“You said Arienrhod tried to kill you?” Jerusha sat down.

Moon dropped heavily onto the seat, a little away from her; Tor stretched out fluidly at the bench’s end. “She told the nobles I was a sibyl, and they tried to throw me into the Pit.”

Tor sat up straight, speechless for once.

“Her own clone?” Jerusha felt her incredulity fade even as she said it. Yes, that’s the Arienrhod I know. No competition.

“I’m not Arienrhod!” Moon’s voice shook with denial. “I’m wearing her face, that’s all.” She pulled a hand down over her own, her fingers clawing, as though she wanted to strip it off. “And she knows it.”

Pollux returned and passed around tea with the silent propriety of a butler. Jerusha took a sip from her bowl, letting the scalding heat rise inside her head. It could be a trick, another trick, her coming here. But for the life of her she couldn’t imagine what purpose could lie behind it.

“They tried to throw you in the Pit?” Tor prodded, staring at Moon’s throat. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t hungry.” Moon drank her tea, a strange emotion moving across her face. Tor looked pained. “BZ — Inspector Gundhalinu came in with the Summers and made them let me go.”

“You mean that fishing pole with you was a real Blue?” Tor asked.

“He was once.” Jerusha rested her heavy-helmeted head against the wall. “I hope he will be again.”

“He never stopped wanting to be anything else,” Moon said quietly. “Don’t let him give it up, and throw everything away. Don’t let him blame himself for what happened.” She gulped tea.

“I can’t keep him from doing that.” Jerusha shook her head. “But I’ll make sure no one else blames him for it.” I can save his career; but I can’t save him from himself… or from you. “Tell me,” her resentment crystallized into accusation, “by all the gods, what do you see in Starbuck, that bloody genocide—”

“Sparks isn’t Starbuck… not any more.” Moon set her empty cup down on the bench, rattling it as the genocide registered. “And he never knew about the mers. But you do.”

From you. Jerusha glanced away abruptly. “Yes. Your friend Ngenet — told me the truth about them.” My friend Ngenet… who trusted you, and trusted me to know about you.

“Ngenet?” Moon shook her own head, rubbed her face again. “You must have known it before. Any sibyl knows the truth, you can’t deny that,” including the whole of the Hegemony in the accusation. “You want to punish Sparks for killing mers on off worlder land — for splattering blood on you while you stand and watch them die, with your hands out begging for the water of life! And you want to punish me for knowing the truth — that you’re punishing my world for your own guilt.”

Tor sat listening with wide ears, but Jerusha made no move to get rid of her. She made no move even to answer, cupping the Hegemonic seal of her belt buckle with cold fingers; Moon watched her intently through the long moment. Jerusha frowned. “I don’t make the laws. I just enforce them.” Wishing, as she said it, that she hadn’t said that much.

Disappointment showed in Moon’s eyes, but she didn’t press the argument. “Sparks isn’t Starbuck! He wasn’t Starbuck in Summer; and there won’t be a Starbuck any more, when Winter’s gone. Arienrhod did it to him, and he only let her do it because — because she was so like me.” Moon glanced away. Jerusha felt a pang of sympathy at the girl’s sudden shame and confusion. She stared at the trefoil tattoo. “Sparks was the one who told me about the Queen’s plot. He was coming here when she caught us — he didn’t care what you did to him, or me, as long as you kept our people from dying.” She looked up.

“If he wants to make up for the last five years, it’ll take more than that. It’ll take him the rest of his life.” Jerusha tasted venom.

“Do you hate him that much?” Moon frowned. “Why? What did he ever do to you?”

“Listen, Moon,” Tor said. “Everybody in Carbuncle has a reason to hate either Sparks Dawntreader or Starbuck. And that includes me.”

“Then you gave him a reason to hate you.”

Jerusha looked away. “He repaid us all a hundred times over.”

Moon leaned forward. “But at least you owe him a chance to prove he doesn’t belong to the Queen now. He knows everything about the Source’s plan — couldn’t he testify for you? He knows other things about the Source, things you could use—”

“Like what?” interested in spite of herself.

“What happened to the former Commander of Police? He was poisoned, wasn’t he?”

Jerusha felt her mouth fall open. “The Source did it?”

“For the Queen.” Moon nodded.

“Gods… oh, gods, I’d like to get that on tape!” With a spare to play every night, to sing me to sleep.

“Enough to drop the charges against us?”

Jerusha refocused on Moon, saw determination running swift and deep in her strange eyes; realized suddenly that she had been led blindfolded to this point — that the girl was still fighting for her lover’s life, and her own. You’ve learned the rules of civilization well, girl. Resentment struggled inside her, died stillborn. She looked at the trefoil tattoo again. Hell and devils, how long can I go on hating her face, when there’s no proof she ever deserved to be born with it?

“Will you let me go and bring him here?” Moon half rose, anticipating her surrender.

“It may not be that easy.”

Moon sat down again, her body taut. “Why not?”

“I let it be known all up and down the Street that Sparks was Starbuck, when I learned about it. The Summers must already know who he is.” And I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t know that I wanted it to happen that way. “They won’t let him leave the palace now.”

“He was supposed to be all right! That’s the only reason I left him there!” Moon cried her betrayal to the air; faces turned to stare at her across the room. Her eyes glazed suddenly, vacant windows. Jerusha edged away from her, away from contamination. “No, no!” Moon’s hands clenched into fists. “You can’t use him and let him die! I did it all for him — you know that’s why I came here. Not for you, not for the Change… I don’t care about the Change, if it means he has to die!” It had the sound of a threat. “Sparks isn’t going to die tomorrow—”

“Someone has to,” Jerusha said uncomfortably, uncertainly, trying to pull her back into the real world. “I know he’s your lover, sibyl — but the Change is bigger than any one person’s wants or needs. The Change ritual is sacred; if the Sea Mother doesn’t get her consort, there’ll be hell to pay from the crowds that came to see it. Starbuck has to die.”

“Starbuck has to die.” Moon echoed it, getting slowly to her feet. “I know. I know he does.” She put her hand to her head, her face drawing pain, as though she struggled against some compulsion. “But Sparks doesn’t! Commander.” She turned back, her face still strained. “Will you help me find First Secretary Sirus? He promised me,” she smiled suddenly, sardonically, “that if there was anything he could do himself to help his son, he’d do it. And he will.”

“I can contact him.” Jerusha nodded. “But I want to know why.”

“I have to see someone, first.” Moon’s determination faltered. “Then I’ll tell you, and you can tell him. Persipone, where’s Herne now?”

Tor raised her eyebrows. “Back at the casino, I expect — By all the gods,” with a kind of wonder, “I think I finally understand something in this conversation.” She grinned congenially at Jerusha. “Eat your heart out, Blue.”