"I like this," Hezhi said. "I like the story, too. Thank you for both of them."

He grinned happily, bowed. "My lady," he said, and then backed away toward his books.

Hezhi examined the figurine again. When she looked back up, she caught Ghan staring at her, a look of pure disgust on his face. She purpled, knowing what he was thinking. He would believe that his prediction was coming true, that all of his time with her would be wasted when she ran off with some "young fop."

Hezhi went back to shelving, trying to look very busy. Ghan was wrong if he thought that, wrong in many ways. First of all, Yen was no "fop." He was thoughtful and intelligent, totally unlike the courtiers whom Ghan so hated. Second of all, he was not courting her and she was not interested in him. Such a thing wasn't even conceivable; she was the daughter of the Chakunge. Of course, she had never told Yen that, and very tenuous nobility sometimes married younger daughters into the merchant class…

But that was ridiculous. He was much older than she, and while political marriages could create such unions, they did not happen out of attraction. Such a good-looking young man as Yen was certainly not attracted to a twelve-year-old without visible breasts or hips. She had heard Tsem and some of the guards often enough, talking about what attracted men to women, and it didn't seem to be wit or good manners.

So Ghan was wrong, and he should know better. The more she thought about it, the more angry she got, and after Yen left, when it was nearly time to go, she marched up to his desk.

"He isn't courting me," she hissed at him.

Ghan looked up at her, his face registering puzzlement.

"What?" he asked mildly.

"I saw you look at us… at me."

The shadow of a smile fell across his lips. "I was angry because you were helping him," he said. "I have no great love for the priesthood, and they sent him here."

"Oh," she said, her voice suddenly very small.

"But now that you mention it, you do seem to watch him a lot…" Ghan observed thoughtfully.

"Well," Hezhi said, perhaps a bit defensively, "he just seems brighter than most people who come in here."

"That's true enough," Ghan remarked dryly, "though that is by no means an endorsement."

"No, I guess it isn't," she replied.

Ghan pursed his lips. "This Yen is not a bad sort, I suppose. The priesthood has always been a sore in my mouth, that's all, and anyone connected with them…"

"Like nobility?" Hezhi asked.

Ghan stopped, stared at her for an instant. "I suppose I am too obvious," he said. "One of these days I will go too far, and they will punish me."

"Ghan, I've never asked. What clan are you?"

Ghan puffed out a breath and regarded her for a long moment.

"Yehd Hekes," he said finally.

Hezhi frowned. "Yehd Hekes?"

"I don't have to repeat myself."

"I thought all of you were…"

Ghan rolled his eyes. "You know everything, don't you? Yes, they were all banished—but me. I had only to renounce my claim to nobility—in writing, in blood. So actually, I have no clan. No clan at all."

"Why? Why did you stay? As I understand it they were given estates in the south."

"Estates? Oh, yes," Ghan muttered. "A hundred leagues of cotton and not more than ten books made from it on the whole place. I couldn't leave this, girl."

"I'm sorry. Sorry I asked."

Ghan took up a blotting rag, patted at the sweat standing out on his forehead. He pursed his lips again and then shrugged, composed again. "You ask questions. That's what you do," he said. "That's not a bad thing." He leaned toward her, his voice suddenly low, conspiratorial. "Just be very careful what questions you ask of whom. Very careful, Hezhi. Royal Blood is no protection against Royal Blood." He settled back on his stool.

"Now," he said sternly, index finger extended. "I don't want to see you flirting in here again. This is a library, not a court. Now go home. I want to lock up, go to my rooms, and pour a glass of wine."

A few days later, she started bleeding again. She had cramps beforehand, and the experience was generally unpleasant, but the fever and sickness did not return. She was also depressed; Qey informed her that this was normal, but that didn't mean she had to like it. She also knew that her depression was not so simple as Qey might think. The return of her bleeding brought all of the questions she had—which now seemed so close to being answered—back to mock her, to frighten her. Her most terrible fear was that the priests would somehow know and return to examine her again. Though she still did not actually understand what they were trying to determine, a persistent logic—one that dated to D'en's disappearance—argued that she was in danger each time the priests examined her. She thought, now and then, about questioning someone who was not a servant, who might not have been Forbidden. Her sister, for instance, or her mother. Unfortunately, that seemed too dangerous, both to herself and to whomever she spoke with. Instead, she just thought a lot—and that depressed her. Once she even found herself standing on the roof of the Great Hall, contemplating the flagstones far below, as she had when she was younger. The temptation to jump was not very great, though she remembered that it once had been. It seemed like a long time since thoughts of suicide had crowded about in her head. Once they had seemed very real, insistent. But since her quest for D'en began, she rarely had time to indulge herself in such moods. For nearly three years she had devoted almost every waking moment to her inquiry, and perhaps that had saved her. It felt almost good now to stare down at the tiny people below, to think of a short, hurried flight to join them, of oblivion and peace. Nostalgic, indulgent, a waste of time, yet somehow satisfying. She did not jump, of course, and even Tsem—whom she knew was somewhere near, despite her halfhearted attempt to escape him for a moment—even Tsem did not seriously believe she would kill herself. It was just a game, a fantasy she had outgrown.

But still an option, she reminded herself. An alternative to D'en's fate, should it prove to be her own and as terrible as she imagined it. Rather fly from the roof than suffer passively whatever the priests might consign her to.

Tsem began going home a bit ahead of her, to make sure that the priests were not waiting for her again. It became their standard practice, her in the shadows of an abandoned hall, Tsem looking in and then coming back out to stretch if things inside were normal. It made her feel a bit better; at least she could decide whether she would submit to the demeaning, disgusting ritual again. She also began preparing for another trip beneath the palace. She squirreled away a bit of rope, made sure the lantern had oil in, got Tsem to find her some "suitable" clothes. Nothing he brought back satisfied until he returned with a little boy's work clothes from the docks: long pants spotted and gummed with tar and a matching shirt. They fit well enough, they were easy to move in, and they would protect her from abrasions and so forth. Nothing worn by the nobility would do that, since men and women both tended to wear skirts, kilts, or gowns. Hezhi would never have even thought of pants—very odd clothing, twin tubes made to cover the legs loosely—had it not been for Yen. Eager to know more about her gift, she had checked the index under "Mang" and found a small but fairly thorough treatise on them. They wore these "pants" because they were better suited to life in the saddle than anything that exposed the leg. Indeed, the word in Nholish for "pants" had been borrowed from Mang, she discovered.

She tried the clothes on at night, after Qey was asleep. Bad enough that she had involved Tsem in her madness, she would not have Qey know of it. They felt very odd on, snug in places clothing should not be snug. She tried to imagine herself astride a horse, the same wild expression on her face that the little horsewoman bore. She ended by giggling at herself, doffing the clothes and hiding them beneath her mattress, and going to sleep.