Fires were stoked and wood was brought. The Eaters dispersed to their tents and camp fires, or set off in small groups with crudely made baskets, apparently to gather fresh debris they would later try to eat.

At about sunset, Mr First joined the five quiet Eaters who sat around the fire Horza was by now tired of facing. The emaciated humans had taken little or no notice of the Changer, but Mr First came and sat near the man tied to the post. In one hand he held a small stone, in the other some of the artificial teeth Fwi-Song had used on Twenty-seventh earlier that day. Mr First sat grinding and polishing the teeth while he talked to the other Eaters. After a couple of them had gone to their tents, Mr First went behind Horza and undid the gag. Horza breathed through his mouth to get rid of the stale taste, and exercised his jaw. He shifted, trying to ease the accumulating aches in his arms and legs.

"Comfortable?" Mr First said, squatting down again. He continued to sharpen the metal fangs; they flickered in the firelight.

"I've felt better," Horza said.

"You'll feel worse, too… friend." Mr First made the last word sound like a curse.

"My name's Horza."

"I don't care what your name is." Mr First shook his head. "Your name doesn't matter. You don't matter."

"I had started to form that impression," Horza admitted.

"Oh, had you?" Mr First said. He got up and came closer to the Changer. "Had you really?" He lashed out with the steel teeth he held in his hand, catching Horza across the left cheek. "Think you're clever, eh? Think you're going to get out of this, do you?" He kicked Horza in the belly. Horza gasped and choked. "See — you don't matter. You're just a hunk of meat. That's all anybody is. Just meat. And anyway," he kicked Horza again, "pain isn't real. Just chemicals and electrics and that sort of thing, right?"

"Oh," Horza croaked, his wounds aching briefly, "yes. Right."

"OK," Mr First grinned. "You remember this tomorrow, OK. You're just a piece of meat, and the prophet's a bigger one."

"You… ah, don't believe in souls, then?" Horza said diffidently, hoping this wouldn't lead to another kick.

"Fuck your soul, stranger," Mr First laughed. "You'd better hope there's no such thing. There's people that are natural eaters and there's those that are always going to get eaten, and I can't see that their souls are going to be any different, so as you're obviously one of those that are always going to get eaten, you'd better hope there isn't any such thing. That's your best bet, believe me." Mr First brought out the rag he had taken from Horza's mouth. He tied it back there, saying, "No — no soul at all would be the best thing for you, friend. But if it turns out you have got one, you come back and tell me, so I can have a good laugh, right?" Mr First pulled the knotted rag tight, hauling Horza's head against the wooden stake.

Fwi-Song's lieutenant finished sharpening the sets of gleaming metal teeth, then rose and spoke to the other Eaters sitting around the fire. After a while they went to some of the small tents, and soon they were all off the beach, leaving only Horza to watch the few dying fires. The waves crashed softly on the distant surf-line, stars arced slowly above, and the dayside of the Orbital was a bright line of light overhead. Shining in the starlight and the O-light, the silent, waiting bulk of the Culture shuttle sat, its rear doors open like a cave of safe darkness.

Horza had already tested the knots restraining his hands and feet. Shrinking his wrists wouldn't work; the rope, twine or whatever they had used was tightening very slightly all the time; it would just take up the slack as quickly as he could produce it. Perhaps it shrank when drying and they had wet it before tying him. He couldn't tell. He could intensify the acid content in his sweat glands where the rope touched his skin, and that was always worth a try, but even the long night of Vavatch probably wouldn't give enough time for the process to work.

Pain isn't real, he told himself. Crap.

He awoke at dawn, along with several of the Eaters, who walked slowly down to the water to wash in the surf. Horza was cold. He started shivering as soon as he woke, and he could tell that his body temperature had dropped a long way during the night in the light trance required for altering the skin cells on his wrists. He strained at the ropes, testing for some give, the slightest tearing of fibres or strands. There was nothing, just more pain from the palms of his hands where some sweat had run down onto skin unchanged and therefore unprotected from the acid his sweat glands had been producing. He worried about that for about a second, recalling that if he was ever to impersonate Kraiklyn properly he would need to lift the man's finger and palm prints and so would need his skin in perfect Changing condition. Then he laughed at himself for worrying about that when he wasn't even likely to see the day out.

He vaguely considered killing himself. It was possible; with only a little internal preparation, he could use one of his own teeth to poison himself. But, while there was still any chance, he could not bring himself to think of it seriously. He wondered how Culture people faced the war; they were supposed to be able to decide to die, too, though it was said to be more complicated than simple poison. But how did they resist it, those soft, peace-pampered souls? He imagined them in combat, auto-euthenising almost the instant the first shots landed, the first wounds started to appear. The thought made him smile.

The Idirans had a death trance, but it was only for use in cases of extreme shame and disgrace, or when a life's work was completed, or a crippling disease threatened. And unlike the Culture — or the Changers — they felt their pain to the full, undampened by genofixed inhibitors. The Changers regarded pain as a semi-redundant hangover from their animal evolution; the Culture was simply frightened of it: but the Idirans treated it with a sort of proud contempt.

Horza looked across the beach, over the two big canoes towards the open rear doors of the shuttle. A pair of brightly coloured birds were strutting around on its top, making little ritualised movements. Horza watched them for a while, as the Eaters" camp gradually woke up and the morning sun brightened. Mist rose from the thin forest and there were a few clouds, high up in the sky. Mr First came yawning and stretching out of his tent, then took the heavy projectile pistol out from under his tunic and fired it in the air. This seemed to be a signal for all the Eaters to wake and set about their daily business if they hadn't already done so.

The noise of the crude weapon frightened the two birds on the roof of the Culture shuttle; they took to the air and flew away over the trees and shrubs, around the island. Horza watched them go, then let his eyes drop, staring at the golden sand and breathing slow and deep.

"Your big day, stranger," Mr First said with a grin, coming up to the Changer. He put the pistol into the string holster under his tunic. Horza looked at the man, but said nothing. Another feast in my honour, he thought.

Mr First walked around Horza, looking down at him. Horza followed him with his eyes where he could and waited for the man to spot whatever damage the acid-sweat had succeeded in inflicting on the rope round his wrists, but Mr First didn't notice anything, and when he reappeared in Horza's view he was still smiling slightly, nodding his head a little, seemingly satisfied that the man tied to the stake was still well enough restrained. Horza did his best to stretch, straining at the bonds at his wrists. There was not even a hint of give. It hadn't worked. Mr First left, to supervise the launching of a fishing canoe.