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moon was rising, a part-eaten round of mold-threaded cheese. Last night it’d been close to midnight before the moon appeared. Looked like they’d been traveling for hours. Djabo’s horny toes, all that damn, walking wasted.
    â€œI couldn’t leave you with the Pallah Chalapeer,” the woman said. “They’d have put trackers on you, got you no matter where you went.”
    Skeen stepped away from the horse, stood rubbing at her wrists, angry and wary. “Chalapeer?”
    â€œThe boys. More importantly, their fathers.”
    â€œI take it I wouldn’t like what happened when they caught me.” She kept her voice cool and flat.
    â€œPallah aren’t kind to strangers. Especially strangers who interfere with the pleasures of the highborn. Why did you?”
    Skeen shrugged. “Enjoying themselves too much, creepy little gits. What now?”
    The woman’s face was unreadable. “Nothing. Go where you want. If you’ll take a bit of advice, stay clear of Dum Besar. The city.”
    Silence. The woman didn’t move. Skeen clasped her hands behind her back and watched the moon float up. She wants something from me. Good. Where there’s a want, there’s a price. I didn’t get into this for the love of running.
    The woman surrendered and broke the silence. “You can come with me if you want.”
    Skeen said nothing. She watched the moon.
    â€œThere’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
    Skeen smiled. “I’ve got no pressing engagements elsewhere.” She thought a moment, decided she’d better make something clear. “And I’m open for hire.” She swung into the saddle, looked over her shoulder. “My name is Skeen. Let’s go.”
    â€œI am called Telka.” The woman moved past Skeen and mounted the other horse, managing the long full skirt with an ease Skeen found impressive; she made a note to be wary round this one, her small size and delicacy was a snare and a delusion. Telka started out of the hollow after calling Skeen up beside her. “I am Min,” she said. She spoke with a careful colorless precision, as if she were reading the words from a paper in front of her, as if she were afraid something about her would leak out with these words. “Those in Dum Besar are Nemin. Not Min. I think you are a Pass-Through. Most everyone speaks Trade-Min no matter what Wave he belongs to.” She glanced at Skeen but when she got no response, went on talking in that neutral voice. “The first Nemin to Mistommerk were the Ykx; they made the Gate and brought the Ever-Hunger. They came in streams and clots and spread over the world; the Min were not alarmed because they took land no one wanted and kept to themselves.” She sighed; “But every hemicycle after that another Wave came through the Gate, pushing Min off their own land, pushing and pushing.” Feeling crept into her voice then despite her efforts to suppress it. “Chalarosh. Balayar. Funor Ashon. Nagamar. Aggitj. Skirrik. And the Pallah who were the last wave, twenty hemicycles ago.” She cleared her throat. “Since then only singlings have come through. Like you. No telling when the next one.”
    Hemicycle? Skeen thought. Mmm. Ah. Half a century. Telka went on talking in that soft expressionless voice, but Skeen stopped listening. She’d heard this tale a hundred times before, more than that, heard it in beery mutters or drugged mumbles, heard it from thieves and murderers and slummers out on a tear, boasting the heritage that seemed their only claim to self-respect. Ancient resentments cherished like only children. She was bored with it the first time, she was bored with it now. Folk who nursed ancient grudges and didn’t get on with living sounded like clones of each other no matter how different the details of their stories or the shape of their bodies. Mmm. Eight waves through the Gate,