"Mother Earth," she said. "Erce."

"There are other names we could use and all with the same vague origins. Selene, for example. Now that is assumed to be a goddess and she is worshiped on Marl. Each girl, when reaching puberty, must go into the sacred environs there to submit herself to any who ask. Man or woman, it makes no difference, she has to submit to their demand. They, in turn, make a donation to the priestesses. Of course there are ways to avoid an unwelcome suppliant; the object in question can always become engaged in intense devotion or a handy friend can intervene." Batrun ended, dryly, "Some girls are so devout they spend most of their time at worship."

"They have something similar on Vasudiva," said Ysanne. "But with men, not women. They worship Ap… Apl…"

"Apollo," said Batrun. "They use drugs and electric stimuli and mechanical implants in order to guarantee success. A short life," he mused. "But some would say a happy one. Well, Earl, do we rename the Moira the Erce?"

"No." He had no wish to advertise himself to others. "We'll call it-" he paused, thinking, remembering a certain small bundle of energy. "Well call it the Lucita."

She had fallen and was crying, one hand clutching a skinned knee. A small wound, natural to all children with an active bent, but it caused Su Posta to blanch with the sudden fear of what might have been. A skinned knee but it could have been a ruptured spleen, a burst heart, a sharp branch which penetrated the lungs. Her fear gave birth to anger so that her voice lashed at the governess.

"Fool! Can't you take more care? Watch yourself, woman, or I'll have you flogged!"

Lashed, branded, sent to the mines. Things her mother had done to careless servants and she had done as much herself. To Lucy Hart, to Susan Schoo, to others who had betrayed the friendship she had offered; their disloyalty more hurtful than their actual crimes.

"My lady." As always Venicia was calm. "The hurt is small as is the pain. And Dana is not to blame. The child tripped while chasing a bird."

"You dare to rebuke me?"

"Never that, my lady." The bodyguard bowed, eyes masked to hide the fear within her. When Su Posta was in a rage no one was safe. "Shall I take her to the infirmary?"

"Yes-no!" She remembered the smells and terror of her own childhood. "I'll see to it myself. Bring me water and medicants."

Lucita stood and watched as the old hands dipped a handkerchief into the water and bathed the knee. A spray and the job was done, the wound sterilized and sealed against infection.

"Granny, why are you crying?"

"What, child?" Impatiently Su Posta shook her head. "What nonsense!"

"But I saw you." With the insistence of the very young Lucita pressed the point. "I'm not hurt, Granny. There's no need for you to cry."

"No, my darling! No!" The old woman yielded to temptation, hugging the small shape, feeling its warmth, the pulse of life running through the firm young body. "There!" She forced herself to push the child away. "Go and play now and be more careful!"

"Dear God, be more careful," she whispered to herself as the child raced away. "And live, girl. Live to rule!"

To take her place when she was dead and keep peace on Jourdan. To pick a consort and have a girl of her body to train as the following matriarch. As she had done and those before her since the beginning. A line which had faltered but had managed to continue and yet, now, the link was so weak. That was a mistake she had helped make. Waiting too long to bear a child, losing the first, the second a boy despite the medications, the third a girl and then, after too long, Lucita's mother. But how to know that Sharon would have died as she had? To lie crushed and broken in the wreck of a raft after a picnic in the hills. And how to know that Sonia would have died in turn from an infection the doctors had not been able to cure?

Now, old, only she remained to protect Lucita and her right to rule.

How to keep her safe?

Distance wasn't enough and neither was her own presence. The hint of war on Lomund had sent her racing to safeguard the child and the memory of what had happened on the return voyage was still too painful to dwell on. If it hadn't been for a miracle they would be dust now and Marge Wyeth would be in her place.

Had she murdered Sharon? Infected Sonia? Arranged the sabotage of the ship?

She considered those possibilities as, rising, she restlessly paced the walled garden. The woman was a fool but there could be others behind her and, once in power, they could dispose of her in turn. Mikhail? Vasudeva? Fydor? Men yet they could have women in mind for the matriarchy-but could men have such courage?

"My lady!" The attendant had come on her unheard and now took a step backwards as she saw the fury in the matriarch's face. "An inquiry, my lady," she stammered. "From the treasury. A matter of your giving permission to settle a personal account."

"You intrude on my privacy for such a matter?"

"A formality, my lady. But you did ask to be informed should the matter arise."

Cowards, all of them, the woman quivering from the strain of simply doing her job. Was she such an ogre? Couldn't they see that all she demanded was cooperation? That and obedience, naturally, but people should obey their ruler.

"What is it?"

"This, my lady." The woman extended the scrap of paper. "Your promise to pay. Ysolto Mbushia, the Hausi, has come to collect."

Night on Jourdan was a time of softness. A thin skin of cloud veiled the cold glitter of the stars, turning their blaze into a nacreous glow which touched leaves with silver and turned the things of the day into products of gentle beauty.

Beauty Ysanne could appreciate. Standing at the head of the ramp she inhaled, breasts lifting beneath her fringed and beaded gown, eyes luminous as she turned to look at Dumarest.

"Night, Earl, a time of romance. It reminds me of home when we used to race beneath such a sky at the times of harvest. When the succuchi blooms filled the air with their scent and we'd pluck weed and chew and go traveling to magic places of the mind."

"And change lovers," he said dryly. "And fight."

"For joy, Earl, not because of hate. For the thrill of issuing and accepting a challenge. The pleasure of testing personal courage and skill. To us fighting is a game. A man will challenge another to fight for his woman or she will fight for him and, often, a man will fight a woman to prove he is fit to take what she will offer if he wins. It adds something to life, Earl. A spice. It gives love a deeper meaning."

"Love? You make it sound like rape."

"No, it's-" She broke off, then said, "Don't mock me, Earl. Don't ever do that."

"I wasn't and if you think I was then I apologize." He was sincere. "Each world has its customs and to each their own way. But on most worlds when a man fights a woman to possess her body they don't think it a game."

"But what else is it, Earl? To meet, to love, to enjoy each other?" Then, understanding, she said, "Oh, you're talking about marriage and children. That's different. When a woman decides to breed she picks the best mate she can to father her offspring. The crop can only be as good as the seed. That's really what all the fighting is about."

Badges of merit, token scalps, visible signs of battles won and status gained and, to the victor, the spoils.

As good a way to live as any if the environment permitted it. If greed didn't interfere. If the people could remain content with what they had instead of driving themselves insane with yearning for what they didn't need.

"Earl?"

"I was thinking," he said. "About what Andre told us of legendary worlds which survive unrecognized because of changed names. Like Heaven to Haveen. You must have lived in Paradise."