He said, sharply, "Who told you that?"

"About my ancestors? It's a matter of record."

"No, the other, the part about men being cowards if they develop a regard for their lives. Who!"

"I don't know." She was startled by his sudden anger. "Some talk, perhaps when I was in town, a rumor-you know how these things happen. But does it matter?"

"It matters. It's a question of morale. Make a man feel bad and you've half-won the battle. Make him feel foolish and a coward to take care of himself and you've gained an easy target. Was it Roland?" He watched her eyes. "Suchong? Navalok? Taiyuah? A trader?"

"I don't know." She felt her own irritation begin to flower into rage. "Someone, somewhere, that's all I can say."

"Do you believe it?"

"That to be careful is to be a coward?" She remembered the infirmary. "No." Then, to change the subject. "Where's Kars?"

"We went into town and I left him there."

"After news?"

"Yes. Now you'd better get into your bath."

"Later. I'm not a child, Earl." She looked at the clutter of papers. "And this is my war too, you know."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"I hate it. I want it to end. That's why I wish you had succeeded last night. Earl, where did they go?"

A question he had been working to answer. From the heap he took a map, an aerial survey, the heights yellow, the depths green, ravines and crevasses made red slashes, deserts ocher smears. Stark against the shades of color were uncompromising black flecks.

"The stop-overs," said Lavinia as he touched them. "Are you sure?"

"Not certain but I'd put money on it." Dumarest used dividers to step out distances. "See?"

"See what?" She didn't apologize for her ignorance. "Tell me, Earl."

"It was late afternoon when they pulled out," he explained. "They headed north. That could have been a diversion, but I don't think so. They didn't have time to waste. We can estimate the speed of the rafts. They were heavily loaded but there was a south wind which would have helped them along. Say they ran until an hour before dark. Not long enough to reach a castle but long enough to put them in this area."

She looked at the circle his finger made. "In the stopovers. Of course."

They were thick-walled, barn-like constructions set at irregular intervals in the empty places. Buildings provided with food and water and emergency medicines for the use of those who may have been forced to land and had been trapped by the night. A relic of the old days when much travel had been by animal or foot. They could be sealed and lit with lamps burning oil. Their maintenance was the responsibility of the Family owning the land.

"They couldn't have all got into one," said Dumarest. "But they wouldn't have wanted to separate too far. That puts them here if my guess is right. It's the only place they could have reached where the stop-overs are close."

"On the edge of Taiyuah's land," she mused. "His grandfather tried breeding a herd there and built those huts for his men. Later, when he abandoned the idea, he turned them into stop-overs. That's it, then, Earl. We have them. Now you know where they are you can send a force against them."

He smiled at her enthusiasm but she had the naivete of a child when it came to war.

"I'm not certain they are there," he said, patiently. "As yet it's only a guess. But assume they are. If we attack on foot they would spot us and catch us in a crossfire. If we rafted in they would blast us out of the sky with their launchers. And look at the terrain." His fingers illustrated his words, moving from shaded patches of yellow to red. "The place is ringed with hills. They'll have spotters on the summits and attack groups in the crevasses. Surprise is out and the rest would be slaughter. They're professionals. Experienced mercenaries. All we can send against them is barely trained retainers."

"They can kill, Earl."

"And have," he agreed. "But a lot of them got hurt doing it."

To be expected when men, flushed by the desire to be heroes, took too many chances. Wounded they would learn. Dead any lesson came too late.

"So what do we do? You can't just leave that force out there."

"Why not?" He shrugged at her expression. "Because they might attack or move? They can do that anyway. We can't stop them. All we can do is to keep them under what observation we can. If they're there we'll know it. If they make a move we'll know that too. But we can't do a thing without information."

And Tomir's had been good. Was there intent behind the move and, if so, what? An attack on Belamosk? Launchers could reduce the castle to rubble given time and assuming their crews would remain unmolested. But no commander could hope for that. A feint? Was he setting a trap? And the sudden pulling out, the luck Gartok had cursed. Luck or something else? A day earlier-but they hadn't known where to strike until the prisoner had been questioned. Tomir would have learned of his capture and guessed he would talk. Had the knowledge triggered the move? But why? Night attacks were unknown on this world. Who could have predicted one would be tried?

Cybers were masters of prediction-had one come to Zakym?

Ardoch stood in the open doorway of a chamber and watched a man play at the childish game of war. The room was old, the walls crusted with mineral deposits which seeping damp had piled on the stone, the floor uneven as the ground beneath had settled over the centuries. A place buried deep beneath Castle Prabang which now held the man who had made it his.

Tomir Embris who carried a false name and claimed a false identity. A clever fool-but one the cyber could handle.

"Ardoch?" Tomir lifted his head from the desk at which he sat. "I didn't hear you. Come and join me."

A board stood on the table, chessmen set in their squares, locked now in one of the surrogate battles which the man loved to play. He was large for his height, his body stocky, muscled like a bull. His head was almost a perfect round, the nose prominent, the eyes piercing. The greatest resemblance to his father was in his mouth and chin. From his mother he had inherited his thin mass of too-fine hair.

"Chess," he said as the scarlet robe of the cyber came near. "A game which should suit you. A matter of sheer prediction. Your color?"

Ardoch yielded the opening and, within six moves, knew how the game would end. Tomir lacked subtlety, seeking to crush and weaken rather than concentrating on the finer nuances of the play. A betrayal of a desire to destroy than merely to conquer yet never would he be able to admit to it as a weakness. A barbarian who would have been in his element leading a blood-crazed horde.

"You've beaten me!" He glared at the board. "In two moves-how do you do it?"

"A knack, my lord."

"As you warned me of the night attack? Was that another knack?" Tomir smiled and shook his head. "Of course not. You are trained to look ahead and to make the future plain. What was the prediction again? There would be an attack and the probability was in the order of eighty-one percent it would come when it did. And," he frowned, "what was the other?"

"The prediction that the attack would be made was ninety-one percent, my lord. The time was a greater variable."

"And the uncertainty was high." Tomir laughed with a harsh, barking sound. "I remember you saying that. High! But then you are never satisfied. Always you search for absolute certainty."

A mistake, no cyber would waste time reaching for the logically unattainable. Nothing was or could be wholly certain, always the unknown factor had to be taken into account remote as it might be. As the corroded wire in the generator of the ship which had carried him from Fralde and which, breaking, had caused delay. An incident which had led him to offer his services to the young conquerer who had snatched at the opportunity.