"Only once. In Hellin Daimiel, at a museum."

"That's where he got them-Hellin Daimiel. And I think they were stolen from a museum, but Valther wouldn't do anything like that. I don't think. He never did say how he got them. Brock gave me the little figurines." Tiny little castles and warriors, perfectly shaped, stood on a board no bigger than Elana's hand. "They're hand-carved. The clear ones are diamonds. The red ones are rubies. They're pieces for a game. I think they're stolen too. Only a king could afford them."

By now, Elana was naked and shivering in Ravenkrak's unheated autumn air. As she joined the maid beside a pile of silken undergarments, she asked, "What did Turran give you?"

"Nothing!" Nepanthe snapped. "Not a thing."

"Milady!" said the maid, as though distressed. "Of course he did. There's the dress, that he said was the easy half of his gift." She giggled. She wasn't more than fourteen, an age when everything is laughter or despair.

Nepanthe bit her lip, frowned, turned away. "Anina, you talk too much."

The maid giggled again, went to a closet.

"Anina!"

Anina brought out a magnificent gown. Elana gasped. There was enough fine silk there to rig sails for a ship. "A wedding dress!" she exclaimed. "Nepanthe, that's the best gift of all."

Nepanthe's bitten lip turned white. Her small hands twisted within one another.

"It's just half the present," said Anina. "The rest's the man to go with it. See, the Lord does the marrying here."

"Enough!" Nepanthe spat. "Anina get out! I'll help Astrid. Maybe a turn scrubbing floors would teach you to watch your tongue."

The maid tried to look contrite. She failed abysmally, giving way to a fit of giggles.

"Servants!" Nepanthe muttered.

"She meant no harm, Milady."

"I have a name. Call me Nepanthe. Sure, she meant no harm. But she presumes too much."

"I think it's a beautiful present."

Nepanthe jerked the laces with which she was fumbling. Elana gasped. "Which?" Nepanthe demanded.

"The dress, of course. I wore rags when I got married. What a dress! What a wedding would go with it! Like a coronation in old Ilkazar."

"I do not plan to get married, ever," said Nepanthe, each word measured. "I want no man crawling over me and pawing me like... like an animal in a breeding stall!"

Her intensity was frightening. Elana grunted as Nepanthe jerked savagely on another set of laces. She wanted to say something, anything, in rebuttal, comforting, or apologetic, but intuited that silence was best. The subject was closed-unless Nepanthe reopened it.

Silence, interrupted only by the rustle of clothing, hung thick in the bedroom, remaining unbroken till Nepanthe began helping with the shoes.

Elana sat on the edge of the bed. Nepanthe knelt before her, hooking the shoes. Staring at Elana's feet, she stammered, "What's it like, having a man?"

"What?"

Nepanthe's neck colored where her hair had parted and exposed the skin beneath. "You know, like that."

Her answer, Elana knew, would be critical both to her own future and to that of this strange woman. She tried to come up with an instructive answer, couldn't. "What can I say? I can't tell you what it'd be like for you."

"Well, what do you think? Mother never liked it. She said it was wicked... that... well, I don't know."

"But she had seven children."

"I mean my stepmother. My real mother died when I was born."

"That's a face some women put on in company. I don't think very many take it to bed. It's not dirty or evil .."

"But what's it like?" Nepanthe asked plaintively.

Elana shrugged. She began with the basics.

"I know the mechanics..."

"Then what can I tell you? There's only one way to find out. The hard way."

Still looking down, Nepanthe whispered, "Does it hurt, the first time? I've heard..." She let it trail off.

"Some, for some women. You'll forget it quick enough. I hardly remember..."

Nepanthe rose suddenly, walked away. "You're done," she said. "Take a look in the mirror." Then, as Elana admired herself, "Astrid, I'm scared. I can't change! Sometimes, when he's here, I want to, but when I think about it... I don't. I don't want to change! I'm all mixed up. I wish I weren't a woman. Anyway, I wish I were a normal woman."

"Oh, not that abnormal, I think," said Elana, trying to calm her. "We're all afraid-deathly so-before, if we're expecting it to happen. It seems... well... Oh, hell! I can't explain! It's just different, afterward. The fears go. Slow, for some, but they go. I can't tell you anything except that it's not wrong. Come on, dinner's waiting. Rendel be worrying, and Turran'll be holding everything up."

"I wish they'd stop beating those drums!" Turran growled. Leaning on the battlements, he studied the enemy encampment. A dull throbbing echoed upward, like the heartbeat of a world. "They'll drive me mad!"

"That's the idea," said Ragnarson, leaning beside him. "War of nerves. An old bin Yousif trick. He heard they do it in Shinsan."

"It's working." The Storm King turned, glanced along the wall toward where Nepanthe and Saltimbanco strolled together. "Somebody's not bothered. Our windy friend's making headway."

Indeed. They walked hand in hand, and Nepanthe seemed unashamed of being seen.

"Ha!" said Redbeard. She's making headway. He's lost a good four stone. What do you think of the match?"

After considering, Turran replied, "Nepanthe needs a man more than anything else in the world. A one-eyed, one-legged beggar from the blackest slum in Itaskia would suit me if she'd have him. But Saltimbanco pleases me. His origins seem humble, yet his heart's as noble as a king's. I wouldn't prevent a wedding, or even an affair. In fact, if I knew how I'd help him seduce her."

Grimnason nodded, offered, "If there's anything I can do..." Then, "Speaking of Itaskia, have you heard anything about Haroun?"

"No. Gold and knives have sealed a lot of mouths. Ridyeh's having trouble. How long before they reach the wall?"

Ragnarson looked down at bin Yousif's earthworks, long, lazy zigzags advancing up the Candareen. The heavy weapons had been unable to damage them. "Not soon."

"Number three trebuchet!" Turran bellowed. "Fire one at the center approach."

A missile arced through the air, trailing smoke, but fell short. Naptha spewed and burned amongst broken rocks.

"Not quite," Ragnarson observed. "Another day or two."

"Can we hold till winter?"

Ragnarson was surprised. Turran with doubts about the invincibility of his fortress? Impossible! "They won't be ready to try the wall till autumn. And then they've got to get over it. I don't think they can. Not when they have to bring their gear up that slope under fire."

"Still, I'd like to delay them. Can't we make a sortie? To wreck their siegeworks?"

"I'll put Rolf on it. But it'd be risky. We can't afford casualties. We don't have enough men to defend the whole wall now. Maybe we could use Nepanthe's Iwa Skolovdans. They wouldn't be much loss. Blackfang and Kildragon have drilled them silly, and they're still not much better than recruits." ,

"What do you think of our chances?"

"Excellent. Standard assault procedure calls for a five-to-one advantage. They've got us by about three. Haroun knows that. But he's got something going, or he would've left. But I can't figure what." He glanced down. Saltimbanco and Nepanthe had left the wall. He saw them enter the Bell Tower. Mocker was certainly taking his time with her. But, from what Elana said, she was a stubborn case. Women. Remarkable creatures.

His thoughts turned to the old man who had hired them. Who was he? Why was the destruction of Ravenkrak so important to him?