I slipped behind the girl and suddenly seized her, holding my hand tightly over her mouth. The trash she carried spilled. I dragged her backwards. She struggled. She made muffled noises. I threw her down, behind the row of trash containers behind the house of Oneander in Ar. My hand was at her throat, thrusting the light steel collar she wore up under her chin. “Make no sound,” I warned her. She was blond. She wore the brief, sleeveless white tunic of a house slave. She was barefoot. I recognized her. She was the woman, once free, who had been last on the coffle of Oneander long ago in Ar, the same coffle in which Miss Henderson had been secured. “Rape me swiftly,” she said. “I must soon be back.”

“Where is Oneander?” I asked, my eyes hard. I had had little fortune with the guards at the gate to his holding. I knew little more than that he was not now in the city.

“Gone,” she said. “To the north, business!”

“Where?” I asked. “Where?” My hand tightened on her throat.

“I do not know, Master,” she whispered. “I do not know! I am only a slave!”

“Is the slave, Veminia, in the house?” I asked. “The barbarian, the small, dark-haired one, she brought from Vonda, she sold out of the house of Andronicus?”

“It is you!” she said, suddenly, recognizing me. “The slave in the street!”

“I am now free,” I said. “Where is she?” My grip tightened. “Speak!”

“She was taken north, she with ten others, by Oneander,” she whispered.

“Where!” I demanded.

“I do not know,” she whispered. “I am only a lowly slave.”

“Who would know?” I asked, fiercely.

“Those with him,” she said. “Oneander keeps a close counsel.”