“Kohan will come,” Pyanfar said, “now. And I’ll settle Tahy.” She shifted her weight to move, hesitated. “How did you get to Chanur? Kohan knows?”

The whole eye looked up at her; the other ran water, squinted almost shut. “Walked. Long time ago. Forget how long. Na Kohan let me… stay. Knew I was here, but let me stay. Go on, Pyanfar. Go on. There’s no time.”

She started away, down that road which led to the house, not without looking back; and Hilfy walked beside her, and Chur and the Llun, but Tully — Tully had lingered, stared down at Khym, and Khym reached out a hand to stay him, only looking…

Khym, who had delighted in the tales she brought him, of strange ports and Outsiders, and he had never seen a ship, never seen an Outsider, until now—

“Tully!” she called, and Haral caught him by the arm and brought him quickly. And then: “Khym—” she called. For no reason. For shame. Kohan had been as soft… when Khym had strayed here in his exile, hunting some better death than strangers.

He looked up at her, a slow gathering of hope. She nodded toward the house, and he picked himself up and came after them: that much she waited to know. She turned on the instant and set a good pace down the dusty road, eyeing the hedges which followed its bending. Ambush, she thought; but that was an Outsider way, something for kif and mahe, not hani on Gathering.

Still…

“Scatter,” she said, with a wave of her arm to her crew. “The garden wall: get there and we’ll settle this daughter of mine. Hilfy: with Haral; Tully — Chur, you take him. Ker Llun, you and I are going through the gate.”

Ginas Llun nodded, her ears flat with distress, and while the others scattered in opposite directions through the hedge, Pyanfar thrust her hands into her belt and strode along at a good pace around the bending of the road and toward the inner gates. A step scuffed behind her, and that was Khym: she turned to look, to encourage him with a nod of her head, herself in gaudy red silk; her companion in official black; and Khym — grimy rags that might once have been blue. He came near her, beside her, limping somewhat; and gods, the waft of infection in his wounds — but he kept their pace.

They could hear it now, the murmur of voices, the occasional shout of a voice louder than the others. Pyanfar’s ears flattened and pricked up again; a surge of adrenalin hit fatigued muscles and threatened them with shivers. “It’s not challenge,” she muttered, “it’s riot.”

“Tahar’s here,” Khym said between breaths. “Na Kahi and his sisters. That’s second trouble. It’s set up, Pyanfar.”

“I can bet it is. Where’s our son’s brains?”

“Below his belt,” Khym said. And a few steps later, with the sounds of disorder clearer in the air: “Pyanfar. Get me past Tahy and her crowd and I can make a difference in this… take the edge off him. That much, maybe.”

She wrinkled her nose, gave him a sidelong glance. It was not strict honor, what he proposed. Neither was what Tahar intended. Their son — to end him by such a maneuver—

“If I can’t stop it,” she said, ” — take him.”

Khym chuckled, a throaty rattle. “You always were an optimist.”

They rounded the last curve, the gate ahead, wide open toward the gardens, the aged trees, the vine-covered goldstone of the Holding itself. A crowd surged about the front of the house, trampling the plantings and the vines. They shouted, taunts and derision toward Chanur; they rattled the bars of the windows.

“Rot them,” Pyanfar breathed, and headed for the gate. A handful of Mahn spotted her and set up an outcry, and that was all she wanted: she yelled and bowled into them with_/ Khym at her side, and the Mahn retreated for reinforcements in the garden. “Hai!” she yelled, and of a sudden there were Hilfy and Haral atop the wall, and a peppering of shots into the dirt in front of the Mahn, who scrambled for cover.

“Get the door,” Pyanfar yelled, waving at them, and they jumped and started running: more of the Mahn and some of their hangers-on were on the colonnaded porch, and of a sudden Chur and Tully were on the low garden wall which flanked that, Chur yelling as if encouraging a whole band of supporters. The Mahn darted this way and that, herdwise, and scattered from the door in the face of the three-way charge. Pyanfar raced up the steps and converged with Haral and Chur, gun in hand, burst through the doorway half a step ahead of them, into dimmer light and a chaos of bodies and the reek of smoke. It was a huge room, lit from barred windows, the wreckage of double doors at the end: hani there turned and faced their rush in a sudden paralysis, a hundred intruders who stared at leveled Chanur guns.

Some moved; young women put themselves into the fore of things. Others shifted about the fringes, carefully. Voices echoed deep within the halls. Pyanfar kept the pistol braced in her two hands, her eyes wide-focused, taking in all the movements.

That young woman — her own image, red-gold mane and stature more than her Mahn sisters: Tahy. Her focus narrowed. The young man — gods, tall and straight and broad-shouldered… years since she had seen them. Longer years for her planetbound daughter and son, growing-up years; and they had allies… a score of Mahn youths, male and female; and about the walls of the room — Kahi Tahar, na Kahi, the old man, Chanur’s southern rival; and others — senior women of holds she suspected as Enaury and others of Tahar’s hangers-on, here for the scavenging.

“Out of here,” Pyanfar said. “Out of here, all of you.”

“Guns,” Tahy spat. “Is that the way of if? We have our own. Is that what you choose, while na Kohan hides from us?”

“Put them away,” Pyanfar said. She pushed the safety back on, pocketed hers. In the tail of her eye Haral did the same, and the others followed suit. “Now,” Pyanfar said. “You’re somewhat strayed from the field, son of mine. Let’s walk this back out where it belongs.”

“Here,” Kara said.

A movement in the corridor behind the Mahn: Pyanfar noted it and drew in her breath. Chanur. A good score of the house. And Kohan, a head taller than the others.

“Hold it,” Pyanfar shouted, moved suddenly to the side, distraction: the invaders shifted in confusion and hands reached for weapons, a moment’s frozen confusion and suddenly Chanur at the Mahn’s backs. The Mahn retreated in haste, backing toward the wall that had been at their left, but Tahy and her companions who thrust themselves between Kara and Kohan quick as instinct; Pyanfar dived for the other side, Haral and Chur and Hilfy moving on the same impulse, interposed themselves. She touched Kohan’s overheated arm. He was trembling. “Back,” she said. “Back off, Kohan.” And to Tahy: “Out. No one wins here. If Kohan delayed — it was my doing; and I’m here. With Ginas Llun, who’ll back up what I say. With an Outsider, who’s proof enough we’ve got trouble. We’ve got kif at the station: they’ve called the captains in… to defend Gaohn. It’s like that up there. We can’t afford a split in the han.”

Tahy gave a negative toss of her head. “We hear a different story — all the way. No. You want to settle something on our own — we’ll oblige you. Kohan need help, that you had to drag him up out of the brush? We’ll settle that.”

“Station’s fallen,” a voice said out of Chanur ranks, and one of the captains thrust herself forward, Rhean, with crew in her wake. “Word’s on the com: they’ve called for help — it’s no lie, ker Mahn.”

Noise broke out in the room, a ripple of dismay through all those present. The Llun strode into it, neutrality abandoned. “How long ago? Chanur… how long?”

“Message is still going.” Kohan answered, self-controlled, though his breath was coming hard. “Kara Mahn. I forget all this. It’s over. Leave now. We’ll not talk about it.”