He groaned as Dumarest knelt beside him to move his bulk, easing limbs, propping his head on a pouch of eggs. Blood ringed his mouth and made dark stains on his tunic; some old, others with a scarlet wetness. The first from lungs seared with corrosive vapors, the other from the damage done by the bullets which had pierced his stomach and chest.

"They down, Earl?" His lips twisted at Dumarest's nod. "I thought we were going to follow the swine. Crazy them opening fire like that. What harm could we do? I didn't intend-" He coughed, lifting a hand to wipe his lips clear of bloody froth. "Bad, Earl?"

"Bad enough."

"Then give me an egg." His mouth tried to smile as Dumarest shook his head. "Greedy?"

"You're lying on a pouch of them-help yourself if you want. I'm getting back to the controls."

"Wait! I-" Vardoon broke off, sweating. "The pain! God, the pain!"

Raw agony from broken ribs, their jagged ends tearing at delicate tissue like saw-edged knives. From punctured intestines and mangled bowels. Pain which distorted the universe and made extinction a welcome blessing.

Dumarest leaned forward, fingers hard as he rested them on Vardoon's throat, finding the pulsing carotid arteries and pressing so as to cut off the blood supply to the brain. The reaction was immediate. Vardoon sighed, relaxing as his eyes closed and he embraced the mercy of unconsciousness. Dumarest waited, counting seconds, releasing the pressure before the induced oblivion edged into the final tranquility of death.

Back at the controls he fought a mounting vertigo. Ahead the sky shimmered with lambent emerald laced with streaks and swaths of carmine; colors reflected from the mirror of the ocean to form an all-encompassing swirl of engulfing deception, which he fought with a barrage of pertinent questions. How high was he? How far did he have to go? Where was his target?

Where were the other rafts?

Behind him the sky was clear and, dully, he wondered why. The sudden engagement which had sent their commander down? An order from some higher authority? A trap lying ahead from which they wanted to keep clear? Or were they playing cat and mouse, riding high, waiting and watching in detached comfort? Studying the veering progress of his raft, the path it took, the meandering passage. Gambling that he wouldn't make it. That he would crash before reaching the coast, the spired building resting on the fringe of hills encircling the town.

A gamble lost as he hit dirt, sending the raft to plow to a halt before the church, the startled monks, the woman with golden hair.

Chapter Nine

It had been something from the ancient tales of high romance, of fantasy and adventure, of the sagas once sung around leaping fires after the labor of the day was done. A thing Carmodyne would have appreciated and, cosseted in the womb of her bed, Fiona Velen savored every remembered moment.

Chance had taken her to the church at just that time; the sudden decision to see if there was any way to increase revenues from the sector. Tobol had met her, courteous as always, echoing a genuine concern at the problem which was as much his as hers. Even if rents were tripled they would show no increase; Carmodyne had given the monks free use of the church and surrounding land. A contract binding while he had lived and she was reluctant to spit on his grave.

But there had been more cakes, more wine and, as she was about to make her departure, Dumarest had arrived.

Landing like a hero of old, crashing the raft into the dirt, lifting free the limp form of his companion and carrying it to where they stood.

"Brother, I ask your aid."

"It shall be given, brother." Tobol hadn't hesitated. "What do you need?"

"Nothing for myself but my friend is dying." He had added flatly, "I do not ask for charity."

Pride, she thought, a man with pride.

Stretching she felt the soft caress of silken sheets against her naked flesh. A caress accentuated by the touch of her hands as they moved over the contours of her body. Would his hands be as gentle? Would he be patient and understanding or would he take with a selfish disregard of her own needs?

Against the closed lids of her eyes she saw him again, tall, strong, his face savage with its mask of blood. Had he seen her? A glance, perhaps, but his attention had been on the monks, the help they could give. Yet some things she had learned; his name for one, his needs-information conveyed by Tobol as he had made his excuses. Replies to her direct questions.

Earl Dumarest-a man she found it hard to forget.

Her hands moved, settled, explored another region of her body in narcissistic appreciation. Would he look at her as Lynne had looked when they had shared a common bath? The woman had insisted on giving her a massage, leaning over her supine body, her own, untrammeled breasts hanging like pendulous fruit, nipples prominent, blue veins making a delicate tracery beneath the skin. Her hands had been hungry as they applied oil, had quested too urgently. Her eyes, when Fiona had turned and then risen, had held an expression not pleasant to see.

But she had been subtle, hinting at another time, another occasion. Hinting too of the help she could give and the kind of enemy she could make. A frustrated and selfish bitch who would do better with a man.

Dumarest?

Fiona stirred, seeing again the bloodstained face with the hard, searching eyes. The mouth which matched the chin in determination, the body beneath the soiled gray of his clothing. A hard, firm, well-muscled body, well-suited to the giving of strong sons.

The hum of her phone interrupted an intriguing vein of speculation. Rham Kalova stared at her from the screen.

"Fiona, my dear! Not yet up?"

"It's early, Maximus."

"True, but you know the proverb-first to the feast gets the finest choice. Well, never mind that. You are well, I hope?" He beamed as she nodded. "That is good to hear. We haven't been as close as I would have wished of late. A woman of your attainments should be seated at the top table during assembly. Perhaps something could be done about it. I may not be as young as I was but I can still appreciate the presence of a beautiful woman."

A fool, she thought, and worse, a senile one. Or a man acting the part and Kalova was a poor actor. He wanted something-but what?

She said, smiling, "You are most kind, Maximus. And I am most fortunate that you think of me at times. To sit beside you at table would be to gain my highest ambition. Of course, before that could happen my holdings would have to increase, and-"

"Yes, yes," he said shortly, then resumed his smile. "Even that could be arranged. You are a shrewd woman and could gain as long as pressures were not directed against you. If the opportunity should arise I am certain you would recognize it and take full advantage of the situation. High gain, my dear, and it could begin now. Which is why I am calling. A small matter of a transfer of holdings; your sector D 18 for sector K 29. I take it you agree?"

D 18-what could Kalova want with the church?

She said, a little blurredly, "I don't quite understand what you want, Maximus. Something about being seated at your side during the next assembly, wasn't it?" Inwardly she smiled as his face changed, became old and ugly and, somehow, womanish in its spite. A moment only, then again he was smiling, gently shaking his head, little crinkles at the corners of eyes and mouth.

"You're still half-asleep, my dear. I'm merely offering you an exchange of holdings. Of course, should you agree, there, could be other benefits."

Things he had spelled out had she the wit to understand. Pressures not applied so as to give her a measure of safety over and above her own skill and ability. Opportunities made should she become his willing tool in whatever plan he had in mind. But why the church?