She held them, after the first few moments she knew it. The gown, the display of flesh, all were unnecessary, her vocal magic was enough. Khan Barrocca sat, a goblet half-raised to his lips, his desire for wine forgotten in his appreciation of her art. Jashir Yagnik brooded, his face betraying his envy, his eyes his need. Chole Khalil, young, impressionable, stared at her body but saw only the imagery of his dreams. Yunus, Keith, the others assembled with their toys-all were in the hollow of her hand. An audience to manipulate, to control. And, suddenly, she was a child again sitting in the great auditorium of the Opera House, looking, listening, knowing with every cell of her body what her destiny must be. To sing. To create rapture. To deliver joy.

The Banachata drew toward its end, shrill, clear notes wafting like birds, caught, amplified, engaged in a mesh of grace-notes, the main theme rising to fall to rise again in a calculated sonic wave which matched the aural emotional triggers inherent in all who were human. Science wedded to art and served as entertainment.

The piece ended with a sharp abruptness, the silence shocking, stunning, then, before the spell could be broken, she began the second selection.

Hezekiah had worked on it for half his life and had died still unsatisfied but few would admit that he had achieved less than perfection. This time there were words all could follow, each syllable chosen for semantic and emotive impact, the music accentuating the message as her own skill modulated it, tone and key changing, pure melody providing contrast, long ululations stretching and distorting time. A tapestry of sound and music, words and tone, cadences weaving as threads, glissades, apparent cacophonies, the final, triumphant cadenza.

This time she waited for applause, bowing, smiling as Barrocca hurled down his goblet in order to beat his hands, Yagnik rising to cry out, a sound born of emotion, torn from his soul. Chole Khalil joined him, adding to the storm rising from the table. Even Yunus clapped and his uncle dented a salver with the impact of a spoon.

Slowly the room regained its calm. Silence came to replace the din but only when it was complete did she give the signal to the watchful musicians. With a chord as solemn as a prayer the Interlude began.

Ecuilton had been a child during the war which had ruined his planet. He had seen his mother die in a burning house, his father torn by explosives, his brother crisped by searing pastes. He had witnessed all the horror and vileness of internecine combat and, later, the indifference of the victors to what had happened to the vanquished. To them, as to the others, the thing had been a mere interlude. To him it was a thing he could never forget and, old, crippled and dying, he had created a masterpiece.

Ellain hated it.

She hated what it did to her, the emotions it aroused; the pain and fury and frustration. The injustice. The horror. The imagery of burning, screaming children, of shrieking, distraught women. Of men crawling like half-crushed insects, blind, groping, entrails trailing like greasy ribbons. Of boots stamping on pleading, extended hands. Of the bewildered cries of helpless babies starving as they sucked at the breasts of raped and murdered mothers. The violation of the soil. The stink, the filth, the obscenity of war.

Hated it and yet loved it too. Enjoyed it in part and echoed that enjoyment to match the bleak despair. Feeling the tension mount in her loins, the hardening of her nipples as she sang of blood and pain; a sexual stimulus matched by the disgust of those who warred against the helpless. A contradiction of civilized mind and primitive nature which created, for her, a vibrant excitement. Often she ended the Interlude shuddering in orgasm.

But not this time. Now she controlled her emotions, resisting the impulse to yield to the spell of the tonal and musical magic, projecting, aiming the notes like bullets at her audience. As the last rose to hang quivering like a scream, to end with the impact of a fist, she bowed, hair cascading to mound on the floor, one long thigh exposed to gleam in the subdued light, the lines of her back illuminated by the spotlight which had shone throughout her performance.

And again the room quivered to the thunder of applause.

"My dear!" Yunus rose to greet her as she neared the table. "You were wonderful! Superb!"

He was gratified, basking in the adulation given by the others to his toy. A matter of pride, equal to that felt by the owner of a winning horse, the possessor of an intelligent dog. And yet, as he touched her, she felt that there could be something more. A tenderness. A regard. Surely she must mean more to him than a voice to beguile his guests?

Then Khan Barrocca said, "Yunus, I offer ten thousand kren for her contract."

"Only ten?" Yunus shrugged. "You aim too low, my friend."

"A hundred!" Young Chole gulped, recognizing his temerity. "A hundred thousand, Yunus!"

She waited for him to reject the offer, to make it plain to all that he regarded her as beyond price. Instead he said, musingly, "You tempt me, Chole. A hundred, you say?"

"Yes."

"And you have it?" He smiled at the other's hesitation, "No? Well, approach me again when you do."

The smile had betrayed his nature, it had held more cruelty than amusement and it had not been kind to have made sport of the boy. Yet the offer, if nothing else, had restored some of her lost confidence. Why need she be so dependent on Yunus Ambalo? She was unique while he was but one of many-a fact she had tended to forget.

"No, my dear," he said quietly, and it was as if he'd read her mind. "I am not to be discarded so easily. You must remember that it is I who own your contract. It is to me you are indebted."

She said, bitterly, "Could I ever forget it?"

"It would be wise if you did not."

"And you will see to it that I am reminded I am your property. Your slave!" Anger turned her eyes into emerald pools. "One day, Yunus! One day-"

"One day the winds will cease and the surface of Harge be as pleasant to walk on as-Nyadoma? That is the name of your world, isn't it? Nyadoma where all are equal and none are denied." His tone was dry with mocking. "I wonder why you ever left such a paradise." Then, with sudden acidity, he added, "Never threaten me, Ellain. Not when we are alone or in company. Forget and you will regret it. That I promise."

"As you promised to take me to the arena?"

"Of course, my dear. I hadn't forgotten." His smile was bland. "But first let us finish the meal."

Harge was a box holding a world and though small it held all the elements of a planet. The upper towers held expensive suites and apartments, windowed, the panes protected from the dust, the air itself balanced to a scented delight. There it was possible to wander in exotic gardens, swim in limpid pools, lounge beneath transparent roofs in the light of sun or stars. Lower were more modest apartments, offices, walks and shops, schools. Lower still, below ground level, began a different world, one of noise and smells and harsh bleakness. And lower still, as deep as it was possible to get, the Burrows, the area of the damned.

Between the upper and lower worlds, like a thin film of oil, of insulation, was the place Dumarest knew had to exist.

"Come here, my pretty!" An old crone yelled a raucous invitation as he neared her stall. "Sit and let me study your palm. The future lies in the lines, your past, dangers which could threaten. Advantages too which could be lost unless anticipated." A leer disfigured her seamed features. "A girl lusting for just such a man as you and willing to pay for her pleasure. I can tell you where such are to be found. Rich women from the upper levels and generous if satisfied. Come, sit, cross my palm with silver and let's begin."