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were staying, but said little, only a veiled warning. Don’t get her mad at you. You won’t like what happens. No, that’s all. Do us a favor, forget we said anything.
    Chulji found work outside town in the ring farms, transferring from one to another, dealing with plant disease and other problems; he didn’t earn much, but got most of his meals from the farms, easing the drain on the common purse.
    Skeen took some of the coin and went prowling the taverns, listening to talk, answering questions when she was recognized as a Pass-Through, trading yarns, her own told with a purpose, an indirect way of digging out possible involuntary contributors who’d fund her return to the Stranger’s Gate. The larger streets were safe enough even in the gray hours before dawn, but alleys and indoors were something else; she stumbled into a few troubles, but fought her way clear with feet, hands and boot knife, paying for her inattention and less than alertness (all that ale that she told herself she was swallowing to oil the give and take that gave her the names she needed) with bruises, cuts, a three-day limp and an almost concussion that kept her ears ringing for another three days. But she was slowly, safely building up a list of the affluent but truly despised, intending here as in Oruda to pick a victim so wormish that he (or she, of course) was unlikely to spur fervent pursuit, a victim whose plight was more apt to evoke belly laughs and appreciative chuckles and a tendency to wish the thief well as long as it didn’t involve any danger or discomfort to the wisher.

JUST ABOUT EVERYONE WHO TALKS TO ASPIRING WRITERS SAYS SHOW, DON’T TELL; GOOD ENOUGH ADVICE, BUT YOU DON’T WANT TO LOOK ON IT AS HOLY WRIT. AS SKEEN MIGHT SAY, HAVING A RULE IS SUFFICIENT EXCUSE FOR BREAKING IT. NOW AND THEN THOUGH, THERE’S A LOVELY, COMFORTABLE DELIGHT IN CONFORMING TO TRITE OLD RULES; YOU CAN FEEL VIRTUOUS AND ENJOY THE HELL OUT OF YOURSELF AT THE SAME TIME.
    or
    HERE’S ONE OF SKEEN’S STORIES, THE ONE THAT GOT HER THE NAME SHE WANTED.
    Skeen says: Now I do not guarantee the truth of this tale. The man who told it to me was not one to confine himself to thus and so; he’d got a skinful, too, and oiled his throat so the words came sliding out like silky ribbons. Oh, it was glorious to hear and I am far from his equal, but I’ll give it to you nonetheless.
    Vitrivin the Slave Maker and the Corbi of Tinkle’s Thwart
    Vitrivin was a snatch artist, so they say, the slickest fox who ever slid a chick away under a guard’s long nose. Some slavers went roaring in, scooped up everything lively enough to walk about and went roaring out again, waiting until they were clear of chasers before they sorted out their catch. That wasn’t Vitrivin’s way. He was a cautious man. He was a careful man. He spied and spied before he went in; he would know the tongue and how folk greeted each other, he would know the proper clothes and the way to wear them. He would know where he could hide and when it was safe to come out. And when it was safe to come out, he would go into a place as a trading man and the things he would sell were tiny sweet machines that could do wonders without half trying and what he would buy was whatever things took his fancy; he bought them mostly because folk would wonder about him if he did not. The treasures he sought were not such trifles, but the folk that swirled about him, laughing and loving, buying and selling, the living treasures. From these, he made his choices and marked his choices with metal burrs smaller than a dinka seed, metal burrs with silent voices that would cry out to the meatmen who followed him and swept the marked ones in the terrible black maw of the meatwagon. He chose the most charming of young children, though not too many of these (children clogged the auction halls). He chose singers, musicians, sculptors, swordsmiths and any other artisans with