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"Set me up with por-porshtan, bartender," slurred the newest patron to enter the saloon. "And call me a girl. Turlin is shell-celebrating his lucky kill tonight!"

From her bouncer's stool by the door, Eskalie Morlin lifted a dubious eyebrow. Given the stagger in Turlin's gait, the trader had already been celebrating his postsyndrome for some time. She doubted he would be capable of enjoying anything more strenuous, at least not until he'd slept off the porstan.

Fon, the Golden Gen's bartender, filled a glass without comment, and pocketed the coins the trader had laid on the bar. Frixella the shiltpron player zlinned the size of the tip from her vantage point on the small stage at the end of the bar. She hastened to end the mournful ballad she had been playing, and struck up a rollicking dance tune.

Turlin tossed the shiltpron player a coin, which she deftly fielded with two tentacles and slipped into her pocket, without missing a note. The trader blinked, then lifted his glass in a toast, his hand shaking unsteadily. "To the Shrine of the Sh-Starred Cross! Best Choice Kill I ever had."

A stab of disgust from across the room, accidentally magnified by Frixella's shiltpron, caught the drunk's attention. He pushed back from the bar and staggered over to the table where the jewel merchant Mon Ergest, Tormin's wealthiest and least loved citizen, had been suffering through his turnover with the aid of a small snifter of the Golden Gen's famous brandy. Eskalie, who had endured the same circumstance early the previous week, could not bring herself to begrudge the man whatever comfort the beverage offered.

"Whash-what's the matter?" Turlin scowled down at the shriveled jeweler. "You got something against killing?" The trader laughed unpleasantly.

Ergest set down his glass, making no effort to hide his distaste as he looked up at Turlin. "I see no reason to hunt Gens in the Shrines like a Raider, when there are plenty in the market." It was obvious to every Sime in the room that his objections to Shrine-hunting ran deeper than that.

The trader shook his head in amazement. "You're sho-soft. Who'd have thought it? Do you really think it helps a family if the Gen they raised makes it across the border? Gonna turn pervert next?" He held out his arms, letting his laterals peek suggestively from their sheaths.

A stab of fury convulsed the jewel merchant's nager, and the ambient took on a darker note as the bar's patrons zlinned the confrontation avidly. Frixella gave up on her dance tune and let the shiltpron jangle to a discordant halt.

Ergest's tentacles writhed as he visibly struggled to keep them from wrapping around Turlin's neck. "What would you know about families?" he snarled. "You sold your own son in the Market when he established!"

"Why lose my profit by paying sh-someone else to do it?" Turlin demanded belligerently.

Eskalie was already off of her stool and moving towards the confrontation. She kept her nager professionally neutral as she addressed the combatants in the cultured, upper-class tones of the banking heiress she had once been.

"Citizens, it is a serious issue on which gentlemen of honor may disagree. However, the Golden Gen is a place of entertainment. Perhaps you would prefer to resume your discussion at another time and place?"

Turlin turned his scowl on Eskalie, then blinked in confusion. "Who are you?" he demanded. In his befuddled state, he appeared to be having a hard time reconciling her genteel accent with her worn, serviceable clothing.

"Eskalie Morlin, of Kirlin Security and Investigations," she introduced herself. She had no real hope that the man would retain the information. Eskalie's face, figure and nager were so completely average that even sober, many people had difficulty remembering her name for more than five minutes. The anonymity had proved very useful in her chosen profession.

She smiled at Turlin. "Come, now, Tuib Turlin. You said you were here to celebrate, but your glass is empty. Why don't you come back to the bar and enjoy another porstan? On the house, of course." She slipped one arm behind her back and gestured urgently to Frixella with all four handling tentacles. The shiltpron player recalled herself with a start and began reinforcing Eskalie's efforts with soothing music. Gradually, the bar's patrons turned back to their drinks, as they realized that there was not going to be a brawl, after all.

The trader grumbled, but allowed himself to be led away. Eskalie delivered him to Fon's care and returned to soothe the obviously troubled jewel merchant. "Allow me to extend the apologies of the management, N'vet Ergest. We strive to allow our patrons to enjoy their drinks without such...interruptions."

Mon Ergest accepted the apology with a brief nod, which surprised Eskalie. The jeweler was well known in Tormin for pursuing every slight, no matter how trivial, until he had received complete satisfaction.

"Is something troubling you, N'vet?" she asked, letting her sympathy show.

Ergest concentrated on his brandy, seemingly engrossed in zlinning the patterns the liquid made as it swirled in the glass. "I'm not a pervert, am I?" he asked, his nager betraying his uncertainty. "Just because I believe that it's wrong to foil disappointed parents who want to dream their former child is still living, somewhere out there with the Wild Gens?" One tentacle gestured vaguely towards the Border, which at this point was only just over the nearby hills.

"Of course not, N'vet Ergest," Eskalie soothed. "It's a perfectly natural sentiment."

"It's so much harder, knowing your child was killed." The jeweler's nager collapsed with crippling grief. "No one should have to live with that."

Eskalie could zlin annoyance coming from the other customers, who had not come to the Golden Gen to experience such emotions. "Of course they shouldn't, N'vet," she agreed, seriously concerned now. "You're not really in the mood for company just now, I zlin. Let me help you to your horse."

Mon Ergest nodded numbly, pushing back from the table. "The luck just isn't with me any more," he muttered. "Stolen away. Lost everything: my two wives both dead, and my daughter..."

Shen! He's getting maudlin.

Eskalie resisted the temptation to point out that whatever he had lost, Ergest had also managed to gain a fortune large enough to buy Choice Kills for most of Tormin, although it still paled beside her parents' wealth. Instead, she murmured sympathetically as she accompanied him to the door, carefully keeping her own field interposed between the jeweler and the other customers. This, of course, meant that she herself was exposed to the full measure of his grief and self-pity.

What a job.

"Who'd have thought that Ergest, of all people, would object to someone finding a free kill?" Eskalie asked her colleagues the next morning, as she related the incident to them. "The man's a horror, the way he pinches pennies."

The three members of Kirlin Security and Investigations were gathered in the tiny front room of the firm's third floor offices. It was barely large enough to hold Amsil Kirlin's desk, two chairs, and a battered old stool. The back office, which Eskalie shared with Amsil's brother Sesfin, the filing cabinets, and a bookshelf which housed Sesfin's definitive collection of cheap horror novels, made it look spacious by comparison.

"Oh, Ergest used to be normal enough," Amsil Kirlin said, sipping at a mug of the third harvest trash which she and her brother insisted on calling trin tea. The brown eyes in her long face were solemn, making her look even more like a horse than usual. "He was a bit reserved after his second wife died giving birth to their daughter, but it wasn't until the girl established that he got really strange. He was trying to take her to the border, you see, and ended up killing her instead."

"The poor man," Eskalie said, shuddering. "No wonder he was so upset, when Turlin started boasting about killing an escaping Gen." She couldn't help feeling a certain amount of empathy for Ergest's daughter, as well. At barely six months past changeover, Eskalie remembered all too clearly the sleepless nights she had suffered through in her comfortable bed at the select Sommerin Academy, wondering if she would be one of the unlucky third of the children who would fail to make it to adulthood.

What would have happened to me, if I'd turned Gen instead of going through changeover?

Sesfin made a rude noise, tossing his lanky brown hair back from his large brown eyes. On him, the combination looked a bit less equine. "Serves the old miser right. It's against the law to take a Gen to the Border. Why waste a top-quality kill? If he didn't want to kill the Gen himself--and I can see why he wouldn't--he should have sold it to the Pens, and let someone else have it."

"Well, there are those who agree with you that every Gen should be killed, little brother," Amsil said, nodding at the copy of the weekly Tormin Tattler which lay open on her desk. "Councilman Whilly has another rant in the paper today."

Amsil flipped through the newspaper's thin pages to find the article. "Here's where he talks about people like Ergest." She began to read slowly, following the line of smudged type with one tentacle. "'The Gen shortages of the past year point up the urgency of ensuring a stable Gen supply. All citizens must do their part.. We can no longer afford an attitude which is all too common: the willingness to overlook friends and neighbors who selfishly take new Gens to the Border. Gens which by law should be sold to the Pens, where they would provide honest citizens with top-quality kills.'"

"I can't help thinking that he's less interested in providing me and you with kills than with the other consequences," Eskalie said, with a slightly cynical shrug. "Tighten the Border, and many desperate parents will give their children who establish to the Genfarms, to keep them from being killed. The Genfarms get new prime breeding stock for free, and they can still sell the extras as Choice Kills, as long as they're quiet about it."

"Still, it might lower the price of a good kill, if the supply was increased," Sesfin said thoughtfully. "And he's right. Showing a Gen to the Border is against the law."

Amsil shook her head. "Little brother, I hope you never have to see your own flesh and blood turn Gen. But if you do, you'll know why folks are willing to look the other way when their friends can't let a Gen they raised as their own family be killed."

"Besides," Eskalie pointed out, "the crackdown Whilly proposes would be bad for Border cities like Tormin. Those out-of-towners trying to save Gens stay in our inns, buy supplies in our stores at double the usual price...and lots of them celebrate afterwards by picking up a Choice Kill at our Gen Market."

"Not to mention the folks who sell information on 'safe routes' and Patrol schedules to the poor idiots," Amsil added. "And then turn around and get a second fee for telling the unlicensed Raiders where the Gen's gonna cross." She looked back down at the paper. "Although Whilly goes on to blame it all on the perverts, as usual." She adjusted the paper to a more convenient angle and continued.

"'The events of last summer, when an unusually strong offensive by the Wild Gens forced the military to confiscate Gens from the civilian supply, show the urgency of ensuring a stable Gen supply. This Territory can no longer afford to tolerate those selfish enough to horde Gens when their neighbors are dying of attrition. While disappointed parents might evoke some sympathy, there are others who lack even that excuse. Why should the Householders be allowed to keep some of the choicest kills in the Territory when the Pens are turning away honest, taxpaying citizens because the Gen supply is low?'"

"Old Windbag Whilly's got another point there," Sesfin remarked, his homely face intent with interest. "As far as I'm concerned, if the perverts want to live on fake Sime-kills, that's their business. However, there ain't no reason for them to hoard Gens they're not using when there's a shortage. Let 'em turn the extras over to the Pens. They can always claim replacements when the supply picks up again."

Amsil chuckled, laying the paper back down on top of her already overflowing desk. Like many Simes, she had a difficult time attending to paperwork when she was approaching need. In three days, after her kill, she would work through the pile, but until then, Gens were a much more consuming interest.

"It'd be a crying shame to waste Gens like the Householdings raise on a simple kill," she remarked dreamily. "Now, if you worked 'em up proper, maybe got a good shiltpron player to help set the mood...the whole town could party for weeks." Her long face split into a grin. "Now that, I'd purely love to zlin!"

Eskalie shook her head. "Amsil, I'd stay far away from Householding Gens, if I were you," she advised, kicking nervously at the front legs of the rickety stool. "They're dangerous."

Just how dangerous, she had discovered not long before. Large Gen hands clamping down on vulnerable laterals, then opening to let the still twitching corpse fall to the ground...

She shuddered and wrapped her handling tentacles around her chipped tea mug for what comfort the warm pottery could give. It's been two months. Will I never be free of the memory?

She shifted her weight gingerly on the stool, with due respect for the back left leg. It had a tendency to collapse if it was required to support any significant amount of weight. There had been talk of replacing it, but there was no room for another chair, even if they could afford to waste money on furniture.

"Dangerous? Nonsense," Amsil scoffed. "A Gen's a Gen, no matter who owns it. What do you think it could do, kill me?"

Yes! Eskalie wanted to say, but honor kept her silent. She salved her conscience with the thought that her friends were honest citizens, who didn't participate in the periodic pogroms launched against the "perverts". Since Householdings never willingly sold their stock, Amsil and Sesfin would be unlikely ever to get a chance to kill a Householding-trained Gen. Or try to do so, and end up like poor Yosum Forst...

Her former classmate had been an arrogant, twisted piece of scum, but no one deserved to die like that.

She returned her attention to Amsil, who was now laboriously working her way through the rest of the text of the Councilman's guest article.

"'The Council's investigation into the Gen shortage led to a determination that there were more than sufficient Gens being produced on the government Genfarms to supply the military and civilian Pens alike. It was the actions of selfish Gen hoarders like the Householders which led to honest citizens being denied their rightful kills!'"

Sesfin snickered. "That ring of Gen-thieving lorshes who were selling half the military Gen reserve to the private Genfarms might've had something to do with it as well, don't you think? What's the matter, Eskalie, didn't your uncle the General tell the Council how you cracked the case?"

Eskalie shrugged. "Of course he did."

It had been her own (and Kirlin Security's) greatest professional triumph to date, but it had come at a high cost. During the investigation, she had been propositioned by a former schoolmate who wanted to get his tentacles on her parents' wealth, had been kidnapped by an authentic Killer Gen right out of Sesfin's cheap horror novels, had barely escaped a Householder trying to seduce her into his perversion, and had been physically assaulted no less than four times. When she had finally presented her uncle with the evidence he required to catch the thieves and made it back to town, she had been battered, bruised, and near to attrition. She much preferred the relatively peaceful work of breaking up bar fights.

"Whilly can't afford to tell the whole story," Eskalie continued. "If he did, people might demand that the government launch a full-scale investigation of all Gen breeders and sellers. Whilly gets a lot of his support from the various Gen dealers. His brother-in-law, Duffy Naifels, has a big Genfarm near the Capitol, too. The man's a real weasel, and I'd be very surprised if his books could stand up to a good audit."

"You would know," Amsil said in a neutral tone, and Eskalie sighed. Most of the time, her colleagues treated her as one of the family. However, they never quite forgot that they were the bastard children of a caravan guard, while she was the runaway heiress of Nivet Territory's wealthiest banking family. She hadn't seen her parents since she'd left home a few days after her changeover, but the publicity surrounding her triumph had made anonymity impossible.

Eskalie didn't know how she felt about her parents. They had been close when she was a young child, but the instant she had reached the age where changeover--or its alternative--was possible, they had packed her off to the exclusive Sommerin Academy. She had spent two dreary years imprisoned behind neat stone walls, and her parents had ignored all the letters in which she had pleaded to be allowed to come home. They had finally given in and allowed her a short visit, and she'd gone through changeover on the second day of it. They had both seemed genuinely pleased at her celebration.

But what would they have done if I'd become a Gen instead? Would they have taken me to the border, as some parents do, or would they have shrugged off their disappointment and sold me to the nearest Gendealer?

There was also a more practical aspect to her reluctance to mend fences with her parents. Unless she wanted to give up her chosen profession and become a banker, Eskalie couldn't afford to antagonize Amsil and Sesfin. Taking time off to visit her parents and hobnob with the Territory's elite was not the best way to convince her colleagues that she was serious about her job, not just a rich kid looking for cheap thrills. They had enough trouble accepting her upper-class habits as it was.

Amsil was ready to continue the debate. "Perverts aside, little brother, I can't see that closing the border to stop folks from freeing an occasional Gen is cost-effective."

"It's the principle of the thing," Sesfin grumbled, only partially convinced. "People should obey the law. Right, Eskalie?"

Eskalie wasn't sure where she stood on the issue of Gen releases, but she was sure that taking sides would not smooth her way with her colleagues. She squirmed as the two siblings looked at her in appeal, both confident that she would take their side, and zlinned around for a distraction. She discovered it in the form of a strange nager in the hall.

Eskalie could zlin neither lust nor the frantic, need-like craving of an addict, so she concluded that the stranger was not one of Saucy Sloo's johns, or in search of the recreational pharmaceuticals sold in the third apartment on the floor. That meant...

"I think we've got a customer," she announced.

Amsil sprang to her feet with the impatience of need and jerked open the door. "Can I help you?" she asked.

The visitor took a quick step backwards, forcing his nager into blandness to indicate that he was not competing with Amsil for Gens. "Is this Kirlin Security?" His nager betrayed a hint of skepticism.

"Amsil Kirlin, at your service." She forced a smile and tried to moderate the need screaming from her nager. "Come in and have some tea." She stepped back to allow the man to enter.

The stranger shook his head, reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, and pulled out a creamy envelope. "I have a letter here for a N'vet Eskalie Morlin, care of this agency."

Eskalie had already abandoned her seat and started with Sesfin for their own office, to allow the prospective client to discuss his business privately with the firm's head. She paused at the sound of her name, and returned.

"A letter? Who could possibly be writing me?" She had had no contact with her parents, or her childhood friends, since she had run away from home. Her uncle the General sometimes invited herto his house to dine, but he always sent a military courier with the invitation.

The messenger gaped at her worn and patched garments, obviously trying to reconcile them with his mental image of a "N'vet". However, something in Eskalie's accent and matter convinced him he had found the proper person, for when she reached absently into her pocket and found a coin, he surrendered the letter without protest.

It was only when Amsil flashed distress, and the messenger smug satisfaction, that Eskalie zlinned the denomination of the coin and realized that she had grossly overpaid the man. Shrugging, she ripped open the creamy envelope and unfolded the paper inside.

The elegant letterhead made her flinch, as did the perfect, almost print-quality handwriting. It had appeared at the top of far too many of her student essays.

"What's the matter, Eskalie?" Sesfin asked, his concern obvious.

Eskalie forced her nager into a semblance of order, reminding herself that she was an adult, now. Rahah no longer had any power over her. "It's from the headmistress of my former school," she explained, going back to the top of the page to start over. "It appears they've been having some mysterious trouble, and require discreet assistance to sort things out."

Amsil's interest peaked at the mention of work. "We could really use some extra income, just now. What's the problem?"

"She doesn't say, really." Eskalie refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. "It must be something potentially damaging to the school's reputation, though, or she wouldn't be asking for outside assistance, even from a former student."

The detective had a hard time imagining such a problem in the protected, dreary confines of her alma mater, but her curiosity had been roused. Besides, although she hadn't been the most popular student in the school, she found herself eager to discover the fates of her former classmates. Or one of them, anyway. Her childhood friend, Helka Arslan, had enrolled in the Sommerin Academy shortly after her own changeover, in hopes that Eskalie's luck might prove contagious.

"The Sommerin Academy, sendin' all the way to Tormin for our help," Amsil said, even need unable to completely dim her satisfaction. "Our reputation must be spreading."

"Amsil, I think she just selected the only name she knew in the field," Eskalie said, letting a hint of respectful apology show in her nager. "After what happened on the Forst Genfarm, I'm afraid my career must be choice gossip for half the elite families in the Territory."

The elder Kirlin grinned. "Kid, as long it brings in well-paying business, let 'em gossip all they want." She sobered, her mind turning to the practicalities. "Since she wrote to you directly, you should be in charge of the case. However, you're still pretty green. I'd better go along as well, so I can lend you a tentacle if necessary."

Eskalie tried to picture introducing her boss, with her horsey features, patched clothes, and coarse, lower-class speech, to the Sommerin Academy's refined Headmistress, and found her mind reeling at the prospect. "I'm sure I can handle it...," she started to demur.

Amsil clapped a good-natured hand on Eskalie's shoulder. "Course you can, kid, but there's always the chance of trouble on the road. Your uncle's troops haven't gotten all the riffraff. Besides, I ain't had a really good kill in months. The Penkeeper in Sommerin is an old pal of mine, and she owes me a few. I won't embarrass you with your client, never fear."

Eskalie was suddenly ashamed at her misgivings. Amsil is worth three of Headmistress Rahah, and she can't help her family any more than I can help mine. "I'd be happy to have you along, Amsil," she agreed, meaning every word.

"That's the spirit." Amsil was struck by a sudden idea. "Tell you what: after I've got my kill, we'll go out and spend an evening at the best shiltpron parlor in town. That Frixella is awful. Wait until you zlin a real expert!"

Sesfin's long face grew longer as his sister elaborated on her plans. "I don't suppose I could come along, too?" he asked wistfully.

"Sorry, little brother," Amsil said cheerfully. "Someone has to take care of the Golden Gen contract."

"How do you always manage to land the big out of town jobs, Eskalie?" Sesfin demanded. "Gypsy magic?"

"No, just lucky." Eskalie grinned, and went to pack.

Amsil's enthusiasm for the journey had dimmed considerably by the following morning. As she and Eskalie waited with their saddlebags outside of Danvan's cheap livery stable, her nager quivered with a novice rider's apprehension.

"Shen, those creatures look big," she muttered, as the stableboy led two elderly, swaybacked nags over to them.

Eskalie, who had learned to ride almost before she could walk, tried hard to control her amusement. To her more experienced eye, the beasts were hardly more than large ponies, and too lazy to throw even an inexperienced rider.

Which is just as well, she thought privately, after Amsil finally managed to get into the saddle of her dust-gray mount on the third try. Eskalie patiently showed her boss the correct way to hold the reins, and how to use them to guide the beast. The older Sime nodded, then clutched at the saddle with her handling tentacles as it followed Eskalie's mud-brown steed out of the stableyard.

Eskalie zlinned Amsil discreetly as they made their way towards the main road out of Tormin, but although her boss's nager flared apprehension at every lurch, she showed no immediate tendency to fall off. Fortunately, the livery hacks, unlike the high-strung, pedigreed blood stock Eskalie had ridden as a child, were well used to the noise and confusion of the city.

Amsil gradually relaxed as she because used to her horse's movements. As the day wore on, Eskalie was even able to persuade her boss to try an occasional trot. However, the dust-gray had a particularly jarring gait, and Amsil was unable to bear it for very long at a stretch.

Consequently, progress was slow. By the time they were winding through the rolling hills which surrounded Sommerin, Amsil was distinctly pale, and Eskalie was holding herself hypoconscious to avoid zlinning her boss's discomfort. Her own was bad enough; she hadn't been able to ride regularly since joining Kirlin Security.

The sun was almost touching the hills behind them, with five miles to go, when they pulled the horses to a walk in order to rest them (and their riders) enough for the final push. Eskalie stretched as well as she could, then grinned at her boss. "Ready to join the cavalry yet?"

"Shen, no. I haven't been this tired since back when Sesfin and I had just founded Kirlin Security. We had been hired to...."

Both Simes stiffened at the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

"Who's that behind us?" Eskalie asked.

The older Sime pulled on the reins to bring her horse to a halt, an order which the tired beast obeyed with a speed and precision which were conspicuously absent when it was asked for acceleration. Extending need-moistened laterals, Amsil zlinned along their backtrail, then shook her head.

"I can't zlin anything with the hill between us," she reported.

"Well, at least they're coming at an easy canter, not running their horses to death like Freeband Raiders do," Eskalie said, cocking her head to listen more closely. "I'd estimate there's about a dozen of them. It could be a military troop, I suppose." She nudged her own mount over to the side of the road. "Whoever they are, we'd best get out of their way, so they don't run us over."

However, when the troop rounded the curve, the riders in the tightly bunched, disciplined formation weren't a uniformed military patrol, but eight caravan guards wearing the blue-green and gray livery of Householding Dar. The horses they rode were elegant, spirited blood stock, still eager to run at the end of a hard day's ride. Only the very wealthiest citizens could afford to keep such animals in their stables--or perverts, who didn't ever have to worry about the cost of buying a decent Gen to kill.

Not that the Householders did without Gens. There were four with the guards, all alert, healthy, and as spirited as the horses. Not for the first time, Eskalie wished that the government would make the perverts reveal some of their secrets to the Territory's other Gen breeders. It was unfair of the Houses to raise some of the best-zlinning Gens in the Territory, and then just keep them as pets instead of killing them like decent people.

Unlike Eskalie, Amsil had never had a Prime Kill, and had long since accepted that she would never be able to afford one. She zlinned the approaching group avidly, simply enjoying the show.

But then, Eskalie realized, when your only Prime Kills are the ones you dream about, you're free to make them ten times better than any real Gen. Indeed, when Kirlin Security had landed a temporary contract to patrol Tormin's Gen Market for pickpockets and other nuisances, Amsil and Sesfin had made a game out of picking the choicest Prime Kill of each day's auction, with a fastidiousness that even Mon Ergest couldn't match.

"I like that brown-haired male in the back," Amsil said, as if following Eskalie's thoughts. "It's got a real smooth nager, with just enough bite to add a little spice."

Tallin!

Eskalie had been trying not to zlin the Householders' Gens too closely, for fear that they would take offense. On the other hand, the pet Gen that Dar had loaned her for the Forst Genfarm investigation had been the most extraordinary example of its kind that she had ever encountered. It had had an intensely powerful, brilliant core to its nager, overlaid with shallower currents, like the sun shining through fog. She couldn't resist the chance to zlin that remarkable nager once more, from a relatively safe distance.

However, when she let her own laterals extend, it was quickly apparent that while the Gen Amsil had indicated had an unusually high field, even compared to a Wild Gen, its nager lacked both the power and the subtle responsiveness to Sime fields which had made Tallin's so unusual. As the Householders passed, she saw that this Gen male was also much younger, the brown hair untouched by gray.

Both relieved and obscurely disappointed, Eskalie automatically curbed her mount as it attempted to snatch an illicit snack, then nudged it back onto the road. "Come on," she said. "We'd better get going. Do you think you could manage one more trot?"

Amsil groaned.

The crickets were singing their nightly chorus when the weary riders encountered the first outpost of Sommerin, in the form of a large band of migrant farm hands. They were camped around an old silo which stood at the base of a steep hill in what had once been a pasture, but had long since gone to weeds. The wide swaths of trampled vegetation and the odors of garbage and human waste suggested that the wanderers had been settled there for a week or two.

They must have found work picking the early fruit, Eskalie thought. It was a reasonable deduction. Sommerin's farmers grew an abundance of the fresh fruits and vegetables required to keep children and Gens healthy. The care and harvest of the fields required a great deal of hand labor. It was a season of comparative plenty for those transients and drifters who were desperate enough to apply for such low-paying, backbreaking labor in hopes of earning enough to pay their Pen taxes.

As the road curved around the hill, it quickly became obvious that not all of the drifters' pay was being saved for the tax collector. Nestled into the Sommerin side of the hill was an old barn which appeared to have been converted into some sort of pub. The renovation had not included much in the way of repairs to the dilapidated building, but a freshly painted sign (crudely scrawled in foot-high letters on the wall itself) proclaimed the edifice to be the Smuggler's Roost, and advertised porstan and the "Best Sheeltpron in Town." The wash of magnified pain and kill-lust leaking through the walls, and an occasional fragment of music, made the purpose of the building clear even to the illiterate.

Amsil cocked her head at the sound, and extended her laterals to zlin the whole effect. "That shiltpron player's not half bad," she commented. "Much better than Frixella at the Golden Gen. Tell you what, kid. We'll come back here tomorrow night."

Eskalie had already deduced that the Smuggler's Roost was the sort of pub that her parents had warned her to shun, where the lower classes gathered to intoxicate themselves with cheap porstan and shiltpron music. The trio of workmen who staggered out the door as Eskalie and Amsil passed did nothing to reassure her. They appeared much the worse for their evening's entertainment.

"Thought ya said this was a place with good comp'ny," one of them complained loudly, nursing a black eye.

"It wash, three weeks ago," his buddy slurred, casting a resentful look towards the hill which hid the migrants' filthy camp with the contempt only a laborer with a permanent position could feel. "Before them shedoni-doomed lowlifes moved in. City should move 'em out. Whadda we pay taxes for, anyway?"

"Ah, be a sport," the third workman slurred through a newly acquired gap in his teeth. "It was a good fight."

The more decadent big-city shiltpron parlors were rumored to buy Gens for their customers to abuse, providing fear and pain to magnify the effect of the music. It appeared that this cheap imitation had to use the pain of brawling customer instead.

"Amsil, are you sure you don't want to check out the other parlors first?" Eskalie asked, trying to hide her distaste for the proposed entertainment.

Amsil looked at her junior employee sharply. "What's the matter, kid? Too low-class for you?"

"No!" Eskalie hastened to assure her boss. "It's just that I'd hate to make a hasty decision without considering the options. Do you take the first Gen you're offered at the Pen, without zlinning the rest of the stock?"

As Eskalie had hoped, the mention of Gens was enough to distract her boss from thoughts of entertainment. After zlinning the shiltpron parlor longingly one more time, Amsil allowed herself to be led away. After the long day's ride, Eskalie herself would have found a revival of Ancient operas more interesting than a shiltpron, and she would gladly have exchanged both for a hot bath and a glass of trin tea.

There were plenty of inns in Sommerin which offered these amenities, but their limited budget restricted their choices to one: the Market Inn. It had once been an elegant building, but that had been during the previous century. As the city had grown, the noise, smell and confusion of the main roads had grown with it. The relocation of the Animal Market to the adjoining crossroads ten years before had driven off any remaining customers who could afford something better. Still, the innkeeper and her husband did their best to keep he place respectable. There was a sign at the desk warning prostitutes that clients could not be entertained on the premises, and stating that the inn did not rent rooms to perverts.

Privately, Eskalie doubted that any Householder would risk staying at the dilapidated inn, when the comfort and safety of Householding Dar was only half a mile away. Still, the notice showed that the Inn's proprietors weren't yet desperate enough to take any customers who offered.

The attic room to which Amsil and Eskalie were shown was clean enough, and the worn coverlet on the narrow bed had been neatly patched. There was no room for a Gen cage, like the better inns provided their customers, but then, Eskalie suspected that few of the Inn's clientele were able to afford to feed a Gen's huge appetite. It was much cheaper to wait and claim a Gen just before one's kill.

Eskalie got her hot bath, and insisted on sharing it with Amsil. It made them both feel a bit more like Simes, instead of something the cat dragged in. Even so, when Amsil decided to have a mug of porstan in the public room before retiring, Eskalie declined to accompany her, citing the necessity of sleep.

However, when she was alone, she stood for a few minutes, staring at the bed apprehensively. She had to sleep, if she was to be clearheaded enough to work in the morning. On the other tentacle, she was over a week past turnover. Without Sesfin's reassuring presence beside her, she feared the inevitable need nightmares. Amsil had assured her that her dreams would become less upsetting as she grew more accustomed to being Sime, but Eskalie had yet to notice such a trend.

Unwilling to face the chore of sleep just yet, she went over to the window and pushed aside the faded curtains. The panes were old and scratched, and the frame was warped, but with a little augmentation, she was able to force the window open. After cleaning the sill with a rag scrounged from a drawer, she sat and leaned out over the street to enjoy the view.

The evening was still young, and there was plenty of traffic crowding the cobblestoned thoroughfare below. An oxcart, half filled with produce rumbled by, its poorly greased axles squealing, and a shopkeeper closing his store for the evening hurled an obscene suggestion about maintenance after its driver. There were laborers just going home after a long day's work, and other citizens who had completed their day's tasks and were now in search of entertainment. A gang of street urchins chased each other down the street, no doubt lightening a few purses as they ran. There was a sprinkling of travelers, too, heading their weary horses towards a night's shelter.

The hollow clopping of prancing hoofs on stone caught Eskalie's attention, and she gasped with envy as a little black mare danced around the corner. The elegant creature had obviously been ridden hard that day, but its tiny ears pricked alertly, and it still had the energy to shy as the shopkeeper slammed his shutters closed and barred them.

The mare's rider controlled the beast with an effortless ease that spoke of long practice. The show of expertise diverted Eskalie's attention from the horse to the rider, and she started as she recognized the woman's nager.

"Semma Arslan!" she called in astonishment.

Semma was the older sister of Eskalie's childhood friend Helka. Although the woman now lived halfway across the Territory with her husband, a noted horse breeder, Semma was one of the few former acquaintances whom Eskalie had seen since she had run away from home. When the detective, in her disguise as a customer, had attended a party at the Forst Genfarm, Semma had assisted her to fend off the persistent, and unwelcome, attentions of the son of the house, Yosum Forst.

Eskalie's own hasty departure from the Genfarm later that evening had prevented her from thanking the woman properly. With a vague thought of extending her gratitude, and perhaps getting word of her friend Helka, Eskalie zlinned Semma deeply, hoping that focused observation from an unusual direction would catch the woman's attention without causing a public scene.

The roiling chaos of grief, denial, and helpless anger caused Eskalie to recoil as soon as she got a clear reading of the other Sime's nager. Semma was usually a cheerful, outgoing person, but at the moment, she was so upset that she never noticed she was being zlinned with more than casual interest. If a gang of armed muggers had come out of the alley to surround her, she would have ridden right over them, oblivious to their existence.

The elderly servant riding by her side on a placid bay gelding was more alert. Toria was a prune-faced, humorless woman, as status-conscious as only a senior servant could be, and Eskalie had never understood why Semma tolerated her presence.

Still, for all her faults, Toria was loyal to her mistress's interests. She immediately scanned the area, zlinning, listening and looking for the source of the interest in her employer. It didn't take her long to locate the detective leaning out of the window, and two years and a new set of tentacles hadn't changed Eskalie enough to prevent Toria from recognizing her mistress's former neighbor.

Eskalie had known that her eccentric choice of career would raise eyebrows among her former friends and acquaintances, once it became known. However, she was not prepared for the well-bred sneer that raised Toria's upper lip, nor for the sudden contempt which laced her nager.

Toria's reaction finally penetrated her mistress's distraction, and Semma zlinned around for its source. When she finally glimpsed Eskalie leaning out of the top window of the Market Inn, a look of poorly disguised horror crossed her face.

Eskalie was suddenly acutely conscious of the worn and patched shirt she had put on after her bath, and that she was occupying the lowest-rent room of the cheapest hostelry in town. Her face flamed with shame at her poverty, and she suddenly wished that she had thought to keep her attention to herself, and let Semma pass in peace.

Semma had apparently reached the same conclusion. She looked quickly away and nudged the black mare into a trot. In a moment, she and Toria had disappeared around the corner.

Depressed by more than her approaching need, Eskalie ducked back into the bare, comfortless room. She closed the window to discourage any cat burglars desperate enough to believe that the patrons of the Market Inn might actually have something worth stealing, and went to bed.

However, her sleep was troubled, and by more than simple need nightmares. The normal dreams of death by attrition alternated with dreams in which she had established and was attacked by her parents, or in which she was Sime, but was still attacked by Yosum Forst for her selyn. That was bad enough, but then came the dream in which she was helplessly driven to attack Tallin, the Giant Killer Gen. She woke just as its huge hands twisted under her tentacles and clamped down on her forearms.

With a choked cry, Eskalie sat bolt upright in the bed, her heart pounding, convinced that her laterals were fatally crushed. For a long moment, all she could do was pant, and let the comforting reality of the room soak gradually into her consciousness. The walls of the inn's attic were poorly insulated, and the antics of the couple in the neighboring room, as they enjoyed postsyndrome, provided an additional anchor.

Still, it was fully two minutes before she was calm enough to massage the cramps out of her cringing laterals and think rationally about her dreams. It was normal enough for her to have nightmares about establishment, she knew. After years of awaiting changeover, it took time for new Simes to get used to the certainty that they weren't going to become animals, fair game for any adult to kill. It took even longer to get over feeling guilty about those friends or siblings who hadn't been so lucky, and despite her accomplishments, Eskalie was not quite six months a Sime.

And then, just when I started believing I was safe as a Sime, Yosum proved me wrong. Her former classmate had made it clear that her tentacles didn't disqualify her from being killed, and that she would never truly be safe. Her attacker had then been drawn off by the trained Dar Gen, Tallin, which had lured Yosum into attacking it instead--and then calmly destroyed him.

Until that moment, Eskalie had believed Giant Killer Gens to be an invention of the hack writers who turned out the lurid tales her lover Sesfin bought, whenever a loose coin passed through his tentacles.

Ever since she had zlinned Yosum die, Eskalie had been haunted by the fear that one day she, too, would discover too late that the Gen she was trying to kill could turn the tables on her. Even with the listless, drugged creatures from the public Pen, she had to nerve herself up for each kill.

It was ridiculous to be afraid of something as harmless as a Pen-raised Gen. However, Tallin had appeared to be equally harmless. Before it killed her classmate, the Gen had followed her around for several days like the obedient pet she had been told it was. It had even allowed itself to be handled by strange Simes without a fuss.

All of which proved that past history was no guarantee that a particular Gen wouldn't turn rogue.

If Tallin had learned to kill Simes at Householding Dar, the chances were that it wasn't the only one of their Gens which knew the secret of Sime vulnerability. It would certainly be an obvious trick to teach a Gen being trained to fight Simes, if one could accept the idea of living surrounded by Killer Gens.

No wonder the Householders have turned to Sime-kills. In a Householding, only the channels took selyn directly from the Gens. While a Killer Gen, like a performing circus bear, would never be completely safe to handle, a Sime who had trained the Gen personally, and knew its personality, would run far less risk.

She supposed that for the perverts, the danger from their Gens was less than the danger they experienced on a daily basis from the less affluent townsfolk who envied them the possession of such Choice Kills.

Little do those idiots know how lucky they are that they can't have what they covet!

Eskalie shuddered, then wrapped the patched blanket around herself and leaned back against the rickety headboard to wait for Amsil. Perhaps with another person in the room, she could get the sleep she required without paying such a heavy price in nightmares.

The next morning Eskalie took special pains with her appearance. Still stinging from the pervious night's snub from Semma Arslan, and unwilling to let Headmistress Rahah and her former classmates know of her current poverty, she brought out a carefully hoarded outfit. The rust colored tunic with dark brown trim went well over the form-fitting black pants. Soft leather boots and a short dress whip completed the effect.

The costume was one of the few she had managed to salvage from the "debutante's wardrobe" her uncle had provided for her spying mission to the Forst Genfarm. It was not only thoroughly respectable, but it managed to make even Eskalie's undistinguished face look memorable.

Without a maid, she couldn't put her hair up in the latest fashion, but ten minutes in front of the cracked mirror in the communal bathroom resulting in an acceptably neat effect. I'll never be a beauty, she admitted without much regret, as she inspected the image one more time, but at least now I look like a Morlin.

The success of her efforts was rewarded by widened eyes and reflexive deference from the innkeeper's husband when Eskalie and Amsil went down to the public room for a quick cup of tea.

Amsil clutched at her glass with the nervousness of hard need. Her preoccupation did not prevent her from offering her junior employee advice, however. "Don't forget to negotiate a proper fee, old school or not," she cautioned. "They're hiring you in your professional capacity, after all. With the sort of tuition those places take in, they can afford to pay you what you're worth. And maybe just a bit more."

After assuring her employer that she would not neglect the financial aspects of the investigation, and that she would return back in the evening to report her progress, Eskalie finished her tea and headed for the Sommerin Academy. It was a fair distance, since the school was in the respectable part of town, far from the noise and confusion of the market. The detective wished she could have used one of the rented horses for the journey, but the broken-down beasts would have destroyed her carefully built image of prosperity. At least there were fewer horse droppings and other noxious garbage to avoid as she neared her destination.

The Sommerin Academy was much as she remembered it: a solid, unforgiving facade of stone. The small grounds in back were fenced in by a stone wall. The grass had long since been trampled to death, and even weeds had been unable to find a toehold in the packed earth. Only the old oak tree provided a glimpse of the natural world, and it was slowly being destroyed by ants. It had already lost several large branches, revealing the hollow core inside.

Squaring her shoulders against the irrational feeling that she was preparing to visit a prison, Eskalie walked up to the entrance and gave a firm pull on the bell rope. The heavy wooden doors were too thick to zlin through, but she knew there was always a servant on duty, just in case one of the students' wealthy relatives should decide to pay a call. When five minutes had passed without a response, the detective pursed her lips and tugged the rope again, sending an imperious clang through the building.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," a muffled voice growled. "You don't hafta annoy the whole school. Show a little patience, why doncha?"

There was a thump as the bolt was withdrawn, and the door creaked open. Through the crack peered the face of Sek, one of the Academy's three footmen. His drunken unpredictability had frightened Eskalie when she had been a student, as porstan tended to unleash his mean streak. At times, he would disappear for up to a week, only to return reeking of spirits and reeling from the effects of combining Gen pain and shiltpron. It was always worse when he was post, and he had obviously killed within the past two days. Just as obviously, he'd celebrated postsyndrome with his usual excesses: his face was covered with purple bruises from brawling, and the pain was making him even more surly than usual.

Now that she was grown, Eskalie discovered that Sek no longer had the power to intimidate her. She had faced much worse and survived it; mean drunks were only an annoyance. She pursed her lips as she looked at the disheveled footman, not bothering to hide her disgust.

When Sek recognized Eskalie, and zlinned her reaction, his belligerence turned to abject servility.

"Pardon, N'vet," he whined, his handling tentacles knotting nervously as he held the door open for her, bowing over and over as he tried to atone for his mistake. Each movement sent a wave of pain out into the ambient, as several cracked and improperly bandaged ribs grated against one another. "I thought you was the delivery boy with the groceries, come to the wrong door again, N'vet. Please don't tell the headmistress, N'vet. She'd send me away without a reference, she would, and I haven't been able to afford a good kill in months, what with bein' the sole support of me aged mother, N'vet."

"The only thing you support," Eskalie said as she entered, "is half the brew pubs in the city. I don't know why Mollins didn't throw you out years ago."

"He's a good man, N'vet, a kind and merciful man. Just like you, N'vet, so if you'd be so kind as to overlook this, I'd be ever so grateful..."

"Then show your gratitude by informing Headmistress Rahah that I wish to speak with her. At once."

"Of course, N'vet, right this minute, N'vet..."

Eskalie sighed as the man scurried away, too cowed to remember to invite her to take a seat while she waited. How could I ever have been afraid of that? Like most childhood fears, it proved laughable once zlinned for what it was.

She sat on one of the comfortably padded benches and looked around at the gray stone walls. She remembered them as forbidding and cold, but now, the nageric insulation provided by the granite gave her a surprisingly pleasant sense of privacy and security, and the dim light didn't bother her at all.

A few minutes later, the Academy's butler, Mollins, arrived to show her to the headmistress's office. He bowed gracefully to exactly the proper degree, and murmured, "N'vet Morlin. It is good to see you again."

Eskalie fought conflicting emotions again, as she tried to reconcile the perfectly deferential, obviously harmless servant in front of her with the monster in her memory. It was Mollins's duty to zlin each student at the Academy daily for signs of changeover. Eskalie still had nightmares in which she stood in line outside of the butler's office, waiting for her turn. There had been no conversation in that line, as each child prayed or clutched a lucky charm, hoping for a favorable verdict. Every once in a while, a student failed to emerge from the office, and would never be seen or heard from again.

The butler's face was as blank and expressionless as she remembered, but the genuine respect and deference in his nager made it clear that he was merely a loyal servant behaving with the rigid formality appropriate to his position. He's not the cold, unfeeling monster of my nightmares, Eskalie realized. Are the rest of my childhood memories of this place just as wrong?

Shamed by her childish misunderstanding, she inquired politely about his health, referencing the neat bandage on his right hand, and was rewarded by a burst of genuine warmth.

"It is kind of you to inquire, N'vet Morlin. The injury is slight, and should heal rapidly once I've killed."

The man's a regular human being. Who'd have thought it?

It was as well that Eskalie was prepared to doubt her previous impressions of the Sommerin Academy and its staff. That prevented her from making a total fool of herself when Headmistress Rahah greeted her with a prim and subdued but very real affection.

"It's so good to see a former student doing well," the gray-haired woman said, as she offered Eskalie a cup of tea. "And it's very kind of you to come to help us with our little trouble."

"About that trouble..." Eskalie said, sipping delicately from the fine porcelain cup. "Your letter was somewhat short on details, and I admit to some difficulty imagining why you would require the services of a professional investigator."

Thus recalled to business, much of the fond nostalgia disappeared from Rahah's nager, to be replaced by embarrassment and deep worry. Eskalie had zlinned such emotions before, in other clients who had sought out Kirlin Security. Amsil considered it a good sign, since such customers were desperate enough not to argue too much over the fee, and usually paid promptly rather than let it be known that they had hired a professional investigator.

"It's....rather difficult to explain," Rahah began tentatively.

"'Need doesn't end until you kill your Gen,'" Eskalie quoted. "Why don't you begin at the beginning?"

"Well..." Rahah shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I have reason to believe that one of the students has been stealing from the others. Small things, easy to conceal, but valuable for all of that."

"Are you sure that one of the servants isn't the culprit?" Eskalie asked. "I have trouble imagining why any student here would do such a thing."

"So do I," Rahah admitted. "However, Mollins questioned all the servants quite closely, and they all zlinned perfectly honest in their denials."

Eskalie nodded, accepting the testimony tentatively, while making a mental note to consult Mollins on the exact phrasing he had used during the interrogation. While it was almost impossible for a Sime not to zlin the attempt to deceive behind a direct lie, it was quite possible for a reasonably clever person to divert a line of questioning by telling only part of the truth, in such a manner that the interrogator came to the wrong conclusion.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked. "And what has been taken?"

"It started about a month after you left. Neeka Sereko reported that her great-aunt's ring was missing."

"The one with the carved opal?" Eskalie remembered the ring well. Neeka boasted that her great-aunt had been wearing it when she had forged the alliance with the Liordins which formed the basis for the family fortune, and that it had been bringing luck to her family ever since.

"Yes. While I usually don't encourage students to wear such valuable keepsakes, the child was attached to it, and I didn't have the heart to make her keep it in the safe. I should have been more firm." Rahah's nager twisted with regret.

"That's locking the Pen gates after the Gens are stolen," Eskalie said briskly. "What else has been taken?"

"A pocket watch belonging to Vag's grandfather, Blista's mother's pearl necklace, and that little ivory statue of Quan's."

Eskalie considered the inventory of missing objects. "All items which were known to be routinely worn or carried by their owners. And among the most valuable of such objects among the student body, unless I'm much mistaken."

"Yes." Rahah wrung her tentacles in distress. "Whoever the thief was, he or she knew exactly which fellow students had things which were worth taking."

The detective hesitated, but felt compelled to venture, "Are you quite sure that theft was involved? Children do have a tendency to mislay things, even valuable things, and not remember that they've done it."

Eskalie herself had mislaid a favorite necklace just days before leaving the Sommerin Academy for the short visit home which had ended in her changeover. She had been quite upset, because it had been given to her by the Morlin stablemaster as a good luck charm when she was learning to ride. She had felt at the time that losing it would decrease her chances of going safely through changeover. However, the little mouse amulet, crudely carved into a hunk of common malachite, had been nothing to tempt a thief.

Rahah shook her head. "If there were only one or two objects missing, I might think so. However, when the four most valuable and easily accessible keepsakes in the school all disappear within a span of a few months, I have to assume that it's theft. Besides, nothing has been missed for the past three weeks, since I had Mollins question the servants. I suspect that the thief has decided to lay low for a while."

"But you wish the missing objects--and the thief--found?"

"Yes. I can hardly question the children myself. Just think what their parents would say! However, you were their classmate. They will confide in you, as they never would to a stranger. You were always clever; I'm sure that you could spot the thief through indirect means, without offering insult to the innocent students." The headmistress's nager brimmed with hope.

Eskalie nodded judiciously. "I would be happy to accept the case, on behalf of Kirlin Security and Investigations." Mindful of Amsil's stern warning, she forced herself to bring up the uncomfortably vulgar subject of remuneration. "You do realize that I am a professional investigator these days. My fee would be..." she mentally estimated the probable difficulty of the case, Rahah's personal wealth, and her degree of desperation, and named a figure that was three times Kirlin Security's usual daily charge. "Any unusual expenses, of course, would be extra. However, I do not expect any, since the investigation will be conducted on the premises. Our policy is to ask for the first day's fee in advance."

"Of course," Rahah murmured, not even blinking at the outrageous sum. "I'll have Mollins withdraw it from the safe as soon as he's finished serving the children's tea. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Very," Eskalie agreed, wondering if she should have asked for more. However, there was no reason to be too greedy.

"We do try to maintain a strict schedule for the children, as you know," the headmistress said. "It would disrupt their studies least if you began interviewing them during the midmorning break. Besides, it will do them all good to see tentacles on a former classmate. Children that age are always so paranoid that they...won't get tentacles."

"Of course." Eskalie stood, waving Rahah back to her seat as the older Sime made to stand. "I remember the way to the students parlor very well, and I'm sure you have a great deal to do."

With a murmured exchange of the pleasantries covered so exhaustively in the Academy's etiquette classes, Eskalie took her leave and made her way to the students parlor. This, at least, was as she remembered: a large room with well-scuffed rugs on the floor, and tired, overstuffed chairs and couches which had long since come out second best in their encounters with childish wiggles.

The furniture was placed in small, intimate groupings, and students were expected to practice the art of polite conversation as the price of admission to such "adult" surroundings. The detective seated herself on the least worn armchair to wait. It was near the fireplace and the glass doors which looked out over the well trampled yard. It was also the end of the room favored by the older children. In their roles as absolute masters of their younger peers, they were more likely to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

As she shifted on the elderly cushion, trying to find a spot devoid of lumps, she reflected that a mere six months ago, before her changeover, this particular chair, with its pathetic view of the dying tree, had been an unattainable throne. It was reserved for the sole use of the top of the student pecking order. Lesser beings defiled it with their inferior posteriors at their peril, quite literally when Yosum Forst had bullied his way to the coveted honor.

The whole business seemed utterly silly to her now.

A few minutes later, a swarm of children burst into the room, all chattering at the tops of their voices. She scanned the faces, looking for Helka, but it was difficult to pick out one face in the crowd. It was similar to the bustle of the Tormin Gen Market, where Eskalie had worked as a security guard, except that the audible noise wasn't echoed on the nageric level. She zlinned more deeply, forgetting for the moment that she had never observed her friend's nager, and found herself surprised.

She had never had the chance to zlin a large group of children in the six months since her changeover, particularly not in the absence of other adults. It wasn't that the children lacked nagers entirely, like animals. She could zlin their emotions if she tried. However, their fields had no power to affect her own nager, no matter how excited they became.

I never noticed before just how strange children are. It's almost as if they're only half there: ghosts, maybe, seeking desperately for a way to become human.

And a third of them would never find it.

Setting aside a pity she could ill afford, Eskalie prepared to do her job.

Her chair's current "owner" turned out to be Emlee Bartlestone, not Gavvin Reston, as she had expected. A quick glance around the room confirmed the Gavvin was no longer among the student body. I guess his wait is over, one way or the other.

If visitors were few and far between at the Academy, adult visitors willing to talk to children who were not blood relatives were almost unheard of. Emlee settled herself in the chair next to Eskalie's and signaled for her current court to arrange themselves on the two couches. When they had settled, and were free to admire the sophistication with which she handled such a grown-up task, she poured tea all around and smiled brightly at the visitor.

"Why, Eska--I mean, Miz Morlin," she gushed, fluttering her eyelashes in an absurd imitation of adult flirtation. "Such a pleasant surprise. It's so good to see you again. It was really quite naughty of you to change over during that visit to your parents, you know. And then you didn't write to let your dear friends here know what happened..."

Since Emlee and the rest of the "in" crowd hadn't bothered to pass the time of day with Eskalie when she had been a fellow student, the detective was less than overwhelmed with these protestations of eternal friendship. However, there was no mistaking Emlee's sincerity when she gazed enviously at Eskalie's tentacles and commanded, "Now, you really must tell us all about it!"

For the next five minutes, the bemused detective fielded a barrage of eager questions on her changeover. The children weren't particularly interested in hearing her describe the experience itself. The Sommerin Academy offered comprehensive changeover training, after all, and that was one subject which interested even the most apathetic students.

No, what the children wanted to know was what she had done to make the changeover happen to her. She was forced to recall everything about the week before it began: her hairstyle, her clothing and accessories, what she had eaten, the books she had been reading, whether her bedroom at her parents house was on the north or south side of the building, and how many windows it had. Each answer was dissected for clues, in the desperate search for some magic ritual which could ensure that its user would become safely Sime.

Was I even that pitiful? she asked herself, as yet another argument broke out. But its subject confirmed that she must have been.

"You're wrong, Berri," Emlee decreed with the lofty assurance of an Authori ty. "It couldn't have been the cold showers. It has to have been the necklace she wore to dinner. I told you, you have to wear that carved stone if it's going to work."

Stung, Berri shook his head. "Wearing only works for jewelry. Gavvin always said that to be effective, a lucky amulet had to rest in the seat of your power."

Shocked silence broke out among the group of children, as the taboo against mentioning those of their number who had "disappeared" was broken.

Safely Sime, Eskalie was able to view the situation with a bit more perspective. Gavvin always was tall, and he was putting on bulk even six months ago. I guess it wasn't just a family resemblance to that tall uncle of his, after all.

Emlee's face turned red with indignation. "Well, Helka Arslan took cold showers, so you're just as wrong!"

Eskalie's perspective dissolved like a Wild Gen's composure when a Sime fixed on it for a kill. "Helka is...gone?"

Emlee was immediately overcome with contrition at having upset the school's visitor. "Yes, a week ago. I'm sorry, Miz Morlin. I'd heard she was a friend of yours."

"Yes, she was."

For the first time, Eskalie truly understood the reasons behind her parents refusal to let her attend the same school as her friend. Like most such schools, the Sommerin Academy discouraged maintaining childhood friendships, on the grounds that they were distracting for students. Besides, any such relationship would be so profoundly altered by changeover that it would almost have to be rebuilt from scratch--and if one friend didn't go through changeover, it was easier on the survivor if the friendship had begun to fade before that sad event.

Eskalie was discovering the hard way that her friendship with Helka had not had time to fade enough. She tried to picture a Gen Helka, nager throbbing with selyn as she chattered on about the latest amusing antics of her pet cat, and found her imagination unequal to the task.

"Helka thought that attending your school would ensure that she'd go through changeover as well," Berri explained. "I guess that doesn't work, either."

Zlinning that the children were finally ready for a change of topic, Eskalie recalled herself to duty and deftly turned the conversation to the missing valuables.

"Oh, yes, I remember Neeka's ring," Emlee acknowledged readily. "She was so upset when it disappeared."

The other children also admitted to familiarity with the missing objects, and with several others of lesser value which had not been reported to the Headmistress. However, although Eskalie was zlinning them carefully, none of the childish nagers displayed the sort of anxiety, discomfort, or wariness she would expect from a thief when the subject of his or her misdeeds came up in conversation.

Taking her leave of Emlee's clique, Eskalie moved on to the next group, and repeated her interrogation. By the time tea was finished, she had managed to cover about a third of the student body, without finding a trace of the thief. During the children's lunch, by choosing her seat carefully, she was able to delete a dozen more students from her list of suspects.

Rahah had stressed discretion, rather than speed, so Eskalie did not persist when the children departed for their afternoon sessions in the classroom. Instead, she slipped out and took a walk through the crowded marketplace. After the ghostly nagers of the children, and the news about her friend Helka, the cheerfully frantic ambient was a welcome change.

When she returned to the Sommerin Academy, there was already another visitor waiting in the hall: Semma Arslan.

"Eskalie!" the older Sime said, and blushed in furious embarrassment as she took in the detective's fashionable clothing. "I am sorry about last night. I forgot that your occupation might require you to wear...different...clothing and visit strange places for professional reasons."

Eskalie genuinely liked Semma, and wanted to spare her further embarrassment. She told herself that this was the reason for her failure to admit that it was her current costume which was being worn for "professional reasons", not the patched shirt of the previous evening.

"It was a natural mistake," she said, making her nager as soothing as possible, when she was only a few short days from her kill. "What brings you here?" Despite a careful repair job to her face, Eskalie could see the telltale traces of prolonged crying in the older Sime's reddened eyes, and zlin a haggard instability in her nager.

The detective regretted the question as Semma's nager exploded into grief. "It's Helka," she admitted, as a tear escaped from one eye and trickled down her powdered cheek. "She insisted on coming here to finish her schooling, after she heard you changed over. Said it would bring her luck. But last week there was an accident, and..."

"It was an accident? I'd thought..." Beneath the tears she couldn't shed for her friend, Eskalie found herself strangely relieved that Helka had died a person, not established as she'd originally assumed. Embarrassed by the mistake, she found herself unwilling to admit to Semma that she had assumed the woman's much-loved younger sister had established.

"I'm here to collect her effects," Semma admitted. "There wasn't much, I'm afraid, but if there's something that you would like? To remember her by?"

Struck by the older Sime's thoughtfulness at such a difficult time, Eskalie offered tentatively, "There was a copper duck pin that I gave her for Year's Turning long ago. It was not particularly valuable, but she wore it often."

"I remember it," Semma agreed. "It is yours."

"Thank you."

"It could have been worse," the older Sime said bravely. "Mother and Father paid the extra fee to have her taken to the border if..." She broke off uncomfortably. "But at least she died human."

The detective nodded, resisting the urge to shuffle awkwardly, or better yet, to flee until she found some privacy in which to regain her composure. She was rescued by Mollins, who chose that moment to approach and offer a respectful bow to Semma.

"Headmistress Rahah will see you now," he said with the deadpan self-effacement of a well-trained servant. However, his nager showed a very sincere, if subdued, sympathy. It managed to offer comfort without intruding. Eskalie noted the effect with a detached interest, even through her own need-deadened sorrow, and wondered if something similar might be useful for soothing Kirlin Security's more distraught clients.

Semma nodded and followed the butler, and Eskalie was able to escape into the well-insulated retiring room. Too close to need to cry, she could only moan like a breeding Gen seeing its offspring departing for the weanling house.

By the time she had regained control, the Academy's children were enjoying their afternoon "free time", during which they were allowed to work individually on their assignments, or to play quietly at a few carefully approved games. Grimly determined, the detective set to work.

She had spoken to all the large social groupings by now, and was left with the odds and ends: pairs, trios, and loners who were not offered friendship by the majority of their peers, due to some perceived social flaw or other lack of status. The detective was forced to work slowly and carefully, because these children were more suspicious of her motives in seeking their company. It took longer to get a true feel for their childish nagers, and then find a plausible reason to mention the thefts. She had not finished when the bell rang to tell the students to dress for supper.

"I'll talk to the remaining students tomorrow," Eskalie assured Rahah, as the children obediently sought their rooms. As the evening meal was more formal, the children were strictly forbidden to speak during it. Instead, they were required to listen quietly as Rahah and the teachers demonstrated appropriate dinner conversation.

The headmistress's formal dinner gown rustled as she shifted in her desk chair and clasped her hands. "I had hoped that you would find the thief quickly," she said.

"Sometimes these things take time," Eskalie explained patiently. "If I don't get anything from the remaining students, I'll question the servants again. Mollins isn't a professional investigator; he might have missed something."

"Well, I suppose you know your business," Rahah admitted. "I will expect you tomorrow, then."

The detective got to her feet, then paused, unable to let the matter ride. "If you don't mind my asking..." she began.

The headmistress waved a tentacle in invitation.

"Did Helka really die in an accident, or did she establish, as the students believe?"

"I don't know," Rahah said quietly. "Furthermore, I'm paying Mollins a substantial salary to make sure that I never find out. He provides me with a written report to pass on to the child's family, and I'm careful never to ask him if it's true. I'd have gone insane years ago, otherwise."

Eskalie was unable to hide her distaste for such deliberate self-delusion.

Stung, the headmistress jumped to her feet and leaned over her desk, glaring at the detective. "Do you think it's easy running a school like this, knowing that a third of the children under my care are doomed?" she demanded. "And it isn't just the problem students who are lost, either: sometimes it's the brightest and best, children who could have made a difference if they'd had a chance. I know better than most that Gens are just Gens, regardless of their former identities. But I'll tell you this, Miz Professional Investigator Morlin," and her nager flared defiance. "I may be a working woman who can't afford charity, and I know the school couldn't get by without the money we get when Mollins sells Gens to the dealers. But I'm glad whenever one of my students' families is willing to pay extra to have their child smuggled across the border if necessary, even though I lose money on it. It helps me live with myself."

"I'm sure it does," a thoroughly chastened Eskalie agreed. "My profuse apologies for the misunderstanding; I had no idea it was such a sensitive subject."

Rahah accepted the attempt at making amends with a nod, and her nager gradually calmed.

Eskalie knew it was none of her business, but like any First Year Sime, she was always curious. "Does Mollins also make the arrangements to send the Gens across the border?"

"Yes," Rahah confirmed. "But don't bother to ask him what really happened to your friend. Taking Gens to the border is against the law, you know, and the school can't afford a scandal. Part of our agreement is that Mollins doesn't talk--not to anyone, for any reason."

"If you believe Mollins is trustworthy, then I won't trouble you further about it," the detective assured her. She performed the half bow of formal leavetaking and retreated in good order, refusing to show how much the older Sime's impassioned defense of deliberate ignorance had shaken her. However, as she reached the door, she couldn't stop herself from turning back to ask one more, highly personal, question.

"Headmistress Rahah, did my parents pay to have me taken to the border, if I'd turned Gen?"

Compassion and understanding brightened the other Sime's nager.

"Yes, my dear, they did."

When Eskalie returned to the inn, she found Amsil waiting impatiently for her in the dining room, sipping occasionally at a glass of tea. Her tentacles were twitching with the restlessness of hard need, and the other customers were staying as far away as possible. As Eskalie paused in the doorway, she saw the serving boy tiptoe up to refill her boss's glass. With the caution bred by experience, he kept the table between them to offer some protection from need-provoked outbursts of temper.

The precaution was wasted. When she zlinned Eskalie, Amsil jumped up, her lips twisted in what would have been a smile under better circumstances, and paced over to consult with her junior partner. "How did it go?" she asked.

"I made a start, but I'm not sure I'm on the right track. I'll tell you about it after your kill. I got a pretty good advance out of Rahah, though." Eskalie patted her plump purse.

"Whoopie!" the older Sime exclaimed, as she zlinned the pouch, expertly assessing the density of the coins. "That's quite a sum. It'll cover this month's rent and taxes, with a little bit left over. Me and Faylee Koons, the Penkeeper here, go way back. She won't charge me much extra for a really good kill, so we'll have enough for a good celebration. We can start at the Open Barrel, maybe go by the Chained Gen, and end our fun at the Red Shiltpron!"

The three establishments mentioned were definitely not the sort of places a well-bred young Sime should be found. Even those who enjoyed slumming usually picked less dangerous surroundings. After all, the game was to enjoy the decadent pleasures of the lower classes, not their risks as well. However, all three were of a slightly better class than the Smuggler's Roost, and therefore presumably safer. If Eskalie wanted to show her boss that she wasn't just another rich snob, she would have to avoid even the appearance of criticizing Amsil's lower-class taste in entertainment.

There's no point in being stupid about it, though, she thought, glancing down at her elegant outfit. These clothes are an open invitation to every lazy, discontented lorsh who blames the rich folks for his inability to earn his Pen fees.

"Why don't you finish your tea, while I go up and change, Amsil?" she suggested. "Then we can go get your kill."

Amsil's friend Faylee Koons was a tiny, vivacious woman. Her white-blond hair was piled in an elegant bun on top of her head, but the ground-in dirt beneath her fingernails was proof that she didn't leave all the unpleasant work to her employees.

Except for Faylee, the Pen's cluttered front office was deserted. There were no Simes waiting in the reception area, and indeed, Eskalie could zlin no other Simes in the building.

"I gave the staff the afternoon off, so that they could go see the flyball match," Faylee explained cheerfully, when the greetings and introductions were completed. "Sommerin has a good chance of beating North Tuckett today, and advancing to the championships. Half the town has killed in the past two days, it seems, so they'll be able to appreciate the game."

She grinned unrepentantly. "Me, I've seen enough flyball to know how the game's played. Besides, it's amazing how much work you can get done when you ain't interrupted every two minutes. There hasn't been anyone come in all afternoon, and now I got my records up to date, ready for the auditor from the tax office." She patted the black ledger on her desk with a proprietary air.

"Now, then," she said, zlinning Amsil with professional expertise. "If I know you, Amsil, you'd probably enjoy something a little special. I happen to have some breeders that's got too old. They're used to being handled, so I don't keep 'em drugged too heavy. A couple of 'em are pretty spirited, though, so I think we can find you something you'd like. Come on back with me now and zlin if they meet your specifications."

Amsil followed her friend towards the office's rear door, her laterals already extended and quivering in anticipation. Her upper lip raised in an impatient snarl as Faylee paused in the doorway long enough to call back over her shoulder, "Why don't you put the kettle on and make some tea, dear? Amsil always was finicky about choosing her kills, so this could take a while."

Eskalie sighed in relief as the door closed, shutting out the constant irritation of Amsil's need. She wandered over to the reception area, where Simes could wait in reasonable comfort until the staff could attend to them. She added a scoop of coal to the fire in the small stove, then checked the battered teakettle. It was almost empty, so she filled it at the tap and set it over the fire to heat. She found a mug that looked reasonably clean, and noted with pleasure that the brand of trin, while not in the same class as the Sommerin Academy's, was at least significantly better than Kirlin Security's usual.

She wandered around the room, waiting for the water to boil, and finally came to a halt in front of the desk. Every inch of the broad surface was cluttered with tax records, receipts for Gen food, Gen registration forms, payroll records, and the other detritus of the Penkeeper's trade.

And I thought the detective business was heavy on the paperwork!

She eyed the black ledger for a moment, her fists clenched as she fought temptation--and lost. Gavvin's hadn't been the only familiar face missing from the Sommerin Academy's student body. How many of them went safely through changeover, and which became Gens instead?

Overcome by a morbid compulsion to know, she opened the ledger and started with the most recent entries, skimming the address column for transactions involving the Sommerin Academy. She had worked backwards to the previous week before she found the first notation; Rahah had claimed her monthly kill. Mollins and the cook had also claimed kills that week. It was three pager further on that Eskalie found the first of the entries she sought.

So Pacca made it, Eskalie thought with interest. I wouldn't have thought it; she was a bit big for her age, and talk about "dumb as a Gen"...

Erik, Meemo, and Yolonda had also made it safely to adulthood, she discovered. And then she found an entry she hadn't been expecting: the record of a purchase from the Sommerin Academy of a newly established Domestic Gen, serial number SDK-345-15. It was described as female, suitable for a Choice Kill, but not for breeding or training as a pet Gen, due to a malformed foot.

Ettsa, Eskalie realized, recognizing the description. I guess her parents didn't pay the extra fee to have her taken to the border. They might even have wanted to get rid of her. If they had, it hadn't taken long. On the opposite page was the record of SDK-345-15's sale to the owner of the city's finest restaurant, with a short note that the Gen was intended as a wedding present for his son.

Not an easy death, if half of what I've heard about that young man is true. Unless the thought of his blushing bride inspired him to rush through his usual preliminaries...

Sickened at the thought, Eskalie closed the ledger, no longer curious to learn the fates of her former acquaintances. I'd rather remember them as they were, she decided. It's kinder for everyone.

She was sipping tea in the waiting area when Faylee returned, her nager strangely subdued. She scribbled an entry in her ledger, blotted it, then closed the book firmly. Picking up the half-filled tea mug on her desk, she added some hot water from the kettle to warm it and sat down opposite Eskalie on one of the comfortable couches.

"Amsil won't be long," she commented, her voice a little rough. "She don't spend much time workin' up a kill one she's finally made her choice, not like some I could mention."

"I know," Eskalie said, zlinning the woman with a polite degree of deference. "Is something the matter? You zlin upset."

"She chose SBF-315-63, just like I thought she would," Faylee explained, staring into her tea. "That Gen's been around here longer than I have, and caused trouble every minute of it. Whelped a healthy one each spring until this one, though, and most of 'em lived."

A single tear trickled down the Penkeeper's left cheek. She wiped it off with one tentacle. "Never thought I'd be sorry to see old 63 go, but after so long, they take on a personality, like a pet dog or something." She looked at the moisture on her tentacle with surprise, then wiped it off on her coveralls. "It's silly to get so sentimental over a Gen," she apologized. "They all have to go sooner or later. What else are Gens good for, anyway?"

By the time Amsil rejoined them, glowing from her kill, Faylee had regained enough composure to tease her friend about her plans for the evening. Amsil took the ribbing good-naturedly, only commenting that it was just as well that Faylee wasn't post also, or the city might never survive.

When Amsil and Eskalie tried to put their plans into effect, however, they encountered an unexpected difficulty. As in most cities, Sommerin's entertainment district was clustered into asmall area not far from the Gen Market. It managed to pack a gaudy assortment of killhouses, bordellos, porstan bars, and shiltpron parlors into two short blocks.

However, the flyball game had ended in a victory for the home team, thanks to some judgments by the referees which were energetically disputed by their opponents. The fans had taken to the streets in force to celebrate--and to continue the debate over the respective merits of the teams (and the referees) with the disappointed visitors from North Tuckett.

The Open Barrel's barrels had been opened, and its furniture smashed to splinters, during a particularly spirited exchange of taunts between the two factions. The Chained Gen's doors were chained closed to prevent a similar riot, with patrons being admitted in ones and twos by a matched set of formidable bouncers. A hastily painted sign made it clear that only those who were residents of Sommerin, and therefore presumably supporters of the home team, were welcome. At the Red Shiltpron, the shiltpron player had long since made his escape, and the patrons were seeing red as they screamed chants lauding their teams, each faction trying to drown the other out. The police were out in force, trying to quell the incipient riot.

"Oh, shen," Amsil said, zlinning the scene with dismay.

"It must have been an interesting game," Eskalie remarked, watching as a discussion between three laborers progressed from shouting to fists.

"Hmpff," the older Sime grumbled, inspecting the crowd once more. She finally shook her head in disgust. "This mess won't clear up for hours, and I'm gettin' thirsty for a good mug of porstan. Tell you what, kid. Let's try that place just outside town, the one we passed coming in."

"Ummm..." Eskalie stammered. She tried to find a way to express her reservations without giving the impression that she thought her boss's taste in entertainment was distinctly lowbrow...even though it was.

Amsil put a companionable hand on the detective's shoulder and steered her back the way they had come. "Don't worry, kid," she said cheerfully. "The place wasn't fancy, but that shiltpron player was good."

When they reached the dilapidated barn on the edge of town, it soon became obvious that the quality of the music had not been sufficient to tempt the sports fans into such a doubtful arena. The scattering of customers who clustered around the scarred tables appeared to be discussing more prosaic subjects such as the unreasonable behavior of their bosses, the skimpiness of their paychecks, and the possibility that the Wild Gens would attack during the summer, allowing those who turned out to fight them a chance at an otherwise unattainable Choice Kill.

The less sociable drinkers slumped at the splinter-laden plank which substituted for a bar, clutching crude earthenware steins of porstan. Eskalie noted with some amusement that the most dedicated member of this faction was Sek, the Sommerin Academy's footman.

Trust him to find the only place in town which has space at the bar, not to mention the cheapest porstan in town. Not that it isn't still overpriced, she concluded, comparing the unpromising, musty odor of a fermentation gone wrong with the list of offerings and prices posted above the bar, complete with pictures for the benefit of the illiterate. Which must be a large portion of their clientele, from the looks of them.

Glancing around at the decor, Eskalie wasn't surprised that the place was so deserted on an evening which had been declared an unofficial town holiday. The renovations to the dilapidated barn had been limited to tearing out most of the stalls, to provide lumber for the tables and bar. Even a few wooden, cobweb bedecked farm tools had been left hanging on the walls, exactly as the building's original owner had left them.

Doesn't smell like they scrubbed the place down, either, Eskalie thought, as the odor of old manure assaulted her nostrils, mixing in nauseating fashion with the scent of unmopped spills on the packed earth floor. A sign above a short hallway by the side of the bar announced that it led to the outhouse; the sewage smell combined with unidentifiable cooking smells from the kitchen. Or maybe a rat had died; by now Eskalie's nose was numbing in self-defense.

The two detectives found themselves an isolated table, one of two next to the raised stage which had been cobbled together at one end of the barn, and settled down to wait for the server to notice them. It was the shiltpron player who arrived first, however, returning from a rest break. They recognized each other immediately.

"Well, if it ain't the heroine of the Genfarm bust! And the big boss of Kirlin Security, as well. What're you two doin' in Sommerin?"

"Zilmor!" Eskalie exclaimed. "I might ask the same question. The last time I saw you, you and your two friends, Mak and Eitan, were transporting stolen Gens for Mirta Dulkar and the Forsts." They had actually managed to take Eskalie prisoner for a few hours during her Genfarm investigation, until they had gotten drunk on the Killer Gen's nager, and it had freed her. "How did you escape prosecution when her crime ring was broken, and the Forsts with it?"

Zilmor shrugged. "The boys and me, we was small fry. But we knew what was goin' on, so they let us turn state's evidence. Gave us a ree-ward, too. Not much, but enough to be a good start on opening our own place." She surveyed the dilapidated building, nager shining with the pride of ownership.

"You've certainly created a...unique...atmosphere," Eskalie remarked, not having the heart to tell the woman that her investment was in immanent danger of collapse. "And an unusual name, too. Why the 'Smuggler's Roost'?"

"The barn used to belong to old Temment's brother, back when the two of them were buying off the Genrunners. Then Mirta Dulkar had them murdered to reduce the competition, and it's been sitting empty ever since, just waiting for some enterprisin' folks like us to come along. But I'd better start playing, and you folks must be thirsty. Mak!" she yelled back at the kitchen. "Get your shedoni-doomed backside out here! We got customers."

As she mounted the three rough steps to the stage and began to tune her shiltpron, her fellow ex-criminal scurried out of the kitchen, hurriedly wiping his soiled hands and tentacles on a stained rag. "What cha havin'?" he asked. Eskalie noted with some amusement that the belligerent toughness which used to characterize his nager was now tempered with a fairly decent imitation of obsequious servility, at least when he remembered to think about it.

Amsil ordered the house porstan, but Eskalie had no real desire to trust herself to the mercy of obviously incompetent amateur brewers. Unfortunately, the menu chalked on the wall didn't seem to include offerings from Sommerin's more experienced masters of the art. She scanned the list, hoping against hope to find something drinkable, and at the very bottom, she found it.

What's a hole like this doing offering a twenty year old reserve red from the Green Acrea Winery? And at a decent price, even if it is ten times more than anything else on the menu. Never mind. What's that old adage about not zlinning too closely any free Gens one might be presented?

"I'll take the wine," she said firmly. "Just bring the bottle and a glass. I'll pour it myself." And that way, I'll be able to make sure the glass is clean.

Zilmor stopped tuning her shiltpron long enough to let out a whoop of joy. "See, Mak, I told ya somebody'd buy the stuff eventually!"

With a sarcastic wave of a tentacle, her partner dismissed her claim of victory in what was obviously a longstanding disagreement. "One bottle in a whole month? We shoulda hired us a kid to help out."

"We do all right," the musician said, a bit defensively. "Or at least we would if you'd stop complainin' and get the ladies their drinks!"

Mak's nager flared at the rebuke, but he started obediently for the leaky kegs stacked behind the bar, bellowing towards the kitchen door for his younger brother. "Eitan! Get down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of the fancy stuff!"

When Amsil's porstan arrived, Eskalie decided that her estimate of the ex-criminals' brewing prowess had been overly optimistic. There was no head worth mentioning, and so even the crude earthenware stein it was served in couldn't hide the fact that it was cloudy. They probably make the stuff with water from the closest stream, not pure stuff from rain barrels. Looks like they didn't bother to filter it, either, judging from the bits of barley hull.

Amsil didn't appear to mind the substandard quality of the offering, draining her mug with gusto and ordering another. Eskalie, still waiting for her wine, settled back to enjoy the music.

Unlike the porstan, Zilmor's playing was anything but amateurish. The music she enticed from the strings of her worn instrument filled the room without overpowering it, coaxing her audience to listen carefully, and whenever she extended her laterals to touch the resonating tines, it sent a shiver of anticipation through the ambient.

Two ballads and a short comic piece later, a cobweb-bespeckled Eitan finally appeared with a bottle and a glass. Like the amateur wine steward that he was, he had carefully scrubbed the bottle until it gleamed, and opened it away from the table. The cork was nowhere to be seen. The glass was designed for water, not wine, but at least it was reasonably clean.

"Sorry it took so long," he apologized, setting her order in front of her. "I coulda sworn I stacked the stuff by the back wall of the root cellar, but it was under the stairs instead. And Zil," he continued, looking up at the musician, "we've gotta get a cat, whether it makes you sneeze or not. It smells like a rat died down there."

This was hardly the sort of remark a waiter should make in front of a customer, but Eskalie was ready to forgive Eitan's ignorance of proper protocol instantly, if he'd actually managed to produce a wine of a quality to match the label. She poured a small sample into the water glass and inspected it, noting the brick red color and the specks of condensed pigment which had been resuspended during the bottle's recent agitation. The water glass didn't have the correct egg shape to concentrate the aroma, but when she swirled it and sniffed, she could identify the strong raspberry smell of top-quality grapes, with overtones of the oak barrels in which it had been aged, and just a touch of butter. There were none of the mold or sulfur smells which would indicate a spoiled wine.

She sipped carefully, evaluating the taste as the liquid spread out over her tongue. Very little sugar, nice balance, good viscosity, and the tannins are down to something reasonable. Finally, she let the wine trickle down her throat, to check the aftertaste, then nodded her approval.

Only then did she notice that half of the customers were staring at her performance in fascination, attracted by the anxiety Eitan had been projecting at having his wares subjected to such a professional evaluation.

"An excellent wine," she affirmed, signally her acceptance of the bottle by filling her glass. She suppressed a smile as Eitan's nager wilted with relief. "The vintage might have come from the cellars of the Forsts themselves."

With a slightly hysterical giggle, Eitan admitted, "It did! We bought a whole case of the stuff when the government auctioned off their estate, after they were executed for Gen theft."

A murmur of discussion broke out among the customers. Some admitted their curiosity as to how such a distinguished vintage would taste. Others maintained that it was the height of folly to pay such a premium price for wine when the house porstan would get them drunk for a fraction of the cost. Even the most curious ones couldn't afford to indulge their thirst for knowledge, however. The debate remained strictly hypothetical, even when Zilmor played a brief hymn of praise to the fruit of the vine by way of encouragement.

When it became obvious that his brief career as a wine steward had come to an end, Eitan sighed and asked if there was anything else he could bring them. Eskalie shook her head, but Amsil ordered a bowl of the stew, eager to wallow in pure sensation after her relief from the deadening effect of need.

Eskalie sat back in her chair (with due respect for the splinters), and tried to concentrate on the excellence of the wine and the music, not the sorry surroundings in which she was forced to partake of them. It wasn't easy, but as the potent vintage started to take effect, she found herself able to ignore the decor and the other customers and simply enjoy the music. Still, although Zilmor shaped the ambient deftly, something seemed to be missing. While the detective was no expert on shiltpron playing, the nageric modulations had seemed to have much more power the last time she had zlinned the woman play.

"Wish there was some Gens here," Amsil said regretfully, sipping her third mug of porstan.

Of course, Eskalie realized. That's what's missing. Frixella at the Golden Gen lacked Zilmor's talent, but on one occasion, a customer had brought in his kill, still groggy from the Pen drugs. To the cheers and suggestions of the other patrons, he had spent over an hour working it into a frenzy of terror, before adjourning to the killroom in the back. The Gen's pain and horror had been magnified by the shiltpron, giving the customers--and the bouncer--an ecstatic high at the time, and a splitting headache on the following morning.

Pain and horror weren't the only Gen emotions which could be used by a skilled shiltpron player. The first time Eskalie had zlinned Zilmor play had been during an impromptu festival the musician and her accomplices had held to celebrate taking Eskalie prisoner. Or perhaps it was her luggage which inspired it: the two bottles of fine wine Tallin the Killer Gen had insisted on stuffing into her saddlebags during their hasty departure. For reasons known only to it, the Killer Gen had joined in the party with enthusiasm, bringing out its silver flute. The ensuing concert, during which shiltpron and Gen had worked in perfect harmony to shape the ambient, had been the stuff of which legends were made.

And how often can one expect to witness a legend? Eskalie scolded herself. Better to be content with what's available, than to waste time wishing for something that you're never going to zlin again. As she reached this laudable conclusion, the waiter returned with Amsil's food.

"Here ya go," he said cheerfully, plunking a bowl down in front of Amsil, and setting a crudely carved wooden spoon beside it. Like most stews, it was filled with unidentifiable lumps, but these lumps somehow managed to be more unidentifiable than average. However, it actually didn't smell too bad--or it wouldn't have, if Eskalie weren't too close to need to be interested in food.

"Mak's a good cook, and stew's his best dish," the chef's younger brother continued, nager glowing with familial pride. "You'll be glad you took a chance on it. There's some as just don't know what they're missin'. Take that fellow over at the end of the bar." He nodded towards the footman, Sek, who had withdrawn a slice of black bread and a lump of hard cheese from the sack at his feet, and was washing an occasional bite down between large gulps of porstan. "He's been comin' in regular for the past two weeks or so, and he hasn't tried our food yet."

"Cheer up," Eskalie advised. "Knowing what I do about him, I'm sure he drinks enough to make up the difference and more."

"True enough," Eitan admitted, and wandered off to care for his other customers.

When Amsil had taken the edge off of her hunger, Eskalie was able to brief her on the day's work. "So I didn't get anywhere today, really, and we'll have to stay another day in the hotel." Need and depression over the loss of her friend magnified the failure into something perilously close to a tragedy.

"You've already eliminated a fair number of suspects, and that's valuable in this type of investigation," her boss pointed out, with post-kill optimism. "Your approach is sound enough, and the servants are the most likely suspects, anyway. You'll find the thief, don't worry." The older Sime took a large gulp of porstan to emphasize her confidence in her firm's junior employee. "Why, there was one time, when Sesfin and I had just opened Kirlin Security, when..."

The door opened, admitting three Simes, with two Gens behind them. Not the drugged, dull-nagered products of the government Pens, either, but alert and responsive as any Prime Kill. As one, every Sime in the room turned to inspect the newcomers, and the congenial ambient shattered with hostility as the blue-green and gray livery of Householding Dar was identified.

"What're them perverts doin' here?" Amsil muttered darkly, forgetting all about her story. "They ought to throw 'em out, them and their fancy Gens."

"Would you like to be the one to try?" Eskalie asked rhetorically. "Even if you managed it, that young one in front, with the white lining on his cape, is their leader, Sectuib Califf. If you hurt him, the rest of them would be after you so fast you'd never have a chance to zlin them coming."

"I know, but I don't have to like it," Amsil growled.

The other patrons seemed to have reached the same unwelcome conclusion, because no one tried to stop the trio as they strolled arrogantly across the floor towards the stage, their two Gens following behind.

Amsil was zlinning the Gens with interest. "Wasn't that younger Gen with the group we saw yesterday?" she asked. "Its field is as low as if it just established, though."

"I expect Califf stripped it," Eskalie answered absently. "After all, the channels are Simes, too. Even if they can make themselves zlin like Gens, they have to get the selyn for their perversions from somewhere." Even knowing the cause, it was disconcerting to zlin a nager so weak on an obviously mature and healthy Gen.

It was the second Gen which had caught Eskalie's attention, however, and which made her very glad that the other patrons had decided not to cause trouble. It was considerably older than its fellow, with a streak of gray running through its brown hair which gave it an absurdly distinguished look. Its field, too, was less high than the last time she'd zlinned it, but it still outshone any of the Prime Kills she'd zlinned for sale at the Tormin Gen Market. Its nager was distinctive: a haze of brilliant fog with a hint of blazing sun beneath. With a chill of fear, Eskalie recognized Tallin the Killer Gen, looking as harmless as it had just before it had crushed Yosum Forst's laterals.

Could Califf control it, if someone gets the bright idea of running the perverts off?

Tallin was an unusually well-trained Gen. During their journey to the Forst Genfarm, it had done absolutely nothing to lead her to suspect that it was anything but the pampered Pet Gen she had been told it was: a fashionable toy for the wealthy. In a blissful ignorance of its true nature which still made her break out into a cold sweat, she had handled Tallin frequently, and encountered no protest or disobedience.

However, once at the Genfarm, the creature had proceeded to run amok. It had used the lockpicks hidden in its flute case to let itself out of the cage in Eskalie's guest room, then casually entered the network of secret passages which riddled the mansion and gone exploring. Even before it slaughtered Yosum Forst, it had cold-cocked one of the Genfarm's employees who had discovered Eskalie pillaging his boss's office, and then deliberately moved the man while he was still unconscious, subjecting him to the horrors of psychospatial disorientation.

The Gen had never offered to attack Eskalie personally, but she was under no illusions that it was a harmless pet. She didn't want to zlin the carnage if the Killer Gen decided that any of the customers were a threat to it or its owners. So, the detective carefully ignored the Householders when Califf selected the table next to her and Amsil and signaled for his followers to seat themselves. The channel had chosen to zlin like a Sime today, forgoing his usual weird imitation-Gen effect. Strangely enough, his Sime nager wasn't much more convincing than his Gen one.

At least the pervert has the courtesy to pretend he doesn't know me. It would cause her no end of trouble if word got around that she had sought refuge within Dar's walls, however briefly and unwillingly.

Tallin and its less spectacular fellow Gen took seats at the table without prompting, and looked around with interest. They were alert and undrugged, but there was no fear in their nagers.

Obscene. Unnatural.

As if unaware of the staring eyes, Sectuib Califf glanced over the crude menu, then turned to Eitan, who was approaching uncertainly, tentacles wringing with distress as he debated whether or not to ask the perverts to leave. "We would like two bottles of the wine, please, and five glasses." The words were polite, but said with an unconscious air of authority which sent Eitan scurrying for the cellar, objections forgotten.

Couldn't have done it better myself.

About halfway across the floor, it finally registered with Eitan that he had taken orders from a pervert. He hesitated, then apparently decided that the sale of two more bottles of the expensive wine would more than compensate for the damage to the shiltpron parlor's nonexistent reputation. Shrugging, he continued on his way to collect their order.

When the other customers observed that the perverts were actually going to be served, indignation flooded the ambient. Two women got up and left, making no effort to hide their disgust. However, by this time, Eskalie and Amsil weren't the only customers present who had started out with plans to patronize the more elite facilities in the center of town. Those present were well aware that the Smuggler's Roost was the only place they were likely to be able to get a mug of porstan that evening without having the police zlinning them, and so they stayed.

Zilmor began to play a soothing melody, and gradually people stopped staring and began to return to their drinks and conversations. When she finished her song, the musician leaned forward on her stool and asked quietly, "Whatever possessed you to come in here?"

To Eskalie's astonishment, the question was addressed to Tallin, not Sectuib Califf, and it was the Gen which provided the answer. "We had business on this side of town. When we tried to return home, we discovered that we were attracting more than the usual amount of attention. That flyball game must have been unusually interesting. It seemed prudent to find an out-of-the-way spot and wait for things to calm down."

Zilmor shrugged. "Well, I hope you don't regret it." Settling her shiltpron more comfortably against her shoulder, she began to play once more.

Amsil leaned over and snickered in Eskalie's ear. "Trust a pervert to let a Gen speak for him!"

Eitan brought the wine and glasses, more promptly than he had served Eskalie, which earned him a carefully generous tip from Califf. Amsil wasn't the only who to let out a deliciously scandalized gasp when the pervert promptly served not only his friends, but the Gens as well.

Eskalie was a bit concerned about what the combination of wine and music would do to the Gens' nagers. However, Califf was somehow managing to blur Tallin's nager, keeping it out of synch with Zilmor's modulations, and the other Gen was too lowfield to affect the ambient much.

Just when Eskalie had decided that it was safe to go back to enjoying her own glass of wine, the door was shoved open once more, and a dozen ill-kempt, scarecrow thin figures pushed through, shouting for drinks. From the dirt ingrained in their skin and clothing, these were temporary farmhands from the squalid camp on the other side of the hill. They had just finished a long, hot day in the fields, and now that the sun had set, they were spoiling for entertainment: the more violent, the better.

They noticed the Gens immediately, of course. It didn't take them more than a second or two longer to take in the livery worn by the three Simes at the table. They might have been able to identify the trio as Householders a bit faster if they'd been wearing signs.

Or maybe not. I doubt any of those losers are literate.

Being from out of town, they probably didn't know the name of the local House--or that Dar specialized in the martial arts. They saw only that they outnumbered their potential victims by four to one, and decided that it was safe to have a little fun.

"Hey, perverts," a skeletally thin man called. "I hear ya prefer fake Sime-kills, instead of killin' Gens like a normal person. Since you're not plannin' to use those fancy Gens you got, why don'cha hand 'em over? We'll show ya how a real Sime goes about appreciatin' a nager like that."

"Yeah!" the woman next to him agreed. "Beat 'em a bit, dance 'em around, and we can all have a grand time!"

Califf hesitated, searching for a way to head off the trouble he could zlin coming. There was no question that he and his friends could overcome the dozen field hands, especially with the aid of the two highly trained Gens. However, if they fought, some of them were going to get hurt--and at four to one odds, they couldn't afford to pull their punches. It was very likely that at least some of their opponents would be permanently maimed, or even murdered. Field hands were cheap and plentiful, so chances were good that they wouldn't be prosecuted. However, the bad publicity would make Dar's situation, and that of the other Householdings, that much more precarious.

Before the young channel could find a suitably nonprovoking response, Zilmor spoke up.

"I got a better idea," she announced, pointing to Tallin. "You shouldn't waste a Gen like that dancin' it around down there, where only a few folks at a time can enjoy it properly. Get it up here, and I'll show you some effects you can't zlin downtown, if ya know what I mean." She winked broadly, and ran her fingers over the strings. When one lateral extended to touch the resonating tine, sending a suggestive thrill through the ambient, the field hands cheered her proposal.

Califf opened his mouth to protest, but the shiltpron player leaned forward and snarled softly, "I don't want to hear any objections, kid. We ain't had no one hurt in a brawl here yet, at least not worse than bruises, and I aim to keep it that way. If those idiots tear the place apart, we can't afford to start over. I can't baby them into a good mood by myself, so I'm borrowin' your Gen for a while, and that's that. You owe me one, and I'm calling in the debt."

Califf's reluctance was easy to zlin, but so was the interest Zilmor's suggestion had sparked among the assembled Simes, the locals as well as the field hands. They were eager to zlin something new, and they wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

"Just be careful, Father," the young channel warned.

The Gen gave its owner's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then topped off its wine glass and made its way to the steps leading up to the stage.

"Watch out for splinters, Pet," Zilmor advised, as one of the rickety steps wobbled under its considerable mass, causing it to grab for the rough hand rail. "Hey, Eitan, get another stool for the Gen!"

Most of the Simes had obviously expected her to start beating Tallin, to provoke pain and fear which could then be magnified to delicious heights by the shiltpron. The ambient dissolved into confusion as the stool was brought by a hurrying Eitan. The waiter had a very good idea what his colleague intended, and was openly displaying his eagerness.

Tallin took the stool from him and without instructions placed it at the optimum position with respect to Zilmor, where the Gen could see her easily and its nager could best be modulated by her shiltpron.

Amsil leaned over and muttered, "How'd it know to sit there, when it can't zlin?"

"Practice," the younger detective said, watching Tallin open the wooden case it habitually carried at its belt. A murmur of understanding and anticipation broke out as the Gen withdrew the sections of a silver flute and began to assemble them.

Does Tallin still carry a set of lockpicks in there as well? Eskalie wondered. She wasn't sure how she felt about having the opportunity to zlin the Gen play duets with Zilmor again. The part of her that was Sime, that knew she was down to three day's supply of selyn and was searching for the next kill, wanted it badly. It craved the opportunity to drown in that incredible nager, until she sank through the fog to the burning core beneath. The more sane half of her was well aware of how addictive that experience might be, and how easily she might find herself fixed on a Gen she couldn't kill.

Couldn't kill even if I owned it, after what it did to Yosum.

Eskalie knew that the safest thing to do was to make her excuses and leave. Still, there were other considerations. She couldn't afford to alienate her boss by abandoning her, or by making her leave when she was so eager to remain. There was no explanation she could offer which wouldn't be understood as a condemnation of Amsil's lower-class taste in entertainment.

In the end, that was enough to keep Eskalie in her seat as Zilmor tuned the shiltpron to Tallin's flute. Then the musician started to play a cheerful song about a little bird, embroidered with gay arpeggios. Tallin joined in on the chorus, silvery notes darting up and down the scale. The Gen's foggy nager brightened with mirth, Zilmor touched her laterals to the resonating prongs to modulate the emotion, and their audience gasped with delight.

Two months before, Zilmor had been experimenting, trying to figure out how to use the power that Tallin offered so freely, and unable to predict quite what the Gen's nager was going to do. After all, like any professional shiltpron player, she was accustomed to playing alongside Gens which were being tortured, and which thus understandably lacked an interest in her music. However, unlike most Gens unfortunate enough to end up in a shiltpron parlor, Tallin actually liked music, and when the Gen concentrated on playing its flute, its nager fluctuated in counterpoint to the notes it played.

It was obvious that Zilmor had been devoting considerable thought to the artistic problem of a willing Gen musician in the intervening months, and she'd come up with some interesting solutions. Instead of trying to take the Gen's powerful nager and twist it into something appropriate for the song, she used a much lighter touch, reinforcing Tallin's own efforts instead of overriding them, surrounding each individual member of the audience with the joy of infinite selyn production.

It was much more spectacular than her first attempt.

Eskalie was lost in sensation, no longer able even to think about leaving. For almost five minutes, she soared in the total freedom of the sky, with no more thought for need than a real bird.

When the song ended, there was a breathless pause, and then cheers erupted. Eskalie glanced up to check the structural integrity of the rafters, fearing that the impact of so many decibels would give a new meaning to the phrase "bring down the house." The two musicians grinned at each other, then swung into a ballad as smoothly as if they had been performing together for years.

Zilmor and Tallin played for almost two hours, working their way through a medley of traditional songs which stressed natural beauty, family, laughter, and good times. No one left, even to visit the toilet, for fear of missing something. By the time Tallin tired, and the Gen's precise nageric control began to fray around the edges, even the field hands were smiling, no longer in the mood to pick a fight with anyone, not even Householders.

After one final tune, a silly nonsense song popular with children, which listed the improbable objects Peetir the Packrat stored in his hole behind the wall, Zilmor set down her shiltpron and stretched her cramping shoulders. "That's all for tonight, folks," she announced regretfully. "I'm worn out, and the Gen's about played its fingers off." There were good-natured groans of protest, but no one took offense as Tallin began taking the flute apart, carefully cleaning each of the sections before returning them to its wooden case.

"Get a bowl of stew for Pet, here," the shiltpron player ordered Eitan, patting Tallin affectionately on one arm as it closed the lid of its case. "And bring a slice of that blueberry pie as well. The Gen's earned it!"

This suggestion evoked a hearty cheer from the audience, which turned to amused applause as the Gen bowed, with all the aplomb of a Territory-renowned performer after a concert at the Capitol. A babble of voices broke out as people began discussing what they had just witnessed.

"That was incredible," Amsil said. The older detective was grinning ear to ear as she finished her latest mug of porstan. She was obviously in love with the whole world, wildly drunk and not caring.

Eskalie nodded in agreement. She had had only two small servings or her wine, which would not ordinarily have affected her. But I wouldn't be sober after that concert even if I'd been drinking water. Her head was spinning, although at least the lighter emotions the musicians had been using had prevented her from raising intil. Still, she expected that she would have a considerable hangover in the morning.

The room emptied as most of the men went outside to relieve their bladders against any tree, bush, or wall which would stand still for such treatment. The women gave them envious glances as the line for the building's one lavatory stretched down the short side hall, past the kitchen, and into the main room.

Amsil returned from her pilgrimage radiating contentment, and settled back with an indulgent smile to watch Tallin eat. The Gen had quickly consumed the generous meal Eitan had produced, with the concentration only a hungry Gen could bring to the exercise. It was now disposing of a fat piece of blueberry pie with equal efficiency.

Eskalie had never liked standing in line, so she waited until the last stragglers were back before heading down the hall. The first door she tried opened on a set of rickety stairs leading down to the root cellar. The second yielded her goal, now somewhat the worse for wear, thanks to the earlier patrons. Holding her nose with two tentacles, Eskalie used it anyway.

As she left the lavatory, she heard a door slam and zlinned a nager in the hall: Sek the footman, staggering back towards the bar. While that direction of travel was only to be expected, it did beg the question of why he had left it in the first place.

It couldn't have been the obvious: I was using the facilities.

The only other door in the hallway was that leading to the root cellar. And what is there to interest a drunken lorsh like Sek down there?

For a moment, the detective wrestled with her conscience, which told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own business. But anything involving the Sommerin Academy or its staff is my business, while I'm investigating the thefts.

Too drunk to worry about the consequences, Eskalie indulged her curiosity by opening the door and peering down the stairs. Eitan had been right: there was a definite carrion odor mixed with the smell of mildew, outhouse, and fermentations gone wrong.

The smell almost deterred the detective from further explorations, but Sek, for all his faults, was as fastidious as any proper servant. He wouldn't go into a smell like that without a reason.

Curious, Eskalie fetched the smoking oil lantern from the lavatory and made her way down the unstable stairs. There were a half dozen porstan barrels stacked in the center of the floor, liquid seeping from their bungs to feed the mold. That, the detective had been expecting.

Years ago, someone had tried to make an office of the room. There was an old desk with a few scraps of paper shoved against the right wall, and a calendar ten years out of date pinned above it. Along the far wall, rough wooden bookshelves were attached directly to the bedrock. Those of the most convenient height had been cleared to free space for a sad collection of limp and rotting vegetables, but the others still held an assortment of musty, decaying volumes.

Someone had made a token attempt to sweep the floor, with the help of a handful of leafy branches tied to a stick. The would-be janitor still had much to learn about his craft: the dust was thick enough to show footprints around the edges of the room.

Eskalie blinked, then looked again. However, it was still there, in the dust which had collected under the bookshelves: a footprint. Or rather, half a footprint.

A dreadful possibility occurred to Eskalie. She tried to tell herself that it was just imagination fueled by intoxication, but she was unable to find any evidence which didn't fit. She deposited the lantern on the nearest barrel and marched back up the stairs. Amsil looked at her drunkenly, her nager reflecting vague surprise as her younger colleague waved her back to her seat and strode past their table to that occupied by the perverts. Eskalie proceeded to give Califf's cape a commanding tug, and when she had the channel's undivided attention, she nodded at Tallin and announced, "I'm sorry, but I've got to borrow your Gen. Now. It's urgent."

Califf blinked, disconcerted by the request. "You're not in such hard need as that..." he started to object, then broke off as he zlinned Eskalie's immediate disgust. Tallin looked up, curiosity momentarily overcoming the lure of blueberry pie, and Eskalie tried not to flinch as the Killer Gen's attention focused on her.

"If you owe Zilmor," she said, forcing he voice to remain firm, "you owe me double, and you know it." She felt the implied threat register. If she told the authorities how Yosum had died, they would confiscate and destroy every Gen Dar owned. It as the only way to make sure that none would survive to teach the trick to other Gens. Dar would be paid for the loss, but Eskalie doubted that Califf would find that an acceptable substitute.

"I don't give in to blackmail," the channel said stubbornly.

"Look," the detective coaxed, "I'm not going to damage Tallin, or even leave the building. I just require the Gen's talent for finding what's hidden. I promise, it'll only take a few minutes...half an hour, tops. You can even come along, if you don't trust me with your property. Please, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Califf sighed, zlinning her sincerity and Tallin's avid curiosity, then raised his hands in surrender. "All right," he consented. "I can see that neither of you will give me any peace until I agree. But I'm coming along."

"That's fine with me," Eskalie said, with poorly disguised relief. She had not been looking forward to handling the unpredictable Gen on her own, without its owner's presence to make it behave.

She led the way across