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until she heard the tone Chalcus used this time—Merota said, "Yes, Chalcus."
    She turned and curtseyed to Ilna. "Mistress Ilna," she said, then reentered the bungalow at a swift but ladylike pace.
    Chalcus bent away from Ilna as though to smell the purple-tendrilled mint along the east wall. "I've been thinking over where I might go next, mistress," he said. "There's little use for my sort in a place like Valles, you know."
    He turned and smiled at her. "You've a fine crop of herbs growing here," he added in the same negligent tone. "Those who you cook for are lucky folk indeed."
    Ilna allowed no servants in the bungalow, though with the child's tutors traipsing in and out there was work enough to keep the place in proper order. Ilna hadn't met the cook or maid yet who performed to her standards; and in truth, even if such a paragon appeared, Ilna wouldn't want to share her dwelling with a servant.
    "The garden's well enough," Ilna said. "If I were to stay here, I'd want a dovecote, though. I've never liked chickens running around my ankles."
    What did Chalcus expect her to say? Her! Did he think Ilna os-Kenset would beg?
    Instead of speaking, Chalcus took out his dagger and spun it from hand to hand. He caught it each time by the point, then spun it back.
    "I wonder, mistress...," he said as though to the shimmering steel. The blade was slightly curved and sharp for a finger's length along the reverse edge. "If you were on a ship about to sink, would you save the tall man... or the short man...."
    There was a rhythm to the blade, as crisp and regular as the dance of Ilna's shuttle across her loom. She found she was holding her breath; she grimaced angrily.
    "... perhaps a middle-sized man like myself?"
    The dagger slipped back into its scabbard as surely as water finds the drain hole. Chalcus met her gaze. His lips smiled, but his eyes did not.
    "I don't like ships, Master Chalcus," she said, chipping her words out like hatchetstrokes. "The last time I was aboard one, there was a crew of a hundred but only one man: you yourself, as you well know."
    Ilna turned away, wishing she believed enough in the Gods that she could curse and not feel she was being a hypocrite. "Master Chalcus," she said to the man behind her, "I regret to say that I don't know my own mind. Or perhaps I do, and I don't have the courage to act on it."
    "Ah," said Chalcus, an acknowledgment in a tone stripped of all implication. "Well, mistress, I haven't met the person whose courage I'd trust further than I would your own. We'll talk again before we act, either of us."
    Ilna spun to face him. "Chalcus," she said, "there are things I've done—"
    "Aye!" he said, the barked syllable breaking off her confession. "And I have done things as well, mistress. But we won't have that conversation ever, you and I, for we each already know the truth the other knows. Now, go to your loom and settle your mind—"
    He did know her; not that Ilna had doubted that before.
    "—while I chat with your guards and perhaps open a jar of wine. In a while we'll talk about what we will do, leaving the past to take care of itself. Eh?"
    Chalcus smiled; and he kissed her, which no one before in this life had done, and he swaggered back into the house calling to the pair of Blood Eagles at the entrance. Chalcus the sailor; Chalcus the pirate and bloody-handed killer.
    Ilna swept the cover from her loom and resumed her work, pouring her soul into the pattern her fingers wove.
    Chalcus the man.
    Ilna's fingers played the threads without her conscious consideration while her mind grappled with questions that were beyond any human's certain grasp. A spindle of rich brown yarn was nearly empty. She replaced it with a full spindle, and as she did her eyes glanced over the fabric she'd woven.
    To another it was merely a pattern of subtle hues and textures, an image that made the person who viewed it a little calmer, a little more happy. What Ilna saw in the muted shades....
    She slid from