Moving Water by Sylvia Kelso Page A

the trelliswork of naked masts. Up from the quays on the left flank rose the spur that backbones Zyphryr Coryan, a stepped chine of white, brown, rose, gold, granite gray and steely blue, the green of street and park trees laced along its side, the city wall showing in discreet black patches at its base. And above, where the Morhyrne’s shoulders rear into the rock cone, lay the sinuous varicolored necklace of Ker Morrya, lapped in its gardens’ green.
    We had all reined in, watching his face. He gazed a long time, occasionally sniffing the tang of city and salt, at first with frank pleasure in his look. “Smells like Hazghend,” he remarked. “A country I know.” Gradually the pleasure became interest, then assessment. Then his eyes lifted a little, and grew quite blank.
    At last Sivar broke out, “Not a bad little village, is she, sir?” As a local, he did have the right of disparagement.
    â€œIt’s a fine city,” he agreed. Sivar looked pleased. He could not have caught the hint of trouble in the voice.
    By the time we hurdled over the harbor hills it was sunset, and traffic had dwindled to a few tardy pedestrians, the lull before wagons began to pour in from the farms and up from the harbor for the markets’ opening at dawn. He dutifully admired the tall double city gate between its bastions, and ran a soldier’s eye over the city guard in their green surcoats, which Sivar and company viewed with disdain. He studied the big squares lined with courtiers’ and nobles’ mansions, the sightseers’ rally points of temple, tower, public garden and colonnade, the government buildings, the observatory, the beetling outer wall of the treasury. When we reached the military quarter the light was nearly gone, and a fresh problem confronted me.
    We left our horses at the post-house. I said, “Dismiss.” He said, “Wasn’t such a bad road, was it?” And before that smile could elicit drinking invitations I said firmly, “Sir, I doubt the Lady will expect you at this hour.” There were tales of how she spent her nights, tales which had perturbed Callissa when I was promoted, despite all assurances that I was hardly pretty enough to make a favorite. “Would you care to lodge the night with me?”
    The guards clattered away with a volley of parting remembrances. He nodded. “Yes, Captain,” he said. “I’d be pleased.”

Chapter III
    As we mounted the two steps to the gate amid its yellow-flowered emvath brambles, and the house lights shone through a tangle of ornamental shrubs and helliens, he said, “I like these door-gardens.” Crunching up the path, I whistled the Stand-to as usual. And as usual there was uproar behind the moontree fanlight, squeals of delight and cries of reproof, the pounding of small boots and lighter, larger feet, then the door flew back and two small thunderbolts hurtled across the porch with Callissa exclaiming in the rear.
    â€œIf only I’d known you were coming, there’s no dinner—no, of course it doesn’t matter, just so you’re back—you little wretches, let me to your father—thank goodness. . . .” She submerged, to resume beyond our greeting kiss. “Rema can find something, she—what did you do with the—never mind, you’ll tell me after—oh!”
    I had moved. The hall light, occupying my shadow, revealed the tall shadow at my back.
    â€œMy wife Callissa,” I said. “One of these is Zam, the other is Zem. Callissa, this is—” I broke off, discomfited yet again.
    â€œMy name is Beryx.” With a tinge of amusement he brought me smoothly off the reef. “I come from Hethria.”
    Callissa’s usual guest front, already shaken, fell into abject rout. “I must see Rema,” she gabbled. “Alkir, you’ll look after—see to—excuse me—I mean, please come in. . . .” And