The old woman nodded. "That would make a good ballad," she said. "It's actually very close. Dain did show Eiter's father his scarred palm." Laera smiled-until Veseene added, "And because he had taken the blood-oath with Eiter, Dain was considered a member of the tribe and no tribe member could take the life of another, even in revenge. But there was a punishment for murder. Some merchants found Dain a tenday later, staggering south along the Cold Road. The Nar punishment for murder is exile-and disfigurement. The Nars had hacked off Dain's left hand, the hand that inflicted the wound that killed Ei-ter, and branded their sign for death on his cheek."
Laera shrank back in stunned shock, pulling away from Veseene's arms. "No! You made that up!" Veseene shrugged.
"Why would I?" She reached for Laera's hand. Suddenly her frail, trembling grip seemed cold and clawlike. Laera swallowed. Veseene shook her head. "Laera, life is no romance. Every decision you make has a consequence. If Dain and Eiter hadn't taken a blood-oath… if Dain hadn't gone north…" She patted Laera's hand. "Think carefully before you decide to leave your father's house for-"
Abruptly, there was a shout out in the street. A heartbeat later, the slam of the building's door echoed up the stairwell outside Tycho and Veseene's rooms. Laera jumped up. "Tycho?"
Heavy footfalls hit the stairs. Veseene flinched. "No," she said, "it isn't!" She pointed sharply. "Laera, hide in the back room." Laera blinked and stared. "Do it now!" Veseene snapped.
Laera turned and darted for the door to the dark second room. She caught a glimpse of Veseene grabbing the linen bag that held her special tea and stuffing it into her shirt, and then the door was closed behind her. She leaned against it.
The footfalls on the stairs were thunder. They stopped-and a splintering crash seemed to shake the entire building. Veseene shrieked, gasped, and choked, "You-!"
"Olore again, Veseene." Laera recognized that rich, warm voice. Brin! Her breath stopped. The door she leaned against wouldn't stop him-or whoever was with him. The footsteps on the stairs had been too heavy for just a halfling. She could feel a blade on her throat again. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, a hiding place.
The window. Tycho had left his rope tied to the bedpost; she had pulled it up and coiled it neatly after he and an invisible Li had climbed down. As massive footsteps moved in the outer room, she ran for it and heaved the heavy coil out. It slapped against the side of the building.
"The back room!" snapped Brin and the footsteps moved faster. Laera twisted her body over the windowsill, wrapped her hands around the rope, and let herself drop.
The rough fibers burned her palms and fingers like grabbing hold of a blazing torch. She hit the ground before she could cry out, though, and new agony flared through her right ankle. She slammed down into the melting snow and icy muck of the alley just as a door slammed open in the room above.
There were shadows. A crooked niche where this building and its neighbor came together. Ignoring the pain in her palms and ankle, Laera scrambled for the niche and jammed herself into it. She choked her whimpers into silence. Distantly, she heard footsteps and a grunt of frustration from up above. A moment later, there was a slither of rope on wood. Tycho's rope being pulled up again? Being dropped into the alley? She didn't dare to look. Above her, the footsteps moved away. Voices, too indistinct to make out-until Veseene shrieked again. And stopped.
Laera squeezed herself into a tiny, trembling knot.
Word that there were mages holed up at the Eel must have gotten around, Lander thought. Mid-afternoon and the festhall was barely half as full as usual. Just the whiff of serious magery was enough to keep most folk away and to set those who did come in on edge with suspicion. And Lander, by virtue of being the mages' keeper, had become suspect, too. Customers gave him a wide berth as he walked carefully across the floor of the Eel and back once more to the Blue Room, a foaming tankard of ale in one hand, a tiny eggcup-sized glass of strong Chessentan wine in the other.
Mosi Anu and Hanibaz Nassor didn't even look up as he nudged the door open. They had stopped looking up some time ago. Mosi was deep in reading a scroll; the tiny glass of wine his first indulgence in Brin's invitation to take advantage of the Eel's facilities. Hanibaz, on the other hand, had indulged freely. The ale Lander carried was his fourth, the skeletal remains of a whole roast chicken lay picked clean in front of him, and not so long ago Lander had been obliged to summon one of the women who worked in the festhall's pleasure rooms to administer a Mulhorandi massage to the hefty mage. Hanibaz slouched in his chair like a great rotund cat: feet propped up on a second chair, relaxed, half-asleep, and reeking of warm, exotic oils. Lander set the fresh ale beside him and the wine beside Mosi and quickly turned to go.
He wasn't quite quick enough. "When will Brin return with the Yellow Silk?" asked Mosi. He didn't look up from his scroll.
"Soon," Lander responded, adding silently, I hope!
"My patience grows thin."
"You grow thin, Mosi," said Hanibaz. The big man stirred himself and sat up. "Have something to eat. Or try a massage. Or take some ale instead of that vile wine." He groped for his tankard and raised it to his rival. "That will put hair on your chest!"
"I don't want hair on my chest, you hirsute ogre."
Lander looked from one wizard to the other and tried to back out of the room as discretely as he could. Hanibaz's eyes caught him first, however. "Friend Lander, a question for you. Is what Brin told us of the Yellow Silk of Kuang true?"
No spell that Lander could sense backed up the question or demanded a truthful answer. It was better not to try. cheating a mage, though, a Red Wizard especially. "What I know of it is," he said carefully. "Last night I saw bolts of bright light that exploded with enough heat to melt snow and set wood smoldering. I think I caught a glimpse of a man I'd swear was no mage hurling them."
"And yet Brin knows all about the Silk," murmured Hanibaz.
"Or claims to." Mosi set his scroll aside. Lander expected it to snap back into a curl, but the roll of parchment stayed open as if held by invisible hands. Mosi turned a piercing gaze on him. "How does a one-eyed hin, a former pirate, learn so much about such an exotic artifact? Brin strikes me as an unlikely student of eastern mageries."
"Especially considering," added Hanibaz thoughtfully, "that according to his own story, the Yellow Silk has been something of a well-guarded secret for centuries."
Lander swallowed. "I don't know," he answered. "I hadn't even heard him mention it until last night and I only heard its story when Brin told it to you." He took a quick step toward the door and groped behind his back for the handle. "I'll ask him for you when he returns!"
His fingers found the handle. He twisted it and ducked through the door before the wizards could ask anything else, all but slamming it behind him. Every eye in the Eel turned to stare at him. Lander glared back and gave a growl. "Mind your own lines, gutgrinders!" He stalked over to the bar and slapped his hand down. The bartender put a mug of ale in front of him quickly.