Sadhanu, bhai, I — I thank you all for coming. This is the greatest honor, the highest moment of my life.”

“Gundhalinu-esMrad.” Sirus’s expression eased at the compliment, and at the reassurance that they were, at least, in the presence of a highborn. “You bring your class and family prestige, at such a young age already an inspector to be.”

“Thank you, sadhu.” Gundhalinu’s freckles reddened. He tried to hold back a fit of thick coughing, failed; they waited with polite sympathy.

“He has my best officer been. I’ve him sorely missed.” Jerusha took pleasure in Gundhalinu’s swift glance filled with surprise, at the tribute, at hearing it in Sandhi. Moon stood silent between them, with a private smile on her face. Jerusha noticed for the first time the tunic the girl was wearing; its colors heightened the alien ness of her pale skin and light-silvered hair. It was the traditional costume of the Winter nomads; she had seen one once displayed as a rarity in the window of an antique shop in the Maze. Who are you, girl?

But she heard only Secretary Sirus introducing himself, holding up a palm for the Kharemoughi equivalent of a handshake. Moon went unexpectedly rigid at the sound of his name. Gundhalinu stepped forward, raising his own hand. A second of discomfort passed like an electric spark between them before their palms met: She saw that Gundhalinu’s hand would not open fully; the fingers were drawn up like claws. She saw the pink-white scars ridging his inner wrist next. Oh, gods, BZSirus went on with the introductions. Gundhalinu kept a straight face as the perfumed Speaker refused to touch his hand. Does he think it’s catching? Jerusha frowned. She knew a slashed wrist when she saw one, knew the Kharemoughis, being what they were, would recognize it, too.

“You — must terrible hardships have suffered, lost in the wilderness after your patrol craft crashed, Inspector Gundhalinu.” Sirus’s words were a springboard for an explanation.

“I — I wasn’t in the wilderness lost, Secretary Sirus,” Gundhalinu said woodenly. “I was by bandits prisoner made. They treated me-badly.” He looked down under the weight of their combined gaze, pressed his wrists together. “If not for this woman here, I would never back have gotten. She saved my life.” He reached out, caught Moon’s elbow and drew her forward. “This is Moon Dawntreader Summer.” His expression as he glanced at her told her the honor she was being paid. She smiled at him, looked back at Sums with sudden intentness.

“A native?” the Speaker said, loud with drink. “An ignorant barbarian girl has a Kharemoughi inspector rescued? It doesn’t me amuse, Gundhalinu-eshkrad, not at all.”

“No humor was intended.” Gundhalinu raised his head, his own voice suddenly soft and cold. Jerusha looked a warning at him, but he didn’t see it. “She’s no ignorant savage. She’s the wisest, the noblest human being in this room. She is a sibyl.” He pulled aside the collar of her tunic carefully; she lifted her chin with pride to expose a half-healed knife wound and a trefoil tattoo. Jerusha grimaced. By the Boatman, now you’ve done it!

Caught off guard, instinctive reaction filled their watching faces; but the Speaker was too deeply in his cups for respect or even good manners. “What does that on this world mean? Put her in a robe and call her eshkrad, but that won’t her a Technician make. A sibyl on this world…” He choked off as someone seized him from behind, muttered sharp, unintelligible words at his ear.

But Jerusha was watching the girl, and saw her cheeks color as if she had understood every word. She stepped away from Gundhalinu, her arms st iffy at her sides, and said in stilted Sandhi, “I am only a cup that knowledge holds. It does not to knowledge matter how poor the cup is. It is the wisdom of those who drink of me that me wise makes. Fools make a sibyl foolish, wherever she is.” Jerusha flinched at the irony.

The Kharemoughi expressions rippled with astonishment. “We meant you no offense,” Sirus said swiftly, placatingly. “Since you are a holy woman to your own people, you deserve our respect as well, sibyl.” A small, self-deprecating smile. “But where did she Sandhi learn, Commander?”

“I taught it to her,” Gundhalinu said, before Jerusha could fill her mouth with the obvious response. Gundhalinu put his arm around Moon’s shoulders, drew her back to him, closed her in. “And with due respect to the honorable Speaker, I wish to say that if I her Gundhalinu-esMrad made, if she my wife were, she would the honor of my entire class raise.”

The astonishment verged on horror this time. Jerusha stared with the rest. “—appalled” — a woman’s voice from somewhere in the rear among them.

“G\mdha\mu-eshkrad,” Sirus shifted position uncomfortably, “you have a great hardship endured, we understand that…”

Gundhalinu faltered under the unanimity of their censure. His arms loosened, but his hands still rested on Moon’s shoulders. “Yes, sadhu,” apologetically. “But I will not her insulted hear. She saved my life.”

“Of course.” Sirus smiled again. “But you don’t her intend to marry—” He glanced from side to side.

“She loves another,” almost sadly. Moon turned under his hands to look at him.

“Then you would her marry?” the Speaker said indignantly. “Have you no pride left? Are you so degenerate? To say such a thing without shame! You’re already a failed-suicide!” The word also meant coward.

Gundhalinu sucked in a breath, coughing. “I attempted the honorable thing. It isn’t my fault if I failed!” He held out his hands.

“It is always the fault of a truly superior man when he fails.” Another official, one Jerusha didn’t recognize. “A failed-suicide doesn’t deserve to live.”

Gundhalinu’s battered shield of self-worth fell apart entirely; he stumbled back the few steps to the examining table, clung there as though the very words were a mortal blow. “Forgive me, sadhanu, bhai, for — for disgracing my class and my family.” He could not even look at them. “I never deserved the honor of your respect, or even your presence. But I deserve your scorn and your execration fully. I am no better than a slave, a crawling animal.” His arms trembled; Jerusha moved quickly to support him before he collapsed.

“What’s the matter with you people!” She threw the accusation over her shoulder, heedless. “What do you want from him? Do you want him to slash his wrists again, do you want to watch his ‘honor’ dram into the sink?” She waved a hand. “One of your own people, a brave, decent officer, has gone through hell and was strong enough to survive; and all you can say to him is ‘drop dead!”“

“You’re not one of us, Commander,” Sirus said quietly. “Gundhalinu . understands. But you never could.”

“Thank the gods for that.” Jerusha helped Gundhalinu up onto the table, not acknowledging their departure as the muttering officials began to leave the room. She heard the Speaker’s voice rise to the surface of sound deliberately, to call Gundhalinu by a form of address reserved for the lowest Unclassified. Gundhalinu’s mouth quivered; he swallowed convulsively.

“Citizen Sirus!”

Jerusha found Moon’s voice an excuse to turn away while Gundhalinu got control of himself. She saw Sirus hesitate in the doorway, and the girl’s struggle to curb her own white anger as she looked at him. It was successful; Jerusha saw the anger submerged by another more urgent emotion.

“I — I must to you speak.”

Sirus raised his eyebrows, glanced toward Gundhalinu. “I think that too many words already have been said.”

She shook her head with stubborn resolution, her lank, pale hair flopping. “About — about someone else.”

“Do you as a sibyl ask?”

Another shake. “I ask as your niece.” His limbs stopped trying to move him through the doorway. The rear guard of the departing Kharemoughis looked back, tittered scandal as they went on out into the hallway. Jerusha blinked, felt Gundhalinu straighten up beside her. “About your son. From the last Festival.”