Dryly he said, "You find that amusing?"

"Incredible, rather, but refreshing. I like a man who knows his own mind and who doesn't jump because he is told to do just that. Tell me, have you ever fought in the stadium?"

He said formally, "Why do you ask that, my lady?"

"Friends call me Zenya. Are you a friend?"

"That rather depends on you, my lady."

"Zenya. Have you?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Of course you have, it's obvious. Do you know how I can tell? You have the look of someone who has faced the necessity of having to win or die. The way you walk, the way you look-I've seen it before."

"In your other friends?"

"Some." She met his eyes, her stare direct. As she faced him, head tilted, he could see the smooth column of her throat the tiny pulse beneath the skin. "Would you fight for me if I asked you to? One bout, naked blades, to the death?"

"No."

"Just like that, Earl? No qualification, just a flat refusal?"

"That's right."

"Why not, Earl? Afraid?"

He said flatly, "Of dying, yes. Who isn't?"

The full lips pouted like those of a spoiled child. And that's what she was, he thought. Rich and spoiled, and, perhaps, jaded. On the surface, at least, but there could be more, far less apparent. Why had she sought him out? Why was she apparently alone? The rich and pampered daughter of a powerful house did not seek out strangers, and it was incredible that she should be unattended. There would be guards somewhere, men within call, force ready to be used in case of need.

And force directed by whom? Dumarest had the uneasy feeling that he was within the jaws of a closing trap.

"You disappoint me, Earl," she whispered. "You shouldn't have said that. A fighter never admits to being afraid of anything, even death. And I don't think you meant it. Tell me the real reason why you wouldn't fight for me."

"You talk like a child," he said harshly. "Fighting isn't a game. That's real blood you see in the ring. Real wounds and real pain. For you it might be the thrill of a moment, but for those taking part, it's a matter of life or death. It's ugly, vile and…"

He broke off, remembering. The crowd, the ring of avid faces, the roar as they anticipated blood. The stink of sweat and fear, the savagery, primitive emotion unleashed, yelling men and shrieking women, and, always, the chance that this time he would not be able to walk away. So many little things could do it. A slip, a momentary indecision, an accident, a snapped blade, the running out of luck, anything.

She said softly, "Yes, Earl? And…?"

"Nothing." He recognized the expression in her eyes, the look of an emotional vampire eager to feed on tales of blood and violence. He had seen it before, too often, on the faces staring down from the expensive seats, those who thronged the dressing rooms, finding in sweat and wounds an aphrodisiac for jaded appetites. Some fighters were tempted to cater to such women. Those who did failed to live long.

"Please, Earl!"

Flatly he said, "Somehow, my lady, we seem to have left the subject. If you will excuse me?"

She caught up to him as he strode down the corridor, slim fingers digging into his arm.

"My grandfather?"

"I'm sure that he will survive without the pleasure of my company."

"Perhaps, but will I?"

He paused and turned to look into the slanted amber of her eyes. "You must have many friends, my lady. And I am sure that you must know many who would be willing to fight for you. Fight… and cater to your requirements in other ways. You will understand why I have no intention of joining their number."

"Did I ask you to do that?" She laughed and shook her head. "A test, Earl. For an hour I watched you in the gallery and wondered what kind of man you were. You were so intent on those moldering old books, and yet the last thing you seem to be is a scholar. And you misunderstood me. I can live without you, yes. My grandfather will survive without your company, agreed. But should I return without you, he will not be amused. In fact, he will be very annoyed. The Aihult are not gentle with those who fail. Need I say more?"

"No, my lady, but-"

"Zenya," she interrupted. "Don't be so formal. My name, to you, is Zenya."

"But, Zenya, that is your problem, not mine."

"You're hard," she said. "The hardest and most stubborn man I've ever met. Why won't you come and talk to Chan Parect?"

"Why should I?"

"To extend a little courtesy to an old man."

Dumarest shrugged. "I don't know him. I owe him nothing. And I see no need to cater to a rich man's whim. Also, as I told you, I have other things to do."

"Such as?"

He moved on, not answering, passing through an anteroom and into the street. Outside, it was late afternoon, the sun a crimson haze in the sky, eye-bright after the gloom of the archives. The city was alive with pedestrians, wheeled traffic gliding silently in the roads, rafts drifting overhead like wingless birds.

And everywhere-on buildings, cars, tunics, the windows of shops, the jewelry of women-blazed the symbols of the great houses of Paiyar. The serpent, orb, square, cone, lion, bird, star-a score of devices that advertised the ownership and allegiance of all.

At his side the girl said quietly, "Paiyar is an unusual world, Earl. A stranger doesn't really stand much of a chance. He doesn't belong. Did you know that my grandfather is one of the richest and most powerful men on the planet?"

Dumarest nodded, waiting.

"I want you to talk to him, Earl. If you won't do it because you have been summoned, then do it for money. Five hundred cran-the cost of a Low passage. You see? I translate it into terms you can understand. Five hundred. Yours for a little conversation."

"You can get a cab here," said Dumarest. "Or perhaps you have your own transport waiting. Good-bye, my lady."

"Wait!" Her voice was sharp, a little desperate. "Don't go. Not yet. There is something else you should understand."

"And that is?"

"I was sent to get you, Earl. Just that, and no more, but I'm not stupid, and I've a pretty good idea why my grandfather wants to talk to you. You'd be a fool not to listen to what he has to say. Maybe he's got the answer to what you have been looking for. What you have been searching the Archives to find out."

He said slowly, "And that is?"

"I think you know, Earl." She smiled, confident in her victory. "Shall we go now?"

* * *

A raft carried them over the city, riding high above massive fortresses of stone, a grim reminder of the time when life on Paiyar had been hard and death lurked on every side. The jungles had been tamed now, the natural predators destroyed, but always there were potential enemies. Men who wore a different symbol, houses touchy of their honor and pride.

The citadel of Aihult rested on a low hill, twisting serpents carved in the solid granite, a pair gracing the portals. Above the lintel the stone was fused, blotched in an irregular pattern, fragments of silica catching the crimson sunlight and shimmering like rubies.

"A laser," said the girl casually. "It happened before I was born. A difference of opinion with the Zham-they wear a skull. Fifty men died on both sides before it was resolved. Their tower still bears the scar of our weapons."

Inside it was cool, the air scented with brine, a sea smell both clean and refreshing. Guards were not apparent, but slots could have held weapons and watchful eyes. Attendants, neat in tunics blazoned with serpents, guided them to an upper chamber.

"Zenya!" A man stepped forward as they entered. His eyes glanced at Dumarest, then returned to the girl. "My congratulations! Your success has won me a thousand cran."

"Lisa?"

"Who else? She was certain that your charms would fail and you would return alone. I was as certain that you would not. What man could resist you? Chan Parect chose well." To Dumarest he said, "You will take wine while you wait?"