Dumarest said, "Let's look around."

* * *

It was dark when he returned, the city bright with flecks of light from street lanterns, windows, drifting rafts, and moving cars. A busy, bustling place, a violent contrast to the village he had left, the place where a community had died. Zenya was absent, and he looked at the things she had left. The golden dress, the serpents that had graced her arms, a litter of cosmetics. Quickly, careless of who might be watching, he searched them all, letting the fabric slide through his fingers, taking care over the jewelry, the pots of unguents, paints, and powders.

He found nothing. If the girl carried a device to activate what was within his body, it must be buried within her flesh. He had checked on the ship; what he did now was for confirmation. And it was highly possible that she didn't carry the trigger at all.

Aihult Chan Parect, he remembered, trusted no one.

The phone rang. On the screen Colonel Paran looked anxious. "I heard you were back, Earl. Have you arrived at a decision?"

"Not yet. I must correlate my findings."

"Later, then?"

"Later."

A bottle of wine stood on a table, and he poured a glass, sitting facing the window with it in his hand. He felt tired, uneasy. There were too many problems and too few solutions. Parect's threat, the false position he was in, the girl. Even now she could be babbling, betraying him, and to a people at war, such a betrayal could have unpleasant consequences.

He leaned back, sipping the wine, recalling what he had seen. The dusty streets littered with debris, the empty houses, the pathetic remains of dolls, toys, a wooden animal on rockers, a carefully embroidered shawl ugly with stains of blood. And marks on doors, walls, the sills of windows. Even the toys had been crushed, cut, hammered with savage violence. And there had been other marks, bullet holes, the seared patches of laser burns. Some of the farmers would have owned guns, less the more expensive lasers. All would have possessed knives, machetes for cutting the crop, axes, hammers. They had been found, and all of them had been used.

He shrugged, impatient, emptying the glass in a single swallow. The war was not his problem; he had conducted the examination simply to maintain his assumed character. His immediate need was to find the son of Chan Parect. To finish his assignment before the threat made could be put into effect. And that would not be easy. Why would a lord of Samalle be interested in such a man?

He wouldn't, but perhaps Branchard would. A free trader could drift around, ask questions, make contacts, and use bribes, all with relative impunity. And he would be a willing ally if the price was right.

Dumarest rose, and without looking at the phone, moved toward the door. Outside, the corridor was empty but for a pair of men standing with exaggerated casualness. Guards? Men set to watch his movements? One of them came forward, recorder in hand.

"My lord, a few words for the media? We are all interested in what you have to say."

"The situation, while serious, must not be inflated beyond its real proportions," said Dumarest. "There is danger and a threat of escalation, but nothing which cannot be handled without undue interference with normal life. While brave men are willing to fight, Chard has nothing to fear."

Empty words, but what they wanted. One said, "Will you be taking an active part in the struggle?"

"That depends on your military authorities."

"But you are willing?"

"Again, that depends. Now, if you will excuse me?"

He wandered a random mile before using a phone. Twenty minutes later he phoned again. Branchard was waiting.

He blinked as he listened. "Sure, Earl, I can do it. Have you got anything I can work with aside from a name?"

"A photograph and physical details-Lammarre System. I'll send you a copy. The money-"

"Can wait. Give me a little time."

The suite was still empty when he returned. He drank more wine and studied the details he had sent to Branchard. The face was younger than it would be now, but the physical details would never change. If Salek had ever received medical treatment on this world, or had fallen into the hands of the police, even if he had ever volunteered to give blood, he would be recorded. And there were other checks; the captain would know them all.

The phone rang. A man's face, smooth, bland. "The Lady Zenya?"

"She is not available. Who are you? What do you want?"

"Zerm Trish, my lord. A creative photographer. I am attached to the house of Jarl, the most exclusive fashion establishment on Chard. I wondered if your lady would condescend to pose for me in a variety of creations, which, of course, would remain her property."

Dumarest said harshly, "The wife of a lord of Samalle does not cheapen herself. Do not call again."

From behind him Zenya said, "A pity, Earl. They have some wonderful gowns, and all terribly expensive." She had entered the suite while he had been on the phone.

Quickly she added, "But of course, the suggestion was unthinkable. At home he would never have dared to make it."

"Where have you been?"

"Shopping." She spun, blue fabric rising like a sapphire mist, sparkles of brilliant crystal accentuating the hue. "Do you like it, darling? Susal Paran guided me. The colonel's wife. She is really a most charming woman, and terribly worried about her husband. She kept asking me what it was like to be the wife of a warrior. How I felt when you were away, that kind of thing." She smiled. "I think she wanted to ask more intimate details but was too restrained. You know, how we acted after a long absence, how we felt when together again."

"And you told her?"

"That it is hell to be apart, and heaven to be together. The truth, Earl. Why should I lie?"

Colonel Paran saved the necessity of an answer. On the screen his face was drawn, anxious.

"I'm at a meeting of the Council, Earl. They need your decision before deciding on a course of action. I hope that you agree to accept the commission, because I don't like the alternative. The vote is to ask the Cyclan for help if you refuse. The feeling is that a cyber could advise us of what needs to be done."

"You object?"

"Yes, and I'll tell you why. A cyber predicts; he tells you what is the most likely outcome of any action, but he doesn't tell you what action to take. That means wasted time, and I've the feeling that we haven't any to waste. What we need is a man skilled in the art of war, someone who can train men and use what force we have to best advantage. I liked what you said at the conference-you knew what you were talking about. The choice is yours, of course, but I hope you agree. If not, the Cyclan will be asked to help."

Dumarest said, "I agree."

Chapter Seven

Inspection was at dawn. A sleepy guard snapped to belated attention as Dumarest, accompanied by Captain Louk, approached the operations room. Inside, Colonel Paran, red-eyed from fatigue, stood before a table littered with maps. A scatter of lesser officers stood beside charts, communications equipment, a large contour map dotted with colored pins. From time to time one of them made adjustments, bringing the field of operations up to date.

"Earl!" Paran reached for coffee, which an aide was distributing. "Want some?"

Dumarest shook his head. "Trouble?"

"We got hit again last night Sonel, a small village far to the west. The usual thing-we received a garbled message, and by the time we got there, it was all over. A shambles." Turning, he called to an officer. "Any fresh news on Sonel?"

"No, colonel. The team found nothing they hadn't reported. A complete wipe-out." The officer was young, his tone bitter. "Sir, I'd like to request a transfer to active duty in the field."