"We make it only once each year," Lavinia explained. "From pods delivered to us in exchange for various other items. It is brewed in ancient caskets to an old recipe and sealed in bottles of black glass. A little lifts the spirit but more will open doors and give you glimpses of the unknown which you may regret. It is wise to be moderate."

"In all things." Dumarest had barely touched the variety of dishes, eating only from those selected by Roland. The man could be genuine-but to take precautions would do no harm.

"Yes, Earl, in all things." Lavinia clapped her hands. "In love, in life and in entertainment."

Music rose from a shadowed alcove where a small group sat with their instruments. The throb of drums merged with the thin, high wailing of pipes, the steady thrumming of plucked strings. It softened into a steady beat as an old man stepped forward to chant an involved saga dealing with an incredible journey through tremendous perils with final success. He bowed as coins showered at his feet to be followed by a troupe of young girls who danced with agile abandon.

Lavinia watched them, glancing at Dumarest, noting his attention. Beneath her fingers a morsel of bread crumbled to an untidy litter of crumbs.

"You like them, Earl?"

"They seem accomplished."

"You would like one? The one with the big mouth, for example? Or the one with the blonde hair?"

"Are they yours to give, my lady?"

"I-"

"Are they slaves?"

"There are no slaves on Zakym." Roland leaned forward, quick to soothe, aware of tension. "Lavinia was joking, Earl. She is a little jealous, I think."

"Of the dancers?" Dumarest was deliberately obtuse. "They are very skilled and it no doubt takes years of training to achieve such perfection, but, even so, I think you could hold your own with them, my lady."

"It is gracious of you to say so." Her tone was chill. "I, the Mistress of the Family, a common dancer. Well, I suppose there are worse fates. But assuming they were slaves and you desired one and I gave her to you, what then?"

"I would set her free."

"As a reward for pleasing you?"

Dumarest said, flatly, "Have you ever been a slave, my lady? Have you ever felt the weight of the collar of servitude? To know that disobedience means torment and could mean your life? No. Of course you haven't. If you had you would never talk so lightly of slaves. They are people, not things. Men and women with feelings, not items to be bought and used and sold."

"Earl. Lavinia was joking."

Dumarest looked at the hand Roland had rested on his arm. A small hand, the fingers thin, delicate, like the limbs of a spider-no, like the helpless appendages of a child. But a gesture from them could rob him of freedom. He was alone in a sealed castle, one against the servants and retainers, trapped in a place from which there could be no escape.

It was a time to be cautious.

"You spoke with feeling, Earl." Lavinia lifted a hand to the column of her throat as if feeling for the metal caress of a collar. "You have a hatred of those who would make slaves of others."

"Yes, my lady."

"Because you have worn the collar yourself, perhaps?" She gave him no time to answer. "No matter. If you have it is no doubt an experience you never wish to repeat. So many experiences, Earl. You must tell me more about them later."

"As you wish, my lady." Dumarest felt the impact of Roland's eyes. "But would it be wise?"

"What do you mean?"

"I understood that you were betrothed. Wouldn't your future husband object?"

"Gydapen? The Lord of Prabang?" Her laugh was brittle. "Who cares about him?"

"I do, my lady. He could be jealous and none could blame him for that. He has influence on this world and I have none. It would be best for me to take a room in a hotel in town. Then when a ship arrives, I can arrange passage."

"No!" Her rejection was too sharp and she realized it, making an effort to control her tone before she spoke again. "That is unnecessary, Earl. You are a welcome guest. Tell him so, Roland. Tell him he is welcome. What must I do in order to persuade him to stay?"

"Lavinia, Earl is being wise."

"No!"

"It is best that he should go. Here there could be danger and we must not expose him to unnecessary risks. He-"

"Roland, you talk like a fool!" She was impatient, taking his words at their face value, not realizing their true intent. Gentle at heart she would never force another to remain at risk. "What danger could threaten Earl? Who would dare to challenge him? He is no stranger to violence but here we are a peaceful people. We-"

"Peaceful?" Dumarest was curt in his interruption. The thing had been decided-it was time to end the useless argument. "I think you are mistaken, my lady. If they are so peaceful then why are they importing guns?"

"Guns?" Roland was incredulous. "Earl, are you sure?"

"How can he be sure?" Lavinia was equally as disbelieving. "How?"

"I've seen them." Dumarest looked from one to the other, remembering the story he had told to account for his being in the crate. "I was stranded on Harald as I've told you. I broke into a warehouse intending to hide in some cargo and so gain passage to another world. To become a stowaway. I had to be careful, the penalty if discovered is eviction."

"And?"

"I checked the crates. One of them was filled with guns. I resealed the crate and opened another-and the rest you know."

"Were the crates bound for Zakym?" Roland pressed the point. "Were they?"

"Yes."

"Was it marked in any way? The crate holding the guns, I mean?"

"A symbol," said Dumarest, slowly. "The sign of an axe crossed with a scythe."

"The whole enclosed in a circle?" Roland glanced at the woman as Dumarest nodded. "Gydapen's mark."

"Gydapen." Her finger traced a random pattern in the litter of crumbs. "But what use would he have for guns? Mining machinery, yes, that would be expected, but guns? Why guns?"

"They are usually needed in order to fight a war," said Dumarest, dryly. "But wouldn't you know about his intentions? As his proposed wife wouldn't he have confided in you?"

"They all ask that," she snapped. "The answer is no. The marriage, if ever it takes place, will be a political one. I know nothing about his guns, his sheds, his men out marching. Nothing about his ambitions. Only his threats."

"Sheds?" Dumarest glanced at Roland, listened as he explained. The journey over the wastelands, what had been spotted from the raft. "Long sheds like extended huts?"

"Yes."

"And were the men marching in line or column? Did they act oddly at times-all moving in unison for example? Were others standing to one side?"

Roland nodded and said, "You suspect something, Earl. What?"

"In my experience guns and sheds and marching men usually add up to one thing. Someone is training a group of men to follow orders. The sheds are to house them and the guns are to arm them when they are ready to fight."

"To fight?" Lavinia looked from one to the other. "To kill, you mean? No! It's unthinkable. You must have made a mistake. Not even Gydapen could get his men to kill others."

"You would be surprised at what men can be persuaded to do," said Dumarest, dryly. "And it takes little to point a weapon and pull the trigger. To many it isn't killing at all. It is just a sport and their victims moving targets. After the first time it comes easy. The more so if a bonus is paid to every good shot."

"It's disgusting!"

"Yes, but it happens."

Roland said, "I was talking to the agent. Gydapen had a score of crates delivered. If they all contained guns he would have enough to arm every man on his estates. But why?" He found an answer as he voiced the question. "To stop us preventing his mining operation. He's determined to break the Pact no matter what the Council may decide. The others must be warned-but how to stop him? What to do?"