But he wasn't that hungry yet, and he was suspicious. Carefully he picked up the bread and began examining it-for what? He didn't know exactly what he was looking for. His suspicions were formless, almost instinctive. But he had learned to trust those instincts of his. And once more he was right.

In the bottom of the loaf, where a casual and hungry diner would never see it, was a small, neat hole. It was not the kind of hole left in the crust of a loaf of bread by the baking. Blade held the loaf up to his eye and looked at it narrowly. Definitely something long and hollow had been pushed into the bread.

Blade picked up a handful of the seaweed from his bed and carefully wrapped it around his hands. Then even more carefully, he broke the loaf in two, trying to make the break at the hole.

The bread broke somewhat raggedly. With narrowed eyes, Blade examined each piece in turn.

Yes. Very faintly, so faintly that a man not looking for it would never have found it, the bread around the hole was discolored. The discoloration was faintly yellowish, like a saffron stain. Holding his breath, Blade brought the stained area close to his nose, then took in a quick breath. The odor was as faint as the color. If he hadn't been looking for it, he would probably never have detected it.

Blade looked sourly at the fish, and his stomach rumbled again. It was very tempting to assume that whatever drug he was supposed to get was in the bread only. But the stain in the bread could be like the old trick of putting an easily visible microphone in a bugged room. Someone who was wary but not quite wary enough would rip out the «bait» microphone and then talk freely-right into another microphone lurking somewhere else: The Fishmen could be expecting him to detect the drugged bread, then gobble himself into a stupor on the fish.

With a sigh he put the cover back on the basket and carried it over to the seaweed bed. Hands still wrapped in the weed, he carefully buried the bread and fish away under the weeds. Then he overturned the basket and lay down on the bed. He wished he knew exactly what reaction the drug was supposed to produce. Finally he managed to contrive what seemed like a good imitation of someone who had sprawled unconscious, arms and legs flung out and breathing slow and shallow. It would have taken a keen observer to notice that his head was turned slightly toward the pool in the center of the chamber, and the eyes in that head were slightly open.

The guard at the lower end of the shaft waited for a full hour after the broken end of the basket's cord came drifting slowly down through the water. Then he summoned the Lady Alanyra.

She came as fast as she could flash through the water, not waiting to call her guards or even send word to Oknyr. She wore only her war garb, for speed and agility. But she carried her Robe of Ceremony in a pouch on her back. To question the Stranger was indeed a ceremony, one that might be the salvation of her people. Even of the Talgarans, perhaps, although she knew of none to whom she could confess that last hope.

She was brisk with the guard.

«Has there been any sound or movement from above?»

«None at all, Noble Lady. The Truth-Finder must be deep within him now. All is silent.»

«Good.» She pulled the pouch off her back and took out the robe. The warrior frowned.

«You would go to this prisoner alone?»

«And why not? With the Truth-Finder in him, he can harm no one.» The guard dropped his eyes under Alanyra's steady gaze, and busied himself with the knot on the hilt of his sword. Alanyra quickly donned the robe, then stepped to the entrance of the shaft. It stretched up, into a darkness broken only by a small circle of light incredibly far above. Then she thrust herself off the bottom in a single graceful motion and surged upward.

The circle of light gradually became larger as she approached. Just below the surface, she stopped to check that her sword moved freely in its scabbard. To question the Stranger alone was necessary. To do it unarmed was folly.

Slowly Alanyra lifted her head above the surface and gazed at the sprawled form of the Stranger. He seemed even more magnificent out of the water than he had in the sea, with long muscular limbs and a massive chest and flat stomach. He was two fingers' width taller than Oknyr, the tallest Sea Master she knew-tall enough to make her feel almost like a half-grown girl.

But was he the Stranger she had long hoped for, the man who might bring victory-or even peace-to the troubled crystal seas? That was why she had put the Truth-Finder in the bread and the fish. Under its influence, he would answer any question she might put to him, unable to lie or conceal anything he knew. The Truth-Finder had proved four previous Strangers to be men of little worth. Now their bones were gathering coral far down on the Reefs of the Clan. Would this man make the fifth? Alanyra hoped not. The situation between Talgar and the Sea Masters was more terrible than ever before. And-yes, she had to admit it, at least to herself-this man was gloriously beautiful, in a way that the other four had not been.

«Goddess of the Foam, let him be the true Stranger!» Alanyra breathed to herself. Then she reached for the edge of the pit and pulled herself out of the water. The sodden robe clung to her body, molding every curve, but she knew that the fiber would dry in minutes. She took two steps toward the sleeping man, readying in her mind the words that would wake him to respond to her questions. She took a third step.

And as she did, a long muscular arm snaked out and grabbed her ankle. Before she could scream or even take another breath, the grip tightened. She found herself flying head over heels through the air, to land on her back in the sand with a thud that knocked all the breath out of her. One arm was caught under her. With the other she reached for her sword. But before she could move it half the way, the Stranger sprang up on his knees and clamped his other hand down on her wrist. He did not speak, nor did he try to hurt her. But his grip was as unbreakable as if his hands had been iron shackles.

In desperation she opened her mouth to scream. In a move so fast that her eyes couldn't begin to follow it, the Stranger snatched her sword from its scabbard. He threw it across the chamber, so hard that sparks flew as it struck the far wall. Then he clamped the hand that had been holding her sword wrist over her mouth. What she had intended to be a scream audible clear down to where the guard sat came out a whimper and a gasp.

She thought of trying to bite the hand that was over her mouth. Then she looked into the piercing eyes of the Stranger, and the thought died. This man would not harm her by choice-only if he thought she was putting him in danger. But then he would not hesitate. And there was a strength in those hands and arms and body that she knew could tear her limb from limb with ease. She would not risk provoking that strength into action. And-again she admitted it with reluctance-there was an odd stirring of pleasure in those powerful hands on her body.

Now he was pulling the robe from her body, tearing the tough fibers as though they were wet seaweed, tearing them into long strips. One went around her face, filling her mouth until she could just barely breathe. Two around her legs, one at the ankles and one at the knees. Two more around her legs, one at the ankles and one at the knees. Two more around her arms, one at the wrists and one at the elbows. The knots were just tight enough to have no play, as though the Stranger had been able to judge her strength simply by looking at her. The idea of that sort of skill frightened her more than a little. With limbs so completely immobilized, she couldn't even hope to roll across the sand and vanish down the shaft.

Now the man was standing up and walking across the chamber, to retrieve her sword, then returning to sit cross-legged in the sand in front of her. His eyes roamed over her bare body, obviously lingering on breasts and hips and thighs and between her legs. There was no distaste in those eyes as they roamed. Indeed there was undeniable admiration. And Alanyra could not deny that she found it pleasant that the Stranger admired her. It was exceedingly odd that she should care what this unknown man thought of her. But it was true nonetheless.