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Montrose’s way, his Serapisti chimes tinkling in
his long braids. Already the journey was going to be full, what with Ivard’s
medical condition, and canid biology to learn to deal with the wounded Arkad
dog from the Mandala. I wonder how similar they are to felines? And Lokri
was sure to make things interesting.
    As always, Montrose kept this observation to himself. He’d
lost the habit of sharing his thoughts when his wife died, back on Timberwell.
He often wondered if his habitual isolation was in part due to that, and in
part due to his age, a full generation older than most of the Dis company. Two generations ahead of young Ivard.
    I can’t be that old , he mourned as he led the way
back to the dispensary, followed by the silent engineer.
    As soon as they got inside the dispensary, “Montrose? Jaim!”
Ivard’s voice held a wheezy, hectic note that Montrose did not like. “Jaim?”
    Montrose gestured toward the door to Ivard’s berth, which
the boy had opened. The low-gee warning cycled above it. Ivard sat up on the
bed, clutching his bandage to him and shivering, his pale skin mottled with
bruises and feverish color, except for the dark green band around one wrist, so
integrated it may as well have been body art.
    Ivard’s console was mostly green or yellow lights. In the
next berth the wounded dog now stirred on the floor as it recovered from the
drug Brandon had administered in the palace, whining faintly, almost an
ululation. The sound worried Montrose. The other dog sat next to the next of
blankets cushioning the wounded animal, brown eyes steady, one ear cocked
towards its companion, the other towards Montrose.
    “Calm Ivard, would you?” Montrose murmured to Jaim as he
punched up information on canine medicine.
    “Jaim!” Ivard’s voice cracked.
    “Ivard. I’m sorry about your sister.”
    Ivard’s voice dropped. “She died quick.” He licked his lips.
“Vi’ya said she waits in the Hall of Ancestors. What does she mean?”
    Jaim raised a hand and sketched one of those stylized
Serapisti gestures, the chimes in his braids tinkling sweetly. “We’ve talked
about the Flame. I think she means the same thing.”
    Ivard stirred restlessly. “That’s no answer. Nobody gives me
a good answer, and I can’t find her Greywing coin, that she picked for herself.
She told me she’d never sell it, that it was special. I get to keep it, don’t
I? Even if she’s dead?”
    Jaim touched his forehead, a curiously gentle gesture,
though his long hands were callused, and criss-crossed with fine scars from his
childhood on Rifthaven. “Be easy,” he said soothingly. “You know the rules. Now
that you’re full crew, you keep one item out of your loot, and the rest goes to
the pot, to be divided according to our articles. This goes for Greywing, too.
She died in an action, so the thing she would have kept comes to you. Pick
anything of hers you want.”
    “I want the coin, but it’s gone. I had it in my hand all the
way back, I know I did. But it’s gone, and so is my flight medal that Markham
gave me.” Ivard’s voice rose. “And my arm hurts!”
    “Probably fell on the way up the ramp. We’ll find it,” Jaim
said. “You’ve got to rest first. That’s orders.”
    Ivard lay back down, muttering protests. “It’s hot in here.
My arm itches...”
    Montrose half-listened as the engineer’s deep voice soothed
Ivard’s fever-driven complaining, most of which settled around the loot.
Montrose was not surprised to learn that Lokri had apparently pushed the boy
into loading extra artifacts into his clothes for Marim, being too selfish to
carry them himself. Typical for them both.
    The soft ululation from the wounded dog, which was getting
louder, was apparently typical behavior when recovering from anesthesia. The
animal’s vital signs seemed within the ranges stated. Montrose had already
taken blood, and hunted up the protocols for further analysis. He made notes on
what he should be feeding the