"Naturally." The man rose, towering above the other by over a head. A tall man, almost as tall as Dumarest and taller than Lavinia who was tall for her race. "You will return home, now?"

"Roland has a suite in the castle." Lavinia touched a bell summoning a servant to clear away the dishes. "In any case he has to stay. Curfew has sounded."

"Of course. Curfew. I had forgotten."

There was irony in his tones and Dumarest watched from where he sat in his chair, noting the play of light over the ebon features, the shape of nose, mouth and jaw. With caste-marks he would have been taken for a Hausi but the cheeks were smooth and there was a subtle difference in the slant of the eyes. A kindred race, perhaps, or someone who carried the stamp of a common ancestry. A dealer who need not be what he seemed.

"You were most gracious to invite me to share your meal," he said. "I appreciate the hospitality and can only regret that we have not met earlier. But I have been busy, you understand. And, always it seems, I get trapped by the curfew." His smile widened. "I think I should introduce the habit on my home world. It has advantages."

"Such as?"

"My lady, I do not care to embarrass you. It is enough to say that the ladies on my planet are somewhat stilted in their conduct toward men and social intercourse is difficult. But if we had a curfew which froze all movement after dark-what an excuse that would be!"

"Your world," said Dumarest. "Tyrahmen?"

"Tyumen," corrected Chelhar. "The names sound similar, I agree, but such error could lead to confusion. My home world lies beyond the Rift towards the Center. Yours?"

"Somewhere." Dumarest poured himself wine, added water, gulped the goblet empty. Lavinia glanced at him as he refilled it, this time with water alone. He was drinking too deeply and too often as if assailed by an unquenchable thirst. "One day I shall return to it."

"Show me the traveler who does not say that!" Chelhar lifted both hands, eyes turning upwards in a parody of prayer. "Always it is 'one day 'one day'… never does it seem to be tomorrow. Strange is it not how the world we remember with such tenderness was the one we were so eager to leave? Like a man I knew once who had a wife who was the most beautiful thing in creation if he was to be believed. Always he praised her but always he remained at a distance. Once, when he had drunk more than he should, I asked him why he stayed away. Can you guess what he answered?"

"No," said Lavinia. "What?"

"My lady, he said that the memory was sweeter than the reality. That to see her would be to spoil his illusion. But, at least, that man was honest with himself. Too many other are not."

"Are you?"

"I have no illusions, my lady. One day I shall return to my world but not until I have made enough money to live as I would like." Chelhar tapped his nail against the rim of his goblet as if to provide an accompaniment to his words. "At times I pray that it will not be long. There are worse planets than Tyumen. We have seas and plains and mountains tipped with snow. The skies are blue and the clouds are white and, at night, a great silver moon adorns the stars. It is old and scarred so that, with imagination, you can see a face looking down at you. Lovers find it pleasant to stroll in its light."

Earth? The man could have been describing Earth-but how many planets had a single moon? A coincidence if not a deliberate trap. But why should a dealer want to set a snare?

Then Chelhar said, softly, "Moonlight. How could you understand its magic? Sunlight, polarized and reflected but somehow magically changed so that the mundane takes on the aspect of mystery and enchantment. Moonlight and starlight, the glory of the heavens, and yet you of Zakym want none of it."

"Can have none of it," corrected Lavinia. "The curfew-"

"Close the door of your prison of night." Chelhar shrugged. "I am in no position to question the local customs or beliefs of any world, but this is one of the strangest Yes, I know about the Pact and the Sungari, but I've also heard about ghosts and goblins and things which lurk in the mist. Superstitions which have grown to control the minds and habits of men and peoples. On Angku, for example, no woman may be seen with a naked face. All wear masks and some are fantastic in their depictions; birds, beasts, reptiles, insects, some are things of horror. Yet those same women are forbidden to cover their breasts. Odd, is it not?"

"An original belief or cultural eccentricity," said Lavinia. "But the Sungari are real."

"Of course."

"They exist!" Dumarest had not liked the glance, the hint of a sneer, the smooth manner of a man who was a guest but who seemed to have his own ideas as to how he should conduct himself. "I know."

Chelhar insisted on arguing. "Are you saying that the Sungari actually and literally rule the night? That if I left this castle now, before dawn, they would kill me?"

"Something would destroy you. You would not live to see the dawn." Dumarest halted his hand as it reached for the goblet. "If you wish to put it to the test it can be arranged."

"You would permit me to leave?"

"You spoke of a prison of the night," said Dumarest. "Every house on Zakym is such a prison but I am not your jailer. Leave if you want."

"And die?"

Dumarest picked up his wine. "Yes," he said, flatly. "And die."

The day broke clear, the wreaths of night-mist which had gathered during the night already dissipated in the crisp, cool air. Lavinia had chosen to ride and was in the lead, the hooves of her mount ringing against the packed stone of the road, softening to a drumming beat as she led the way to a dirt path which wound up and around the point known as Ellman's Rest.

Dumarest glanced at it as he passed, seeing the gnarled old tree in whose branches a dead man sat and talked at times; a suicide who returned during delusia to warn others against the end he had chosen. Rocks were heaped at the base of the trunk and some night-mist, lingering in the protected shade, hung like wisps of gossamer.

Chelhar turned in his saddle, smiling, and pointed at the lace-like stuff with his whip.

"Food for your mysterious Sungari, Earl? It seems they had little appetite last night."

He smiled, impeccable in his clothing, rich fabrics adorned with gilded thread. His hands were bare, heavy with rings, the nails smooth and neatly rounded. His spurs were rounds of metal rimmed with blunted spikes.

As Dumarest made no answer he said, "I am irritating you, my friend, and for that I apologize. For the informality also if it should offend. I ask you to be generous with my failings-last night we drank deeper than was wise."

Deep, but not too deep for caution and Dumarest wondered if they both had played the same game. As Lavinia had talked enthusiastically about her herd, the dealer making appropriate noises, he had watched with casual attention. Did the man lift his goblet too often and drink too deeply for the amount of wine it contained? Were his gestures a little too wide, his speech a little too hurried? Once he had risen and stumbled as he had crossed the floor and once his hand, as if by accident, had knocked over a glass. Had he pretended to be fuddled?

An old trick for one in his profession but others who dealt in more lethal business could have adopted the same camouflage. As the man rode ahead Dumarest brooded over what he had heard. A ship found drifting in the Rift-the Sleethan? The news was old now, the man found would have talked had he been able. It could only have been the captain or the engineer but either, if questioned, would have said too much for his safety. The trail he had thought safely buried would be clear to any with the intelligence to see. And Dumarest had no doubt as to who that would be.

"A fine day, Earl." Roland had ridden to his side. Behind them attendants conveyed mounts loaded with packs; bales of meats and wines for the midday meal which Lavinia intended to make a social occasion. A raft would have provided better transportation but the vehicle would have frightened the beasts. "Comfortable?"