zenos, to save her hide with Brother Bili and the High Lords by claiming that the Kindred had been in armed revolt against their rightful lord. She might have gotten away with her infamy, but…" He shrugged meaningfully.

"So, you can bet your boots that all the arms, save only those you squirreled away and the pitiful remnants in this room, are now on the backs or in the hands of her private army of rebel ruffians, down in the hall villages. Which fact, incidentally, answers any doubts you might have entertained about where Tones' loyalty lies. He's Mehleena's and no mistake!"

Sir Geros's brow wrinkled. "But… but what if you had not come back and if the Kindred had chosen Myron to be chief?"

"Yes, I posed that question, too. The good priest required a bit more persuasion before he'd give me an answer, but after I'd dislocated one of his shoulders, he became much more talkative. If Myron had been elected and confirmed, Mehleena and her banditti would bide their time. It seems that there is a widespread conspiracy afoot in Karaleenos, Geros. The priest was certain that some very high personages—possibly even Zenos himself—are involved. When this pack had gained enough strength, they were to rise up in every duchy, county, baronetcy, city, town and village, slaughter the Kindred and declare an independent Kingdom of Karaleenos."

"Madness!" declared Sir Geros, vehemently. "Utter insanity! In a frontier duchy, say, such a scheme might even work out… for a little while. But here, in the very heart of the Confederation, it's doomed from the start. Kehnooryos Ehlahs abuts the whole northern border of Karaleenos and the Ahrmehnee Stahn the whole western. To the south, lie the Associated Duchies, and to the east is the sea, commanded by the Confederation Fleet. So who, what idiot, could think such a plan would last any longer than it took word to reach Kehnooryos Atheenahs?"

Tim shrugged. "Present company excepted, of course, what Ehleen ever thought with his head rather than his emotions? Well, there's damn-all here for us. They left only junk. Get back to your house and arm yourself. I'll be in the thoheeks" suite with the others."

"But, Tim, would it not be better for us to make our stand down here in the magazines? We'd have no shortage of either water or food here."

The young captain growled, "No, by Sun and Wind, I'll not be driven into a hole in the ground! This is my hall, Geros, and by my steel, I'll hold it. Father had the central portion built for just such a contingency as this. With the doors to the wings locked and barred, it can be held by a small force against anyone not willing to burn down the whole place… and, grasping as the bitch is, I don't think Mehleena would see the hall in ashes, even if it meant my death."

The horror-laden screams of a maid brought Majordomo Tonos and a hastily sent servant brought the Lady Mehleena to the bath chamber.

The soft, white, womanish body of the priest hung by to bloody, swollen wrists from the central beam. The shoulders had become disjointed and the flesh about them was hideously discolored. A wide pool of blood was beneath the dangling feet, with more dripping from the toes. The hilt of a boot dagger stood out from the lower belly, just a few inches above the stump of the castrate's penis. The mouth continued to dribble blood down the chin and onto the chest, and to give vent to a low, continuous whining, gurgling moan. The empty eyesockets had almost ceased to bleed.

When, at last, Mehleena had stopped her screaming, raving tantrum, Tonos approached her. "Mistress? My lady… ? May I kill Father Skahbros? It were the kindest thing anyone now can do for him. He is in great pain and dying… but he could live longer without a mercy-thrust."

Her fat face twisted with rage. "You softheaded fool! We don't have time for him now. To hell with him! Send a galloper down to the villages and call out the Crusaders or all will be lost for us here." With that, she slammed the door to the bath chamber and stamped off up the hallway.

When the thin blade was into Neeka's chest a little past half its length, Master Fahreed sliced from side to side, to damage the woman's heart fully and so speed her death. Then he wiped the blade on her shift and stepped back. He did not mean to leave until she had ceased to breathe.

Neeka had just started her last year of the indenture when Master Lokos' merry, plump wife, Yris, died of a fever then raging through Esmithpolisport. Hardly was she decently interred than the master himself was borne home dead from a meeting of the Heritage Council, whereat he had suddenly clutched at his chest and collapsed, expiring before he could be carried to a physician.

Koominon had the corpse borne to what had been Lokos' bedchamber, locked himself in with it and hastily performed in private those last rites that were forbidden in public, while

Neeka summoned the servants to wash and dress their master's body. It seemed to Neeka that fully half the inhabitants of Esmithpolisport attended the public eulogy to Master Lokos Prahseenos; even the thoheeks, Dahnuhld Esmith of Es-mith — who hated the salt sea and almost never came to the port which produced so much of his revenue — sat with the other notables and speakers on the podium and said a few, halting words in praise of Lokos, whom he had never met personally. At least three-quarters of the attendees joined the procession that bore the cypresswood casket to the necropolis and saw it placed between those of his two wives in the splendid mausoleum of pale-green Theesispolis limestone, with its entrance flanked by two fluted columns of white, purple-veined marble from the Associated Duchies, far to the south and west

So far as Judge Gahbros, the executor of Lokos' sizable estate, or anyone else knew, the late master had no living relative, so inquiries for the closest relatives of his two dead wives were sent far and wide. In the meanwhile, Koominon kept the house as orderly as ever he had for Lokos and Neeka managed the shop with all that that entailed and continued the training of the apprentice's. At length, two months after Lokos' demise, Judge Gahbros came calling just after the dinner hour one evening.

Once he was seated and had sipped at the wine, he said, mock-chidingly, "Koominon, I told you to come to me for any funds needed to maintain poor Lokos' establishments, yet you have not come in two moons' time."

Koominon smiled. "There has been no need to do so, Lord Gahbros. Our little Mistress Neeka has done so well at the shop that not only have the profits been sufficient to pay all the household expenses and salaries, but to pay as well the full expenses of the shop and to put by a few thrahkmehee beside."

Neeka blushed furiously and both the men laughed. The judge reached across and patted her small hand. "Child, do not be embarrassed at honest and well-earned praise. All the Wpness and professional community is full of your praises these days. You are proving a true credit to Master Lokos' memory. If the man who is journeying here from Linstahkpolis has a grain of sense, he'll keep you on as his manager and trainer until you've put by enough to buy his shop or to set up your own."

Koominon asked, "Then you've located an heir, my lord?"

The jurist nodded. "The only son of Yris' elder sister. A merchant, he is, one Pawl Froh, now resident in Linstahkpolis."

Koominon sighed. "A Kindred barbarian?"

"Yes," agreed Gahbros. "Half, anyway. His sire was a mercenary badly wounded in the Great Rebellion, who settled down with his loot in the Confederation, rather than returning to the Middle Kingdoms. He had three sons by Yris' sister, the other two went a-warring and are now dead. This man is in his late twenties and is, I understand, a middling successful dealer in hides, horns and tallow, raw wool, horsehair, bristles and suchlike."

Koominon shook his head slowly. "Hides? Bristles? What could such a man know of the craft of an apothecary?"

"Precisely," smiled the Judge. "He'll be needing a good manager to run the business… and who better than Neeka, eh?"

But Koominon was clearly unconvinced. He looked deeply disturbed.

Three weeks later, Pawl Froh appeared, and when Judge Gahbros brought the heir to the establishment that had been Master Lokos', he looked as grim and worried as Koominon. It was easy to see why this third son of the retired Freefighter had not gone a-warring with his two elder brothers—no army or condotta would accept a hunchbacked cripple.

When the judge introduced Froh to Neeka, she tried hard to conceal her immediate dislike of the sharp-faced, shaggy-haired little man, with his scummy-toothed leer and his way of looking at her that made her skin crawl.

Froh's normal speaking voice was a whining rasp, and he never ceased to rub together his grubby, ink-blotched hands. He seemed a little awed by the tall, dignified jurist and so waited until he had finished glorifying Neeka's management of what was the most prosperous small shop in all Esmithpol-isport.

With a wave at the apprentices, he whined, "What fer do you need four shop boys? I only got the two, and my place's a whole lot bigger nor thisun."

Before Neeka could frame an answer, the judge said, "They are not shop boys, Master Froh, they are apprentice apothecaries. Master Lokos turned out at least half the best apothecaries in the Principalities of the Three Karaleenosee, and Mistress Neeka is finishing these boys for him."

Froh loudly sniffed his dripping nose, then wiped the back of one hand across it. "They be mighty damn well fed for mere apprentices; heh, ol' Lokos, he musta been gittin' inta his secon' chilliood. But I'll see to the stoppin' of thet, and damn fast, too."

The judge frowned. "Master Froh, you should know that this duchy has laws dictating the decent and humane treatment of apprentices and resident journeymen, such as Mistress Neeka, here. I have the honor to be the senior jurist for Esmithpolisport and I see to it that abuses of the apprentice laws are handled most harshly."

"Oh, your worship, please don't misunderstand this humble businessman," whined Froh, bobbing up and down in little, short hows and wringing his dirty hands. "We have such laws on the books in Linstahkpolis, too, and ain't no man but would say Pawl Froh heeds to the very letter of 'em."

Neeka felt a cold chill of apprehension. Master Lokos had never fretted that craft masters of other trades laughed at him, he had treated his apprentices like his own sons and daughters, rather than doing for them only that which the law commanded.

While one of the boys raced back to the residence to fetch Koominon into the shop and while the heir nosed about the storerooms and workrooms, the judge drew Neeka aside and spoke in low tones. "Child, this creature is not what any of us expected. He is crude, vulgar, avaricious, a miser and, I doubt me not, more than a little dishonest; in the three hours we have been together, I have not heard him say a single good thing about anyone, living or dead.

"He seems to have the distorted opinion that 'apprentice' is but a synonym for 'slave.' Such is not the case, of course. As apprentices, you and the boys have all the rights and protections of any other subcitizen of the Confederation. He, Froh, is a subcitizen, himself; he showed me a copy of a letter proclaiming him a citizen of the Baronetcy of Awstburk, whence came his late father. He chortled and crowed that such subterfuge prevented the Thoheeks of Linstahk levying taxes on anything besides his profits.

"He is not a good man, Neeka. I'm telling you now, and I'll be telling Koominon later, should he offer abuse to anyone in this shop or the house, I am to be immediately notified. He may feel himself secure in this windfall, but he is not. Mistress Yris had other sisters and they, too, had children and I shall remain in charge of poor Lokos's estate until…"

He broke off, perforce, as Pawl Froh limped back into the main room of the shop, bringing back with him his perpetual sniffle and a reek of unwashed flesh that overpowered even the clean scents of the herbs and spices.

The riding mules were the first to be sold, then the two little asses Master Lokos had used to bear the panniers of herbs and roots from his fields beyond the city and from his frequent expeditions in search of those plants which could not be cultivated and needs must be gathered from streams and forests.

"Master Froh," she asked, "without an ass, how can I and the apprentices bring back the herbs we need from the woodlands and our fields?"

He looked up from the tally sheets, whining annoyedly, "Their backs look strong enough to bear a few pounds of roots a few miles."

"But when we harvest the fields next year—" Neeka began, only to be rudely cut off.

"Don’t chew worry none 'bout thet, sweetiepie, ain't no more fiel's. I done sold 'em. Got me a dang good figger for 'em, too."

When he had sold the feed and hay and had discharged the groom for whom there was no longer any use, Froh had the quarters of the apprentices transferred to the draughty stable loft, but all the beds and other furniture was ordered left behind. Then he commenced letting the beds by the week to sailors and wagoners, who often caroused far into the night, robbing the servants on the floor below and adjoining neighbors, alike, of sleep. But Froh seemed not to care, so long as silver and gold coins continued to amass in the iron chest he kept chained to his bedroom wall.

Then, unexpectedly, Judge Gahbros was called to Danyuhlzpolis to sit on a special, three-judge panel convened by Ahrkeethoheeks Hari Danyuhlz III of Danyuhlz to hear an important case. Twenty-four hours after the jurist's departure, Froh sold the indenture contracts of the two newest apprentices to a Middle Kingdoms merchant bound back to Harzburk.

Again, Neeka confronted her new master. This time, she was coldly furious, frantic for the safety of the little boys she had come to love like younger brothers. "Surely you must know, Master Froh, that the moment that merchant's wagon crosses from the Principate of Kuhmbuhluhn into the Kingdom of Harzburk, those children will cease being contracted apprentices and become true slaves for the rest of their lives! How? How in God's name could you do such a thing? It… its inhuman!"

He did not even look up from his tally sheets. "I be master here, missy, don' you go a-lectrin' to me, heanh? I made me a fine profit offn them two contrac's, and there's two less moufs to be fed to boot What all thet fine, upstanding merchant does oncet he's out'n this dang Confedrashun's tween him and his burklord. But us burkers is honest folks. We ain't all borned liars and rebels like you friggin' Ehleenee is. Now, gitchore purty ass out'n here and let me be!"

After Tilda, one of the servant girls, was raped in her bed by a drunken sailor who had wandered down from above, all the servants demanded that Master Froh afford them protection from the depredations and petty thefts of his roomers, "answer" was to fire them, en masse. Then he moved more roomers into the vacated chambers of what had been the servants' quarters. He would have fired Koominon, as well, save that that worthy produced a properly drawn and witnessed contract guaranteeing him employment as major-domo and chef by Master Lokos or his assigns for a period of thirty years, and there still were more than eight years to go.

Thereafter, Neeka seldom saw the remaining two apprentices, as Froh saw to it that the boys stayed busy doing the work of the fired servants. Consequently, Neeka's workload in shop and workrooms trebled and, shortly, she began to feel and show the strain. She had to exercise more and more self' control to keep from snapping at customers. It became harder and harder to force her dead-tired body to do the compounding and distilling the proper, time- and energy-consuming way and not allow herself to succumb to the temptation of dangerous shortcuts and half measures.

Which was probably why she forgot to throw the big iron bolt on her chamber door that one night. She fought her way up from the depths of a sound sleep, trying to recall what noise had awakened her. There was only the merest ghost of a shuffling, scraping sound in her room, though on the two floors above, the usual carousing was still in progress.

Then she became aware of the smell, that sickening stink of a filthy human body. Then Froh sniffled. A cold hand touched her face and, before she could even gasp, clamped down over her mouth. The coverlet was suddenly ripped from off her, then his dirty, misshapen body was pinning her down, his foul breath nauseating her.

Chapter XIV

While his other hand and one bony knee were occupied at the task of trying to force her thighs apart, Neeka raked the nails of her left hand across his face. At the same moment her right hand grabbed his scrotum, squeezing and twisting at the sac, while kneading the testes agonizingly.

With a whining howl that quickly became a scream, Froh let go her mouth and sent both hands to the crotch she was punishing so savagely. Quickly, she smashed the heel of her left hand into his dripping nose. The cartilage snapped loose from the bone with an audible crack, and his blood spurted down on her face and body. As she fought from under the sobbing, bleeding man, she saw Koominon standing in her doorway, a lamp in his hand,

"Holy saints preserve us," the undercover cleric gulped. "What wickedness have you done?"

The pig would have taken me, half-asleep, by force, Koominon," panted Neeka.

"But… but he is master here, child! All in this place are his to do with as he wishes."

Neeka felt as if a war club had come crashing down upon her head. "But, Koominon, didn't Judge Gahbros speak to you about our rights? He said he would."

Koominon shook his head. "Judge Gahbros is a full week's journey west of here. He cannot help you, now."

Neeka thought quickly. "Then, Koominon, you must go at once to the city governor's palace. Komees Pehtros will see that justice is done."

Koominon looked down. "Can't you send one of the apprentices?"

"Damn it, Koominon, of course not!" snapped Neeka. "You know the guards would never pay any attention to a stripling."

"Then… then one of the barbarians upstairs?"

But Koominon finally dressed and left. Going across to his room, Neeka armed herself with one of the prized knives he kept there since so much had been stolen from the kitchen by Froh's roomers. Then she dressed and kept watch over Froh's moaning, groaning, bleeding carcass until the majordomo returned.

Komees Pebtros strode into Neeka's room with fire in his eyes, two scale-shirted Freefighters behind him, along with another man, another noble, by his dress.

Froh had apparently recovered more than he had been willing to let the grim-faced, knife-armed Neeka know, for he suddenly sat up on the bloody bed. One hand clutched his aching scrotum, the other pointed a shaking finger at Neeka. "Arrest her!" he whined. "She… she attacked me fer no dang reason. She'da kilt me, likely, iffen you hadn' come up here."

But he wilted into silence under the cold glare of Komees Pehtros, who regarded the naked, gory hunchback as if he were some particularly loathsome form of vermin. The noble turned to Neeka. "What happened, child? If it was what I think, well find this… this creature a safe lodging in the palace dungeons until Gahbros gets back."

At an unusually loud burst of noise from above, Pehtros turned to one of his Freefighters. "Sergeant, go back out to the street and get a squad, then roust those scoundrels up there out. Use whatever force you feel you need. Crack heads or spill guts, I don't care, but get them out!"

"Now jest a dang minit," Froh recovered from his intimidation at the thought of possibly lost profits. "You ain't got chew no right to put my guests out inna street Thjs here's my house and them mens has paid for—"

"Shut your mouth!" snarled Pehtros. Turning to the other Freefighter, he said, "Go stand by Master Froh, corporal. If he opens his damned mouth without my leave once more, put your fist in ill" The big armored man grinned, nodded and for Froh's benefit, loudly cracked a big fist into the palm of the other hand. Froh appeared suitably impressed by the demonstration.

When he had heard Neeka out, the komees turned to Koominon. "How much of this infamy did you see or hear?"

Refusing to meet either his questioner's eyes or Neeka's, the "chef replied, "Why… why none of it, my lord. I was unaware aught had transpired until… until Neeka came knocking on my door.**

The fat bastard is lying!" Neeka mindspoke to Pehtros. "Why, I don't know. But he was there, standing in my doorway with a lamp, during that last part at least."

The komees pointedly turned his back on Koominon. To the Freefighter, he said, "Take that piece of dung down to his bedchamber and see that he clothes himself. Well be taking him back with us. He's under arrest."

"No!" whined Froh. "No, it won' thet way atall. She come an' got me, brung me in here, she did. Then… then, when I wouldn' pay her all what she ast fer, she hurt me, she hurt me bad. You cain' put me in jail on jest the word of a dang ole whore. An' everbody in this whole dang town knows my crazy ole uncle got her outen a friggin' whorehouse. An'—"