Perkar saw the man decide; it was a hardening of the eyes, a tightening of the gut, and then, as if by some signal, the two strangers leapt into his boat, swords drawn and already swinging.

Sudden, dark joy stabbed through Perkar as he shifted his weight to account for the sudden motion of the boat, crouching as he did so. At last, someone to strike, someone to kill who deserved it. He brought Harka up to parry, slid the godsword on over his head to catch the strike of the second man. The first sword rang and slid away, but the younger man's weapon made a very peculiar sound as Harka cut straight through it. His eyes seeking danger, Perkar turned quickly enough to catch the first attacker's return stroke. The enemy sword shuddered and nicked deeply. Reversing again, he sliced back at the other pirate, who had not quite come to terms with his ruined sword and was swinging it anyway. Ignoring the wild attack, he cut into the man's exposed ribs just below the armpit. He sliced cleanly through, felt a slight jolt as the spine clove in two. Harka disengaged easily, caught a third attack by the first man—on whose face a sudden comprehension was just dawning. The parried sword slid into the side of the boat, thunked into the wood as Harka glittered through the sunshine, flinging droplets of blood behind, and opened the man's belly. Entrails spilled out like eels from a split sack, and the man stared at Perkar, wide-eyed. Perkar was turning yet again at Harka's insistence, but the weight of the younger man fell heavily against him, hands clawing at his head. Perkar brought his elbow in frantically—the fellow was too close for sword work—but it was more of a stumble than an attack; the young man slid against him, slicking him with blood. For the second time in his life, he was drenched in the stinking red fluid of another person's body.

He snarled and turned toward the boat, though Harka did not beckon him to. The third man was rowing desperately away, eyes wide with terror. Perkar shouted incoherently after him.

The older man was still alive. He lay in the bottom of the boat, trying to hold in his intestines. Perkar shuddered, ran his finger down the river of blood on his body. "This was your fault," he spat furiously. "You made me do this!"

The man just blinked at him.

Blood, Perkar suddenly thought. The Changeling knew me because he tasted my blood.

He tried not to let the thought form fully, tried not to puzzle it out. It was more instinct than anything else that drove him to grab his pack, sheath bloody Harka, and dive into the River. The bank was close, as close as it had been in a long time.

The River let him go at first, but it had done that before. It wasn't until he actually felt sand beneath his feet that he shrieked in jubilation. It had worked! The Changeling had mistaken him, cloaked in another's blood!

Two steps he took through the shallows, and the River took hold of him.

"No!" he hissed through his teeth. He kicked, strained with everything he had. Current clenched him, hauling him back out. In desperation he dove, clawed with his hands at the shallow bottom, and miraculously, his fingers brushed something hard. He tore at it, got a hold, pulled.

Unfortunately he could not hold onto the thing—it seemed to be a root—and raise his head above water, too. He knotted all his determination together, tied it about the root, and heaved, even as his lungs began to remind him frantically that breathing was a necessity. He pulled until his shoulder ached as if stung by ants, but finally he managed to drag himself far enough inland to get just his nose up, to sip a tiny amount of air. His arms were trembling now, but he was so close.

When he got his whole head above water, he knew he would succeed. It took a long time, until his body was weak and his mind reduced to a single thought—pull!—but at last he lay on the sand, the warm, dry sand. With the paltry energy left him, Perkar stumbled as far from the water as he could get, crashing into trees, torn by briars. When he finally stopped, it was because he could go no farther.

He could no longer see the River, but with the last of his strength he faced it. "You let the bit slip," he gasped. "I warned you." Then he sank down, resting against a tree trunk, trembling from exertion. Free.

VI

A Visitor

"Well," Ghan asked, studying her face closely. "To what do we owe this renewed interest in matters intellectual?" His pen remained poised to continue its scratching upon the sheaf of paper open before him.

"I need to see those books, Ghan. Please."

"A little argument with your paramour, perhaps? A disagreement over 'lacies'?"

Hezhi suppressed a snarl. "Ghan," she snapped instead. "I don't have time to argue with you, do you understand? I know I upset you. I know you think I have better things to do than to play the court games. Don't you think I know that? But if you ever thought the least bit of me, if you ever cared about me at all, you have to help me. I have no time!"

Ghan's face changed oddly as she said this. She wasn't sure what emotions he displayed, so quickly did he master them— dismay? fear?

He regarded her for another moment, his face now carefully blanked, and then tersely commanded, "Come." Grasping her hand—her hand—he practically dragged her off to the back room, where the index and valuable documents were kept. Shutting the door, he bolted it from the inside.

"You little fool," he hissed. "Don't you know better than to go shouting about like that? Who knows who might hear you?"

"What do you mean? What did I say?"

Ghan stepped back, his eyes dark with challenge. "Tell me," he said, his voice harsh. "Tell me why you have 'no time.' "

"I cannot," she breathed. Ghan knew? "I cannot. I know you have been Forbidden."

"Forbidding stops me from speaking, not from hearing. Tell me."

She studied her teacher, her heart sinking. Tears poised behind her eyes, cataracts waiting to fall. "I can't trust you," she sobbed suddenly. "I can't trust anyone. Not now."

"Hezhi," Ghan said more gently. "Hezhi, listen to me." He took her chin between thumb and forefinger and tugged it gently up. "I notice things, you know," he said at last. "I heard the talk about the ghost in the Hall of Moments. There are those who think it was after you. I saw, that time when you ordered that boy away from you, and he went, as if you had slapped him. You read books, many books, and all about the Royal Blood, about the old city. Can't you see I've been helping you all along? Child, you must trust me. I'm all that you have."

She stared at him, blinking away tears. It was true, of course, she knew that. Sometimes his help had been blatant, usually not. She had to trust him because he already knew—because she had to trust someone.

"We cannot get the books you want," Ghan went on. "The priesthood will not release them to me, and even if they were so inclined, they would certainly want to know who was reading them, and why. They would find you out, you see?"

"They will find me out anyway," Hezhi all but shrieked. "The next time they test me. The next time…"

"Is it that bad?" Ghan whispered almost wonderingly.

Lips pressed together defiantly, she pulled up her long sleeve, and there it was, blue and green in the pale illumination streaming weakly through the translucent skylight.

"By the River," Ghan breathed. Hand to his forehead, he sat back heavily onto a small stool, massaging his brow.

"What am I to do with you?" he muttered.

"You can't do anything," she rejoined, trying to seem brave. Despite her intentions, her voice sounded like a pathetic moan, even to her own ears.

"Why did you want the priest books? What did you think of?"