"Stubborn," she said. "I sensed it from the first. Strong and, in my world, a strong man is not to be tolerated for long. Is that why I resented you?"

"A conflict of personalities, my lady," said Dumarest. "It often happens." He looked down into the face lifted toward his own, old, raddled, yet still revealing an iron determination. "No one likes to be dependent or beholden-and you are the ruler of a world."

"And you are a diplomat." She straightened as they reached her door. "Leave me now. I will see you at the ball."

It was a flamboyant affair with strident music and fancy dress and streamers, together with drifting balloons which emitted pungent odors when pricked, just as the food held surprises and the wine.

"Ugh!" Ysanne pursed her lips as tart astringency stung her mouth. "Stay away from this stuff, Andre. God knows what's been put in it."

Spices, she guessed, and herbs together with subtle flavorings and compounds which could loosen tongues and release inhibitions. Turning, she looked over the great hall. The tables were set on a raised platform which ran around the entire perimeter enclosing the dancers in a contained space over which they jerked in stilted movements.

Like robots, she thought, or mechanical dolls. Dressed and painted and following mathematically precise steps to the pattern set by the pulse of drums and shrilling pipes. Music not to her liking though the instruments were familiar. On her own world they would follow a different rhythm, catching at the heart and accelerating its beat with quickening tempo, the pipes a scream of released emotion echoed by the natural sound of those reaching orgasmic climaxes.

"Try this." Batrun handed her a goblet filled with a rich, dark ruby. "It seems to be normal wine." He sipped at his own then warned, "Be careful. You know you can't hold very much."

He stepped back as she nodded to allow a couple to pass close, the man wearing the costume of a bandit, the woman the plumage of a bird. Against this splendor his uniform seemed dull, despite the added touches of braid.

She said, "Can you see anything of Earl?"

"No, nor the others. Can you?"

Ysanne shook her head, braids flying. She had dressed them with ribbons and tufts of feathers and had painted her face with streaks of vermilion and orange, ochre and white. Decoration which, with her beaded leather, made her one of the costumed rest. Olga had worn only her faded uniform, Craig doing little more than mask his ravaged face, but Shandhar, more adventuresome, had adopted the garb of a trader in charms; hat, cloak and tunic covered in small metal symbols reputed to bring luck and ward off disease, guarantee success in love, war and the hunt and to enhance the chances of extended life.

"My lady?" A man no taller than herself looked at her with frank appraisal. "Will you dance?"

To refuse would have been impolite and she stepped down from the raised platform to the dancing area there to stand and move and respond to the stilted gestures of her partner in the artificial measure of the dance.

"You're a stranger," he said as it ended. "I can tell. That's why I approached you-you have a charm our local women lack. My name is Gergio Yate. And you are?" He frowned at the answer. "Ysanne? Just that?"

"Isn't it enough?"

"For the purpose, yes, but it tells me so little. Nothing about your family, for example. I could be talking later to your brother and never know it. Or to your partner. You have one?"

"If you mean a husband, no."

"I was thinking of a consort. Or perhaps a-" He broke off, wary of treading on dangerous ground. "Another dance?"

Again she suffered the mechanical tedium wondering what pleasure anyone could gain from the stilted posturing. As the music ended Gergio led her to a table where he began to select a variety of morsels for her to eat.

"Try this." It was a combination of nuts and sour milk blended with a spice which tingled her tongue. "And this." A paste of honey and flower petals bound with flour. "What do you think of this?" Something which crunched as she bit it and made her think of chiton and spindled legs. "And this one really is unusual." He looked hurt as she rejected it. "No?"

"No."

"Well, at least have one of these. They say they are the matriarch's favorite biscuit."

It was small and round with a spongy center which yielded a flavor of fruit and spice. A subtle burn which filled her mouth with perfume and exotic tinglings.

Refusing another, she said, "Do you know her?"

"The matriarch? Not personally, but I know her by sight, of course. You want me to point her out?" He looked around the hall. "I can't see her but she's sure to put in an appearance soon. But there's Maria Hutch!" He pointed to a woman who glittered in a web of spun crystal flaring with gems. "She owns most of the land fringing the Ferrado Lake and has shares in the mines on Calvardopolis. A horrible place. And there's Joan Gruber. She's almost as rich as Maria but far younger. Even her consort wears clothing more extravagant than that worn by the matriarch's late consort. A lucky man but unless he's careful she'll replace him with another. Joan has no patience with illness and he's been sick twice since they came back from Hoorde." Gergio selected another morsel and, after he had chewed and swallowed, said, "If you're getting bored we could do something else."

"Such as?"

"Take a raft and go to the Chameon Hills. I've a place out there and we could spend a few hours searching for hilex and wild choum. Interested?"

"I might be."

"You'd love it. We could spend a few days if you wanted. At dawn the mists come to hide everything in purple veils and the hilex, when they wake, fill the air with soft susurations." He stepped a little closer. "Please say you'll come."

For answer she nodded at a tall woman who had just joined the throng. One regal in a shimmering gown of golden threads which hugged the contours of her body. Long streamers fell from both shoulders and a tall hat crested a wealth of golden hair. Beneath it her face was hard, arrogant, wearing paint like a mask.

"Who's that?"

"Where?" Gergio looked to where she pointed. "She's Tammi Canoyan."

"Is that all?" She smiled at his expression. "No financial report or social status? Come on, Gergio, tell me something about her."

"She's rich," he said. "And ambitious. Some say she would like to rule. Treason, of course, but who can stop gossip?" He drew in his breath at a sudden flurry in the hall. "That's odd. The guards are closing the doors. I wonder why?"

Ysanne paid him no attention. She was looking at the matriarch, who had just entered the hall with Dumarest at her side.

The warm bath had helped but her brief sleep had been tormented by dreams so that now, despite her gown and the cosmetics masking her features, she felt old and vulnerable, her fear exposed for all to see.

"Steady, my lady! Steady!"

Dumarest was at her side, his arm firm beneath her hand, his voice a comfort in her ear. So Donal would have spoken at such a moment of crisis-but he would never have urged her to take such a gamble.

But was it a gamble when she had no choice?

"Silence!" Venicia called from her place at Su Posta's side. "Silence for the Matriarch of Jourdan! Our ruler by tradition and by right!"

A novelty, it had to be that. Ysanne heard the soft buzz of speculation as, leaving Gergio, she made her way to where Batrun stood with Craig, amid a glitter of medallions; Shandhar came to join them but Olga remained out of sight.

A blare of trumpets drowned the soft murmurings and in the following silence Venicia's voice rang with the clash of iron.

"I speak for my lady. Does any deny my right?" A formality and she continued, "The charge is one of treason against established authority. Of murder planned against my lady and her granddaughter during their return voyage to this world. To expose the culprit has this assembly been gathered. Does any question the right?"