Daja found it. Racing along, taking the quick way back to the castle and their bodies, they called to their friend. Tris! Tris!

—and hematite to draw illness from a body—Tris was memorizing one of the many lists Niko gave her while she worked. To ground and stabilize, to focus on the physical plane, for scrying. Jade for lave, healing—

TRIS! Briar and Daja shouted, throwing their power behind the call.

What?! What? I’m busy! cried Tris.

Rather than waste time by telling her what had happened, they showed her images of the break in the ground Daja had made and the water jet shooting out of it. Tris needed a moment to sort out what they needed; the doubled images of the same event were more confusing than useful at first. I’ll fix it, she told them grumpily. And you better hope Niko doesn’t find out.

He won’t if you stop jawing and get to it, Briar retorted, as he and Daja fell into their physical bodies again.

As they began to stretch limbs that had gone stiff, they felt Tris in the earth nearby, grumbling like a vexed housewife. By the time they walked out of the baths, she had used the bubbling force of the hot springs to block the channel Daja had opened.

“We’d better change clothes,” Briar commented with a sigh. “If Lark sees us like this, she might think we got in a fight or something.”

There was no arguing with that: all their work to get the mud out of their garments had just created large smears. Daja followed Briar to their rooms, where they changed into clean things. Daja also seized the opportunity to use their privy. On their way back to Lark, Tris, and Sandry they peered into the courtyard where Daja’s power had gotten away from her. Tris had done things properly. The only sign that hot water had jetted from the ground here was soaked earth and water-splattered stone.

6

There you are,” Lark began, rising to her feet when Briar and Daja returned. There was a look of welcome and relief in her eyes.

Daja blinked at the scene before her: she could see why Lark was so glad they were back. Across from the entry to the courtyard, someone had placed two piles of cushions on a groundcloth. Between the cushions was a low wooden table decked with covered plates, a pitcher, and a teapot. Little Bear lay with his muzzle on his forepaws, nose just touching the groundcloth, eyes locked on the plates.

In front of the whole arrangement waited Polyam. With a bow to Daja, the Trader indicated the cushions, and said, “It is a fine day for a conversation.” The words were set by centuries of custom around the Pebbled Sea. They meant that the one who spoke them wished to do serious business.

Daja walked over, passing close to her forge. A quick glance into it showed that her white fire grid was gone, used up far below the ground.

“I beg you to accept this gift,” Polyam added with a wave toward the iron vine. Beside it was a chased dish a foot in width. Daja picked it up. It was copper of a particular ruddy shade, with an inch-wide rim decorated in scalloped patterns, and a central design of shaggy horses and fur-capped riders in full gallop. It was a good piece of metal, comfortably solid in her hands. “It’s just a token,” commented Polyam, her words still those of bargaining custom. “To show my respect for your work.”

Daja flipped the dish over, searching for the maker’s mark. It was in one horse’s round haunch; not the mark of a smith she knew. “This is Gold Ridge copper,” she murmured. During the trip north, she had taken every chance to see and handle local metalwork. Long before their arrival, she knew the feel of Gold Ridge copper as well as she knew her own name.

“I bought it here,” Polyam replied. “We come through every two years or so.”

You must have done better then, to afford this, thought Daja. The plate was worth at least two silver astrels, a lot of money for a wirok. “I couldn’t take one of your things.”

Polyam shook her head. “I was a different woman then. The business I hope to do with you is more important.”

Daja ran her fingers over the chasing. The copper sang behind her eyes as she stared at Polyam. At last she rested the piece next to the iron vine. Getting her staff from where it leaned against the wall, she laid it on the dropcloth and sat next to it, one pile of cushions at her back.

Once Polyam was seated with her own staff beside her, she carefully poured tea into small cups. Bargain-cups were supposed to be fine work; this pair had seen better days. Daja chose to ignore it. She had a feeling that Polyam had been forced to use her belongings—no one wanted the caravan’s bargain-goods handled by a trangshi. They would only have to be cleansed later, or even destroyed.

Polyam raised her cup to Daja. “To business,” she said.

Daja copied her. “To business.” She sipped as her hostess did and hummed with pleasure. This was real Trader tea, hot, strong, flavored with smoke. She’d drunk nothing like it since her last night aboard Third Ship Kisubo.

Polyam smiled. “Talk needs food, or the talkers weaken.” She took lids from the dishes, putting them aside. The plates were laden with things like cold vine leaves stuffed with rice, onion, garlic, and mint, tiny pickled onions, pastries filled with chicken or eggplant and spices, apricots stuffed with almond-rosewater paste, and small fruit tartlets. Last but not least, she saw almond and orange cakes. All were traditional foods among Traders, in caravans and ships alike, and Daja had not tasted any of them in months.

Looking at her knees, she bit down on her lower lip until she had beaten the urge to cry. If Polyam saw emotion, she would know that Daja was sensitive about Trader food, and she would have the advantage when they bargained. At last the girl took up the threadbare linen napkin Polyam had supplied and spread it over her crossed legs. “I really shouldn’t,” she said, as good manners dictated.