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That was not entirely a question, but Pirvan decided to take it as such. If he appeared to know too much, Haimya (who seemed to have wits as keen as her sword’s edge) might wonder how he came by it. Grimsoar One-Eye and the servant girl were entirely innocent parties; Pirvan would leave no trail leading to them.

“The rumors and certain events were enough to bring me to my decision, to undo that dishonor by further night work. But I much doubt that the rumors told everything.”

“They could not have, for there is much we do not wish known.”

“Altogether wise and proper. But I insist on learning one thing. Are the jewels safe?”

Haimya appeared to hesitate. Pirvan could have even sworn that she looked at the lamps, as if their flickering yellow glow might tell her yea or nay. If she sought an answer there, she did not find one.

At last she nodded.

“I am delighted. I am also free of any further obligation to House Encuintras, am I not? Your hospitality has upheld its reputation-”

“It should have. This is no discipline cell, but my exercise room.”

“Ah. I thought the robes and sticks had some such purpose.”

“Indeed. A warrior must have a private space, for practice.”

Pirvan was of the same mind, but he could not help smiling. Into his mind strayed, not quite unbidden (those legs were still in plain view), the image of Haimya at weapons practice, in garb that would indeed require privacy.

“Such is my custom, too.”

“When there is great sickness in the house, I practice elsewhere, if I have time to do so at all. This is the sick chamber, for those too ill to tend for themselves or too likely to spread their sickness to others.”

The Encuintras pesthouse, to be rude about it, mused Pirvan.

Pirvan’s stomach twisted. A vigorous effort kept his face from doing the same. His horror of disease went far back, to his earliest memories of his mother lying dead and covered with boils, on a pallet far dirtier than this one. But there was no need to let Haimya know how effective her threat to keep him here had been.

If it was a threat. Again Pirvan wondered what construction he should put on the curious conduct of House Encuintras.

“Well, I should not care to cause trouble for either you in health or anyone else in sickness. I should think that after the return of the jewels we have no more business, one with the other.”

“That is not quite so.”

“Oh. Then perhaps you should indeed explain the circumstances of your house. The rumors certainly said nothing about my having given you any further insult beyond the theft of the jewels.”

To Haimya’s credit, she explained quickly. The story was much as Pirvan had heard it, with certain additions that no one not of House Encuintras could have made. Pirvan also heard a certain note in Haimya’s voice that made him wonder what she truly thought of her betrothed.

Oh, the words came out as propriety demanded. But behind the words Pirvan did not so much hear yearning for a beloved partner as outrage at the pirates’ insult in taking him away. For the sake of Gerik Ginfrayson (and, indeed, for the sake of Haimya, on whom he did not wish unhappiness in love), Pirvan hoped he was misjudging the lady.

At last Haimya finished the narrative and looked around for something to drink. Pirvan lifted the jug; it had not been refilled this time.

“I will not dry your throat much more,” he said. “You have told me all I wished to know, except one thing. That is what further service is required of me.” He was able to get that far without his voice betraying him, as far as he could judge from her face.

“Oh, it is simple enough. You will sail with us to the Crater Gulf, when we ransom Gerik Ginfrayson.”

When the gods wish a rare jest, they will answer a man’s questions. If that was not an old saying, it ought to be.

Pirvan decided that he had nothing to lose by firmness. “That may be difficult. Or will you strike further at the thieves with your tame mage if I do not obey?”

Haimya’s face said nothing one way or the other. Pirvan decided to leave her no illusions. “I cannot be the judge of honor for all the brothers and sisters of the night work. Not even my own honor. If I were to cast it away by doing as you ask, I would not be safe in Istar. And if I were not released, your house would be in peril.”

“The watch-”

“The watch can be bribed by the enemies of your house, who I am sure are numerous. Also, night work can be done so subtly that only you will know the injuries you suffer.”

“What of thieves’ honor, in not striking at the innocent?” Haimya snapped.

Pirvan was briefly glad to have broken through that iron mask. “I will be an innocent victim if held here after the return of the jewels.”

“Your innocence will not keep you safe if you remain forever defiant.”

“I will not have to remain defiant forever. I will be out of here, preferably alive but perhaps dead, before Branchala is half gone.”

“Nonsense.”

“If you wish to wager that it is nonsense, wager what you can afford to lose.”

Haimya glared at him. One could not justly say that anger made her beautiful, but her features were certainly so arranged that anger did not mar them. Pirvan looked for his sticks, discovered that they were within easy reach (in fact, unmoved), and decided that Haimya was not planning to have at him with naked steel.

That left only three or four hundred other courses of action that she might be contemplating. Pirvan took a deep breath and lay back on the pallet, his hands in sight.

“Haimya,” he said. “I do not doubt that Lady Eskaia trusts you in all things. But what you have said is so improbable that I must hear it from her. If Lady Eskaia says there is need for me to go to the Crater Gulf, I will listen. I do not promise to go, but I promise to give her the same hearing I would a blood brother or a father.”

He thought he saw Haimya bite her lip, but the sound of the door opening drew his attention. The moment it had opened wide enough, a dark-haired young woman in a simple robe with wine-hued trim at throat and wrists slipped into the room.

“Pirvan, I believe you asked for me? I am Lady Eskaia of House Encuintras.”

* * * * *

It was going to blow up a storm before nightfall. Gerik Ginfrayson knew this, though he had no inborn weather sense, and his reason for being in the healer’s huts had given him none. A fall into a stream while chasing a fleeing captive had twisted a leg, and swallowing the scummy water had given him both a flux and a fever. Nothing to kill a man, only to make him (for a day or two at least) wish he could die.

But he had taken oath to Synsaga a year ago, and in that much time on the Crater Gulf only a fool failed to learn storm signs. The sticky stillness in the air, the thick but high clouds, and the odd note in the birdsong all said the same thing.

It would be a storm from the west, as the mountains tore at the winds. On shore there would be no more than rain, but a few hour’s rowing out to sea it would be a different and more deadly matter. Not as deadly as an easterly or northerly gale, however-there would be plenty of sea room for any ship able to run with the storm.

Gerik knew the perils of a lee shore as well as any seafarer now, though it would be years if ever before he was trusted with keeping a ship off one.

The one-armed sailor who acted as servant to the patients in the healers’ huts appeared in the doorway and coughed.

“Yers, sorr?”

Whatever had taken his arm had also taken most of his wits or speech or perhaps both. There was little magical healing of such wounds here, and Gerik had heard of men so hurt that they took their own lives or begged a mercy stroke from comrades. This man had not wished to die, however, and since he had taken his wounds in avenging the death of Synsaga’s sister Margiela, the pirate chief would have given him a golden throne had it been in his power.