"Yup." He handed over the note. "From Councilor Arnstein's office in Dur-Kurigalzu. The Assyrians have attacked, and according to King Shuriash's spies the Elamites are mobilizing. There are rumors of strangers from the far north at both courts."

A grin. "Well, we are going to be busy bees tomorrow."

"No, sir," Vicki Cofflin said. "Ten days minimum. I won't swear to anything under fourteen. It's a big job, and we don't have the facilities we did back on the Island."

"Damn," Kenneth Hollard said, looking up at the cone-shaped forward section of the Emancipator's frame. They'd shipped it in from the Island knocked down, since it was far too large for a ship's hull, and putting it back together was a long job. Particularly since building a landing shed here at Ur Base would take even longer.

Most of the rest of it lay scattered in carefully calculated pieces over the vast level field; the engines were up on frameworks, with the maintenance crews going over them. Bundles of oil-soaked reeds burned in metal cups on poles, giving light for round-the-clock labor. It was cool, almost cool enough to be chilly, and despite the lamplight of the Nantucketer camp, the stars were many and very bright. Two dozen laborers heaved on ropes under the ungentle direction of a pair of Marine noncoms, and the bow section swayed upright.

"Do the best you can, then," he said. "I think we're going to need it soonest."

"Belay! 'vast heaving!"

A hundred and fifty of the Chamberlain's crew collapsed into the sand and scrub grass of the beach or around the capstan on deck. The spiderwork of cable that connected the ship to half a dozen of the bigger trees that grew nearly to the high-tide mark went slack. Stripped to shorts and singlet, Marian Alston waded through the thick mud around her ship; it squelched up to her knees, smelling of dead fish, mangrove, and seaweed.

She's steady. Thank you, Lord Jesus, she thought, reflex of a Baptist childhood.

The ship creaked, groaned a little, and settled into the improvised cradle; her gunports were all open and the deck covers off, letting the sun and air in and a waft that smelled strongly of spoiled barley out- rather like a brewery gone wrong, with heavy overtones of badly kept Chinese restaurant kitchen from the sesame oil.

That ought to hold her, Marian said to herself. And we can use the raw wool for caulking, better than oakum.

Hmmmm… if we find a tree of something like the right size, we could use it for a jury-foremast. Then they wouldn't have to stop long at Mandela Base, just head for Nantucket and the dry dock for full repairs.

"All hands," she said to the second lieutenant. The crew gathered, exhausted but cheerful, and the commodore stood on a barrelhead to look out over them.

"Well, gentlemen, ladies," she went on, "you've done it. Now we can get her ready and go home."

"Three cheers for the skipper!" someone shouted.

Marian ducked her head and endured it. She expected discipline and precise obedience; it always surprised her when she turned out to be popular.

"We'll spend the rest of today and tomorrow getting the camp shipshape," she went on doggedly. "Right now, I suggest we call it eight bells-and splice the mainbrace with lunch. Dismissed!"

There was another cheer. She looked at the sun; about noon. Swindapa came up as she jumped down from the barrel, herding their children.

"Marian," she said-in informal, family mode then. "Could we take a minute?"

"I think so," Marian said. Her quarters weren't far away, a tent made of sailcloth over spars and oars, and another smaller one for the children. They ducked into the hot beige canvas-smelling gloom.

Swindapa went on, "Heather and Lucy want to apologize."

I very much doubt it, Marian thought, forcing her face to sternness.

"What for?" she said.

"Uhhh…" Heather said. "Um, we went for a little walk."

"In the woods."

"Just a little walk-honest, Mom."

"But we didn't tell Seaman Martinelli. We're sorry. Real sorry."

Swindapa cut in. "They told him they were going to the latrine," she said.

This time it took less of an effort to scowl, despite the frightened, guilty faces. "This is serious, both of you. This isn't a prank. There are leopards and lions out there; you could have been killed."

"Yeah," Lucy said in a small voice. Heather nodded. "We heard stuff, so we came back fast as we can. We remembered to mark our way. And we' re really sorry."

Marian nodded. "And you lied to Seaman Martinelli. You could have gotten him into serious trouble."

Heather sniffled, and a tear ran down her cheek. "Sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough. Come here."

Swindapa's lips firmed into a thin, furious line. She glared at her partner and then turned her back. I know, I know, Marian thought angrily. The Fiernan Bohulugi thought spanking was stupid and barbaric, the sort of thing the Sun People did. Children were shamed or talked into behaving.

This isn't Alba. We don't have thirty grandmothers and aunts and cousins and siblings and whatnot around to watch every breath they take and talk them into the ground, she thought.

Neither of them needed to say it aloud; they'd been over the same ground too often. Marian's own parents in rural South Carolina had thought an occasional clip to the ear or swat across the bottom to be as essential as food and love to bringing up a child. They'd brought up six, and none of them had ended up in jail or on welfare.

She and Swindapa didn't quarrel about it in front of the children, though. Marian turned one small form over her knee and administered six carefully measured whacks, striking just hard enough to sting without bruising. Then she repeated the process.

"Now go and say you're sorry to Seaman Martinelli," she said to the tear-streaked faces. "You stay where he can see you, you don't get lunch, and if you ever do this again, this is the last time you'll ever get on a ship. If you can't be trusted to obey the rules, you'll have to stay home on Nantucket when your mothers are away. Understand?"

"Yes, Mom," they said, their voices trembling and wrenching at her heart. Heather was feeling her rear with two careful hands, but the threat affected her more than the spanking had.

Lucy went on, "Mom… do you still love us, Mom?"

She sighed and hugged them both close. "Of course I do, punkin. Your momma loves you more than anything. I just want to keep you safe, that's all. Now give Swindapa a kiss and scoot."

She sighed again after they had left. "I know, love," she said softly to her partner's back. "But I'd rather they had sore bottoms now than get dragged off by a leopard-or have to leave them behind every time we set foot off the Island. It's bad enough when it's a fighting voyage and we have to leave them."

An imperceptible nod. "Let's go have lunch," Swindapa said in a neutral tone.

"Well, how do we know for sure that Marduk and Ishtar and all the other ones they talk about aren't really running things?" David Arnstein said. "Making stuff like the weather happen, I mean. Or what Auntie 'dapa says about Moon Woman? You can't see them, but you can't see atoms and currents and co-ri-olis… that stuff… either."

"We don't know for sure," his father said.

The steamboat was making good time downstream, past the endless rows of date palms and the equally endless long, narrow fields and dun-colored villages of flat-roofed, mud-brick huts. After several months, fewer of the peasants ran screaming at the sight of the little side-wheeler, although they were still flinching. The Arnsteins were sitting under an awning, resting their feet on the track-mounted twelve-pounder gun and sipping herb-flavored barley water.

This has to be the butt-ugliest country the notional gods ever made, he thought. The palms could look romantic and beautiful… for about fifteen minutes at sunrise and sunset. And it was hot, even in May. At least he didn't have to wear a robe of state now; shorts and a T-shirt were bad enough. Thank God everyone in this family tans.