(Author's Note: In Old Norse poetry and sagas, kennings - or metaphorical compound words/phrases - were used to describe gods, people, animals, places and events in poetic fashion. Sometimes the description has a correlation with mythology, sometimes it's fallen into common usage. "Raven's Mead" is a kenning meaning "Blood.")

Amalthea Quint leaned her elbows on the balcony rail and sighed. She was wearing VR goggles, a liquid pixel display in a shatterproof frame that curved around the upper part of her face. In her hands was an intelli-deck, set up to receive a live data-flash. If she'd opened her fingers and dropped the deck, it would have fallen fifty feet to the courtyard below. Amalthea was sorely tempted.

An image of Captain Khulat, her commanding officer aboard Advocacy Command ship Avatar, scowled at her from the goggle's screen. "Lt. Commander Quint, you can choose to take this re-assignment, or you can choose to resign your commission. I'm sorry. You're an excellent advocate and a good officer. I wasn't asked for my opinion, otherwise I'd have told 'em to shove it up their kak-holes sideways."

"The Duchess of Banjul put the squeeze on some Hub-Gov heavies," Amalthea replied, "and they want to bump me up to special judge-advocate. What do these duties entail, exactly?"

"A roaming trouble-shooter with full authority to investigate criminal activities, at your discretion or at the request of others. You'll be a Commander first-class. Duchess Sweet-in-the-Morning was very impressed with your work, and that of your partner, Fey Lonyali. She dreamed this little plum up all by herself. Thought it was a 'suitable reward' for recovering her jewels on the Hy Brazil."

Amalthea and Fey had traveled to Tyvesh on a luxury cruise liner Hy Brazil, following the successful conclusion of a murder case on Ifni. It was supposed to be a holiday, but both women had been asked to intervene when the Duchess of Banjul's extensive jewelry collection was stolen. The perpetrator of that crime being unmasked without too much difficulty, Amalthea had settled in with Fey on the Tyvesh homeworld to finish their vacation in peace and quiet... until Captain Khulat's emergency data-flash.

"Did I mention you get to hand pick your own staff?" Khulat said. She had a habit of tugging her bronze braids when troubled; the smooth plaits were currently undisturbed. Amalthea figured the captain wasn't quite as upset about the situation as she pretended to be.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you mean I can get Fey assigned to work with me?"

Khulat nodded. "And a small interstellar cruiser for your personal use. Duchess Sweet really pulled strings with a vengeance."

Judging from the Duchess' performance on Hy Brazil, Amalthea had thought the influential Banjul'ee woman too shallow, snobbish and self-centered to go to so much trouble for social inferiors. Before she accepted the admittedly generous offer, she'd have to talk it over with Fey. "Can I get back to you in a couple of days, ma'am?"

"Don't take too long," Khulat warned. "Otherwise you might appear ungrateful, and Corps Command might decide to assign you to the ass-end of nowhere, the Duchess' wishes notwithstanding. Understood?"

"Aye-aye, ma'am. I'll contact you in three days." Amalthea disengaged the intelli-deck's communicator; Khulat's image dissolved and winked out.

She pulled off the goggles and tossed them on a nearby table, followed by the deck. Abandoning the balcony, she went inside. Tyvesh was a sophisticated society whose natives preferred to keep technological intrusion to a minimum. All their buildings were made of dressed stone and hand-crafted tiles. They didn't permit implants that allowed personal communication with computer systems, and the systems themselves were disguised as artworks, or deliberately blended into the environment. Plasma or projectile weapons were verboten. At first glance, one might assume the Tyvesh were primitive sophonts, but that would be a mistake.

Amalthea glanced around the room. She and Fey were staying in a temple of Vashti, the Tyvesh supreme deity. Fey was a First of Fist, a high-ranking member of the martial priesthood, and had spent many years here in training. There were woven tapestries on the walls, depicting the goddess' many battles against evil. The floor was a glossy dark wood that had the sort of patina that comes only from centuries of loving care. Since Tyvesh preferred not to use chairs, flat cushions in subtle weaves were scattered everywhere, punctuated by low tables and a round bed heaped with blankets. Decorative oil lamps provided illumination. It had a certain rustic charm, but...

"Not a console, screen or control panel in sight," Amalthea muttered. "It's unnatural, I tell you. Even the spaceport  looks like a fekkit museum."

"Talking to yourself is one of the classic signs of lunacy," Fey said brightly as she came into their room. The silver bells woven into her black hair chimed with every step. Since the evening was warm, she wore a brief, pleated linen shift that ended mid-thigh, showing a great deal of firm cinnamon skin.

"Oh, we have places like this back home on Yggdrasil," Amalthea replied, turning to greet her lover with a broad grin. "We call them 'retreats' where people can go to experience the archaic past. You know, hunting down an animal with a spear, burning it to a crisp over an actual fire, battling with blood-sucking insects, not bathing for days at a time... it's supposed to be fun, but by Odin, I've never seen the point myself!"

Fey was immediately contrite. "Are you suffering that much? Should I make arrangement for us to leave?"

"No, I'm joking." Amalthea gave her lover a hug, and received a kiss in return. "Most of the modern conveniences are here, if only I could figure out how to operate them. So, what are we doing tonight?"

"Would you care to tell me about the flash from Captain Khulat first?" Fey ran a clawed fingertip over Amalthea's cheek. "Qan Miryali told me you got a call on the temple's intelli-deck."

Qan Miryali was the temple's Mother, an elderly though feisty priest who looked askance at Fey's relationship with an offworlder. A two meter tall, blue-eyed, milk-skinned, freckled, muscular foreigner from Yggdrasil, in fact. Amalthea made a face. "Mem Miryali still thinks I'm going to foam at the mouth and start wrecking the furniture any minute."

"She's having trouble accepting that you're an atypical Yggdrasilan." Fey chuckled. "Are your people really as foul-tempered as legend states?"

"Some of them are," Amalthea admitted. "My family has a long history of uncivilized behavior, and they're proud of it. If you go to a Quint reunion, you'd better have a good head for alcohol, a cast iron stomach, and plenty of armor. Uncle Ottar has a habit of tying women to the wall and chucking axes at their braids when he's had too much to drink."

"Goddess!"

"Why do you think I keep my hair cut so short? Fortunately, Uncle Ottar also has very good aim. We haven't lost a female cousin yet." Amalthea released the priest, and spun around in a circle to show off her new garment. "Did the tailor do a good job?"

Fey's lime-green eyes narrowed. She knew she was being distracted. Rather than insist upon being told about Khulat's flash, she decided to ignore it for now. "You look wonderful." Amalthea was also wearing a short linen shift, dyed dark gold at the hem and indigo at the top. The colors emphasized her blue eyes and butter yellow hair. "Come on; I don't want you to miss the festival."

Amalthea breathed a sigh of relief. She wanted to spend some time with the woman she loved, have fun, put off the future for a while. Besides, she wasn't sure if Fey would like the idea of leaving diplomatic services. What if she says no? Her heart nearly sank to her toes at the thought. Gods of my fathers, I don't want to lose her. I couldn't stand it!

"Is something wrong?" Fey had noticed the mournful expression on Amalthea's face. "Bad news?"

"No, no, just thinking." Amalthea forced herself to smile. "The festival's waiting. Are we going or not?"

Fey could also act when she chose. "Yes. I want to show you the sights. I think you'll like it."

"I'm sure I will."

Neither woman said much of anything else as they took the stairs down to the courtyard.

The Festival of Thieves was in full swing. Night had fallen, and a wealth of stars sparkled in the clear night sky. Fey had been teaching Amalthea some of the constellations. "Lesser Dreamsnake, the Plume, the Sword-of-Vashti," the Yggdrasilan murmured.

Fey pointed. "There's the Heart Embraced. See that small red star, near the top? We call it kajalni, the spirit-flame." She glanced at Amalthea from beneath her lashes. Kajalni was also a Tyvesh term for lovers.

"Have I told you lately how much I admire, adore, and love you?" Amalthea asked, her knees going weak.

"Perhaps you can demonstrate later." Fey quoted from the Book of Vashti,  "Speech is silver, deeds are gold."

Amalthea started to answer but was distracted by a group of Heart priests. They had their hair up in buns, skewered by gilded pins, and each woman wore silver ankle bangles. The more bangles, the higher their status. The senior Hearts marched past, laughing and talking, each stride accompanied by a deafening clash. One of them reeled up to Amalthea, waving a wineskin. Sunfire brandy dribbled from the opening. "Here!" the Heart cried. "Have a drink and who knows what will happen!"

"Don't you dare try to steal her!" Fey protested, putting a protective arm around Amalthea's waist. "Go pick on somebody else's lover!"

"Selfish!" The Heart crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, giggling. Her companions called to her and she staggered away.

"Maybe you should tell me more about this Festival of Thieves." Amalthea was wide-eyed. "Is it supposed to be one big orgy, or what?"

"Not exactly." Fey carefully untangled one of the stringed bells in her hair, then looped it around Amalthea's wrist. "That'll make you off-limits. If somebody tries to drag you away, show them this. Not even a Mouth of Vashti wants to tangle with an angry Fist."

Amalthea nodded. The Tyvesh religion was divided into four sections - the warrior Fists; Heart healers; Eyes were clairvoyant oracles; and Wisdoms, who had the most secular power of all. Wisdoms ministered to the faithful, preached Vashti's word, and held important positions in government. "What are we celebrating, by the way?"

"The purpose of the annual festival is two-fold." Fey led her down an avenue, where bonfires raged in giant bronze bowls, tended to by Tyvesh males in glittering loincloths. "First, it's a chance for everyone to get drunk, eat until they burst, steal other people's mates - always by consent, of course - and have a good time. Second, the religious aspect has to do with an episode in Vashti's life, when she stole fire from the stars to give to mortals. One can make an oath at the sacred flames; it is believed that such a vow can never be broken. Oh, and keep a hand on your hip pouch. Real thieves are permitted to steal without consequences during the festival, but they may not use violence. That would be in bad taste. Only skill is admired."

"How very civilized." Amalthea sniffed. The sweet scent of charred wood and incense drifted in the air, along with cooking fat, spices, hot sugar, roasting meats and spilled alcohol. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving." Fey took her to a portable stall, where a heavy-set man was grilling skewers of cubed meat, brushing them with a pungent sauce. She purchased two, paying for them with a small coin. "Try this, but be careful."

Amalthea bit into it hungrily, then nearly spat the mouthful back out again. "Hot!" she grumbled, sucking in air to cool her flaming tongue.

"This is a sub-tropical planet, Mal. We like plenty of chilies in our food. Heat is good for the digestion."

The man said something in Tyvesh, leaning over the stall. He was perilously close to burning his chest on the grill. Fey put her clenched fist against his brow, recited a short blessing, and led Amalthea away.

"He has a daughter who's off-planet, an ensign in the Corps," Fey explained while they ate. "Fists are considered good luck priests. He hoped some of it would rub off on him, and thence to his offspring."

A juggler was captivating the festival goers with a dazzling display, tossing a sheaf of daggers from hand to hand. Male and female sacred prostitutes from a sex cult did an erotic dance, their naked flesh slick with perfumed oil. Musicians wandered here and there, dogged by packs of thieves who worked the crowds they attracted. Near one of the bonfires, a storyteller squatted on a luridly patterned rug, surrounded by listeners. Fey stopped for a moment.

Amalthea whispered, "What's he saying?" She was studying the Tyvesh language, but hadn't gotten very far.

"It's the story of Vashti in the Wilderness," Fey replied quietly. "He tells it extremely well."

Although Amalthea did not understand the language, she recognized the beauty of the storyteller's poetry. His voice rose and fell in studied cadence, a song without music that was nevertheless irresistible.

"There is only one Yggdrasilan in the capital tonight," someone said from behind, speaking the common Universal tongue, "and only one First of Fist audacious enough to take a foreign giant as kajalni."

Fey whirled around. Her grimace became a delighted smile that made her spiral cheek scars disappear. "Bek Lonyali! When did you get home, sister of my mother?"

Bek embraced her niece. "In time to enjoy the festival. I missed it last year, and you, too, daughter of my sister." Tyvesh were a matriarchal race. In family relationships, none were closer than aunt and niece. By tradition, a girl's mother's sister was responsible for her education.

Bek Lonyali was slightly shorter than Fey, her skin a more aggressive cinnabar color, but her eyes were the same shade of startling lime-green. She wore the glory-robe of an Eye priest, white-on-white silk with touches of gold. Her skull was shaved clean. Glimmering gold bracelets on both wrists proclaimed her status as a First of Eye. She turned to Amalthea. "Have you met the rest of the family yet?"

"I think Fey is ashamed of me," Amalthea replied with a chuckle. "If I lost about a foot in height and dipped myself in red paint, she might think I was more presentable."

"Shame to your lips for the lie!" Fey exclaimed. "Bek, this is my crazy kajalni, Amalthea Quint. Please don't believe a word she says. I think Yggdrasilans feed their children bad manners with their milk."

Amalthea quirked an eyebrow at her lover. Fey didn't know she'd been practicing greeting customs in private. There was a special one for Eye priests. She took Bek's hand, bowed over it, kissed the palm and said in perfect Tyvesh, "Vashti bless this fortunate meeting. May Her flame guard and guide your vision, Her sparks light your path."

Much to her surprise, Bek answered in lightly accented Yggdrasilan. "My house, my sword, my shield are yours. May you never lack for ale and bread and salt, and may Odin always turn His blind eye towards your sins."

Fey laughed at the startled expression on Amalthea's face. "Bek Lonyali works for several interstellar corporations as a paid oracle. Her predictions are famous for their accuracy. She's been to Yggdrasil many times."

"Yes, and they keep me so busy I rarely have time to visit home." Bek gestured, bracelets jangling. "Will you join me for refreshment? There's a decent tavern on the other side of the bridge."

"If Mal doesn't mind..." Fey gave her lover a questioning look.

Amalthea shrugged. "Sounds fine to me. Unless you two would rather catch up on family matters alone?"

"Yggdrasilans are noted for their bravery," Bek observed, "but this one is exceptionally courageous." Flickering firelight softened her sharp features. "Forgive me, mem Quint, but you're a stranger at festival and unfamiliar with our customs. A prime target for thieves."

"We'd probably find you stripped down to naked teeth and toenails, like a newborn!" Fey shook her hairbells at Amalthea, who mock growled. She continued, "I think I know the tavern you mean, Bek."

The three women walked further down the avenue, then cut across an alley to reach the bridge that Bek had mentioned. They had to push their way through a drinking, eating and singing throng. More bonfires were dotted here and there. Flower vendors loudly cried their wares. Amalthea halted to purchase a long string of perfumed orchids, which she wound around Fey's neck. Aware that the aunt was an important relative of Fey's, and wishing to make a good impression, she also pinned a smaller single flower to Bek's robe.

"Many thanks," the Eye priest said, lifting the lavender-tinged orchid to her nose and inhaling deeply. "Although it is customary to give such gifts only to one whom you desire as a mating partner."

Amalthea blushed. Fey grinned. "You'd better start studying that Tyvesh compendium I gave you back on Ifni. Otherwise, who knows how many women you might propose to?"

"I'd be happy to act as go-between," Bek said with a grin of her own. "For a modest percentage of the dowry, of course."

"No offense intended," Amalthea said, still flushed. "Maybe we'd better get to that tavern in a hurry before I make any more mistakes."

"A charming error, I assure you." Bek stumbled as someone shoved her in the back. Without glancing around, she cuffed the clumsy offender on the back of his head, shook her robe into place, and walked on. A cry of, "Beg pardon, First!" was ignored.

They hadn't quite reached the foot of the bridge when Bek made a choking sound. Fey grabbed her arm, careful not to claw. "Sister of my mother, are you alright?"

Bek's eyes bulged, her lips stretched into a painful grimace. Raising both arms, she shook her bracelets, creating a mad jangle that somehow cut through the crowd's noise. Amalthea jumped to catch the Eye priest as she went rigid, bubbles of spittle at the corner of her mouth. She lowered her gently onto the pavement. "Do we need a healer?" the Yggdrasilan asked.

Fey knelt down beside her aunt. "It's a vision trance. The Touch of Vashti, we call it."

A Wisdom priest elbowed her way through the gathered bystanders. "Put this under her head," she said, thrusting a bundle of cloth at Fey. "The Touch sometimes brings convulsions, and she won't thank you for later bruises."

"I am grateful." Fey did as she was told, easing the cloth beneath her aunt's shaven skull. Bek twitched and moaned.

"Roz Sanyali, Third Wisdom." The priest hitched up her black-and-violet robe in order to squat at Bek's side. Roz's scarlet face was dappled with soot; her breasts were bare in order to expose belled nipple rings. Long dark hair hung loose to her waist. "If this continues, it might be best to move her into a temple."

Bek began to mumble. The words gradually became clearer. "Blood... blood... Vashti's vengeance strikes him down..."

Fey leaned over. "Who is it?"

"The goddess knows... so much blood!" Bek sobbed. "Farsil Hun! Mourning and blood!"

Roz put a hand on Bek's brow. The Eye priest subsided, muttering incoherently. After a moment, Bek blinked and relaxed, letting out a hissing breath. "Vashti's Touch gets heavier as I grow older," she whispered. A tear slipped down her cheek, to be hastily wiped away.

"Do you require a litter?" Roz asked. She raised clawed fingertips to her temples and flicked them in a gesture of respect. "My temple is not far."

"No, I'm fine." Bek sat up and returned the salute. Belatedly, Fey did the same. "Just show me to the nearest tavern. A glass of brandy will help."

Fey had a few quick words with Roz. The Wisdom trotted off.

Amalthea bent over, put her arms around Bek's waist, and simply lifted her to her feet. Yggdrasilans had superior musculature and denser bone structure than most sophonts. Over the priest's protests, Amalthea scooped Bek up and held her easily. "Point me in the right direction and let's go."

"Put me down, you unmannered heathen!"

Fey arched an eyebrow, remembering how absolutely thrilling it felt to be lifted by Amalthea's strength, a sensation of weightlessness rarely experienced after one achieved adult size. "Hush, sister of my mother. Be still and enjoy."

Amalthea caught a lot of shining grins and flicking fingertips from onlookers. Bek was a light burden, hardly noticeable now that she had stopped struggling. You'd think these people never saw anybody being carried before. By Odin, I hope I'm not violating another crazy Tyvesh custom!

"Who's Farsil Hun?" Amalthea asked, curiosity overcoming her apprehension. Fey made shushing motions, but she failed to take the hint.

Bek stiffened. "Farsil Hunyali is my mate." Her gaze traveled from Amalthea to her niece. "What did I say? I never remember afterwards. Is Farsil in danger?"

"Roz Sanyali has gone to check on Farsil at your home. The Wisdom will send word as soon as something is known."

Bek's complexion cooled from cinnabar to an unhealthy salmon pink. "What did I say during the Touch?" She began to tremble. Amalthea tightened her grip.

"You mentioned blood," Fey answered reluctantly. "And mourning. And Vashti's vengeance."

"Sweet goddess!" Bek squirmed violently. "Let me go! I must see Farsil!"

"Calm yourself," Fey began, but it was no use. Amalthea had to put Bek down or risk dropping her. As soon as she was upright, Bek darted away, robes flapping around her knees. Those unlucky enough not to get out of her path were cuffed and pushed aside.

"Kak!" Amalthea spat the obscenity. "Do we go after her, or what?"

"We'll follow, but there's no hurry." Fey rubbed her temples. "We can't possibly overtake her in this crowd." She began walking in the direction that the Eye priest had taken. "Farsil Hunyali and my aunt have been mates since before Bek was chosen to become an Eye. Farsil maintains their house while Bek travels; it's an arrangement that's worked for many years. I hope her vision was incorrect."

"I guess we'll find out when we get there." Amalthea frowned, taking hold of Fey's wrist so they wouldn't be separated. "What was all that about Vashti's vengeance?"

Fey sighed. "It's an old custom, fallen into disuse. Centuries ago, if someone seriously offended a priest of Vashti and did not repent, the priest had the right to kill that person. It was believed that Vashti's spirit 'enflamed' the priest to take revenge, thus making the action perfectly legal."

"Remind me never to insult you," Amalthea replied. Her head swiveled from side to side as she sought easier passage through the massed celebrants. It helped that she was a full head taller than the average Tyvesh.

"Oh, these days, we're much more civilized." Fey wriggled through a gap, pulling her lover with her. "I'd have the right to demand anything from an ounce to a pound of flesh, depending on the severity of the offense."

"Ouch!"

"Don't worry; it's surgically excised under anesthesia, and the Hearts are careful about retaining extremity function."

Amalthea bulled her way through a clump of loudly chanting drunks. "Have I told you lately how much I esteem, admire and respect you, O Fist of Vashti?"

"Groveling doesn't become you. Ah, here it is!" Fey darted up to a house. It was part of an unbroken front of homes that spanned the length of a street. A bronze oil lamp burned next to the door, which was painted bright turquoise. An alarmingly realistic eye was suspended in a clear glass globe that hung from the lamp's base. Amalthea half expected it to blink.

"Ceramic. Farsil is an artist." Fey had noticed her lover's involuntary shudder. She pounded on the door with the flat of her hand. It opened a few inches. "This should be locked. Sister of my mother, are you here?" she called, entering the house.

The first thing Amalthea smelled was blood. Blood had its own peculiar stench - a coppery, oily tang that almost coated the teeth. She was no stranger to violent death... but you always forget how badly it reeks until your nose is full of it again.

Fey did a quick search of the downstairs, calling Bek's name. There was no answer. Amalthea spotted a wooden staircase, half-hidden behind a screen of living vines. They took the stairs. Amalthea's heart was in her hair, as the saying went on Yggdrasil.

Roz Sanyali, Third Wisdom of Vashti, crouched on the landing, holding an unconscious Bek in her arms. Her soot-dappled face was wet with tears. "I was too late to prevent her from seeing it." She took a shuddering breath, nipple bells jingling - an incongruously merry sound. "He's in there." She nodded towards a darkened room. The door had been forced open; it half-hung from the splintered frame.

Fey went in first and stopped, holding up a hand. Amalthea nearly ran into her.

The floor was smeared with blood. It was still warm. Fey was barefoot; she didn't like to wear shoes when it wasn't strictly necessary. Her toes edged away from a liquid splatter.

Amalthea's eyesight took a moment to adjust to the gloom. An iron bowl on a stand held the the guttering remains of a fire. Incense sticks smoldered in a dish of sand. There were unfinished ceramic artworks, some still wet with paint, on several tables. The sole window was covered by a shutter, fastened tight.

Farsil was unmistakably dead. His body was huddled near a wall; he was curled on his side in a fetal position, naked save for a brief loincloth. Amalthea went over to examine him, noting the arc of crimson spray on the smoothly plastered wall, low down near the corpse. Farsil's throat had been cut from ear to ear. A glass beaded necklace was pulled up to just below his ears; in the man's open mouth was the gold pendant that was in the center of the string. There were deep scratches in the floor, and wood shavings beneath his claws.

From her position near the doorway, Fey asked, "Is he dead?"

Amalthea looked back over her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"I'd better go and find a healer for Bek." Fey exited the room, her shoulders and back rigid with suppressed distress.

Amalthea sighed. She checked the shutter; it was locked from the inside. She checked the door; it, too, had apparently been locked before Bek presumably beat it off the hinges. The key was in the middle of the room, where it had fallen. A brief search of the room turned up no murder or suicide weapon; she doubted Farsil could have severed his own throat with the tiny knives he used in his work. Those were rolled up in a soft cloth and were clean.

"What happened?" she asked Roz when she came out. "Did you see anything?"

Roz shook her head. Bek was still unconscious. For the first time, Amalthea noticed that the Eye priest's robe was smeared with blood on the hem, across the chest, and her left sleeve soaked with the stuff.

"When I arrived here, the door was open. I called Farsil, then I heard Bek screaming. I ran up the stairs. There was a crash - that was Bek forcing the workroom door - and more screams. I got to the landing in time to see Bek come out. I couldn't understand what she was saying..." Roz blinked. Her turquoise eyes were dry now, though red-rimmed from weeping. "I looked inside. Goddess protect me! Bek fainted. I held her until you arrived."

"Did you see anyone else in the room? Anyone else in the house?"

"No." Roz's mouth tightened. "No one. It was only seconds from the time I came in to the time I saw..." She made a gesture, a convulsive motion of her hand as if shaking something nasty off her fingertips. "The ash-souled one who did this must be punished."

There was nothing else to do until Fey returned with a Heart priest in tow, followed by a senior Wisdom and her investigative team.

"So you don't have regular criminal investigators?" Amalthea asked out. She and Fey were watching from a safe distance. Bek had been taken to a bedroom by the Heart. Roz was with the senior Wisdom, Xan Lonyali - who happened to be Fey's mother. Farsil's body had been removed after a recording was taken. Now the robed women were noting forensic evidence. Their tools were so beautifully crafted, they hardly looked like state-of-the-art technology.

"Not as such. The Wisdom sect is responsible for these things." Fey shivered, and Amalthea embraced her from behind. Being held against the Yggdrasilan's strong, warm body made the smaller woman feel slightly better. "Murder is deemed an act by someone who is ash-souled - a person who has rejected the goddess given soul-flame. It is a religious sin rather than a secular crime. We have regular peace-keeping forces for lesser matters."

"Isn't it a conflict of interest, your mother leading up an investigation into her brother-in-law's death?"

Fey leaned against Amalthea, trying to relax. Her muscles were knotted; a headache thundered in her temples. "No. Xan Lonyali is the most experienced Wisdom in the capital, and the most dedicated to her craft. She is incorruptible."

Xan certainly looks formidable, Amalthea thought. I'd hate to tangle with her in a court of law. I'll bet she's the sort of expert witness who gives defense advocates nightmares.

Fey turned around, burrowing her head into Amalthea's chest. "I've known Farsil Hunyali all my life. He was a good man. I don't understand why anyone would want to do this to him." Her voice was muffled, but Amalthea detected a quaver that was nearly a sob.

"Fey, valkyrie-sweet, go ahead and cry." Amalthea stroked her lover's hair gently, making the entwined bells chime.

"I can't. I must not." Fey looked up at her, lime-green eyes brimming with unshed tears. "O flame, untimely dying - who has stolen your light? Ashes and woe for the thief, but mourn not the fire's passage. The ones left behind must remember, and go on," she quoted from the Book of Vashti. "My other relatives will be coming. I can't break down now. I have to be strong."

Amalthea was troubled. She did not want to add to Fey's worries, but felt she needed to speak. Better it comes from me than a stranger, but gods of my fathers, the last thing I want to hurt her. "The room was locked from the inside, with no way in or out except by the door. Mem Sanyali saw no one leave. She didn't actually see Farsil's body until after Bek had been in there." She stopped, unable to continue.

Fey wasn't angry. "I hear what you will not say," she sighed.

"So do I." Xan Lonyali had drawn near enough to overhear. "Mem Quint, please forgive this poor welcome. I had hoped to meet you under more pleasant circumstances."

Xan was painfully thin. Her collarbone looked knife-sharp. The breasts bared by her black-and-violet robe were nearly flat, although her bell-ringed nipples were prominent. Deep lines were carved into her face, from aquiline nose to the downturned corners of her mouth. Her expression was severe.

Amalthea released Fey, bowed over Xan's outstretched hand and said in Tyvesh, "Vashti's flame within you, burning brightly." It was the traditional greeting for a Wisdom priest.

Before Amalthea could straighten up, Xan grasped her by both ears, touched Amalthea's forehead with her own, and said a quick blessing under her breath.

Fey flicked her fingertips in respectful salutation. "Mother, this is my kajalni..."

"I know." Xan let go of Amalthea and examined her from head to toes. "So, you believe my sister is responsible for her mate's murder."

"Not really." Amalthea felt like she was back at university, being grilled by a particularly bloody-minded professor. Xan's eyes were as green as her daughter's, but without warmth. It was like being scoured by lime-green ice. "This is just a possibility."

"Perhaps you would care to enlighten me."

Not really, Amalthea repeated silently. I'd rather sit on an axe sideways. But Fey was waiting as well, so she cleared her throat. "Theoretically speaking, Bek could have killed Farsil. The blood is still fresh, the body still warm. He was obviously murdered moments before we arrived. We know that Bek got to the house right before Roz Sanyali did."

"But the door and window were locked."

"I'm getting to that. When we met at the festival, she said she'd heard that Fey and I were here in the capital. Bek may have wanted us to be witnesses to her alibi."

"Go on."

"Okay..." Amalthea smoothed her hair with a hand. "Bek fakes having a vision, which would make her insistence on returning home very plausible. She cuts loose from us, runs ahead, breaks down the door, cuts Farsil's throat, and pretends to faint. She didn't count on mem Sanyali arriving right on her heels, but this provides another handy witness to her shock upon 'discovering' her mate's body, not to mention that she had to force her way inside. She wouldn't have had much time to dispose of the weapon, though."

Xan cocked her head to one side. "Interesting."

"I don't know what possible motive she might have." Amalthea was getting more nervous at the chilling gleam in Xan's eyes.

Fey reached out for her lover's hand, squeezing it tightly.

"A simpler explanation would be for the yet-unknown murderer to kill Farsil, lock the door from the outside, and slide the key under the door. He or she knows that the investigators will assume the key was inside, and fell from the lock when the door was forced open. But whoever did it wouldn't have had a lot of time to make their escape." Amalthea cleared her throat again. "A few minutes, perhaps, before Bek and Roz came into the house."

"Also interesting." Xan remained as impassive as a statue.

"How did he die?" Fey asked.

"His throat was cut from left to right by a smooth, sharp implement. The killer knocked Farsil to the floor, grabbed his necklace from behind and used it to hoist up his head before inflicting the death wound. There are blood smears everywhere; Bek trampled a great deal of evidence in her haste. Perhaps deliberately, perhaps not. We shall see. The weapon has yet to be recovered."

'I didn't think of it, but has the house been searched?" Fey squeezed Amalthea's hand harder; the Yggdrasilan suppressed a yelp as her partner's claws dug into the meaty flesh of her palm.

Fey mimed an apology as Xan said, "By the time we arrived, there would have been ample opportunity for the ash-souled to escape. We've checked anyway, and found no sign. That doesn't mean a stranger wasn't here."

"Was anything taken?" Amalthea glanced at her palm; a single crimson bead oozed from a minor cut.

"That cannot be determined until Bek regains consciousness."

At that moment, a Heart-of-Vashti exited the bedroom where Bek was resting. "She is awake and asking for you," the healer said to Xan.

"Why don't you and your kajalni go to my house and wait?" It was more of a direct order than a question. Fey shook her head, hairbells chiming, and replied to her mother, "We will wait here."

Xan grunted, turned on her heel, and followed the Heart into Bek's bedroom.

"Your birth-mother is... well." Amalthea rubbed the back of her neck, which was aching with tension. "Scarier than happy hour at the Blood Hag Social Club on hammer juggling night, to be honest."

Fey let out a giggle and clapped a hand over her mouth. The investigating Wisdoms gave her disapproving glances and went back to their tasks.

"Sorry." Amalthea grimaced. "I'm making a big fekkit mess even worse."

"No, she can be rather intimidating." Fey got control of herself again. "I could use some fresh air."

"I thought you'd never ask."

Once outside, Fey's attention was drawn to the house next door. Light filtered from behind shuttered windows. "Looks like Win Pasyali is home. She might have seen or heard something. Shall we go and ask?"

"Would your mother approve?"

"I don't need to ask Xan's permission. I'm a grown sophont, thank you," Fey scoffed.

"I've noticed." Festivities on the street were still going strong. A fire-eater strolled past, plumes of brilliant flame roiling out of his mouth. Stilt dancers clad in feathered masks whirled to chanting and drumming. Nearby, a thief distracted a richly dressed merchant while her partner stealthily lifted the man's hip pouch. "Do you know mem Pasyali?" On Tyvesh, women all had single syllable first names, while men's were two syllables - that was how Amalthea knew that Win was female.

"She's a First of Fist, like me." Fey started towards the front door of the house. "She's lived here for, oh, twelve months. Good friend of Farsil's. She was teaching him how to do sword dancing; he was giving her lessons in ceramic crafts."

The door was painted cherry red, but otherwise Win's home seemed identical to Bek's. When Fey knocked, Win answered almost immediately.

Like Fey, Win was built like a dancer, lean and graceful. Her spiral cheek scars were silver, too, but her complexion matched the color of her door. Her eyes were so deep a blue as to appear almost black. She had obviously just taken a bath; her dark hair was wet and unbelled, clinging to the shoulders of her white shift. "Fey Lonyali, what a surprise!" Win exclaimed. The Fist did not look happy to see them, however.

"Vashti's blessings be upon you," Fey replied. They saluted each other in the Tyvesh fashion. Remembering what she had learned about her lover's customs, Amalthea held her empty hands out for Win's inspection and said, "Vashti's flame be your sword, Her breath your shield."

"And to you," Win said, but there was a sour twist to her lips. "Is there something I can do for you, mems? I was just on my way to festival."

"May we come inside?" Fey waited for an invitation, but Win merely stared at her. "We have news of Farsil that you will want to hear."

Grudgingly, Win moved out of the doorway, allowing them to enter.

Fey began to explain Farsil's murder, trying to be as tactful as possible. Win listened in stony silence, arms folded across her chest. Meanwhile, Amalthea glanced around curiously. A nearby wall held a selection of steel weapons, many of them with flame-shaped blades. A pair of sickle-swords called senjata were crossed together in the center. The floor was covered with sand colored tiles, right up to the wooden staircase. Stains on several of the tiles drew Amalthea closer. Neither Fey nor Win paid any attention to her.

Amalthea bent down and touched one of the red and sticky stains.

Blood.

Raven's mead, it was called in old Yggdrasilan sagas. Generous were the battle wands, in spilling of raven's mead, and champions fell in an Odin storm...

She did not notice Win had moved, coming to stand right behind her. "I thought I'd gotten it all," Win said calmly. "How very careless of me." The hairs on the back of Amalthea's neck prickled.

"Vasti-ah!" Win suddenly screamed, wrenching the senjata off the wall and swinging. Amalthea threw herself sideways, rolling and springing up in a smooth motion. Fey blocked Win's next swing, grabbing her wrists, but the woman's strength was doubled by rage. She pushed Fey away, breaking her grip with a twist. The crescent moon blades in Win's hands gleamed, the edges razor sharp.

Win was between Amalthea and the weapon wall. She snatched up a vase and hurled it at Win's face. The Fist swiped at the ceramic vessel in mid-air. It exploded, showering her in fragments and shards. While she blinked the debris out of her eyes, Amalthea jumped. She hoped her superior weight would pin the enraged priest down long enough to disarm her.

Fey's leg came around at an angle, hitting Win in the side of the neck. The priest stumbled, and Amalthea was upon her. Sickle blades flashed. Amalthea stepped back, holding her side tightly with both hands. Her shift was torn; a hot crimson gush spurted between her fingers. Fey's eyes opened very wide and she growled, claws poised to rend.

Win faced Fey. Her expression was bleak. "I loved him," she said. Her arms made intricate movements, drawing silvery blurs through the air. "I offered him everything, and he didn't want it. He wanted to stay with her. I couldn't allow him to go unpunished. In rejecting me, he rejected Vashti. The goddess must be avenged." Her facade cracked for just a second, showing white-hot hatred, an obsessed passion denied.

Fey focused all her attention on Win. She had to end this quickly. There was no telling how badly injured Amalthea was, and she dared not turn her back on the crazed priest. "I don't care why you killed Farsil," she ground out through gritted teeth. "But you've harmed my kajalni, and that I will not forgive. Vashti-ah!"

Win yelled and rushed at her.

Amalthea watched as the two Fist priests collided. They moved almost too fast for the eye to see. Seamless attack and defense, supple as snakes, blows and kicks and punches with expert precision and control. Win's senjata almost hummed, a deadly whirlwind of razored steel. Again and again, she came close to wounding Fey, but her opponent merely moved the few centimeters necessary to avoid being hit, and went back to the attack without pause. The string of lavender orchids around Fey's neck broke, scattering perfumed petals across the floor.

Amalthea panted. Her veins were full of ice, and her side was throbbing, beginning to burn but with a cold flame that sapped her strength. Even the blood flowing across her fingers seemed cold. Tiny pinpricks of light danced in her vision. She began to shiver. Don't faint, you useless shtupit cow, she said sternly to herself. Fey needs you! Get up and do something, Quint!

The fighting priests had moved away from the weapon's wall. Amalthea staggered over, reached up and snagged the first item she could reach. It was a small ax called a variss, with a hilt of pale wood, polished to a sheen. The variss fit comfortably in Amalthea's palm.

Still holding her injured side with one hand, the Yggdrasilan turned in time to see Fey break away from Win. There was a cut above her eyebrow; blood was running into her eye. She shook her head, scarlet droplets flying. Win raised her sickle swords to chest height, grinning in triumph. One of the blades was red along its edge.

Amalthea did not stop to think. All her life, she had denied the Yggdrasilan temper that was her legacy. Her people were warriors - proud, brave, battle-strong but very quick to anger. She had wanted to be better than that. Amalthea had taught herself control, but seeing the woman she loved was about to die... the painstakingly crafted bonds were shattered in an instant. A rush of raw fury bubbled up from the deepest recesses of her soul. Her mind went up in flames.

She screamed, an incoherent explosion of sound, and came at Win with the ax gripped tightly. Amalthea felt no pain, only glorious, savage anger. Win whirled to meet this new challenge. She was a First of Fist, but all the fighting skills in the world could not defend against a berserk attacker whose only concern was to obliterate her foe.

Variss ax clashed against a senjata and sent it flying. Win's wrist was broken; she hissed and skipped backwards, tried a kick aimed at Amalthea's face. The Yggdrasilan didn't even bother to block or avoid the blow. She charged onward, mouth bloodied, lips drawn back in a snarl nearly to the angle of her jaw. Amalthea's eyes blazed with madness. Win lifted the other senjata; it, too, was smashed away by Amalthea's ax. The blow numbed her arm to the elbow.

Amalthea's expression was terrifying to behold. Fey was stunned. She'd had no time to respond before - her lover's attack had taken mere heartbeats - but if she did not do something now, Win would die. There was no doubt about that. Fey hoped that Amalthea was not so far gone into berserkergang that she wouldn't recognize friend from foe.

The variss came up, started to swing down, aimed at Win's unprotected throat. Fey coughed, "Wait! Please, Mal! It's over. You don't have to kill her!" When that had no effect, she shouted, "I love you!"

At the last second, the ax reversed. Amalthea tapped Win's temple with calculated force, hitting her with the blunt end. The priest collapsed and lay still.

Amalthea let the variss drop. From waist to knees, her right side was soaked in blood.

Fey threw her arms around Amalthea, desperate to support her as the taller woman's knees gave way, and she slid to the floor.

"Don't you dare die!" Fey said, struggling to staunch the wound with her hands. "If you die, Amalthea Quint, I'm going to kill you!"

"I love you, too," Amalthea whispered through swollen lips. Her eyes fluttered closed... and Fey began to wail.

*****

"So Win Pasyali killed Farsil because she wanted to have an affair with him, and he said no?" Amalthea had an impressive black eye, a split lip and assorted bruises, not to mention the wound in her side. Fortunately, Win's crescent blades had not damaged internal organs or bones, so the healers at the Heart temple had sealed it tightly with a nano-med pack, transfused blood, and given her endorphins for the pain. After twenty-six hours, the injury was beginning to knit back together again, but was still tender. Amalthea had been strongly cautioned to limit her physical activity. She was just too stubborn to stay in bed.

"Not precisely," Fey answered, scowling. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be wandering around the Festival of Thieves in your condition."

"Odin's Empty Eye! I was going crazy. Every ten minutes, some total stranger popped into the room to have a look at the incredibly stupid sophont who took on a First of Fist." Amalthea inhaled, winced, and put a hand on her side. "Nobody seems to believe that I survived the experience, much less came away mostly intact."

"I've had decades of martial schooling, beginning when I was three years old," Fey said. Without waiting for permission, she yanked up Amalthea's tunic to check the thick bandage for seepage from the wound. "I'm an expert in many forms of unarmed combat, not to mention all kinds of weapons. The level of training we receive is far above that of an average Yggdrasilan. Win should have been able to kill you without too much effort, berserkergang notwithstanding. You were lucky; her emotional distress superseded her training."

"Thanks." Amalthea pulled Fey's hands away and smoothed her tunic back down. "Stop fussing, will you? I thought it was my emotional distress that won the day." She sighed. "My relatives would be proud of me. They've worried for years about my lack of temper. Back home, the family used to call me the 'ice giant' - not a compliment, by the way. They'll be celebrating, now that I've finally bloodied an ax in a good old-fashioned rage."

"Well, my family thinks you're amazing." Fey smiled. "The visitors at the temple were mostly relatives sent by Xan."

"Are you planning on answering my question about Win, or are you going to evade me all night?" Amalthea grinned back.

The priest tapped her cheek scars with a clawed fingertip. "She went a little mad, I think. Her desire for Farsil was obsessive and unhealthy. Whether he knew the depth of her feelings is unknown, but I doubt he thought she'd turn violent. When he rejected her advances, she killed him. I'm not sure she really believed he had offended Vashti. Nevertheless, that's her excuse - the offense against a sworn Fist required revenge on the goddess' behalf."

"Will a Tyvesh court swallow that story?"

"Not a chance. That sort of nonsense was abandoned centuries ago. Had Win brought legal charges of impiety against Farsil, her own conduct would have caused her to be reprimanded, and she knew it. If you hadn't noticed bloodstains on her floor, and if she hadn't mentally snapped, Win might have gotten away with murder. Poor Bek... her vision was accurate. It just came too late to save Farsil."

Amalthea shook her head. "I hope Bek will be alright."

"She's moving back to my mother's house. Bek will heal, eventually. And Win will pay for her crime."

Although the festival was winding down, there were still bonfires attended by Wisdom priests and their male assistants. Amalthea took Fey's elbow and walked over to one. The heavy metal bowl was nearly full of ashes and embers, as well as blazing logs. The loincloth-clad assistant pushed more wood into the crackling flames.

The priest wore her black-and-violet robe with surpassing dignity. Soot dappled her features, and marred the silvery shine of belled nipple rings in her bared breasts. Her loose dark hair was streaked with ash. "Vashti welcomes all to her sacred fire," she intoned. "Be cleansed in the smoke of Her breath."

Fey saluted the priest with flicking fingertips. "I burn for Her light." Amalthea repeated the ritual phrase. The Wisdom nodded; her assistant poured a sparkling stream of incense upon the fire. Smoke billowed, smelling of nutmeg, anise and cloves.

"What are we doing here?" Fey whispered to her taller partner.

"You'll see." Nearly losing her lover had driven Amalthea over the edge. The thought of never seeing Fey again - never being able to touch or hold her - was too painful to bear. She had yet to say anything about Captain Khulat's offer. Amalthea wasn't sure if the other woman's feelings were as strong as her own, but she was determined to prove the depth and sincerity of her love. Fey was the mate of her heart, mind and soul. She would do anything, take any risk, to be with her. Bek Lonyali's heartbreak over the loss of her long-time partner only strengthened the Yggdrasilan's resolve.

Amalthea faced the fire. Heat reddened her cheeks; a spice-scented wind ruffled her short blonde locks. The Wisdom's assistant offered her a bowl full of obsidian splinters. She chose one, feeling Fey's eyes boring into her back.

"What will you ask of Vashti?" the Wisdom priest asked.

"To pledge a vow in Her name," Amalthea answered. Fey started to protest, but the words died in her throat. She closed her mouth and watched her partner's form silhouetted against the goddess' holy blaze.

"Vashti requires blood to seal the bond," the Wisdom said. "A sacrifice of life to Hers, a spark to her flames."

"So be it." The volcanic glass splinter was chilly, like it was made of ice. Amalthea raised a hand, palm out. The half-healed wound in her side pulled taut. She could feel the edges part slightly, and a warm trickle escaped. It didn't matter. Heady incense fumes made her dizzy. That did not matter, either. This was the most important moment of her life. She took the obsidian needle and plunged it deeply into her thumb, pulling it out immediately. A fat drop of blood welled up; she shook it off into the fire, where it sizzled and spat before it was consumed.

Standing in the smoke, Amalthea said, "Witness my oath, that cannot be broken: I pledge myself to Fey Lonyali, daughter of Xan Lonyali, of the House of Lon. My love, my trust, my faith is true." Her voice broke; she recovered, the gleam of tears in her blue eyes. "Thus speak I, Amalthea Quint - my life to hers, my heart to hers, my soul to hers, for as long as the stars shine."

Fey was suddenly standing beside her, an obsidian splinter in her own hand. She drew blood, offered it to the fire, and said, "Witness my oath, that cannot be broken: O goddess, I am burning for love of one called Amalthea Quint. She is stubborn but kind; dutiful and intelligent; occasionally maddening, but altogether good. Let us be united, O Vashti, our fates as one, our footsteps following the same path, till we return as ashes to Your flames."

Amalthea let her glass needle drop and crushed it underfoot. Fey did the same.

"Stubborn?" the Yggdrasilan said, raising a brow. Her chest ached with the need to whoop with glee; she suppressed it, trembling instead. "Occasionally maddening?"

"Acutely," Fey answered. "So... when were you planning to tell me about your promotion to judge-advocate?"

"Gods of my fathers!"

Fey looked smug. "Xan told me while the Hearts were working on you. Qan Miryali told her; the temple Mother keeps calls on the intelli-deck archived automatically. She thought Xan might like to dedicate some prayers of thanksgiving, that her daughter wouldn't be corrupted by an offworlder."

"Why am I not surprised? I should know better than try to keep a secret from you." Amalthea glanced at her sworn partner with a worried frown. "I was planning to tell you after the festival, but we got distracted. Um, will your mother be angry about us?"

"Not at all. The other Lonyalis were equally impressed. Remember, they were the ones who kept you up all night in the temple? Xan sent them over to take a look at her prospective daughter-in-law."

"My family has probably had a betting pool going on for years." Amalthea snickered nastily. "Mother always hoped I'd marry Cousin Snorri. Or Cousin Frieda, in a pinch. Hah! I can't wait to see the look on her face. She's going to kak and fall over in it!"

"We should visit Yggdrasil. After you accept your promotion, that is." Fey snaked an arm around Amalthea's waist and snuggled close.

"Do you mind? Because if you do, I'll resign my commission." Amalthea began to walk away from the fire. Her head was in the clouds, she was walking on air. If a small songbird had landed on her shoulder and twittered sweetly, she wouldn't have swatted it away. I love her, she loves me, life is good, better, best! "Frankly, I'd rather be with you."

"This is one of those times when you can have it all." Fey decided not to tell Amalthea about the wedding preparations. As an important figure in Tyvesh society, Xan would make sure that her daughter had the most elaborate, lavish and protracted pledging ceremony in recent history. Mal is the one who's going to kak and fall over in it! Ah, well. We have time, now. All the time in the world. "Accept the captain's offer. I think traveling together in a cozy stellar cruiser will suit me just fine."

"Let's go back to the temple so I can flash Khulat."

Fey gave Amalthea a look from beneath her lowered lashes that sent tingles down her spine. "That won't take very long. What will we do afterwards?"

Amalthea grinned. "I'm sure I can think of something."

"Have I told you lately how much I admire, adore and love you?" Fey tilted her head up for a kiss.

"Wait till we're in private, sweet." Amalthea brushed her kajalni's lips with her own. "Then you can tell me again... and again... and again..."

A thief watched the butter-blonde foreigner and the First of Fist wander away, entwined together and giggling. He looked at the sky, considered robbing them, and instead, bowed in the direction of the sacred fire. "Like rivers to an ocean, two souls flow as one," he said under his breath, quoting from the Book of Vashti. "Let your happiness be undisturbed."

The stars and the moon began to fade as dawn chased the night away. Bonfires died. Lovers sought their beds.

And the Festival of Thieves was finished for another year.

THE END

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