Raff spoke. "Dad always says keep it simple. We'll just impact it against the tree, lee side, two, three klomters above the tuft. There's already water running down to the treemouth. Let it carry the mud too. Easy, steady delivery system."

He can talk when it's about something real, Rather thought. "Have you done a lot of logging?"

Raffs head bobbed. "I spend more than half my life in the outer sky. Sometimes I wondered what living in a tree would be like."

They were getting used to that question. Clave said, "I miss it myself. Well, you grow up shorter and stronger. Cooking's easier. Hunting's different: the wind throws the prey at you ..."

Rather tuned it out. The dot next to Serjent House must be a Navy ship. He felt their long-sight devices on him. What the Navy saw must look puzzling. Let them wonder:

he had an explanation both interesting and innocent.

His attention snapped back when Hilar said, "Booce has been making deals. I expect he'll pay back the loan well before crossyear."

Carlot asked, "Has the Navy bought the metal yet?"

"No. In fact, something's upsetting the Navy. I haven't heard a rumor I can believe, but. . . stay alert, Carlot. You know you've got visitors?"

"We can see them. Hilar, Raff, it's time to deliver our cargo."

It took a day and a fraction and was entirely straightforward. Logbearer burned toward the turning tree. Her crew dismounted the spokes that braced the web that supported the mud. Mud and lines and wooden spokes smacked the trunk hard enough to stick. Water flow was already carving a runnel in the mud as Logbearer accelerated away. They'd be back to collect the beams and lines after they were washed clean.

Gyrfalcon was not moored; it floated free a hundred meters from Serjent House. Two men working on the hull did not return Clave's cheerful wave. Rather recognized one as Petty Wheeler. They watched fixedly while Logbearer's crew swarmed out and set about the business of mooring their ship.

Rather looked around the common room while they tethered their wings. One fast look and then he'd have to react:

No teapot. Not a social occasion. Booce Serjent looked angry and unhappy. Bosun Sectry Murphy started to jump toward Rather, then pulled herself back. Three longlimbed Navy men were stationed around the walls, and a fourth: silver suit, helmet thrown back, bearded dwarfface within. Wayne Mickl.

Rather let himself break into a delighted grin. It was surprisingly easy. He wanted to reassure Sectry; he was glad to see her. He let his eyes flick from Sectry to Wayne Mickl to Sectry again. He blurted, "Am I in?"

Sectry flashed from unhappy to angry. Wayne Mickl broke into delighted laughter. "Very good! But, Rather, there just aren't enough dwarves to make it work. Take him."