Tombor motioned to Fowler, who dropped his ylang blossoms beside the cleric's and followed him into the little room. Ruha put her own sacks on the floor and tried not to yawn as Silavia glared at her.

Tou a friend of Tombor or Tuskface?" the cook asked.

"I am closer to Fowler. I do not know Tombor very well

Is he an important person in Elversult?"

"You could say that," Silavia replied proudly. Tombor's the one who saved Vaerana when the assassins first got after her. He's done the same twice since-at the risk of his own life, I might add."

The witch smiled, anticipating the apology she would be due when she exposed Tombor's heroism as a cull ploy

"I had not realized he is so well thought of."

Fowler emerged from the storage pantry, carrying a small oil press in his arms. The device was a mere frac- tion the size of the screw press in the spicehouse at the

Ginger Palace, being small enough so that a single cook could move it without help. Tombor followed a moment later, holding a small, empty cask beneath one arm. The two men set their burdens on a vacant table, then the cleric motioned Silavia to his side.

"How do I work this thing?"

Silavia fetched a large bowl from a shelf, then set it

beneath the drainage spout. "It's simple enough. First you put the raw goods in here."

She pulled the handle, raising the platen and display- ing a small wooden box. The bed had a grid of channels cut into the bottom, and it was tilted so that the oil would run into a collection trough at one end.

"Then you lower the top plate, and it squeezes the oil out." Silavia demonstrated, then stepped aside. "And when you're done, you clean up after yourself."

Tombor cast a wary eye at the eight bags of ylang blos- soms, then looked to Ruha. "How much oil do we need?"

"Enough to cover Yanseldara from head to foot," she replied. "I suggest you press all of the blossoms."

Silavia smiled at the cleric. "It looks like you're going to be here a while. Maybe I can find some honeycakes for

you."

Tombor's eyes lit up. "That would make our task more

enjoyable."

"If I may be excused, I shall leave it to you to press the oil." Ruha did not bother to stifle the yawn that came over her. "I am very tired. Perhaps Captain Fowler can show me to Pearl Tower."

Silavia raised her brow. "Pearl Tower? I think not.

Jarvis isn't likely to let a pair of strangers in there."

"No, but you can take her, Silavia." Tombor tried to remove a gold ring from his chubby finger, but had to moisten the knuckle with saliva before he could tug it off.

"Show this to Jarvis, and hell know you speak for me."

Scowling at the imposition, Silavia accepted the ring and threw a cloak over her shoulders. Ruha retrieved the small satchel she had taken from her horse, then waved at Fowler to come along and followed her guide into the gloomy courtyard. They passed several dark sheds simi- lar to the kitchen before turning onto a serpentine path of white crushed rock.

The witch paused there and allowed Silavia to march a dozen paces ahead, then whispered to Fowler, "You must return to the kitchens and help Tombor with the blossoms."

The half-ore frowned. "You couldn't tell me that before we left?"

"I could not. Tombor is a cult spy."

"What?"

"I lack the time to explain, but I am certain. He and

Wei Dao were working together." Ruha pushed the half- ore back toward the kitchen. "Now, return to the kitchen.

When he opens the last sack of blossoms, come get me."

Fowler did not move. "Why?"

"So we can follow him to Yanseldara's staff, of course."

Ruha whispered. "Go!"

"We?" he grumbled, starting back toward the kitchen.

"Collecting the gold you owe me's getting to be as much work as stealing Storm Sprite in the first place."

"You stole your ship?" Ruha gasped.

Fowler frowned. "Aye-you don't think I could've bought a ship like her, do you?"

"Truthfully, I had not given the matter much thought."

Ruha turned to find Silavia waiting fifteen paces up the path, hands on hips.

"Are you coming or not? I thought you were tired."

"I am tired-extremely tired." Ruha scurried to catch up. "That must be why it did not occur to me to leave

Captain Fowler with Tombor. I'm sure his work will go faster with an assistant."

"Not much," snorted the cook. "You can squeeze oil only so fast."

Ruha followed Silavia down the path, past several intersections to a slender tower faced with gleaming abalone shell. To reach the building's entrance, they had to climb a detached stairway to the second story, then cross a small drawbridge to an open portcullis. A pair of

Maces stood beside the entrance, fully armored in scale- mail and equipped with more weapons than they could have used with six hands. As the witch and her guide approached, the guards continued to stare straight ahead.

The largest, a swarthy giant of a man with brown eyes

and dark straight hair, spoke in an officious voice. "By the order ofVaerana Hawklyn, household staff is no longer permitted in Pearl Tower."

The two guards crossed their lances before the door- way; then the speaker scowled at the cook.

"You know that, Silavia-and especially at this time of

night."

"Don't get haughty with me, Jarvis!" The cook pro- duced Tombor's ring and shoved it under Jarvis's nose.

"Take a look at that and do as I say."

Jarvis pulled back so he could inspect the ring, then snapped his lance back to his side and returned to atten- tion. The smaller man followed suit.

"You have a command from the Jolly One?" asked

Jarvis.

Silavia smiled as though she were thinking of telling the huge guard to jump off the drawbridge, but she only stepped back and waved a hand at Ruha. "Tombor wants this woman shown to-" Silavia stopped in midsentence and scowled at the witch. "Not to his chamber?"

Ruha shook her head quickly. "No, and it was Vaerana who asked Tombor to see that I was lodged here."

If Jarvis was impressed, he did not show it. He simply waved Ruha into the tower, then picked up a candle and lit it from one burning in a wall sconce. Shielding the flame with his free hand, he led the witch up a spiraling staircase. The passage was so narrow that his mail-clad shoulders rasped against both walls at once.