"Have you another?" He added, "Or do you want me to face you empty-handed?"

"You'll fight?"

"No, but we can try out that trick of yours." Dumarest looked at the girl. "A month's allowance, you said. And no blame on me if I should lose?"

"A month's allowance, Earl-and you won't lose!"

A confidence echoed by others as they made bets on the outcome. Dumarest took the second practice knife, hefted it, poised on the balls of his naked feet and adopted a fighter's stance, though he quickly rectified it as he saw the young man's awkward posture.

"Now," he said. "Come at me!"

The youth was too clumsy, too slow. He left himself wide open to a killing thrust or a crippling slash had the knives been true blades. Dumarest backed, matching the other's clumsiness, steel ringing as the blades touched, parted to touch again. Music to mask the farce the combat had become as his own movements gave the youth's a grace they lacked. The attack, when it came, was pathetic.

"A hit!" Dumarest stepped back, hand to his side, smears of red on the palm when he displayed it to those watching. "He scored!"

A tiny scratch and a drop of blood-a small price to pay to save another's pride. Watching, Fiona guessed what had happened, came close as Shelia, stunned, tried to get the victor to cancel the bet.

"You were a fool, Earl. He could have hurt you."

"No."

"Maybe not, but why go to that trouble anyway?"

"Why bring me to this party?"

"To show off," she said. "To boast. Does that satisfy you?" The truth, covered as she added, "They wanted to see you. To refuse them that pleasure would have been to make enemies."

And, on Sacaweena, that was far from wise. Dumarest looked at the inquisitive faces, the calculating eyes. At a small distance a youth slapped Ivor on the back as he tried to gain a promise they would practice together. Another pleaded to be taught the trick. A girl pushed Shelia aside as she thrust herself at the victor.

"A friend," mused Fiona. "If nothing else he owes you a favor. You learn fast, Earl. He, his father, his entire family will be grateful you didn't make him look small. Not that they can do you much good-Bulem is on his way out. If the present trend continues he'll be finished within a few days. Crazy! What harm could he be to others? What could anyone gain by grabbing what he's got?"

"Which is?"

"Some undersea holdings which have lost their crop of weed because of undercurrents from seismic activity. A sector to the west and a few holdings scattered to the north and east. Nothing of any real value." She shrugged, bored with the subject. "Shall we swim?"

She wore a robe of shimmering scarlet, one hand lifted to the clasp on its shoulder, ready to let it fall from her naked body at his nod. Instead he said, "I'd rather go to the church."

"The church?"

"To see Vardoon. Will you take me?"

"Forget him, Earl. I can't see why you bothered about him in the first place. He was shot, as good as dead; let him go and what you'd find would all be yours. Why did you bring him back?"

"We were partners."

"So?"

She couldn't understand. To her partnerships were transient and used for personal gain. Allies were those on whom one was forced to make an agreement. Loyalty was a word without meaning. Dumarest said, "I want to see Vardoon."

He sat upright in a bed set with its head against a wall, a wide, low table set to either side, a pouch of eggs resting in his lap. The table to his right bore a tray dotted with glowing, golden pearls. The one to his left bore a litter of discarded membranes. As Dumarest watched he took an egg from the pouch, delicately slit it open with a sliver of razor-edged steel, skinned it from the yoke which he set carefully beside the others.

"Ardeel," he said. "A fortune, Earl. A fortune!"

He was thin, emaciated, body fat lost while under the influence of slow-time. The drug had accelerated his metabolism, turning hours into subjective days, days crawling past as if they had been months. A time spent under induced unconsciousness and intravenous feeding as the body healed. For Dumarest it had been a subjective week for Vardoon it had been much longer.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak." Vardoon lifted another egg, slit it, placed the precious yoke on the tray with the others. Even as he set it down it began to harden into a sphere. "Weak and hungry but I guess I'm lucky to be either. From what they tell me my guts were shot full of holes. I owe the monks a lot."

"You'll pay it."

"And you, Earl? I owe you my life. How do I pay for that?"

"When I know I'll tell you." Dumarest looked around the room. It was small but neat and comfortable despite the lack of windows, the polished stone of the floor. A rack of instruments stood against the wall flanking the door, another of drugs on the matching side. Soft light from an overhead globe threw a diffused luminescence in which the pearls gleamed as if alive. "Is that all?"

"About half. Tobol has the rest. I asked him to keep them safe for me. He could handle their sale if you want. Whom else could you trust?"

"A Hausi?"

"None on this planet. Nothing for them to do with trade so limited and what there is all tied up by interested parties. The agent at the field works for the holder who takes his cut from everything coming in and going out. No place for a free agent, free enterprise or damn all else."

"So the field's valuable to the one who owns it?"

"Yes."

"Who does?"

"Usually the Maximus. Sometimes it can belong to another holder but it's damned hard to hang onto." Vardoon looked up from the egg he was slitting. "Why the interest? You thinking of staying? If so, forget it. This is one game you can't join." The egg burst in his fingers to leave a smear of yellow. "Damn! Look at that! A Low passage down the drain!"

"You're trying too hard," said Dumarest. "Give it a rest for now. What did you mean when you said this was one game I couldn't win?"

"Join, Earl, not win. No one can ever do that. Not for keeps."

"So?"

"You aren't of the Orres. Even if you were born here you have to be of the Orres. They are the only ones who can own anything on this world. Every inch of land and sea, what's in it, on it or under it-the whole damned works. Didn't I explain all that?"

"What about the utilities? Water? Power?"

"All owned by a holder. Good returns and so highly valued. Sometimes they change hands but not often." Vardoon stooped, lifted a jug from the floor and poured himself a cup of thick liquid. Basic-the essential food of a spaceman, sickly with glucose, tart with citrus, laced with vitamins. A high-protein substance, each cup holding enough energy to last a normal man for a day. "A lousy system," he said after drinking. "Holders are limited so only the heads of Families can operate. That creates jealousies. Boredom too for those left out despite their allowances. Sometimes a holder resigns when too old, sometimes assassinated, sometimes quits if losing too much too often, but usually they hang on until they die of natural causes."

"Can they buy in?"

"The numbers are limited. If they fall too low and a vacancy arises then an outsider can challenge a holder for entry. Usually those wanting in are set one against the other until only one is left. Even then whoever wins has to be admissable. That means of the Orres."

A nice, neat, closed system which made sure that those who had continued to hold and those outside remained that way. A society with ingrained weaknesses and one sure to shatter given time; the pressure of heirs denied a part in the economy would ensure that. But, for now, he had to work with the culture as he found it.

Dumarest said, "So whoever owns the field can deny anyone passage if he wants."

"That's right." Vardoon drank more basic. "But why should they?"