"I have offended you," said Jwani. "You are offended."

"There can be no offense where there is no intention to offend." Dumarest reached for a decanter and poured a stream of scintillant wine into a goblet shaped and colored like a rose. "I merely freed your hands so as to give you this." He placed the goblet into the empty hands. "So as to offer you a toast with this." He lifted his own glass. "I drink to your health!"

"Good or bad?"

"Good, naturally. Are you my enemy?"

Jwain said, dryly, "From what I've heard of you, Earl, it wouldn't be healthy to be that. Rest assured I am your friend."

"And friends should meet. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. Later, certainly. Ellain knows where I am to be found. And now-" He swayed a little, his face turning suddenly black. "And now I think I need a… a little…"

Dumarest caught him as he fell. Attendants, answering Ellain's signal, came rushing to relieve him of the burden. As he made to follow them from the room she caught his arm.

"No, Earl!"

"He needs help and-"

"But not from you. Understand me, Earl, it's a matter or pride. The servants don't matter but if he knew you had seen him ill, vomiting, at his worst, he would never want to face you again. He would even take your presence as a deliberate insult. Believe me."

She had no reason to lie and it sounded reasonable. Certainly he had run into stranger mores but it was a chance lost. Few men when in need would be reluctant to accept help and, when drunk, a man often could be influenced to tell more than he intended.

Ellain said, "I'm sorry, Earl. If Alejandro has a fault it's that he can't hold his liquor. He also doesn't know when to stop. Usually he just becomes a bore but tonight he outdid himself. Still, it gives you an advantage."

"How?"

"He doesn't usually remember just what he's said toward the last." She looked at him without expression. "Shall we dance?"

He led her to the center of the floor, her scarlet hair cascading over an emerald gown, her waist caught with a cincture of gold, more gold hugging her naked, high-arched feet Dumarest had little interest in the dance but the needs of the arena had made him light on his feet and the beat of the music was easy to follow. Ellain matched his movements, accentuating them, adding more of her own so that she spun like a tinted river against the gray of stone. A display overpraised by a sharp-eyed woman with a painted face and nails which would have suited a feline.

"My dear, you were superb! It's such a comfort to your friends to discover you can do more than sing. I was distraught when I learned you were not to entertain us-but there are consolations."

"Of course, Weenedia. That of attending as a guest for one. I no longer have to pretend to be amused by ignorance."

The woman ignored the insult. Her voice was acid. "A new friend, I see?" Her eyes glanced toward Dumarest. "I wondered what had happened to Yunus, then I remembered he was engaged with the Barroccas on a matter of cost adjustment. Have you met Ieko Barrocca? A sweet and fantastically lovely young woman. I'm sure they will be very happy. Ah! I see young Tariq over there. I think he is about to entertain us with his new novelty."

"Bitch!" Ellain stared after the woman as she hurried away. "Trust her to turn the knife!" And trust her to tell Yunus of the dance and of Dumarest. Well, to hell with him. For tonight at least. If he was with the Barroccas he wouldn't be bothering her. And the dance had made her acutely aware of her body. "Earl, I'm bored. Take me away from here."

"Now?"

"Why not? Alejandro has left and we've done what we came for. We could walk in the gardens or visit the gymnasium. See some baiting or try a sensatape. Or we could just go back home." Her eyes told him which she preferred. "There'll be no need to hurry now. We can talk and make plans. Earl?"

Before he could answer the air trembled to the clash of a gong and, with suitable solemnity, Tariq Khalil presented the singing jewel.

Marta Caine had changed, Dumarest could tell it at once as, dressed in a long, flowing gown of sequined black, she walked from the side room out into the center of the floor. Carl and Maurice attended her, both wearing robes, the trader bearing the now-decorated box, the mercenary watchful, as always on guard against a sudden rush, a snatch, a threat to the jewel or its owner.

"This is nonsense!" Ellain didn't trouble to lower her voice. "Stupid theatricallity. What the hell's she supposed to be? A priestess of some kind?"

Dumarest said harshly, "She is a woman trying to earn a living. Respect that if nothing else."

"But-"

"Damn you! Shut up and give her a chance!"

She fell silent, shaken by his fury, wondering at his concern for a stupid old woman who walked with hands lifted in supplication as if she were praying. A woman both old and ugly; the ebon veil covering her hair framed a living skull.

Time, she thought, it brings this to us all. Age, the insidious poison which robs flesh of its firmness, muscle and tissue of resiliency. She remembered what she had seen in her mirror and felt a sudden revulsion. No! Better to die than to linger to look like the poor creature now standing, hands extended for the box which the robed figure extended toward her. The box she touched and the lid she slowly lifted while, from the musicians, came the solemn beat of a muffled drum.

Theatrical buffoonery-but effective. Even she felt the growing tension. The intangible feel of something stupendous and terrifying about to happen-a tension which mounted as the aged hands dipped into the box to lift, cupped, to poise while the fingers slowly opened to reveal what they contained.

"Glass!" She whispered her disappointment. "By God, it's just glass!"

"No." Dumarest answered her. "Not glass. Now be silent and watch what happens."

The drumbeat continued, fading, dying as if retreating to make way for something new and marvelous; becoming a stirring whisper as, its heraldry accomplished, it stole quietly from the scene.

To leave silence.

A silence which lengthened until the ears seemed to ache with waiting and then, slowly, so slowly, the jewel began to brighten, to illuminate the skeletal fingers caressing it, the skeletal face behind it. A face which tilted as the hands lifted the jewel. One which became transfigured as the gem began to sing.

And, in the song, was death.

A dirge which keened the end of all life, all sunsets, all dawns. A thin, whining threnody which told of the chill and empty places between the stars, of ice, of deserts, of hopeless emptiness. Of the slow and inevitable halting of growth and the termination of desire.

Depression came to kill the party. A cloud of endless night which froze the smiles of anticipation and converted jovial congress into the strained facade of a wake. In imagination faces became skulls and fleshless jaws gaped in grimaces which were the mockery of smiles.

"No!" Ellain felt the constriction of her stomach, her heart. "Dear God, no!"

The Interlude had never been like this. Ecuilton's despair had never touched such depths. Even Schiller in the madness which had created the Tubero had failed to induce such hopeless resignation. She felt smothered by it. Condemned and yet accepting the condemnation. Dying and resigned to death. Seeing the approaching termination of her entire existence and, singing, accepting it. Dying as she sang. Singing as she died.

No, not her-it!

The thing cradled in the thin, bony fingers. Or was it the fingers which sang and the glowing jewel only amplified? Or the woman whose hands they were? Or the brain behind the skull-like face? Or the mind within the brain? The soul? The intangible something which could never be seen, touched, measured, felt. The ego. The individual.