When her throat began to grow dry and her voice to shake, she sought desperately for an ending. Taking a deep breath, she declared, “You have made a brave start tonight. Now, as darkness closes around our city, we must recall that dark clouds still overshadow us. Return to the safety of your homes. Keep yourselves well there, and wait for word from us as to where your efforts can best be employed. On behalf of the Satrap, your ruler, I praise and thank you for the spirit you have shown. On your way to your homes this evening, please keep him in mind. But for the threats raised against him, he would be here himself tonight. He wishes you well.”

She took a breath and turned to Trader Dwicker. “Perhaps you should lead us in a closing prayer of thanksgiving to Sa before we disperse.”

He came to his feet, his brow creased. She smiled at him encouragingly, and saw him lose the battle. He turned to the assembled Traders and took a breath to begin.

“Council, I would speak before we adjourn. I ask that the matter of Davad Restart’s wrongful death be considered.” It was Ronica Vestrit.

Trader Dwicker actually choked. For a moment, Serilla thought she had lost entirely. Then Roed Caern rose smoothly to his feet.

“Council, I submit that Ronica Vestrit speaks without authority here. She is no longer Trader for her own family, let alone Restart’s. Let her sit down. Unless this matter is raised by a rightful Trader, the Council need not consider it.”

The old woman stood stubbornly, two high spots of color on her cheeks. She controlled her anger and spoke clearly. “The Trader for my family cannot speak for us. The attempt on our lives has sent her into hiding with her children. Therefore, I claim the right to speak.”

Dwicker managed a breath. “Ronica Vestrit, have you written authorization from Keffria Vestrit to speak as Trader for the Vestrit family?”

A silence of six heartbeats. Then, “No, Council-head Dwicker, I do not,” Ronica admitted.

Dwicker managed to contain his relief. “Then, according to all our laws, I fear we cannot hear you tonight. For every family, there is only one designated Trader. To that Trader, both voice and vote belong. If you obtain such a paper, duly witnessed, and come back to us when next we meet, then perhaps we can hear you.”

Ronica sank slowly back to her seat. But Serilla’s relief was short-lived. Other Traders rose to their feet, and Dwicker began recognizing them in turn. One Trader rose and asked if Wharf Seven could be repaired first, as it offered the best moorage for deep draft ships. Several others quickly agreed with this idea, and in quick succession a number of men volunteered to take this as their task.

Proposal after proposal followed. Some referred to public matters, others to private. One Trader stood to offer space in his warehouse to any who would help him make quick repairs and to guard it at night. He quickly had three volunteers. Another had teams of oxen, but was running out of feed for them. He wanted to trade their labor for food to keep them alive. He, too, received several offers. The night grew later and later, but the Traders showed no inclination to go home. Before Serilla’s eyes, Bingtown knit itself back together. Before Serilla’s eyes, her hopes of power and influence faded.

She had almost ceased listening to the proceedings when a somber Trader stood and asked, “Why are we being kept ignorant of what triggered this whole disaster? What has become of the Satrap? Do we know who was behind the threat to him? Have we contacted Jamaillia to explain ourselves?”

Another voice was raised. “Does Jamaillia know of our plight? Have they offered to send ships and men to help us drive out the Chalcedeans?”

All faces turned toward her. Worse, Trader Dwicker made a small motion encouraging her to speak. She gathered her thoughts hastily as she stood. “There is little that is safe to tell,” she began. “There is no practical way to send swift word to Jamaillia without risk of it being intercepted. We are also uncertain whom we should consider trustworthy and loyal there. For now, the secret of the Satrap’s location is best not shared with anyone. Not even Jamaillia.” She smiled warmly at them as if certain of their understanding.

“The reason I ask,” the Trader went on ponderously, “is that I had a bird from Trehaug yesterday, warning me that I should expect payment for some goods I sent upriver to be delayed. They had had a quake, and a big one. They weren’t sure how much damage had been done when they sent the bird, but said that the Kendry would certainly be delayed.” The man shrugged one skinny shoulder. “Are we sure the Satrap came through it safely?”

For a moment, her tongue could get no purchase on her thoughts. Then Roed Caern was rising gracefully to claim the floor. “Trader Ricter, I think we should not speculate on such things, lest we send rumors running. Surely if anything were amiss, we would have received word. For now, I propose we let all questions regarding the Satrap rest. Surely his security is more important than our idle curiosity.” He had a trick of standing with one shoulder slightly higher than the other. He turned as he spoke, somehow conveying both the charm and arrogance of a well-clawed cat. There was no threat in his words, yet somehow it would be challenging him to ask more about the Satrap. A little ripple of uneasiness seemed to spread out from him. He took his time about resuming his seat, as if allowing everyone to consider his words. No one brought up the topic of the Satrap again.