Briar, his fingers in his ears, stared at the bird. The young starling sat up very straight, beak wide open, shrilling at the top of his lungs. "Who'd've thought such a little animal would make so much noise?"

Little Bear, in what sounded like agreement, threw back his head and began to howl.

Sandry was just finishing breakfast, having eaten late after her first real weaving lesson, and Briar and Tris were cleaning the kitchen area, when horses clattered to a stop before the cottage gate. Rough voices called for Lark and Rosethorn. The children ran after them, to see what was going on.

The squad of the Duke's Guard that had gone to the harbour looked much the worse for wear. All of them were scratched, sweaty and dirt-streaked, with tiny holes and tears in the maroon shirts and breeches that had been spotless that morning. Two dismounted to struggle with a limp body that had been tied over a horse. Another Guard held the reins of that mount as well as another that carried a much bigger form draped over its saddle.

"Mila save us, what happened?" Lark demanded, rushing forward to look at Daja.

Rosethorn planted her hands on her hips and glared at the sergeant. "I want an explanation and I want it now."

Briar shifted on his bare feet. The ground quivered. He felt roots - tree-roots, crop-roots, bush-roots - straining in the ground. Rosethorn was upset. The plants wanted to go to her; their eagerness to do it made the dirt tremble.

"They're all right," the sergeant told her tiredly. "But they did a big magic out in the harbour, the two of them, and now they can't even sit a horse. Had to bring them like killed deer. The girl was asleep when we landed - I don't think she even knows how we brought her home."

A Guard draped one of Daja's limp arms around Lark's neck. Sandry went forward and took Daja's other side.

"She's a trooper, this 'un," the Guard told them. "Acted her part good as a grown woman. Take care of her."

Sandry beamed at him. "We will."

As they bore Daja inside, Lark called over her shoulder, "Briar, get these soldiers a bucket of water."

He raced to obey, now that Rosethorn was calmer and the ground still.

Rosethorn went over to the other lump. "Frostpine, too?"

The sergeant nodded, wiping her forehead with a weary arm. "We would've taken him home first. He insisted we come here and leave the girl with you, even if it was the longer ride from the harbour."

"You may as well leave him, too. He doesn't sleep in the Fire dormitory - he just has a dismal loft above his forge," Rosethorn informed them. "We can look after him as well as Daja. Bring him inside." Looking back, she saw that Tris was still there. "Tell Lark - we'll put Frostpine in my bed for now."

Tris obeyed. Lark had just finished putting Daja in her room, on the ground floor, instead of trying to take her upstairs. She nodded when Tris said what Rosethorn had planned, and opened the door to the other woman's room. Tris peered inside, curious. There were plants by the rear window - the only other window looked into Rosethorn's own shop, and was shrouded by open shelves laden with clay dishes. There was a small altar in the corner, a clothes-chest, a desk and a bed. It was all plainer even than Tris's room. Does Rosethorn care about anything but plants? she wondered.

But she knew that was wrong. Rosethorn cared about Briar, and Lark and birds. Maybe she was even beginning to care about Sandry, Daja and Tris herself. If she thought about it, Rosethorn hadn't really barked at any of them - not painfully, as she had when the four had first come to Discipline - since the earthquake.

"You see?" Lark murmured. "No bloody hooks in the ceiling - not even a skull anywhere."

Tris blushed. She had been wondering something like that.

"In here," Lark called, waving to the Guards who half-dragged the unconscious Frostpine between them. Tris stepped out of the way.

As the Guards passed her with their burden, the girl's sensitive nose picked up a funny odour: smoky and bitter at once. It was a familiar scent, but where did she smell it before? It was a heavy reek that clung to Frostpine's and the soldiers' clothes alike.

Curious, Tris went to Lark's room to see Daja. Sandry wrestled with one of the Trader's shoes. Tris helped with the other, sniffing the air as she did. Daja, too, was covered with that familiar, smoky odour.

"Look," Sandry whispered, once Daja's shoes and stockings were off. She touched Daja's right cheek. In the same place where the three at Discipline sported red weals, Daja had a nasty-looking scratch. "This has to be cleaned."

"Right here." Briar came in with a bowl of sharp-scented water and a pair of dry linen cloths. "Rosethorn says water with fresh yarrow crushed in it will clean that ouch she's - we've - got." Pulling up a stool, he sat next to Daja, and dipped a cloth in the bowl. Wringing it out, he dabbed at Daja's scratch, gently cleaning it. "I'm glad you left that staff of yours upstairs," he told the sleeping girl. "I'd hate to have you bonk me on the head for washing this out."

Pain flared on Tris's cheek; her own welt stung almost as much as when she'd first got it.

"Wish I'd been there," Briar murmured, to himself as much as to the girls. "All those ships..."

"Shalandiru," whispered Daja, eyes closed. "Oared warships, lateen rigs."

"I don't know if she's babbling or dreaming," remarked the boy. Reaching inside his sleeveless shirt, he brought out a little stone jar, and opened it. "You'll love this," he told Daja. "My first batch of comfrey salve. It'll fix you up in no time, without even a wicked scar."