When the guards were finished, they stepped back a pace to either side. Samlor'sgear lay in a pile at his feet, save for the dagger, slipped now through thebelt of one of the burly men who watched him.

Unconcerned, the Cirdonian knelt and pulled on his left boot. The man behind thedesk waited for the stranger to speak. Then. as Samlor reached for his otherboot, the masked leader snarled, 'Well? You're from Balustrus, aren't you?What's his answer?'

'No, I'm not from Balustrus,' Samlor said. He straightened up. holding the winebottle. He pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it on to the floor before hewent on. 'I came to buy information from you,' Samlor said, and he slurped amouthful from the bottle.

The mask did not move. An index finger lifted minusculely for the choppingmotion that would have ended the interview. Samlor spat the fluid in his mouthacross the desk, splattering the topmost ledger and the lap of the seated man.

The hawk-masked leader lunged upward, then froze as his motion made the lampflame gutter. There was a dagger aimed at Samlor's ribs from one side and along-bladed razor an inch from his throat on the other; but the Cirdonian knew,and the guards knew ... and the man across the desk most certainly knew that,dying or not, Samlor could not be prevented from hurling the bottle into thelamp past which he had spat so nearly.

'That's right,' said Samlor with the bottle poised. 'Naphtha. And all I want todo is talk to you nicely, sir, so send your men away.'

While the leader hesitated, Samlor hawked and spat. It would take days to clearthe petroleum foulness from his mouth, and the fumes rising into his sinuseswere already giving him a headache.

'All right,' said the leader at last. 'You can wait below, boys.' He settledhimself carefully back on his stool, well aware of the stain on his tunic andthe way the ink ran where the clear fluid splashed his ledgers.

'The knife,' said Samlor when the guard who had disarmed him started to followhis fellow through the trap. An exchange of eyes behind masks; a nod from theleader; and the weapon dropped on the floor before the guard slipped into thealley. When the door closed above the men, Samlor set the potential firebomb ina corner where it was not likely to be bumped.

'Sorry,' said the caravan-master with a nod towards the leader and the blottedpage. 'I needed to talk to you, and there wasn't much choice. My niece wasstolen last month, not by you, but by Beysibs. Some screwball cult of themfishermen.'

'Who told you where I was?' asked the black man in a voice whose mildness wouldnot have deceived a child.

'A fellow in Ranke, one eye, limps,' Samlor lied with a shrug. 'He'd worked foryou but ran when the roof fell in.'

The leader's fists clenched. 'The password - he didn't tell you that!'

'I just mumbled my name. Your boys heard what they expected.' Samlordeliberately turned his back on the outlaw to end the line of discussion. 'Youwon't have contacts with their religious loonies, not directly. But you'll knowtheir thieves, and a thief wili've heard something, know something. Sell me aBeysib thief, leader. Sell me a thief from the Setmur clan.'

The other man laughed. 'Sell? What are you offering to pay?'

Samlor turned, shrugging. 'The price of a four year old girl? That'd run toabout four coronations in Ranke, but you know the local market better. Or theprofit on the thief you give me. Figure what he'll bring you in a lifetime ...Name a figure, leader. I don't expect you to realize what this giri means to n",but - name a figure.'

'I won't give you a thief,' said the masked man. He paused deliberately andraised a restraining finger, though the Cirdonian had not moved. 'And I won'tcharge you a copper. I'll give you a name: Hort.'

Samlor frowned. 'A Beysib?'

The mask trembled negation. 'Local boy. A fisherman's son. He and his father gotpicked up by Beysib patrols at sea before the invasion. He speaks their languagepretty well - better than any of them I know speaks ours. And I think he'll helpyou if he can.' The mask hid the speaker's face, but the smile was in his voiceas well as he added, 'You needn't tell him who sent you. He's not one of mine,you see.'

Samlor bowed. 'I couldn't tell him,' he said. 'I don't know who you are.' Hereached for the latch of the trap door. 'I thank you. sir.'

'Wait a minute,' called the man behind the desk. Samlor straightened and met thehooded eyes. 'Why are you so sure I won't call down to have you spitted themoment you're through this door?'

The Cirdonian shrugged again. 'Business reasons,' he said. 'I'm a businessmantoo. I understand risks. You'll be out of this place-' he waved at the dingyroom - 'before I'm clear of the alley. No need to kill me to save a bolt-holethat you've written off already. And there's not one chance in a thousandthat I could get past what you have waiting below, but -' calloused palm up,another shrug- 'in the dark ... You have people looking for you, sir, that'sobvious. But none of them so far would be willing to burn this city down blockby block to flush you, if he had to.'

Samlor reached again for the latch, paused again. 'Sir,' he said earnestly, 'youmay think I've lied to you tonight... and perhaps I have. But I'm not lying toyou now. On the honour of my House.' He clenched his fist over the medallion ofHeqt on his breast.

The mask nodded. As Samlor dropped through the trap into darkness, the harshvoice called from above, 'Let him go! Let him go, this time!'

There was nothing ugly about the harbour water with the noon sun on it. Thefroth was pearly, the fish-guts iridescent; and the water itself, whatever itsadmixture of sewage, was faceted into diamond and topaz across its surface.Samlor sipped his ale in the dockside cantina as he had done at noon on the pastthree days. As before, he was waiting for Hort to return with information or thecertain lack of it. The Cirdonian wondered what Star saw when she looked aroundher; and whether she found beauty in it.

There was commotion on one of the quays, easily visible through the cantina'sopen front. A trio of Beysib had been stepping a new mast into a trawler. Asthey worked, a squad of cavalry - Beysib also, but richly caparisoned in metalsand brocades - had clattered along the quay. The squad halted alongside theboat. The men on the trawler had seemed as surprised as other onlookers when thetroopers dismounted and leaped aboard, waggling their long swords in visualemphasis of the orders they shouted.

Nine of the horsemen were involved either in trussing the startled fishermen oracting as horseholders for the rest. The tenth man watched coldly as the othersworked. He wore a helmet, gilded or gold, with a feather-tipped triple crest.When he turned as if in disdain for the proceedings, Samlor saw and recognizedhis profile. The man was Lord Tudhaliya, the swordsman who had beendemonstrating his skill on an Ilsig animal the other day.

The fishermen continued to babble until ropes with slip knots were dropped overtheir throats. Then they needed all their breath

to scramble after the cavalrymen. \ The troopers remounted with a burst ofchirruping cross-chat which sounded undisciplined to the caravan-master, butwhich detracted nothing from the efficiency of the process. Three of the mentied off the nooses to their saddle pommels. Tudhaliya gave a sharp order andthe squad rode at a canter back the way it had come. Citizens with business onthe quay dodged hooves as best they might. The fishermen blubbered in terror asthey tried to run with the horses. They knew that a misstep meant death, unlessthe rider to whom they were tethered reined up in time. Nothing Samlor had seenof Lord Tudhaliya suggested his lordship would permit such mercy.