"That may be, but that doesn't mean they were in your power. You blew up their platforms, I know; you detailed that already. That may have hurt them. Perhaps it made them hate you enough to give you to Devoth, but you can't really believe you had them on their knees. Let me tell you this about the league: they made it clear to each of us that you Akarans are just pawns to them. Once they have us quota aboard their ships and are sailing west, they don't hide the fact that they are the Known World's real power. And the Lothan Aklun, before they were eliminated, likewise dismissed you. You were their customers, but stupid ones, ignorant, addicted, easily fooled and exploited. As for us… many among the People hate the Akaran name and hold you responsible for our slavery, but quite a few think your people too pathetic to merit hate. None of us think you accurately understand the way the world has been working."

"And you? How do you feel?"

Skylene answered without the slightest hesitation. "The Kern-my clan-have a saying: 'Truth is a white crane with many heads but only one body.' When they grow agitated, the heads eat one another until only one remains."

"And that one truth prevails?"

"No. The one head can't live by itself, not when it's part of a body that has suffered multiple decapitations. There may be one truth left, but it dies when the body that connected it to the other truths dies."

Dariel's brow ridged with skepticism. "Yours are a dire people."

Shrugging, Skylene said, "The truth overlaps. It contradicts. But in many ways, many things are true. That's why I think a little bit of everything about you and your people."

"If that's true it seems surprising that you're talking to me. If my people are so pathetic, what use are we?"

This did cause her to pause for thought. "The league has used you. The Lothan Aklun have used you. The Auldek have used you. Perhaps we can find a use for you and your information, too. That's what the elders believe. And, anyway, you yourself proposed this."

Feeling a greater import in the question than seemed reasonable, Dariel could not help but ask, "Is it what Mor believes also?"

A smile started to lift the corners of Skylene's lips, but before the expression was complete, she ran a twist through it that made it more like a smirk. "You don't want to know what Mor thinks we should do with you. Trust me on that." Her tone switched, growing crisper and more official. "We've spoken enough. Let's begin. You were going to tell us about the floating merchants."

It seemed such a distant thing to speak about, unreal in this subterranean existence. He started by explaining what he knew of the merchants, about the way the currents flowed around the Inner Sea at different times of the year, how seasonal shifts made it possible for the great barges-cities unto themselves-to sail a circular route that took them all the way to the Vumu Archipelago. They were only marginally governed by the empire. Really, the merchant families of Bocoum held them together within an unofficial government-like arrangement. Though their trade was not rich enough to bring them into competition with the league, they were fundamental to the swirling flow of goods that kept the empire thriving.

As he spoke, images emerged in his mind. At first he thought they were just visualizations to aid his recall of information, but then he realized the images were more personal than that. He had forgotten, but he had first visited the floating merchants when he was a small boy. Of course he had. It was during the spring, when the rafts drifted on the slow current that carved the Mainland's coastline. He must have been six or seven years old, in those long-ago days before the world first went mad. He had stepped aboard the rafts-not with his father-but holding Thaddeus Clegg's hand.

With this "uncle" to guide him, he had gazed in awe at the bobbing, flowing, moving creation the thousands of rafts made when lashed together. The population of the rafts was an amazing, polyglot entity, diverse as the entire empire, there before him at once. People of all nations rode the waves, making their lives through trade. With animals in cages and others roaming free, with wares displayed and foodstuffs bubbling and frying and great stores of items piled in warehouses, with fisheries and clam hangers, cisterns for gathering rainwater and a network of tubing that ran it where needed, it was a grand, salt-tinged, barnacled confusion.

And then he remembered that Aliver had been with them. Tall and older, smart, confident, and a bit arrogant: everything it seemed a man should be. Oh, how Dariel felt tiny in his brother's shadow. That's the feeling that washed over him. Quick behind this flood of feeling came remembrance of the brief relationship they had rekindled as men on the battlefield of Talay. The emotion of it stopped his narration.

"Is something wrong?" Skylene asked.

Dariel fidgeted. "Yes. Many things are wrong. Can I have a break?"

"We've just begun-"

"I know. I'm sorry. I just started telling you about one thing and it brought to mind another."

"We have them only for an hour," Skylene said, gesturing toward the scribes, one of whom sat with pen poised, ready to continue. The other waited her turn, should the subject change to a different scroll. "Then they have to return to their work."

Dariel realized he did not recognize them. Perhaps they had been here before. Likely, they had, but in their silent roles they had no identity to him. Perhaps that was good. Because of it, it was easier for him to say, "I told you before about how my brother fought Maeander Mein. It was his great moment. I believe that, even though he died. Maybe it was great because he died. It's hard to explain.

"Everyone who knew him wished he never accepted the challenge. Certainly, the Mein would not have kept Maeander's pledge. In a way, it was a situation in which he could not win. So why do it? Why risk everything for nothing? That's what it seemed like to me at the time, and then when Aliver did die, it was both unbelievable and inevitable. I hated everything at that moment: Maeander and Hanish, the war, every soldier around us. Even Aliver himself. I hated that he had failed and left us. Left me. What I didn't tell you before was what I did in the moments after."

He noticed Skylene nod to the second scribe and knew from the different rhythm of the scratch of her pen that he was being recorded again. Okay, he thought. Let them have this in writing, too.

"Maeander killed my brother with a knife, following the rules the two of them had agreed upon. I swore-along with Aliver-to abide by the rules and honor the outcome. When I saw Aliver on the ground, and Maeander strolling away, so pleased with himself, I couldn't control myself. I hated him so much nothing else mattered. I said, just loud enough to be heard in the silence. 'Kill him.' When nobody obeyed me I shouted it. 'Kill him!' I ordered. Hear? I ordered it done."

He had been looking at his hands for a while but glanced up long enough to make sure Skylene understood him exactly. The scribe's pen scratched a little longer, and then stopped. Her eyes rose to look at him.

"So," he continued, kneading his hands together, "just like that, with a few words, I betrayed the honor my brother modeled for the world. I've always hated myself for that."

"He was an enemy commander," Skylene offered. "You just did what-"

"Aliver would never have done that. Honor is honor. It's not just honor when it suits you. He had agreed to terms, and so had I."

"I'm not sure I understand. Surely, Aliver did not think that the war would be decided between just two men? No matter what, it would have gone on, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then your actions changed nothing, except that you killed one of your enemy's leaders."