"You are kind."

"Curious," she corrected. "Strangers are rare on this world and each holds novelty. What brought you to Sacaweena?"

"A promise, my lady, and a name."

"I asked you not to be formal, Earl. It places a barrier between us. Do you want that or is it that you have reason not to like my name? Carmodyne used to say it sounded like music. Do you agree?"

"Fiona," he said. "Fiona-yes, it holds melody. A charm which matches the one who bears it. Carmodyne?"

"My uncle. He built all this." Her gesture embraced the church. "He's dead now but his memory lives on in stone and decorations. If you are interested I'll show you what he looked like. He left a carving, somewhat distorted, but it holds the essence of the man. I think he would have liked you, Earl. You could have liked him. You could even have taught him a little sense."

He noted the hardening of her tone, the underlying tension. A woman of strong passions, subjected to equally strong impulses. He remembered the way she had looked at him, the expression in her eyes. One he had seen before.

He said, "Carmodyne. A Velen?"

"Of course. The Holder when he died. I inherited. To me came the paper, the profit and the penalties." She drew in her breath at the thought of what they could be, annoyed at herself for having mentioned them, more annoyed at the fear they created. Ghosts which need never materialize. Terrors which could remain unborn. Had Correo consoled himself with such platitudes? Did Bulem?

"So you inherited," said Dumarest. "Were there others of your house? Your father, for instance?"

"He died a year after I was born. That's why my uncle was so close." She shrugged, impatient at the questioning. "Does it matter?"

"Not really."

"Then why mention it?" She turned to look at the sea. The wind had created long, rolling swells which caught the light and reflected it in shimmers of crimson so as to form a lake of fire, broken by something which rose, to hang for a moment in a sparkle of droplets, to dive again to leave widening ripples. "Do you fish, Earl? Not with a line or nets but with a mask and air tanks and a gun. Meeting things ten times your size and challenging them in their own environment. Killing them and bringing back the trophies to awe your friends. Does that appeal to you?" She turned to face him. "Earl?"

He said quietly, "I do not kill for amusement."

"No." Her hand rose to touch his cheek, the fingers to linger on his lips before falling back to her side. "No, I didn't think you did. You aren't like other men. You have no need to prove your masculinity by hounding and destroying creatures from a safe distance. How many hunters, I wonder, would dare to meet an animal on equal terms? Naked, armed only with natural weapons, a knife at the most. Is your friend a hunter?"

"You could call him that."

"And you? What should I call you, Earl?"

"A fool, perhaps? An optimist?" He smiled down at her from his superior height. "Or just a very lucky man."

That, certainly, but there had to be more. She was aware of his eyes searching her face, lingering on the golden mane of her hair. Flattery without the need of words, which alone proved he was a clever man with a strong sense of survival-yet why had he risked so much? And why did Kalova want him so badly? Dumarest had to be the answer-for hours she had checked and assessed each possibility. His companion, hurt, could be of little value, the sector was a liability-so what else was left?

Yet how to be sure?

The scuff of sandals broke her introspection as monks came with the promised refreshment. Impatiently she watched as a small, portable table was loaded with cakes and wine, the monks bowing as they withdrew. Again alone she looked at Dumarest as he poured them both wine, wondering at his ease, his confidence. Surely he must know how deeply he was in her power?

Abruptly she said, "Who are you, Earl?"

"Your guest," he said. "Your debtor."

"And you pay your debts?"

"When I can." Picking up the glasses he came toward her, halting to extend one, lifting his own as she took it. "But some debts can never be repaid. Your health, my lady!"

He drank with neat fastidiousness-if he had drunk at all. Another item of information to add to the rest but the increase made her all the more irritated. Why couldn't he fit into the normal pattern of masculine behavior? To desire her, yes, that in itself was a compliment, but also to display all the small crudities, the weaknesses and faults which made it so easy for her to be dominant. How should she handle him? How to manipulate his actions, to test and demand-yet how much more pleasant it would be to receive without the necessity of asking?

Dumarest looked at the glass she lowered. "More wine?"

"No." The container was empty. "I mean yes," she amended. "But not here. We'll drink at home."

Chapter Ten

It was a place filled with mirrors, the bedroom itself covered one floor, walls and ceiling with reflective panes, the wide bed reproduced endlessly in every direction. A chamber for exhibitionists and voyeurs. For lovers who needed to see and be seen; adding a new dimension of visual stimulus to an ancient art.

Lying on the bed, Dumarest looked at himself in the ceiling, the woman lying naked at his side. Her hair covered the pillow with a golden sheen, matched by the small glints from the soft down on her limbs and body. Her skin held the rich glow of studied care, the muscles beneath the fat firm with massage and exercise. A creature feline in her grace who now stretched and turned to look at him with warm, satiated eyes.

"Earl?"

"You are beautiful," he said. "Beautiful."

She almost purred. "You really think so?"

"Can there be any doubt?" He turned to meet her eyes, to smile into them, to touch gently the firm contours of her body. "You do me more than honor, my lady."

"You're strange," she said as again he looked at the mirrored ceiling. "Such odd terms of address. Have you known many highborn women? Loved them, even? Held them as you held me? Used them-Earl!"

Passion flowered, to turn into demanding flame, to fill the mirrors with writhing images. A time which was beyond measurement, terminating in a period of relative calm.

"A man," she whispered. "My darling, you are such a man." Her fingers traced the scars on his torso, lingered on the wound above his ear, almost healed now with the aid of chemical magic, dropped again to the pattern on his chest. A woman entranced by the proximity of passion and pain, of death and desire. "My man," she said softly. "All mine and such a wonderful asset. One I have been waiting for. A man I can love."

For the moment, the hour, the day. For as long as the whim would last-but the mirrors had told their story; Dumarest knew she could love none other than herself. Even in the heights of their passion she had sought the mirrors of his eyes.

Now, reaching, she touched a button and as soft melody stirred the air with the throbbing susurration of muted drums she said, "You have nothing to worry about, Earl. I want you to know that. As long as you are mine I will protect you."

He knew she wasn't talking about a shared passion.

"Yours, my lady?"

"Still the caution, Earl?" She smiled then became serious. "Didn't Tobol explain? To safeguard you from certain others you had to be registered as a resident of the sector. That binds you to the holding. I own the sector-you see?"

Facts he knew but it was as well to expose the threat if one existed.

"So you own me."

"Not as a slave, Earl," she said quickly. "Never that. But I am responsible for you as you are to me. A matter of resident fee and other charges and in return you gain my protection and certain amenities-just details, Earl. Don't let them concern you."