"Wait? For how long?"

"For as long as is necessary." The man had a smooth face and the girl's slanting eyes. A brother, perhaps, or a relative, certainly a member of the Aihult. He wore fine silks, and his hands were heavy with rings. Casually he added, "An hour, a day, what does it matter?"

Quickly the girl said, "Zavor, pour the wine, and don't talk such rubbish."

"Rubbish?" He shrugged and handed Dumarest a goblet of crystal, finely cut and with tiny gems embedded in the glass. The wine was a deep blue and held the scent of burning wood. "My dear, you know as well as I that our honored grandparent has a dual appreciation of time. His summons must be answered immediately; his attention is another matter." Lifting his own goblet, he added, "To the serpent."

The girl responded, "May it swallow all."

A ritual toast, thought Dumarest, waiting unto the others drank before sipping the wine. It chilled lips and tongue, ran like fire down his throat, to expand in sudden warmth in his stomach.

As he lowered his glass, Zavor said, "I was at the stadium today. Haitcel really put on a splendid performance. Fifteen couples and five teams of seven aside. The teams weren't much, scum sold for fodder, cheap material off the block, and promised a clean slate if they won. I suppose about eight of them managed to survive, but the couples! Zenya, you should have seen them! Haitcel had a novel idea. He staked one foot to the ground so they couldn't run, and armed them with twenty-inch blades. It was good, clean, fast action all the time. I won a couple of thousand on a fighter from the Banarah province. He was clever. He didn't mess about, but put everything into the telling blow." He laughed. "After all, if a man hasn't got a hand to hold a knife, he can't be any real challenge, can he? And that's what he did. Lopped off the hand and then aimed at the throat. Two cuts and finish!" He made a chopping motion with the stiffened edge of his palm. "A joy to watch an expert. You agree, Earl?"

Dumarest sipped his wine, not answering.

"Earl doesn't like fighting," said the girl.

"No?" Zavor narrowed his eyes. "A pity. We could have had a bout while waiting. Practice blades, of course, and no real chance of getting hurt. But I suppose, to a coward, even that is a terrifying prospect."

The girl said, "Be careful, Zavor!"

"Of what?" He drank more of his wine. "Since when have the Aihult had to watch their words? A man is what he is. Some can stand the sight of blood, and others cannot. But this world was not tamed by weaklings, and our society has no place for strangers who come to sneer. A man can fight and lose and still command respect. How can we respect a man who refuses to fight at all?"

Dumarest set down his goblet and stared around the chamber, conscious of watching eyes. He could see nothing, but scanners could be relaying the scene elsewhere, and there would be guards; of that he was certain. As certain as the fact that he was being baited for some reason. Zavor wasn't drunk, the wine wasn't responsible for his taunts, nor for his previous lies. No manager of a stadium would stage such spectacles as he had described, if only because it was too wasteful, too expensive, and offered too little sport.

And the girl, too-why had she been so insistent that he was a fighter?

How was it they knew so much about him?

He said, "My lord, my lady, with your permission, I wish to leave."

"Permission denied." Zavor was curt, his tone that he would have used toward a serf. The girl was more gentle.

"You can't go yet, Earl. Not until you have spoken to Chan Parect."

Again he tested the jaws of the trap which now he was convinced held him close. "I have changed my mind. I am not interested in anything he may have to say. In any case, I have no intention of waiting here to be baited by a fool."

"A fool?" Zavor stepped forward, his voice a feral purr. "You would hardly call my sister that, so the insult must be directed at myself. A strange word from a guest. A stranger one still when spoken by a coward. Perhaps I should have you taught a lesson."

"As you say," said Dumarest flatly. "I am a guest. As such, I have an obligation. I recognize it if you do not."

"You compound the insult!"

"I did not expect to be faced with a tavern brawl in the citadel of the house of Aihult."

The girl said sharply, "Zavor! Don't!"

He was beyond any warning, suffused with a rage that Dumarest realized verged on the maniacal. He stepped back as the young man advanced, noting the stance, the hands extended, the palms stiffened, the fingers clamped together to form spears. A man trained in unarmed combat ready to use feet and hands against his opponent. A devotee of the ring, with, perhaps, a private box at the stadium.

Dumarest tensed as he retreated. The man was dangerous, not because of his skill, but because of the house to which he belonged. To kill him would be to commit suicide. To injure him in body or in pride would be to invite the attention of assassins-men who would strike him down and leave him maimed, crippled, blinded perhaps, if not dead.

And yet, somehow, he had to be stopped.

Dumarest dodged as he lunged, dodged again as a foot swept toward his side, the tips of fingers stabbing at his eyes. He blocked a chop with his left arm, another with his right, twisted to avoid a knee thrust at his groin, backed as Zavor moved to the attack. For a moment the room was filled with the flurry of motion, the sound of harsh breathing, as the young man did his best to break the defense.

"Fight!" he panted. "Fight, you coward! Fight!"

A masochist desiring pain? Dumarest didn't think so. The man was more a sadist confident of his prowess, the skill he imagined he possessed that had been tested on serfs terrified to hurt their master. Serfs and others like himself, scions of great houses, fighting for pleasure, not profit, and always careful to avoid the danger of serious injury.

He attacked again, stooping, rising to kick, to chop, the top of his head aimed at Dumarest's face. He met only wind, and stood, baffled.

"Enough!" said the girl. "Zavor! That's enough!"

From the open door a thin, acid voice said, "No, my dear. I don't think it is." Aihult Chan Parect stepped into the chamber.

Chapter Two

He did not seem old. A grandfather, perhaps, but he carried himself upright, and his shoulders bulked solid beneath his tunic. His hair was grizzled, cut short over a rounded skull, deep lines scoring his face from nose to mouth. Thick brows sheltered slanted eyes, the whites flecked with motes of brown. His hands were broad, the fingers thick and strong.

To the girl he said, "Introduce me to our guest."

As Zenya obeyed, Dumarest looked at the rest of the party. Chan Parect was not alone. At his side a woman stood, tall, regal, in a gown of ebony velvet cinctured with a golden serpent. The paleness of her skin accentuated the rich darkness of her hair. Her face was elfin, the chin sharply pointed, the eyes oval, enigmatic.

"Lisa Conenda," said Zenya. She did not bother to mention the rest, the three guards who waited like shadows behind the pair. "My aunt."

"My lady." Dumarest inclined his head. "My lord."

"At least he is polite." Her voice was deep, almost mannish. "Who would have thought that a common fighter would have such delicacy? Zavor, you seemed heated. You should remember to stay cool."

"As did our guest." Parect's thin voice held amusement. "You could learn something from him, boy. In battle, a cool head wins."

"What battle?" Zavor scowled. "He refused to fight. The coward ran from each attack."

"Coward, boy?"

"What else would you call him? What other name can you give to a man who refuses to fight?"