“What about our children?” a woman cried from the back of the crowd.

“If they're old enough to tote a bucket, bring them with you. Leave the smallest ones here with the old and crippled. They'll have to look after each other. Come on.”

Little Selden stood beside her in the crowd. Ronica looked down at him. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. His eyes were huge. “Go into the Concourse, Selden,” Keffria told him in a falsely cheerful voice. “We'll be back for you soon.”

“Shan't!” he declared in a brittle little voice. “I'm big enough to carry a bucket.” He choked back a frightened sob and crossed his arms defiantly on his chest.

“Malta will be with you,” Keffria offered desperately. “She can help take care of the babies and old people.”

“I'd rather carry a bucket,” Malta declared sourly as she took Selden's hand in hers. For a moment she looked and sounded almost like Althea. “We're not going to hide here and wonder what is going on. Come on, Selden. Let's go.”

At the top of the Concourse steps, Trader Larfa was still shouting directions. “You. Porfro. Get word to the Three Ships families. Someone take word to the New Traders' Council.”

“As if they would care! Let them watch out for themselves!” someone shouted back angrily.

“It's their fault we have Chalcedeans in the harbor in the first place,” someone added.

“There's no time for that now. We need to defend the city!” Larfa argued. “Bingtown is what counts, not when we got here!”

“Bingtown!” someone shouted. Others took up the cry. “Bingtown! To Bingtown!”

Wagons and carriages were already rattling out of the courtyard, headed down into the city proper. Ronica overheard someone arranging riders to take word to the outlying farms and settlements. There was no time to go home and change into different clothes, no time to wonder about missed breakfasts or shoes that were more sensible. She saw a woman and her grown daughter matter-of-factly tearing their voluminous skirts from their gowns. They discarded the hobbling fabric and in their long cotton pantaloons followed the men of their family.

Ronica seized Keffria's hand, counting on the children to follow. “Room for us?” she shouted to a passing cart. The driver halted it without a word. They piled into it, heedless of the crowding. Three young men leaped in after them. One wore a pitted sword at his hip. They were all grinning like maniacs. Their eyes were bright, their movements swift and powerful like young bulls ready to challenge one another. They smiled wide at Malta, who glanced at them and looked aside. The cart started with a jolt and Ronica seized hold of the edge. They began the trip down to Bingtown.

At one place in the road, the trees parted and Ronica had a brief glimpse of the harbor. The liveships were drawn up in the mouth of it. Men clustered on their decks, milling and pointing. Out beyond them, she saw the tall mast of a ship. The many-oared galleys of the Chalcedeans surrounded it like foul, scuttling bugs.

“They were flying the Jamaillian standard!” one young man in their cart cried out as they lost sight of the harbor.

“Don't mean a thing,” another one sneered. “The cowardly buggers just want to get in close before they attack. There's no other reason for that many ships to be heading into our harbor.”

Ronica agreed. She saw a sickly smile blossom on Malta's face. She leaned close to the white-faced girl. “Are you all right?” she asked her quietly. She feared her granddaughter was about to faint.

Malta laughed, a thin, near-hysterical sound. “It's so stupid. All this week, I've been sewing on my dress, thinking about Reyn, and the flowers and lights and dancing. Last night I could not sleep because my slippers displeased me so. And now I've a feeling that none of it may ever come to be.” She lifted her head and her wide eyes swept over the stream of wagons, carts, and the folk beside them on foot and on horseback. She spoke with a quiet fatalism. “Everything in my life that I was sure I would do someday has always been snatched away when it was almost within my reach. Perhaps it will happen again.” A far look came into her eyes. “Perhaps by tomorrow we shall all be dead and our town a smoking ruin. Perhaps my presentation will never even be.”

“Don't say such things!” Keffria exclaimed in horror.

Ronica said nothing at all for a time. Then she set her hand over Malta's where she gripped the side of the cart. “This is today. And this is your life.” They were comfortless words, and she was not sure where they came from. “It is my life, also,” she added, and looked ahead of them, far down the winding road to Bingtown.