“It’s forest creeper,” Parno said.

“No it isn’t.” Mar’s voice was quiet, matching her smile. “It’s a chain of people dancing. Isn’t it?” she added, looking across at Dhulyn.

The older woman nodded. “I believe so,” she said. “And in that case…” she turned the bowl upside down, the better to study its patterns. Squinting in the changeable light of the fire, she could see how the chain of dancers along the rim crossed over itself, as if in a country dance, and turned down, forming garlands around the body of the bowl and framing spaces which had been filled with small scenes. “Yes,” she said. “See here, there’s a woman, noble from her gown, laying out the vera tiles for a solitary game.” Dhulyn glanced up at Parno. “You’ve seen that posture a thousand times, my soul. And look at this old fisherman,” she turned the bowl slightly, “hanging up his nets, checking for tears and snags. Look how his muscles stand out as he lifts them. And here’s a young boy walking back and forth along the rows in a vineyard, no doubt keeping the foxes out!”

“This one’s a man,” Mar said, tapping an image on the side of the bowl closest to her. “It must be a father,” she added, “he’s tossing up a small child and catching him again.” She looked up, a catch in her voice. “There’s a woman watching them, smiling.”

“What’s the last one,” Parno said. “I can’t make it out.”

“It’s a young woman again-no, a young man, and he seems to be holding a harp.” No amount of squinting brought out further detail. “Do you know, Mar?”

Mar shook her head. “I’ve always thought it was a mirror.” She took the bowl completely into her own hands and tilted it to catch the dying light of the fire on the final scene. “It’s been a long time since I really looked at this. I didn’t like to bring it out at the Weavers.”

“It’s a beautiful thing,” Dhulyn said. “Worth another look and then another. Do you know what you have here, my Dove?”

“I thought I did,” faltered Mar. “Now I begin to doubt.” Dhulyn’s heart warmed. It was easy for her to find a look tinged with fear on someone’s face. Only when people saw the Scholar and not the Wolf did she ever see this kind of warmth.

“It comes from my mother,” Mar said, “and her mother before that. The property of the eldest daughter of my Household. It’s my proof, if I need it, that I am Mar-eMar Tenebro.”

“Making it valuable enough,” Dhulyn said. “But it has other significance. A bowl like this is described in Tarlyn’s First Book of the Mark.”

“It would bring a good price,” Parno said putting his hand on Dhulyn’s wrist. “I marvel the good Weaver left it to you.”

“You mean she might have taken it?” The girl’s genuine astonishment caused the two elders to glance at each other and quickly away.

“Nay, child, she’s been proven an honest woman, even without this.” Parno put a comforting hand on the young girl’s shoulder. He ventured a glance sideways at Dhulyn. “You don’t think it could be…?”

“What? Tarlyn’s bowl? Oh, Sun and Moon, no! The Book of the Mark, like these designs, goes back to the time of the Caids.” Dhulyn returned to her scrutiny of the bowl. The silence made her look up into Mar’s stricken face. “Oh, it is real, little Dove. A Scholar’s artifact. But,” she shrugged. “It could not be Tarlyn’s bowl, is all. The designs are the true ancient ones, but the colors, see how sharp the blues and greens?” She traced her finger along the line of dancers. “These have been no more than five generations in use.”

“And that’s not ancient?” Mar’s eyes were wide with surprise. “My grandmother’s grandmother’s mother?”

“Ancient for people, assuredly,” Dhulyn said. “But a mere five generations is nothing as artifacts are judged. The roads and other objects the Caids have left,” she gestured around her at the walls that sheltered them, “are much older even than our oldest writings. Still,” Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye again. “Valuable as it is to anyone, it has a meaning for you and your House that it cannot have for any other.”

Mar took the bowl from the Mercenary’s outstretched hands and lowered it back into its wrappings. She did not see the Brothers share another glance over her head.

“Are you happy to leave them, then, the Weavers?” Dhulyn watched the girl’s face closely. This would make twice the girl had lost the only family she had ever known. Once upon the death of her own parents, and now again at this parting from her foster family. That she went to her own House, her own people, would be no great comfort, considering she had never seen any of them before.

“I think I would have had to leave anyway,” Mar said.

“How’s that,” Parno asked from where he sprawled. “There seemed to be enough business to need you.”

“Oh, yes,” Mar said. “They’ll have to hire another now, and someone not as well trained in their ways. But I think it would have come to that anyway.” She looked between their interested faces. “You see, the younger son asked for me.”

“Not in itself unheard of,” Dhulyn said dryly.

“No,” Mar agreed. “His father was not against it. He was willing to apply to House Tenebro for permission and dowry, but Guillor Weaver felt it might offend them.” The girl shrugged. “If he marries elsewhere, Ysdrell can bring money to the business and the family with his marriage. Until my letters came I was no one, with nothing. After that I was too much a someone.”

Dhulyn carefully ignored Mar’s slip. It remained to be seen what importance the number of letters had. It crossed her mind, however, to wonder whether the male Weaver had, in secret from his wife, contacted the girl’s House, and if this “urgent” summons to Gotterang was the result. “At least you do not sound brokenhearted, my Dove.”

“Oh, no. You see, for me, that was the real problem. I did not want Ysdrell.” She added another stick to the fire and looked up again. “That’s why I would have had to leave.”

“A good enough reason,” Dhulyn said, feeling a knot of tension release. “So this is as good a way as any, and better than most.” And it explained why the girl was so ready to go to Gotterang.

“How do you get your names?” Mar asked as she knotted the ties on her pack.

Dhulyn laughed. It appeared it was a night to ask questions, and not for Parno to play while she and Mar sang. “Oh, different reasons at different times. Parno, for example-”

“I have the strength, the lordliness, and the beauty of a lion,” he cut in.

“And the smell,” said Dhulyn, and smiled as Mar laughed.

“What about you? You explained Scholar, but why Wolfshead? Is it because of… because of…”

“Because of the scar? Because of this?” Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile, lips curling back off her teeth in a snarl, but she made sure the eyes above it were smiling, too, and Mar grinned back at her, not in the least afraid. “Quite right, exactly because of that.”

Mar frowned, her head on one side, as if she was trying to picture Dhulyn without the scar.

“Do you mind it?” she asked finally.

To her own surprise, Dhulyn Wolfshead began to laugh. There was something about the young woman that made it easy to tell her. “Mind it? Why, it was my salvation. If I’d thought of it, I would have done it myself.”

“You’re just confusing the girl, Dhulyn, my heart,” Parno said. “Tell her what you mean.”

“Ah well, it was long ago, and the story means nothing to anyone but me,” Dhulyn said, drawing down her brows. “It’s the tip of a whip, not sword or dagger, that gave me this mark. The metal-coated tip of a whip clumsily applied that flicked ’round me and caught me on the face. That was enough to ruin me in my master’s eyes, so to the auction block I went. And from there to the slave trader’s ship, and from the slave ship to Dorian the Black Traveler. And from his hands, to this moment. And from this moment… to a new subject,” she said, seeing Mar’s stricken face. “Tell me, little Dove, do you know a child’s game called Weeping Lad, or Weeping Maid?”