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scornfully, “—And Multi-Galactic thinks I’ve lost my serendipity!” She gave her head an impatient shake that sent her braids flying. “If I’d lost my serendipity, I’d never have been rescued by the only other Siveyn on Sheveschke!”
    “I can’t speak to other circumstances, but I’m not Siveyn.”
    “Oh?” Alfvaen paused at the threshold to face Tocohl; she blinked her pale eyes in an effort to clear them and frowned slightly. “Oh!” she said, after a moment, “You’re Hellspark, then.”
    “Yes. Susumo Tocohl, and pleased to meet you, Tinling Alfvaen.”
    Alfvaen released her arm and made the Siveyn formal greeting. “That’s the same thing,” she said warmly.
    (She didn’t recognize my name.)
    (You didn’t recognize hers, at first,) said Maggy reasonably.
    Alfvaen wobbled and Tocohl caught her again. (She’s getting drunker the longer she stands here,)
    said Tocohl.
    (That might explain her lack of recognition.)
    Tinling Alfvaen raised a hand level with her throat, palm out, fingers splayed. It was one of the few gestures that GalLing’, the universal pidgin, recognized as necessary.
    “No,” said Tocohl, “you haven’t caused offense. Do you have medication with you?”
    The Siveyn looked startled. “Yes-s,” she said and began to pat the pockets of her kilt, her hands clumsy with haste.
    She drew out a small box and gouged at it with her nail—then, exasperation in her sharp features, she handed it to Tocohl. “Would you please…?”
    Tocohl opened the box, and Alfvaen took a pill and gulped it. “I’ll be fine in a minute,” she said.
    “How did you know?”
    “Your earpip,” said Tocohl. “Which direction are you headed?”
    Alfvaen inhaled deeply. “I was on my way to Veschke Plaza, to meet Judge Darragh at the main festival fire.”
    Tocohl smiled wryly. “That’s where I’m going. I’ll accompany you, if I may.”
    “Certainly!—Are you a judge, too?”
    The Siveyn’s innocence was mystifying. “No,” Tocohl said, “a high percentage of the byworld judges may be Hellspark, but a high percentage of Hellsparks are not judges.”
    Alfvaen frowned and, for a moment, Tocoh thought that the Siveyn had at last recognized the name.
    But when she said nothing about it, Tocoh concluded that she had only been reacting to the Hellspark tradition of alternating the pronunciation of their world’s name: first Hell’s-park
    , then
    Hell-spark
    .
    Page 16

    Like most, Alfvaen came to the conclusion she had misheard and let the matter pass, saying instead, “I s-see. Most of the judges I’ve met have been Hellspark; I guess I do expect the reverse to be true as well.—You’re a trader, then, or is that also a s-stereotype?”
    Tocohl tucked a thumb beneath the black and gold leather of her captain’s baldric and drew it slightly forward. “I’m a trader, here for the festival. My ship was blessed this morning. And you?”
    “I came on an errand for a friend.” Tinling Alfvaen seemed steadier, stood straighter now. She took several more deep breaths, and gestured a readiness to be on her way. As she followed Tocohl through the alley to the square, she added, “And if it hadn’t been for you and Judge Darragh, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”
    That only added to Tocohl’s mystification. She stopped to pick up her cloak in passing. From the scent of it, she knew it had been trampled. Bruised, it was always aromatic but this time it was pungent.
    Probably by the guard with the demonstrably heavy feet, she thought, snorting with disgust that owed more to the guard than the condition of the cloak.
    Alfvaen said, “Your cloak was damaged? Perhaps you’d allow me to replace it.”
    “You couldn’t. There’s only one like this on Sheveschke; customs insists. Don’t worry, it’ll grow back.” With a critical eye, Tocohl spread it in the torchlight. “In fact, it’s due for a trimming.”
    “Grow back? Trimming?”
    “It’s a moss cloak. Not moss, to tell