"That is reasonable," Tekura urged Hectate.

Hectate looked at Tekura and then at the expectant faces of the other Clan Kir bionoids, all known to him, all dear, yet all were strangers.

"And if I don't help?" he asked.

"You die, and every member of Clan Kir with you," K'tide said flatly.

The bionoids responded with an quick intake of breath. Tekura's eyes widened, but she did not look unduly surprised. Even if the rest of Clan Kir did not, Hectate thought sadly, Tekura knew insectares well enough to expect such treachery. She'd come to the clan as a young girl, under circumstances identical to his own.

Wynlar stepped forward. "I would like to believe that you are bluffing, K'tide, but I can't make that assumption when the safety of my clan is concerned. On what basis do you make such a threat?"

A strange gleam lit the insectare's multifaceted eyes. "When I called off the attack on the swan ship, I instructed the other members of Clan Kir to return to the scro ship. Very soon they all will be aboard the Elfsbane, under the albino paw of our good friend General Grimnosh."

"But they were to reconnoiter on Vesta!" cried Wynlar.

"I took the liberty of changing that order," K'tide said. He raised one green hand in a placating gesture. "Oh, I wouldn't be overly concerned about your clan, Captain Wynlar. At the present, they are useful to Grimnosh. I imagine, however, that their value would tarnish considerably if the scro general knew they were plotting to destroy the goblins of Armistice."

"But they are not," protested the bionoid leader. "We in this room did not learn that aspect of your plan until this very hour."

K'tide laughed, a dry, grating sound. "Do you think that will matter to Grimnosh, when his plans lie in ruins around him?"

Wynlar's face crumpled into a mask of despair. "My people are doomed."

"Not at all," K'tide said pleasantly. "If all goes well, I should be able to get a message through to the bionoids aboard the Elfsbane before we release the primary Witchlight Marauder on Armistice. They can be safely away before Grimnosh learns of his ultimate failure." The insectare's eyes fixed meaningfully on Hectate. "If all goes well," he repeated with quiet emphasis.

For a long moment, Hectate weighed his options: On one hand, the destruction of a planet of goblins and the haughty elves' high command; on the other, the lives of his adopted family and his first love.

"Hectate…" Tekura whispered, her voice a barely audible plea.

Finally he bowed his head. "It would seem that I have only one choice," he murmured.

"Splendid," the insectare said with quiet triumph. "Now, suppose we plan how we'll get you back into the good graces of Vallus Leafbower and Teldin Moore."

*****

Aboard the elven man-o-war Windwalker, a battle wizard sat in deep trance despite the eery, low-pitched hum that pulsed from the magical alarm. An ancient disk hung from the ceiling of the bridge on a thick chain, and each pulse of sound that came from it pushed the fears of the assembled crew to new heights.

The battle wizard was oblivious to the other elves in the room. Waves of golden hair fell around her, curtaining her abstracted face and the narrow hands that cupped a scrying globe. On the wall before the entranced elf was a large, mirrorlike panel, a thin, shimmering oval sliced from the heart of a giant crystal. The captain and officers of the patrol ship Windwalker stood behind the wizard, and their eyes were fixed on the crystal panel in tense anticipation.

For centuries the elven ships that patrolled Armistice had been alert for the magical alarm, but this was the first time one had ever been activated. Its ancient voice warned them that a ship had breached the Armistice net. Slowly the battle wizard's magic reached out through the scrying globe, seeking the intruder. As a picture formed in her mind, the panel before her began to glow as magical energy transferred her mental image to the ensorcelled crystal panel, so that all could see what she saw. It was an impressive feat of magic, one for which she had trained since childhood, but it was not a unique skill; every patrol ship carried at least two wizards with this ability. As the picture on the panel firmed into detail, the humming alarm faded away.

"One of ours," the elven captain marveled as he stared at the image before them. Framing the downed ship were two distant mountains, the distinctive fang-shaped peaks that marked the domain of the Rakharian goblinkin. The ship's standard plainly identified it as a vessel of the Imperial Fleet. Closer scrutiny identified it as a swan ship, though, with the swan-head tower gone and the tail section shattered, it was difficult to classify. The battered swan ship tossed in the restless seas of Armistice, obviously seaworthy. It clearly had not crashed, so it presumably had a working helm and was therefore spaceworthy as well. The only possible conclusion was that it had landed deliberately.

Rage coursed through the captain like a cold tide. What elf would land on Armistice, so close to the land of Rakhar, and risk putting a spelljamming vessel in the hands of the powerful orc tribe there? To choose this over death was more than an act of cowardice; it was an act of treason!

The captain's jaw tightened. Whomever the swan ship's captain might be, he or she would answer to the grand admiral. And he, as the Windwalker's captain, would find intense pleasure in escorting the rogue back to Lionheart in chains.

"Stay with it," he murmured to the battle wizard, speaking softly so as not to disrupt her concentration. "When you are tired, Circe will take your place, but we must keep that ship under observation. She can fly, have no doubt about that, and sooner or later she'll escape into wildspace. And whether her crew at that time be elven or orcish, we'll be there to meet it."

*****

The first night on Armistice was spectacularly beautiful. Few stars were visible through the ribbonlike wisps of clouds that whirled and spun in the strong wind, yet the night was not dark. Three huge moons lit the skies; a pale lavender moon, one a rich amber reminiscent of winter ale, and the third-the closest and largest moon-white faintly tinged with green. The multicolored moonlight was reflected in vivid, ever-changing patterns by the restive sea that surrounded the battered Trumpeter, as well as on the snow-covered mountains on the distant shore.

The surviving crew of the swan ship began work on the repairs as soon as the ship splashed down, with nearly every crew member pitching in. Rozloom, naturally, took advantage of the excessive moonlight to press his suit with Raven Stormwalker. When word reached Teldin of the aperusa's rather spectacular failure, he smirked, sighed, then headed down to the infirmary to check on the gypsy's injuries. As the ship's captain, he had a certain duty to the well-being of his crew.

Teldin found Rozloom seated on a cot, flirting outrageously with Deelia Snowsong. The elven healer's tiny fingers flashed as she stitched a small gash on Rozloom's forehead, pausing periodically to bat aside a straying, bronze hand. Teldin noticed that the elven woman did not seem offended by the gypsy's playful advances, and he wondered why Rozloom persisted in his pursuit of Raven when there were more receptive targets aboard ship-not to mention less dangerous ones. In addition to the cut, Rozloom had collected some colorful bruises. One eye already had swollen shut.

"Why?" Teldin asked simply.

His question startled both the aperusa and the elf. Rozloom's hand froze, cupping air several inches from the elven woman's derriere. Deelia's face flushed with embarrassment, and she edged away from the gypsy and hurried out of the room, murmuring something about needing herbs for a poultice.