seated all around him, "You have determined to settle your differences in trial-by-combat, and have accepted my offer to host this venture. Are you still of the same mind to accept the outcome of this combat as the settling of your feud?"

He of the azure serpent replied with a gruff, "Aye" while he of the white alicorn simply nodded.

"Very well," Aelmarkin said calmly. "Let the record show that both agree to be bound by the outcome here below us. Let all who ye assembled here so bear witness."

"We so bear witness," came a chorus of voices, some indifferent, sxjme full of tense excitement. A hush came over them; all whispers and movement stopped. So profound was the silence that the slightest rustle of fabric came as a shock.

As if this had been a signal, the fighters below tensed.

Aelmarkin surveyed the two opposed lines of fighters for a moment, an odd smile on his lips. "Very well," he said at last, into the stillness. "Begin."

Kyrtian's full attention immediately turned to the arena. The two lines of fighters leapt at each other, hurling themselves across the sand to meet in a clangor of metal and harsh male shouts. The noise echoed inside the arena, making Kyrtian wince involuntarily. Added to the noise of fighting was the clamor of shouts and cheers behind him and to either side of him, as the onlookers cheered the combatants on.

Kyrtian was still trying to figure out how Aelmarkin intended to score this combat, when the swordsman nearest him managed to beat down his opponent's guard and laid open the other's sword-arm from shoulder to wrist with a single blow.

The rnan screamed, and dropped to his knees, a torrent of shockingly scarlet blood pouring from the wound into the sand as his blade fell from his slack fingers.

For one moment, Kyrtian was startled by how realistic the wound was—then he realized that it wasn't "realistic," it was real.

He felt as if someone had rammed him in the midsection and knocked all the breath out of him. He started to shake, as a wave of sick horror twisted his throat and stomach.

It's real—it's real. They're trying to really kill each other.

They 're dying, and all so a couple of idiots can settle an argument! Senseless—useless—insane!

Then, strangely, it all dissolved under a flood of blinding rage. He lost caution, lost focus, lost everything except the will to make it all stop. He rose abruptly to his feet.

"No!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide, his voice somehow carrying above the noise of combat. His powers, leaping to answer his will, poured out; an angry and violent burst of magic tore out of him.

It flung the combatants to their own sides of the arena, and dropped every man in the arena to his knees—except the injured one, who was frantically trying to close his gaping wound with his good hand.

The sudden silence, heavy with anger, seemed louder than his shout.

For a moment, no one moved—no one seemed able to believe what he had done.

Then in an instant, both of the Great Lords turned to stare at him with an anger as overwhelming as his. Kyrtian felt the weight of that anger, all of it directed solely at him, and came to his senses with a start.

This might have been a tactical error.. . .

The lord of the white alicorn was the first to rise from his seat; there was lightning in his gaze and thunder in his voice as he addressed, not Kyrtian, but his cousin.

"Aelmarkin," the Elvenlord said, enunciating each syllable with care, "I trust you did not anticipate this?"

Aelmarkin also rose, and his voice fairly dripped apology and concern. "Good my lord, I assure you, I had no idea that my cousin would indulge in such bizarre behavior! I do apologize, I would never have invited him if—"

Kyrtian, who had been staring down at the wounded fighter, now being aided by one of his companions, felt fury overcome his good sense again; he swung around to face his cousin, twisting his lips into a snarl, a red haze settling across his vision.

"Bizarre behavior? Bizarre? I call it sanity—stopping utterly senseless and wanton waste! What—"

"Waste?" shouted the other feuding lord, furiously, the ice in

his voice freezing Kyrtian's words in his throat. "Waste? What do you know of waste, you impudent puppy? You provincial idiot, who let you in among civilized beings? I—"

"I apologize again, my lords," Aelmarkin protested, waving his hands about frantically. "Please, take your seats and the combat can resume—"

"Resume? Resume?" At that, Kyrtian's rage sprang to full and insensate life again, and grew until it was beyond anything, he had ever felt before. He went cold, then hot, then cold again, and a strange haze came over his vision. "Haven't you heard a word I've said? This idiocy will not resume, not while I'm standing here!"

"That can be remedied,'' muttered someone, as Gel finally put a calming hand on Kyrtian's arm. Kyrtian had the sense not to throw it off, but he was quite ready at that moment to snatch up a sword himself and take them all on single-handed.

"Don't back down," Gel muttered, "but get hold of yourself. Think fast—if you can't salvage this situation, we're going to have three feuds on our hands, two with them and one with Aelmarkin."

Aelmarkin was so angry he could scarcely think. When he'd invited that fool Kyrtian here, he'd hoped the puppy would make some sort of blunder that would prove he was as foolish as Aelmarkin claimed. Well, he'd blundered all right—but he'd managed to do it in such a way that now Aelmarkin was potentially in as much trouble as he was! How had he managed to stop the combat? Where did he get all that magic power?

To the desert with that! How am I going to save myself?

This was nothing short of a disaster. The amount of status he stood to lose over this debacle was incalculable. This might even cost him his Council seat.

"Please, my lords," he said, entreatingly, to his two furious guests, "my young cousin has never seen one of these exhibitions before and—"

"Exhibitions?" Aelmarkin blinked at the tone of Kyrtian's voice—a moment ago it had nearly cracked with strain, and Kyrtian was clearly a short step from losing control entirely.

Suddenly now—the anger was still there, but it was controlled anger, and overlaid with calculated scorn worthy of an experienced Councilor. He turned to see that Kyrtian's face was now a carefully haughty mask.

Could Kyrtian actually salvage this situation?

"Exhibitions?" Kyrtian repeated. "Is that what you call these senseless slaughters?" His lip curled in what was unmistakably a sneer. "I suppose if your idea of 'sport' is to take tame pets and line them up for targets, then you could call something like this an exhibition, but I certainly wouldn't dignify this idiocy with such a term."

Aelmarkin saw with hope that the two feuding lords had forgotten all about him. Kyrtian's declaration and attitude had caused them to focus all of their insulted rage on him.

"I suppose it's too much to expect you to answer that statement of utter nonsense with anything like a challenge?" asked Lord Marthien, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes it is," Kyrtian replied, answering sarcasm with arrogance, "Because your fighters are no match for mine. You would lose before the combat began. That is why I say this is senseless. The least of my fighters has four years of combat experience—the best of yours can't possibly have more than one. No, less than one, since I doubt your men ever survive even that long."

That arrogance took them rather aback; Lord Wyvarna glanced at Aelmarkin as if asking for confirmation of the astonishing statement. Aelmarkin made a slight shrug.

"And are we supposed to accept this bluff at face value, impudent puppy?" Lord Wyvarna demanded.

To their astonishment, Kyrtian laughed, albeit mirthlessly.

"You would be wise to, since it is hardly a bluff," he replied. "Consider what you already know about me and my—hobby. Consider that I have very little to do except train and drill my fighters in every possible style and manner of combat, and that I do not and never have sold any of them for any price. Consider that I have been doing this every day for the past ten years at least, personally overseeing the training and practice in every aspect. Meanwhile, what have you been doing? Entrusting the

training and practice of your gladiators to others, quite without supervision, and slaughtering the best of your men in useless exhibitions. And what stake do those you entrust with this training have in your success or failure? What personal incentive have they to make certain that nothing is left to chance? And how many of your gladiators die or are crippled in training? For that matter, what incentive do your gladiators have to succeed? The best and cleverest of them are surely contriving to get themselves mildly crippled in the first week of your so-called 'training!' It would seem to me that the very smartest ones, the ones who would make the very best fighters, would see to it that they were always crippled in training, in order to avoid being slaughtered in one of your so-called exhibitions!"

Kyrtian cleverly left the questions hanging in the air, and now Aelmarkin saw a certain wariness creep over the expressions of the two feuding lords.

"And I suppose you have a better idea?" boomed a new voice.

Both Aelmarkin and Kyrtian turned to face the new speaker, who stood up from among his son's entourage. Aelmarkin was startled; he hadn't realized that Lord Lyon had come with his son Gildor—

Damn! Has he been there all along, or did he just arrive for the combat? Did I somehow insult him by not noticing him? Can anything else go wrong here today?

Aelmarkin's thoughts scurried after one another, like frantic slaves trying to clean up a terrible spill. V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth—Lord Lyon of the Great House of Kyndreth—stood wrapped in a scarlet cloak embroidered with leaping stags, his arms crossed over his chest. Aelmarkin shivered; the man was one of the most powerful lords of the Great Council. A vote from Lord Lyon was worth three from anyone with a lesser Council Seat. The number of allies he had—the number of people he could make or break with a single word—

Aelmarkin held his breath. All his own prayers might be answered in the next few moments. If Kyrtian insulted Lord Lyon badly enough—if he convinced Lord Lyon that he was as insane and unstable as Aelmarkin had been claiming ...

Elvenborn 61

Then before this day was over, Aelmarkjn might be organizing his slaves for the move to his new properties.

Kyrtian looked at Lord Lyon, a veritable icon of power, as if he were no more important than any of the lesser sons and hangers-on.

"Yes," he said, simply, "I have. And I'm quite prepared to demonstrate it, here and now in front of you all."

₆

That's V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth," Gel hissed in Kyrt-ian's ear. Kyrtian made the finger-sign for I understand, but did not look away from the tall, powerfully-built noble who had addressed him. That was one name he definitely recognized, and the half-formed plan he had thrown together in an instant of panic-ridden thinking took on a new importance and urgency. If he could persuade Lord Lyon to use his methods, not only in training, but in challenge-matches, how many thousands of lives would be spared? For if Lord Lyon decreed it, all training and matches would be performed Kyrtian's way.

So he turned his half-formed plan into a bluff. "In fact," he continued, as calmly as if he spoke the truth, "I came here hoping to stop this nonsense for all time with such a demonstration."

"Really?" Lord Lyon looked amused, which boded well for Kyrtian. "And how is that? I take it you intend a live demonstration, and not some illusory shadow show."

"Pit one fighter of your choosing against my bodyguard," Kyrtian said, boldly. "They will use my methods of fighting. They will fight to a death-wound, but neither will be harmed by the experience. You can use the best of your men—the one you would least care to lose—without any fear that harm will come to him and you will be without his services."

"Indeed." Lord Lyon looked from one side of the arena to the

other. "Wyvarna, Marthien—if I proposed using my bodyguard in this combat, would you accept the results of such a duel instead of using your gladiators as settling your dispute?"

The lord of the white alicorn looked sullen; the lord of the blue serpent responded first. "How would we decide which fighter represented which of us?"

"Draw lots," Lyon said carelessly. "I know my man takes second-place to very few, and I hardly think Lord Kyrtian's man is less expert." He turned back to Kyrtian. "I agree in principle that this is a waste of fighting-strength. The training is expensive, and it's all gone to waste when a fighter is killed—or runs off to join those damned renegade Wizards. Before the current unpleasantness, there were no Wizards to run off to, of course, and there was no need to field battle-troops, but our present situation does call for some changes in our own customs. In fact, some of the members of the Council have even asked openly if it might be wise to outlaw challenges altogether to save the waste of trained fighters." He smiled thinly. "Some have even suggested that if challengers are unwilling or unable to conduct duels-by-magic, that they should take sword in hand themselves to settle their quarrels."

Astonished mutters and a few gasps followed that announcement, and Lords Wyvarna and Marthien looked openly dismayed.

Lord Lyon looked down his long, aristocratic nose at Kyrtian with a hint of sardonic interest. Kyrtian raised his chin and reminded himself that his lineage was as long and proud as that of the House of Kyndrefh. "How much better, then, if you can have your challenges without the loss of a single fighting man or spillage of a single drop of blood?" he demanded. "Maybe your gladiators will stop running off if they know they aren't going to be killed in a senseless grudge-match. And I know I need not point out to a Lord of your experience and wisdom that such training will make better field-forces than anything our foes can create. Think of the kind of fighters you will field, when you can breed the best to the best, then give them real combat experience where they can learn from their mistakes!"

"Bloodless matches? Where's the sport in that?" someone behind Kyrtian muttered.

Kyrtian ignored the comment—and ignored the fact that the spectators were leaving, one by one, grumbling. He had Lord Lyon's attention, and he was not going to give it up. "I am well aware that many consider my interest in the past to be eccentric," he continued, "but because of that interest, I have learned at least one of the secrets lost when we passed the Gate from Evelon. I know how the Ancestors conducted their duels-of-honor and their training sessions—how they taught and practiced combat without pulling blows, without using blunted weapons, yet without spilling blood. Didn't it ever occur to you that they must have had some way to learn sword-work themselves without risking hurt? After all, unlike us—" here he looked down his nose at the young Lords around him with a bland expression "—they engaged in sword-duels themselves, and not by proxy. Their method is what I use to train my own fighters. Furthermore, I give every able-bodied human on my properties a basic training in fighting-skills, against the day that they may need to defend the manor until my real fighters can come to their rescue!"

He did not say what foe he trained his humans to fight—he figured that Lord Lyon would assume that he meant the army of the Wizards or of the Wild Humans, not an army commanded by his fellows. Not a flicker of mistrust appeared on Lord Lyon's face, only a growing interest—and if anyone here had been thinking about the idea of taking his holdings by force, that last statement would give them a reason to think better of the plan.

"If all this is true—" Lord Lyon turned to a silent, black-clad, flame-haired human who stayed at his side like his shadow. "Kaeth-—get down to the arena and get some armor and weapons. I want to see how this works."

The human saluted, and left Lord Lyon's side, jumping down into the arena and walking past the gladiators as casually as if they were statues. Kyrtian caught Gel's eye and nodded; Gel followed him.

"I believe that you will find this well worth your time, Lord Lyon," Kyrtian said evenly, then turned to the feuding parties. "My lords, will you make your choice of combatant?"

There was more grumbling, but finally it was settled that Lord Marthien would be represented by Gel, and Wyvarna by Lord Lyon's man Kaeth. Since it was obvious that there was no longer going to be the bloody spectacle that everyone had planned on, no one really wanted to remain any longer, and both lords lost most of their entourages, leaving only their human bodyguards and one or two other slaves in attendance.

As for Aelmarkin's guests, they had all departed as well, probably returning to the Great Hall and the food and drink and other pleasures they had abandoned to watch the combat. That left only Aelmarkin, Lord Lyon and a young er-Lord who was probably his son, a couple of young lords who looked to be friends of his son, and Kyrtian. Those who remained seated themselves, and waited with varying degrees of impatience for something to happen.

Gel was no stranger to getting into armor quickly, and neither, apparently, was Lord Lyon's red-haired bodyguard. Both appeared at the same door of the arena a remarkably short time later; Gel must have told Kaeth not to bother about weapons, for neither man carried any. Kaeth looked up at his master, who nodded to Lord Wyvarna; Kaeth immediately picked up one of the discarded shields stacked at the side of the arena bearing the azure serpent, and Gel took one of the discarded white alicorn shields.

"We've agreed to longsword and shield, master," Gel called up, in a servile voice that Kyrtian hardly recognized. He suppressed a nervous chuckle, and nodded.

Then Kyrtian fixed his gaze on a point on the sand at Gel's feet, and concentrated, drawing motes of power out of himself, and spinning them into the fabric of a pair of his very special blades.

He'd conjured up longswords so many times, that it was hardly any effort at all to spin out a mere pair of them. The air above the sand misted briefly, then shimmered, and a pair of fine blades condensed out of the mist as Kyrtian felt a slight inward

drain of power. He looked up to see that Aelmarkin was watching closely, with a look of intense concentration on his face.

I wonder if he can follow what I'm doing? Has he the talent to read all the special modifications I've made?

Gel gestured to the identical swords and let Kaeth pick first.

The bodyguard picked up the nearest, and gave it an experimental swing, then rapped his shield with it. The shield gave off a perfectly normal metallic clang, and Kaeth nodded with satisfaction. "Feels like a regulation longsword, Lord Lyon," he called up into the viewing stands, squinting against the light. "Maybe a bit better balanced than most."

"These blades will act in all respect like a normal battle weapon," Kyrtian assured the few who were left in the stands, but concentrating on Lord Lyon. "With a single exception, that is. They will not cause any physical damage. Gel, please offer your opponent a target."

Gel held out his sword-arm with a grin, knowing that Kyrtian would eliminate the shock of being struck for this part of the demonstration.

"Kaeth, if you would swing at Gel please, and cut off his arm?"

Lord Lyon's slave did not hesitate; he took a full, overhand swing at the arm Gel extended for him as Lord Lyon leaned forward a little with interest. The blade passed through Gel's arm, leaving a glowing line, and making about half his body glow.

"Wounds cause a slight shock to the wounded man to tell him that he has been wounded, and the blade leaves a mark that he and any referees can see," Kyrtian explained. "There is no other effect on the fighter so struck, but for the purposes of scoring, there is full attention paid to the realities of battle. The longer Gel stands there, the more of him will glow, representing how close he is to death by blood-loss from such a massive wound. If he had only gotten a slight wound, there would only have been a mark and a shock. Eventually, according to the rules we follow, he will glow all over and be forced to retire."

"And if the wound was immediately mortal, he'd glow all over as well?" Lord Lyon supplied.

"Yes, and he would get a larger, quite unmistakable shock."

Kyrtian replied. He permitted himself a smile. "We allow for the heat of combat causing people to forget themselves, and the shocks they receive will get their attention." He negated the glow with a moment's thought, and Gel shifted his feet in the sand.

Lord Lyon nodded thoughtfully, and even Wyvarna and Marthien looked more interested than they had been. "I'm sure there are more details that I will want to ask you about later," Lord Lyon said after a moment of silence. "But meanwhile— let's settle this quarrel and have our practical demonstration, shall we?"

At this point, Kyrtian caught a decidedly unfriendly expression on Aelmarkin's face. It was there for only a moment, but it reminded him that his cousin was the host of this combat, and that Kyrtian had done him a fair amount of damage.

But maybe there was a way to begin repairing that damage— or at least, doing something to make up for it. Never make an enemy that you don't have to, he reminded himself, and never give an enemy you already have another excuse to act against you.

"Cousin?" he said, gesturing to the arena. "As host, yours should be the honor."

Aelmarkin looked briefly startled, then suspicious, but stood up. He bowed to the two for whom this entire combat had been arranged. "Lord Marthien, Lord Wyvarna, will your feud be settled by the outcome of this challenge?"

"Aye," came the reply—grudgingly, but without much hesitation.

"Be it witnessed," Aelmarkin intoned.

"We so witness," came the chorus of Kyrtian, Lord Lyon, Lyon's son, and a pair of hangers-on, thinner than before, but enough to satisfy custom.

"Very well," Aelmarkin continued, as Gel and Kaeth eyed each other and settled into nearly identical stances. "Begin."

Aelmarkin seated himself, and crossed his arms over his chest. Kyrtian leaned forward to watch what he suspected would be a very fine show.

There was no rush to combat and clash of weapons this time, not with two such seasoned fighters. They circled each other

warily, taking careful measure of each other, making tiny feints and gauging the speed of response. Gel and Kaeth were a good match for one another, and although Aelmarkin leaned back in his seat and looked dreadfully bored, Lord Lyon and the two feuding Elvenlords were quickly on the edge of their chairs, recognizing the level of skill each man represented. Kyrtian felt a thrill of pride as he watched Gel's catlike, powerful moves; it was obvious that Kaeth was an extremely well-trained and probably very expensive slave, and regarded Gel as his equal in ability.

When the first exchange came, it was sudden; Kaeth thought he detected a weakness and drove in, making Gel's shield and blade ring with a flurry of blows. Gel countered successfully, and when Kaeth sprang back, both of them had tiny glowing marks, Kaeth along the back of his sword-hand and Gel across his forehead.

Well used to the rules of the game, Gel did something that surprised Kaeth; he sprinted backwards out of reach for a moment, just long enough to pull a scarf from around his neck and whip it around his forehead. Kyrtian risked a glance at Lord Lyon, and saw him frown suddenly in puzzlement, then just as quickly nod and smile slightly.

Good. He understands that if Gel hadn 't done that, the glow would drop over his eye, obscuring his vision as blood would without a scarf to stop it. He's beginning to understand how complex the rules-magic is.

Kyrtian abandoned himself to watching the fight, able to enjoy it as a demonstration of grace and expertise. He noticed that Kaeth was grinning, just as Gel was; evidently, Kaeth seldom found himself with an opponent of comparable ability, and without needing to worry about crippling injuries or death, had given himself over to the exhilaration and visceral pleasure of such a duel. With each exchange of blows, one or both of the combatants came away marked, but only superficially—and by the time they'd acquired half a dozen "cuts" each, Lord Marthien and Lord Wyvarna were on their feet, cheering their representatives on with as much vigor as they would have used if their contest had gone as planned. Kyrtian's own heart was

pounding at this point, and his fists clenched with excitement. It was a terrific combat, and he honestly wasn't certain who he wished to see win it.

Kyrtian noticed a pattern in Kaeth's shieldwork, a weakness, a tendency to push an oncoming blow to the outside rather than hold up under it. That spared the shock to the shield-arm, yes, but it left him open for a sliding parry under the shield or a feint and a drive straight to the chest. If he saw it, certainly Gel did—

Gel made a little dance to the side, another blow towards the shield—but it wasn't a blow, it was a feint, and he followed it with a lunge straight for Kaeth's unguarded throat!

But Kaeth was ready for him! The pattern had been a ruse, a lure to see if Gel would take it! He dodged aside, moving just enough so that Gel's blade slid over his shoulder without harming him, and slashed up in a vicious gut-thrust.

Gel stiffened, and burst into glowing light. Obedient to the rules (and his own sense of high drama), he toppled over and dropped to the ground, "dead."

Lord Lyon rose to his feet, applauding enthusiastically, as Kaeth saluted him, then saluted Lord Wyvarna, who was also on his feet and cheering. So, for that matter, was Kyrtian—

—and oddly enough, Lord Marthien.

"By the blood of our Ancestors, Lyon, I haven't seen a better fight in decades!" Lord Marthien shouted, as Kyrtian banished the weapons, and Kaeth offered his now free hand to Gel to help him up. "It's worth losing the challenge to have seen it!" He turned his attention briefly to the arena, and waved graciously at Gel. "Well fought, boy! I couldn't have had a better champion!"

He gathered up the remains of his entourage, and in amazingly good humor, led them out.

Kaeth and Gel left the arena in a similar state of accord, and Lord Wyvarna made his way to the area of seating where Lord Lyon still stood, clearly in a high flood of euphoria. After a moment of hesitation, Kyrtian followed to join them.

When he reached them, he found them involved in a rehash of the combat, but Lord Lyon broke off when he noticed Kyrt-ian's approach.

"Well, you impudent young puppy, you were right and I was wrong!" Wyvarna exclaimed, laughing. He showed Kyrtian a friendly face for the first time since he'd entered the arena. "Ancestors ! That old fool Marthien was right for the first time in his life—even if I'd been the one who lost, I'd have thought it was worth it to have seen a fight like that!"

He shook his head, and now that he was closer, Kyrtian realized that Wyvarna was much older than he had thought. It was often difficult to tell the age of an Elvenlord, but a hint of lines at the corners of his eyes, and a certain sharpening of the tips of his ears indicated that he was older than Lord Lyon. If Lord Marthien was just as old—

Then I've gotten myself two very well-entrenched allies; maybe not as powerful as Lord Lyon, but certainly respected by the Council. This is coming out better than I dared hope!

"And I think it was just as well that it never came to a challenge with young Kyrtian, here, hmm?" Lord Lyon asked, slyly. "Given how well his bodyguard fought—what must his trained fighters be like?"

Kyrtian's respect for Lord Lyon rose a notch. He's reminding Wyvarna that this could have been very expensive—and he's making sure that Wyvarna will spread the word. So although I might be considered a dolt, I'm a dolt no one will want to challenge.

Lord Wyvarna gave an exaggerated shudder, and laughed again. "Damn me if you aren't right about that! His men would have cut mine to pieces without even breathing hard!" He clapped Kyrtian on the back, hard, trying to make him stagger. Kyrtian, who had been expecting something of the sort, braced himself and stood firm, smiling.

"It was a pleasure to show you the secret I discovered, my lords," he replied blandly. "Of all the things I dislike the most, waste is highest on the list, and there is no reason other than losses in a real battle to have to replace a gladiator or a fighting-slave before his time. Humans are hardly difficult to breed, but it takes time and resources to train them, resources that could more sensibly be put to other uses! Besides, if we keep killing

the strongest and cleverest of our breeding-slaves, what do you think we'll end up with? These techniques are quite easy to learn, and even easier to apply; if you can set a collar-spell, you can create these training conditions."

Wyvarna gave a half smile, and glanced over at Lord Lyon. "Then I expect we'll be getting a mandate from the Council about using them shortly, eh, Lyon?"

"I believe that you can count on that, Wyvarna," Lord Lyon replied, just as blandly as Kyrtian.

Wyvarna coughed, and then shrugged. "Well, times change, and the ones who won't change with them are fools," he said to no one in particular. "I'll be off; Marthien will be sending his conciliation-party, and I should be there to receive them properly, or there'll be another feud on my hands."

With that, Lord Wyvarna turned and led his own entourage out of the arena, leaving Kyrtian standing beside Lord Lyon.

"Well, either you are the cleverest young lordling I have ever seen, or the luckiest," Lyon observed softly. "I wouldn't have given you any odds of getting out of that situation intact."

"The luckiest, my lord," Kyrtian replied quickly—hoping that he sounded modest. "I fear that although I had come to this event intending to demonstrate my discovery, I made a profound mistake in permitting my feelings to get the better of me, initially. I am, I fear, a very provincial fellow, and this was the first combat-trial I have ever attended. And if I offended you with my untutored manner, I do apologize, for I had no intention of offending anyone."

And once again, he turned to his cousin. Aelmarkin's expression was so bland it could not have been anything other than a mask. He was probably still infuriated.

"Cousin, I must ask your forgiveness for using your premises as the intended venue for my display, but—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is the only combat-challenge I have ever been invited to, so opportunities have not exactly been thick upon the ground." He had no real hope that this would pacify Aelmarkin, but at least it would make it look as if he'd tried.

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Aelmarkin," Lord Kyndreth told the stone-faced Elvenlord, with a raised eyebrow. "I can promise you, this little demonstration is only going to reflect to your glory. If you like, I can even spread it about that you colluded with young Kyrtian here—"

"To what end, my lord?" Aelmarkin asked dryly.

"Ah, well, to a most proper end. You are aware of the dreadful wastage of fighters we've had in this campaign against the so-called Young Lords. And I assume, given the age and rank of your two main guests, you were aware that I would appear at this combat. Of course you are aware of my keen interest in new methods of training our fighting-slaves faster." Lord Kyndreth smiled; the smile reminded Kyrtian of a large cat with its prey beneath its paw. "So you decided to help your cousin and yourself at the same time, by giving him a venue to demonstrate the fruits of his hobby for me. Hmm?"

Aelmarkin's expression remained as bland as cream, but he bowed. "As you say, my lord, and I am deeply grateful to you."

"No more than I am to you." This was clearly a dismissal, and Aelmarkin took it as such.

"I must return to my guests, my lord, if I may excuse myself?" Aelmarkin bowed.

Lord Kyndreth waved him off, and Aelmarkin departed; the line of his backbone suggested further trouble to Kyrtian. But that was for the future; there was a larger and more dangerous predator in front of him still. Aelmarkin was a jackal at best. Lord Kyndreth was a lion in truth and not just in name.

"Thank you again, my lord," Kyrtian said, meaning it.

"Hmph." Lord Lyon eyed him as if suspecting further cleverness. "Well, I shall be wanting to come visit you within the next few days. I want to discuss your training methods—and other things."

"I am at your service, Lord Lyon," Kyrtian replied, stunned. "I will send a Portal-token to the Council Hall in your name." Before he could think of anything else to say, the Old Lord had sketched a brief salute and turned away, leading what was left of his entourage off through the exit.

⁷

Every trace of the bloody conflict that had preceded Gel's fight had been cleared away from the preparation room by the time that he and the other lord's bodyguard retired to it. Even the armor was gone; all that remained was the presence of the liveried gladiators themselves, divided into two tight groups with a careful space between them. Divested of arms and armor, to Gel's eyes they looked absurdly young, barely out of boyhood. The two sets of gladiators hovered at a respectful distance from Gel and Lord Kyndreth's man as they took over the preparation room for themselves. Gel suppressed a smile of amusement; there was more than a touch of hero-worship in those young faces. He and his opponent had not only saved these children from injury and death, they had probably put on the most skillful combat the callow lads had ever seen. He was just glad that he was going to be able to return to his own estate and get away from all those admiring eyes.

As Gel followed Kaeth Jared's example and divested himself of armor, clothing, and walked naked into the white-tiled water-cascade cubicle as if he belonged there, he was thoroughly conscious of gratitude for being able to clean up after their strenuous bout. With all of the youngsters still watching, awe-filled eyes glued to him, Gel was more than a little uncomfortable as he plunged under the warm cascade of water and let it soothe muscles that had been asked to work without a proper warm-up. He wondered why the other fighters didn't say anything to him—or at least, to Kaeth Jared. They might not know him, but surely they knew Kaeth at least by sight. Well, they've got tongues, he told himself, as he ducked his head under the steaming water and let it pour down his neck and back. If they don't want to use them, that's not my problem.

Kaeth Jared must have been more used to this odd, semi-frightened treatment from his fellow humans, as he acted on the surface as if the other fighters simply weren't there.

On the surface, anyway.

To Gel's experienced eyes, he moved as if he noted and analyzed every move any of them made, however inconsequential. That spelled "assassin" as well as "bodyguard" to Gel, which actually made a great deal of sense, considering Lord Kyn-dreth's prominence and the uncertain times. There was no telling if the Young Lords or his own peers might decide to revert to the ancient ways of dealing with an obstacle in the form of another Elvenlord. Who better to guard against assassins than another assassin?

Still. It aroused his suspicions. In all his lifetime, Gel had encountered no more than four assassins, and he himself was one of them.

And I wonder if Kaeth Jared has made the same conclusions about me that I have about him. . . .

The first had been his own teacher, the third had been his teacher's teacher—a succession of trained men to guard the estate's lord, just in case. The fourth had been on the auction block, and that particular set of skills hadn't been mentioned in the auction catalog. Although it momentarily tempted him—to have someone else he could trust with his lord's safety—he had said nothing to the Seneschal who had been looking for a few choice youngsters to introduce to the freedom of the estate. It was a bad idea; like his own teacher he would train his own successor. There was no telling where that man had been, or why he was on the block.

For a moment, Gel recalled his teacher with great fondness—Hakkon Shor had not been Gel's father, but he might just as well have been. He'd helped raise Gel from the moment that Gel showed the sort of athletic potential that made him the skilled fighter he was today. Hakkon hadn't had sons, only daughters—not that one of them wouldn't have served perfectly well as Kyrtian's bodyguard, but none of them took after Hakkon; in point of fact, they were sweet-natured and absolutely oblivious to half of what went on around them. Now

Tirith Shor, who'd been Hakkon's father, felt that was just as well, but Gel knew it had been a great disappointment to the Old Man that his son wouldn't be the one to stand at the next Lord's side....

Kaeth Jared was an unlikely sort for an assassin, if you only saw him clothed. Tall and slim, pale, with hair of a dark auburn and long, clever hands, he didn't look particularly strong. If you saw him nude, however—or in combat—you realized that he was a great deal stronger and more agile than he seemed. There wasn't an ounce of superfluous flesh on him anywhere, and the muscles he had were wire and whipcord; tough, and powerful.

Gel wondered if the others had noticed Kaeth Jared's unusual alertness and caution, and decided that they probably hadn't. They were just ordinary fighters, and wouldn't be trained or practiced in such careful observation and deduction. They were probably just impressed by the bout that he and Gel had completed—and perhaps a little stunned at its bloodless outcome.

Part of their awe might very well have been due to the lack of scars on Kaeth's body and his own. In the old methods of training, at some point, when two fighters met, they would covertly read true expertise in martial arts not by the number of wounds collected over the years, but by the absence of scarring. An unmarked body in their world meant either that one's lord valued one so highly that he granted the use of magic in healing, or that a fighter's reflexes were so swift and movement so agile that no opponent ever got a chance to land a blow. Neither he nor Kaeth were marred by more than a few trivial lines, long healed.

As Gel emerged from the cascade of water and shook his head like a dog, he caught Kaeth watching out of the corner of his eye; Kaeth knew he'd been caught, and unexpectedly grinned. "You gave me the best bout I've had in a long time, friend," he said, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water-cascade. "I'm impressed."

"So am I," Gel admitted freely, as the circle of silent gladiators strained their ears to hear every syllable either of them spoke. "And I don't mind saying that if you'd had the benefit of

Lord Kyrtian's system to train under, you'd be so much better than me that it wouldn't have been a contest."

"I wouldn't know about that," Kaeth replied, quickly enough to salve Gel's bruised ego. "But if I'm any judge of Lord Kyn-dreth, he'll be using this system of yours before the month is out. And if he does, every other lord will do the same, or be thought hopelessly provincial and out-of-step. With enough approval behind him, he might well mandate this system through the Council."

The encircling men let out a suppressed sigh; so that was what they had been waiting to hear, and perhaps Kaeth had known that. Gel sympathized; such news would be like a reprieve from a death-sentence.

Like ? By the Stars, it is a reprieve from a death-sentence! I wonder how many of their comrades were killed in training, and how many more killed in feud-combat or their masters' entertainments ? Now the only thing they 'II have to fear is being drafted into the Old Lords 'Army and sent up against the rebels or the Wizards.

"I dare say you're right," Gel agreed, waving his hand in front of the cascade to stop it, then reaching for a towel from the rack behind him. At that point, a servant appeared to summon the gladiators to their respective lords for the return to their home estates, and with palpable disappointment, the two groups of men filed out of the preparation room.

Kaeth waved his own hand at the cascade beneath which he'd been standing, and the sound of rushing water was replaced by silence. He seized a towel and dried himself, then wrapped it around his waist as Gel already had and exchanged a wry smile with his companion. "Alone at last!" he said.

Gel chuckled, warily. For an assassin, this man had a remarkable sense of humor and no reticence about showing it. "I would hardly have thought my conversation was that entrancing."

Surely he's here by accident. Assassins are normally sent against key humans in an Elvenlord's entourage, and there was no way of knowing who would be playing bodyguard to Kyrt-ian. Was there?

"It's better than theirs." Kaeth jerked his head in the direction

of the exit door. "Those poor blockheads don't have much to talk about except fighting, food, and sex. If they'd gotten up the courage to speak to us, you'd have found that out."

Gel raised an eyebrow. "Well, they're young," he pointed out, as he followed Kaeth carefully into the main room.

"And under the old system, not likely to get older," Kaeth retorted, getting his clothing off the shoulder-high shelf beside him, and laying it out on a polished wooden bench. "How old's your oldest fighter?"

Gel considered his reply carefully before answering, using the opportunity to lay out his own gear as a chance to stall a little. "If you count retired fighters who could still pick up a weapon in defense of the estate—the oldest just turned seventy-eight."

Kaeth was actually taken aback, and let out a low whistle as he reached for his trews. "I don't know that I've ever seen a human that old, much less a fighter! You mean your lord actually puts his old men out to pasture instead of putting them down? Great Ancestors, man, how many of these retired fighters have you got?"

"I'm not sure," Gel replied, his suspicions aroused. He's asking too many questions. He's a trained assassin, 1 know he is— what if he's targeting Kyrtian?

It was possible—Lord Kyndreth could be a patron and ally of the obnoxious Aelmarkin. It might be that he would wait just long enough to learn Kyrtian's training-technique, then eliminate Aelmarkin's inconvenient cousin.

In fact he might have been brought to get rid of Kyrtian right here and now, which was why Kyrtian got the invitation in the first place! Maybe that's why Lord Kyndreth wants to come to our estate now, to get the secret, then get rid of Kyrtian where there aren 't any witnesses—and maybe get rid of the Lady at the same time!

By now, Gel had gotten his second wind, and such alarming thoughts only increased his energy. And Kaeth, all unsuspecting, had actually turned his back to him. If there was ever a time when a trained assassin would be vulnerable, this was it.

Gel didn't even pause for a breath; he acted. He had been

bent over, tying his boots; now without warning, he turned his pose into a charge, staying crouched over and rushing Kaeth, shouldering him into the wall face-first. He heard Kaeth grunt as he hit the wall, but before he could secure the assassin, Kaeth writhed loose a trifle. His reactions were as swift as a serpent's, and he managed to get himself turned around, but not before Gel grabbed a wrist in either hand and smashed them into the wall, then got his knee up to reinforce his hold. Now Gel had Kaeth pinned against the wall with both wrists imprisoned over his head and Gel's knee in his gut.

His legs are still free. If he can kick my leg out from under me—

Flushed, but impassive, he stared into Gel's grey-violet eyes for a long moment as Gel waited for him to speak or act. His wrists under Gel's hands showed no sign of tension, nor was there any indication that he intended resistance or struggle.

But that could be a ruse to get me to drop my guard.

"I suppose it's too much to ask what prompted this—ah— rather unexpected action of yours?" he finally asked mildly, a bit out of breath, but completely polite, in spite of the situation.

Gel glared at him, but he didn't drop his eyes. "I suppose you're going to deny you're an assassin," he replied flatly.

"Ah!" The expressionless eyes now reflected understanding, and the mouth relaxed a trifle in a faint smile. 'Wow I understand! You think Lord Kyndreth has targeted me at you—or perhaps, your master! Be at ease, friend; Lord Kyrtian is in no danger that I know of, other than from his own conniving cousin. And you're in no danger at all, least of all from me."

It felt honest. Gel wanted to believe him.

"But you don't deny you're an assassin—" Gel's instincts warred with his intellect. His instincts and his senses swore that Kaeth was telling the truth—his more cynical mind warned him that this was just a trick. Still, he was very tempted to release the fellow; this just didn't seem like a lie.

"Hardly, since you seem to have caught me as one," Kaeth replied, with a surprising amount of humor. "Although my own Lord isn't nearly as observant as you, since he is totally unaware of my training; I went to him, bought at auction after the

unlamented death of my old lord. Still, once an assassin, as they say, the cloak never drops from your shoulders—so I'll qualify it by admitting for Lyon Lord Kyndreth, I'm an active agent, but an inactive assassin, nor am I ever likely to let him know of my more esoteric abilities."

"Huh." Slowly, carefully, Gel rocked his weight back onto his own feet, and released Kaeth's wrists. Just as slowly, Kaeth dropped his hands from the wall and rubbed, then flexed, his wrists, testing them. "And just how did you become an inactive assassin?"

"Look for yourself." Kaeth reached up and pulled the neck of his tunic open, then tilted his chin up so that Gel could see his slave-collar clearly. It wasn't the seal of Lyon Lord Kyndreth there, but that of the deceased—and, as Kaeth had said, unlamented—Lord Dyran.

Things were beginning to add up.

The noble Lord Dyran, who trained all manner of slaves in skills best left unexamined.. . and whose estate was broken up and divided among his relatives, with what was left going to auction. And that was where I saw another assassin!

That seal couldn't possibly be counterfeited, either. The fact that he was still wearing Dyran's collar meant that he'd been claimed after Dyran's death—otherwise the new master would insist on having the old collar removed and his own put on. Gel backed up, giving him a little more space. "Interesting."

"My beloved former master," Kaeth said, with a touch of ironic inflection on the word "beloved" that did not escape Gel's notice, "Was not the sort of Elvenlord to forget the traditions of his Ancestors."

"Including assassination?" Gel replied evenly.

Kaeth nodded with a dignity that impressed Gel in spite of himself. "Even so. I was trained from childhood, having shown unusual ability for getting into and out of supposedly guarded spaces and places without being caught. Whether or not you choose to believe me, I will say that my training was never employed against Elvenlords...."

"Not that Dyran would have hesitated if he'd thought he

could get away with it," Gel interjected. Again, Kaeth nodded, this time with a shrug.

"Be that as it may, my usual tasks were to act as his intelligence agent, which is how I was employed at the time of his demise. And, not knowing any better, that is how my talents were advertised when the estate was broken up and the slaves went to auction, as an agent and bodyguard." Kaeth turned his palms up, and shrugged his shoulders again.

"And you, of course, were under no compulsion to enlighten the auctioneers.” Gel felt a reluctant smile creeping over his lips; if this story was true, Kaeth was a very clever fellow indeed. Hardly likely he 'd tell them, when it was a lot more likely that the other Elvenlords would order him destroyed rather than take the chance of one of their number getting his hands on a trained assassin. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you to bolt?"

"Of course it did," Kaeth replied, and sat down on the bench, indicating to Gel that he should do the same. "Oh, don't worry about anyone overhearing us. If there had been anyone listening or watching, they'd have been in here the moment you went for my throat. I cost Kyndreth a very pretty penny, and he'd take it personally if someone deprived him of my services."

And this could be a set-up, but it's getting rather too unlikely and complicated—no, I think I'll go with my instincts and take him at his word.

"Naturally, it occurred to me to flee to the Wizards and the Wild Humans," he repeated, "But—well, 1 learned a few things about these collars that I wasn't supposed to. Only Dyran could compel me magically, and once he was dead, no other Elven-lord can harm me through this collar, unless he is Dyran's equal or better in power. That was a reason to run. But Dyran was as clever a bastard as his reputation claimed—I can still be traced and pursued through the collar, and any attempt to take it off will deprive me of my head. That was Dyran's little fail-safe in case anyone ever decided to subvert me."

Gel winced; that took powerful magic, and it took a particularly cruel mind to think of it.

"So, on the whole, it seemed better for everyone that I turn myself in as one of Dyran's slaves and go up for auction with the rest," Kaeth concluded with a lazy smile. "After all, I still had the option to bolt if my new master proved unbearable, and I'd be able to plan my escape so that I'd have a decent chance to get so far away before they discovered I was missing that it wouldn't be worth pursuit. At the time of Dyran's death I was in a position where that wasn't a possibility."

"What if Kyndreth ever finds out from another of Dyran's slaves—" Gel began, but Kaeth interrupted him with a gentle shake of his head.

"It's not likely, since everyone who ever knew what I was trained for is dead—mostly at Dyran's hands, I might add." For just a moment, there was a shade of bitterness in his voice, but he quickly covered it. "And of all the Old Lords, frankly, Kyndreth is the least likely to use an assassin. He's powerful enough to do his own dirty work, and ruthless enough to enjoy doing so. No, I'm out of the business, unless for some reason it becomes necessary to re-enter it long enough to protect myself. On the whole, I'm rather enjoying myself. Kyndreth treats expensive property well, and my duties are light, compared to those I had under Dyran."

Gel didn't miss the veiled threat in those words, but he shrugged them off. "I don't give a flying damn what you do with your skills, as long as you're not targeting Kyrtian." He couldn't help it; a note of fierce protectiveness crept into his voice.

Kaeth blinked slowly, and looked deeply and penetratingly into Gel's eyes for a moment. "Interesting," he murmured. "I'd heard rumors about Lord Kyrtian's people ..."

Then he shook his head, as if it was no consequence. "I overhear a great deal, as all bodyguards do, and Kyndreth has the usual failing of our masters that he forgets how much his slaves see and hear. I hope you will believe me when I tell you that Kyndreth's plans are such, and so complex, that it is unlikely he could ever fit a trained assassin into them with any degree of confidence."

"Maybe against the Old Lords, and the lords that haven't re-

volted," Gel objected, "but what about the Young Lords who are still in revolt?"

"A bare possibility if they actually developed a leader with enough charisma to make them all work together." Kaeth admitted. "But it's more likely that cattle will fly before that happens. And besides, even if he did, sons aren't so thick on the ground that the victim's relatives would be very happy that the errant lad had been eliminated rather than returned to the parental fold." He smiled, but this time there was no humor in it. "After all, a youngster who has had all thoughts of rebellion neatly wiped from his mind can still function to sire the next generation, even if the rest of the time all he does is sit in a corner and drool."

That shocked Gel; he'd heard rumors that some of the Old Lords had the ability to tamper with another Elvenlord's mind and memory, but this was the first time anyone had said anything that confirmed what he had privately thought was a rather wild tale.

He did his best to seem as nonchalant about it as Kaeth was, however. "Putting it that way—I suppose you're right. Kyn-dreth would get no joy from the surviving relatives if he wiped out an heir, no matter how they felt about that heir when he was alive." He shook his head, and allowed his disgust and bafflement to show. "Damn, but this is as twisted as ball of snakes! How do you make it all out?"

"Early training, mostly." Now Kaeth actually relaxed, and for the first time, Gel saw him drop all of his defensive mannerisms. He knew that he was meant to see that—and he instinctively knew that Kaeth now trusted him as far as he had ever trusted anyone but himself. "Politics among the Elvenlords—it's considered a high art. Sometimes I think it's a pity that no one will ever know how accomplished an artist I am but myself."

Gel had to chuckle at that, and Kaeth smiled—a real, unmasked smile—in answer. "Well, I'm a plain man, and I tell you now that I'd rather map battlefield strategy than political strategy any day."

"It's cleaner." The regret in that voice was so deep that Gel could have drowned in it. For a moment, they both fell silent,

then Kaeth coughed. "Well—before Lord Kyndreth wonders what is taking me so long, and summons me—what can you tell me about this training method of Lord Kyrtian's?"

Gel studied his expression, and came to an interesting conclusion. He approves. Granted, if his master asks what we were talking about, this will give him something to feed to him, but he also approves of this and wants to know for himself. Fascinating. I wouldn 't have thought that an assassin would be interested in preserving lives.

"He's doing something with his magic that's initially complicated to set up, but doesn't take a great deal of power," Gel admitted. "That's what he's told me, anyway. Not being a lord, I don't know the mechanics of it." He brooded a moment, thinking back to the first time that Kyndreth set the spells. "There are two different pieces of magic involved: one to create a weapon that looks and feels real, but has no more substance than an illusion; and the other that he sets on the fighter that works with the weapon and reacts to what the weapon does."

"Senses it, you mean?" Kaeth asked, his eyes intent.

"I guess that's close, as close as anything a human can understand." Gel licked his lips. "Anyway, that second spell is what makes the glow and the shock when you're hit. The first time he did it, it took him most of the day; he says it gets easier as you get used to it. And according to him, it's almost as simple to work the spells on a lot of people as it is to cast them for one—he said something once about giving the magic extra energy and it copies itself for as long as you feed it." He laughed with embarrassment. "That probably sounds stupid, but that's the best I can tell you."

"No, no, it makes sense," Kaeth told him. "I've heard them talking about that, when they want to create a lot of something, like trees or flowers—doing the first one, then setting it to copy itself. That's how they can tell the difference between the illusion that a really powerful lord creates, and one created by an underling. You never see a powerful lord making copies; in his illusions, every tree, every flower is different."

"Whatever. That's the best description I can tell you." He pondered a moment, then decided to give Kaeth some informa-

tion that, should he feed it back to Lord Kyndreth, would be a protection for Kyrtian rather than a danger. "Kyrtian has as many regular fighters as any other Great Lord, but I have to tell you, all we do is practice—either in daily drill using his method, or in actual battle-simulations. That's the regular fighters. Once a fighter is over forty, he goes on light-duty; he has some other job, but keeps in practice—archery practice, mostly, though some of them keep their sword and spear work right up to their old standards."

"Which means you don't just have gladiators, you have an army, trained to fight together." Kaeth pulled on his lower lip. "And you have a back-up corps of those older men. Interesting. Only a fool would challenge your Lord."

That was said as a statement, not a question.

Good. Let Kyndreth chew on that! "Exactly," Gel nodded. "That's because Lord Kyrtian likes to see how battle-strategy really works, rather than just reading about it. We work out new combat simulations fairly often, because unless someone steps into a hole and breaks a leg or something equally stupid, we come out of combat with the same number of fighters we went into it with."

"It's a damned good system," Kaeth agreed, finally. "So good, it makes me wonder what the advantage is to Lord Kyrtian. Trained fighters could revolt, if they put their minds to it,"

Gel laughed easily. "Well, for one thing, there aren't any real weapons around where we can get hold of them. They're all locked up in the armory under Kyrtian's seal."

"So he doesn't have to worry about a slave-revolt." Kaeth's face cleared, and he nodded.

"And, of course, knowing you aren't going to get injured or killed makes the men willing to practice."

"He wouldn't have the expense of buying or raising replacements, either." Kaeth sighed in open admiration. "Brilliant strategy, especially for someone with no political allies. After today, no one will dare challenge him to a feud; his position is secure against all normal avenues of challenge. I would never have thought it, given his reputation."

"Not exactly bad strategy to make the others underrate him

until he was ready, was it?" Gel said slyly, and Kaeth actually laughed.

Gel had the impression now that despite his sinister training, Kaeth Jared was a pretty decent sort, and that surprised him, more than a little. He'd always considered assassins to be—

To be scum, actually. I suspect most of them are. This one, though—well, he's got my respect.

His thoughts were interrupted by a discreet cough from the door, where a pair of young lads in Aelmarkin's livery stood uneasily. "Your Lords—" the nearest said, a tremor in his voice.

"Our Lords require us," Kaeth supplied with a nod. Suddenly the mask dropped over his face and he was all cool surface again, remote and unreadable. "Of course, immediately."

Gel stood only a fraction behind Kaeth, who turned and offered his hand. "It was a pleasure in every sense," Kaeth said, the warmth of his tone belying his lack of expression. "I would like to meet you again under similar circumstances."

Gel clasped the offered hand solemnly. "I hope that we can," he replied as warmly, "and I look forward to it."

And with that, they parted. As Gel followed his guide, he wondered what Kaeth's emotions were. He didn't think he was mistaken; something had resonated between them.

Maybe not friendship, at least not yet, he decided, as he saw Kyrtian waiting up ahead with a sense of relief that the ordeal was finally over. But definitely admiration. And neither of us wants to ever have to kill the other. That has to count for something!

8

Kyrtian passed through the Portal, which on Aelmarkin's side was a great gilded bas-relief gate wide and tall enough for a cargo-wagon to pass through, and on the manor side was an ornately-carved wooden door with a high

lintel featuring the family crest. He had been in a profoundly thoughtful state of mind from the moment that he had parted with Lord Kyndreth, and Gel didn't interrupt his musings by trying to talk to him. Then again, it was entirely likely that Gel was too tired to talk, which didn't hurt Kyrtian's feelings in the least.

Longstanding family tradition of caution situated the Portal inside a small chamber with walls of stone and a locked door of fire-toughened bronze as insurance against an enemy using it to penetrate the heart of the manor. Invited guests were met here by an escort and let out, and the chamber itself would hold no more than ten at the most. The "key" to unlock the door was the presence of a family member or someone else (like Gel) to whom the lock had been sensitized. Of course, it was possible to overpower the escort and open the chamber door that way, but the door was guarded every moment of every day, and at least one guard would be able to raise an alarm. There would be no invasions of the estate through this Portal—or so it was hoped. After all of his studies in military tactics, Kyrtian was only too aware that a clever commander could think of ways to get past their precautions. His only comfort was that most of the Elvenlords were not very clever commanders.

Kyrtian parted with Gel just outside the Portal Chamber, as the guards tried to pretend they weren't eavesdropping. "Well, we're in for it now," he said, in mingled pride and chagrin. "I think this is the highest-ranked member of the Great Council to come here since Grandfather's day, and we're going to have to make certain everyone is totally prepared and understands what they need to do. The sooner we start preparing the staff and servants for Lord Kyndreth's visit, the sooner we can get it over with, and then everything can go back to normal."

"And the longer we delay, the more we risk an insult. Don't worry, I'm on it," the Sergeant said with a wave. "You go break the news to the Lady."

Gel made for the training-quarters at a trot, and Kyrtian reflected that the Sergeant was probably already five steps ahead of him in planning things. And one thing was absolutely cer-

tain; the visit could not take place until every servant on the estate was so well-rehearsed in the appropriate conduct of a slave that nothing would force him to depart from it, not insult, not punishment, and certainly not carelessness. Those servants closest to Kyrtian and his mother would have to be the best actors of the lot, which meant that certain of the younger and less experienced house-servants (such as Lynder) would be replaced for the duration with others who had been promoted to other positions or had even retired. Kyrtian would certainly be doing without most of his personal servants, who would be attending Lord Kyndreth, but that was a small price to pay for keeping up the deception that this was a normal Elven household.

All that would be in the hands of Gel, Lady Lydiell, and Lord Tenebrinth the Seneschal, and the sooner he let the last two know what was about to descend on them, the better. Gel was right; Lord Kyndreth's visit could not be postponed for long without offending him.

He paused for a moment to locate both his mother and the Seneschal; this was no time to waste precious moments hunting for them by ordinary means. The merest whisper of magic told him that, as was often the case at this time of day, Tenebrinth was with his mother in the latter's office, probably going over the household and estate accounts, making plans for the next couple of months, or dealing with issues of the servants. That could not possibly have been better for Kyrtian's purposes. By catching them together, Kyrtian would only have to go over the prospective visit and the reasons for it once.

Lydiell's office was literally at the center of the manor, overlooking everything. The manor boasted five towers, one at each corner and one at the center, with the center-most being a good two stories taller than the others—a full twelve stories tall. The towers gave the manor a look of delicacy and attenuation that Kyrtian found both attractive and amusingly deceptive, for the building itself had been constructed to survive a long siege, and had been built to withstand siege weapons that for the most part no longer existed. Lydiell's office was a glass-walled room at the very tip of the center-most tower, a place that would, in war-

time, be occupied by at least four lookouts. Even in the worst weather, it was a snug and welcoming place, as the tower was one of the few places in the manor that depended on magic for more than lighting and a decorative illusion or two. Magic, and not mechanical contrivances, heated and cooled the tower and protected it from the worst weather. Magic also ensured the safety of any occupants of the transparent tube he entered at the bottom of the tower, powering the little platform under his feet that slowly rose through the tower to the top. No human could use this contrivance by himself, not even if that human was blessed with the humans' own form of magic. In this way, when she worked, Lydiell could be assured that no one could interrupt her without having to go first to one of elven blood. There were drawbacks to being as approachable as the lords of this manor had always been; the short-lived humans tended to come to them with any problem that had them stymied for more than a few moments, assuming that long experience granted unfathomable wisdom.

If it did that, there wouldn 't be a Young Lords' War now. The Old Lords would have known better than to let them get as far as they did. And there wouldn't have been a second Wizard War either.

The intervening floors of the tower were, for the most part, unfurnished, although this was the oldest section of the manor and everything else had been constructed around it. The round rooms were too small to use for anything but offices, and only Lydiell and Tenebrinth had need of an office. So Kyrtian passed room after round, empty, alabaster-walled room with nothing more to entertain him than brief glimpses of the outside through the weapon-slits that served in place of windows. Even the look of alabaster was deceptive; the tower was built of something far stronger, though too much magic went into the construction of the material for anyone to use it these days. This tower was an artifact of the first fifty years after the Elves crossed out of Evelon, when no one knew if this world would prove to be as dangerous as the one they had left, a time when the elven-born existed as closely crowded together as any of the

primitive humans in their huts, and waited for something infinitely more dangerous to descend without warning than a mob of weak, short-lived humans.

Tenebrinth's office, just below Lydiell's, was empty and un-tenanted as Kyrtian had anticipated. That office, and Lydiell's, were nearly double the size of the rooms below them. The walls swelled out here, giving the tower the look of a deep plate or shallow bowl balanced on a candlestick and covered with a round, pointed silver dish cover that was the overhanging (and projectile-proof) roof. The windows in Tenebrinth's office were only half the size of the ones in Lydiell's, but were glazed with the same impervious substance used instead of ordinary glass in every opening of this tower. Light that came through this substance lost some of its color and strength, making it appear as if the office lay underwater.

Now Kyrtian heard voices, and as he rose through the ceiling of Tenebrinth's office into that of Lady Lydiell, Lord Tene-brinth himself got up from his chair to greet him. Lady Lydiell remained seated, but welcomed her son with a smile and an extended hand.

Tenebrinth was a little older than Kyrtian's father would have been had he still been alive, having apprenticed in the position of Seneschal under Kyrtian's grandfather. He had served in his official capacity for as long as Kyrtian had known him, and as one of Kyrtian's tutors as well. As with all Elvenlords above a certain age but below the point of being considered ancient, it was impossible to tell exactly how old he was. Tall, thinner and less muscular than Lady Lydiell, with a long jaw and nose and prominent cheekbones, hair confined with a silver clasp at the nape of his neck, he looked exactly like what he was, a studious creature, serious and careful in thought and speech, a true scholar and thinker who preferred to joust with his mind and not his body.

"Well, I see you survived your encounter with the young tygers," the Seneschal said genially. "Permit me to congratulate you."

Kyrtian stepped out of the tube, kissed the back of his mother's hand, and took the chair that the Seneschal offered

him. "Believe me, it felt like being in a tyger-pit," he replied with feeling. "I can't imagine how anyone enjoys these so-called social occasions."

"They aren't all as bad as combat challenges seem to be," Lady Lydiell said with a touch of sympathy and a shrug. "Some of the fetes can be positively pleasant, especially the fetes for unwed daughters. The presence of women seems to make the young tygers sheath their claws and hide their teeth, at least long enough to look civilized while in the company of the ladies."

Kyrtian had debated whether or not to tell his mother everything, and decided now that on the whole she was better off not knowing about how he had interrupted the challenge-combat, since only good had come out of his near-blunder in the end. "Well, I know you don't care who won the dispute—but Gel and I managed to pull off a little triumph that I think you two will approve of."

Tenebrinth blinked, and his mother raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she said. "Now what have you two gotten into?"

"Well, there's good news and there's inconvenient news," he replied, "The inconvenient news is that Lyon Lord Kyndreth wants to visit for long enough to learn my training and combat methods. The good news is that the reason he does is that we persuaded the two feuding lords to have their differences settled in a combat my way, between Gel and Lord Lyon's man. Lyon was impressed, and not only wants to know how the spells are set, but said in the presence of the other lords that he intends to make this the way in which fighters are trained and disputes settled from now on. After seeing bloodless combat, he says that he agrees with me; the old ways are too wasteful to continue."

With every word, Lydiell and Tenebrinth grew more and more astonished, eyes widening and mouths dropping slightly open. It was Tenebrinth who could not restrain himself as Kyrtian leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face.

"By the Ancestors, boy, that isn't good news, it's wonderful news! Do you realize what this means to the humans out there?" Tenebrinth waved his arm at the world outside the windows.

"Well—mostly," Lady Lydiell interjected gently. "There are going to be those of our race whose thirst for blood and cruelty will not be satisfied with bloodless combat and who will continue to waste the lives of gladiators. Not even Lyon could get a law through the Council forbidding them to kill their own slaves. That strikes at the heart and soul of what nearly every Elvenlord sees as his basic rights over creatures he considers to be no better than beasts and property." At Kyrtian's nod of agreement, she smiled. "Nonetheless, Tenebrinth is right. Most of the Elvenlords will be only too pleased with the notion that they can settle differences through bloodless combat. It's a great drain, breeding and buying expensive fighting stock. The further expense of training gladiators and keeping them in training is bad enough; it's worse to have their expensive property massacred during training, and nearly as bad when the massacre happens in settling a petty argument, leaving them to train gladiators all over again if they wish to maintain their position and status."

Tenebrinth nodded. "That's been a complaint of the Lesser Lords against the Greater for the past two generations—very few have the resources to toss away slaves without considering the expense! Lord Lyon will gain a great deal of support among the Lesser Lords for this, if he makes it policy—and almost as importantly, he won't aggravate the Greater. He stands to win all around."

Lydiell patted her son's hand. "I'm so pleased that I won't even ask what trouble you tumbled into in order to achieve this remarkable goal!"

"Mother!" Kyrtian objected, hoping he didn't sound guilty.

"But the price of this is that we are to expect Lord Kyndreth some time in the immediate future?" the Seneschal interjected. "Did you actually set a date for the visit?"

"No date has been set, and I told him that I would send him a Portal-key when I had things ready for him. I tried to give the impression that, as we were a small household, reclusive and unused to visitors, we needed time to prepare for the visit of so prominent a guest. He was satisfied with that so far as I could tell, and I have no intention of letting him set foot here until

everyone is prepared. That won't be until you two and Gel have gotten the servants and field-hands ready to hold up the illusion that this is an ordinary estate," Kyrtian assured him. "He didn't seem all that impatient and he wasn't offended that I couldn't offer him our hospitality immediately."

"No doubt he has business of his own to take care of before he can afford a formal visit," the Seneschal murmured, as if to himself.

"More likely he is taking the time to see who is and is not our ally, going back to the time we all left Evelon," Lydiell replied tartly. "Someone of his rank and status can't afford an ally with an inconvenient number of deadly enemies."

"Well, the only enemy we have that I know of is Ael-markin...." Kyrtian said, letting his voice trail off and looking at his mother questioningly.

"Correct; Aelmarkin is our only open enemy, with the remote possibility that his allies might choose to throw in on his side," his mother confirmed. "Though once they see that Lyon has thrown in with us, however briefly, they are unlikely to back Aelmarkin against us in anything important. Thank the Ancestors we never meddled in politics on either side of the family! We'll have a clean slate, so far as Lord Lyon is concerned. All we have to worry about is keeping up appearances for a few days at most."

"I—don't intend to ask anything of Lord Lyon for this, Mother," Kyrtian said, hesitantly. "And I don't intend to make it seem as if I consider it a great favor on my part to teach him my methods. I want it to seem as if I consider this to be—how shall 1 put this?—something that I truly believe should be offered, part of my duty to the Elvenlords as a whole. I want to give him the impression of a solemn young man who is devoted to the welfare of his people. Which I am; just not the people that he thinks." He smiled. "There's no point in disillusioning him on that."

"Exactly right; any of the ordinary status-grubbers would do the opposite," she confirmed. "By acting differently than he expects, you'll catch him off guard and he won't know quite what to think of us. At best, he may decide that we're worth

having as a permanent ally. The worst he'll assume is that we are so quietly provincial, so wrapped up in our own ways and life, with such quaint ideas of loyalty and duty, that we are no threat or challenge to anyone. We'll be safe to patronize, and he'll be motivated to protect us from any more of Aelmarkin's maneuverings."

"For my part, I would say that this would be the best thing he could assume," Kyrtian replied, relieved. "Can I take it that you approve?"

"Completely," Lady Lydiell said, as Tenebrinth nodded. Kyrtian smiled, a little thrill of pleasure tickling his spirit at the notion that his first foray into the dangerous world of Great Lords and politics had come off so successfully.

Even though I almost turned it into a disaster, he reminded himself. This is not the time for hubris!

He took his leave of both of them and stepped into the tube, which held him in place until the platform rose to receive him. Once he had been deposited on the ground floor, he headed straight for the West Tower, which held all five floors of the great library.

He planned to do a little genealogical investigation himself before his own plans went any further.

In the home of every Elvenlord, Great or Lesser, there was always a Great Book of Ancestors, kept up to date by either the Lady of the clan or a clerk she personally supervised. Every birth, death, and wedding was promptly reported to the Council, which sent out immediate notification to every household, however small and insignificant. No marriage or alliance could be made without consulting the Great Book, which dated back to the exile from Evelon.

Kyrtian sat at the table holding the Great Book on its slanting stand, and drew it closer to him. As he always did, because those First Days fascinated him, Kyrtian opened the Book to the first page where the names of all of those who had dared the Gate out of Evelon were written. Fully half of them were inscribed with death-dates that came within days or weeks of the Crossing. Some had died of the strain of the Crossing itself, or of injuries sustained in Evelon before the Crossing.

Few in these days realized that those who had made the Crossing had been the losers in a war that had split Elvenkind and set one half warring against the other. The Crossing had been the desperate attempt of the defeated to escape rather than surrender, not the valiant and bold move of those who were in search of a new world to conquer. That was one fact that those who ruled here now preferred to forget and bury in the past.

Of the survivors that remained after the Crossing, none were still alive at the present day. Elvenlords lived long, provided no accident, illness, inherited weakness, or murder disposed of them before the normal span of four or five centuries, but they were hardly immortal. Kyrtian's paternal great-grandfather had been one of the longest-lived survivors, as (he now learned) had Lyon Lord Kyndreth's great-grandsire; most other Elvenlords in these days were yet a further generation down the line from the original inhabitants of the new land.

He turned the page to trace his mother's line, rather than his father's. Odd, he thought, as he noted something that had never seemed important before. I'm literally the first male any woman of her line has produced since Evelon—

"That is why there was no great objection when I wedded your father," said Lydiell, behind him, as if she had the human gift of reading thoughts. He was too used to her uncanny ability to do this with him to be startled; he simply turned and smiled at her as she stepped forward another pace and placed her hand affectionately on his shoulder.

"No one—least of all Aelmarkin—ever thought I would produce a male heir," she said quietly. "That was why there was no objection raised to the marriage, and why Aelmarkin is so intent on dispossessing you of your inheritance now. He assumed that the ripe plum of our estate would drop into his lap without any effort on his part—or that he could somehow connive or force me to wed my presumed daughter to him." Lydiell smiled down at her son, whose birth had spoiled Aelmarkin's plans.

"But he's really a cousin in name only," Kyrtian objected, tracing back Aelmarkin's line. "His people haven't been directly related to ours since Evelon itself! It was our great-

grandfathers who were cousins, and there's been no closer marriage since then."

"But if you trace carefully, he's the only other male heir to the Clan," Lydiell pointed out. "That's as much your greatgrandfather's and grandfather's fault as anything else. Once they had a single, living child, the need to protect what we had built here took precedence over trying to sire any more children. They each had one male heir by one marriage and no further children; no daughters to wed outside the Clan, no second sons to secure alliances. Granted, they were exceptionally long-lived, and that's what saved us, but I was the first bride to come from a family not bound in any way to your Clan, and if your father was still with us, by now you would have at least a younger sister or brother, because I would have personally seen to it, rather than accepted the edict that there was no need for further children."

Now Kyrtian noted something else that had somehow escaped his attention. His ageless mother was nearer in age to his grandfather than his father! She saw his eyes resting on the birth-date under her name, and chuckled richly.

"I wondered when you would uncover that!" she said. "Yes, I'll admit it; I robbed the cradle! When your grandmother— wiser or more pragmatic than her husband—knew that she would not survive your father's birth, she had enough time to handpick a successor. She turned to our family, who had been her friends; she wanted my sister, but the family had already wed her off, so she chose me! But she had reckoned without your grandfather's love and devotion; he refused to take another wife, especially one as barely-nubile as I was. Still, for the sake of my friendship with her, I visited often and long, trying to amuse your grandfather and possibly even persuade him in time that I was fascinating and desirable! I wish you had seen me, still barely past my presentation fete, slinking around here as if I was a hardened seductress!"

Since Kyrtian couldn't imagine his mother slinking around like a seductress at any age, he spluttered a little and reddened.

"Well, when seduction failed, I thought I would win him by showing him what a devoted mother I could be to his son," she

continued. "There was one little wrinkle in that plan; by the time I thought of it, your father was hardly of an age to need mothering! But I persisted in cultivating him, only to find that his son and I were mutually falling head over heels in love as soon as he was old enough to think of such things! Your grand-sire was much amused, and so was my sister, Moth."

"Moth," of course, was V'tern Morthena Lady Arada, nearly a full century Lydiell's senior, and the only surviving relict of Lord Arada's tiny Clan. She held a small estate granted her by her late husband in her own right, with no inconvenient cousins to pester her.

Kyrtian sighed. When he looked at the Great Book, in the complicated web of intermarriages and second and third marriages, his family stood all alone, like a single strand of silk off to one side of the greater pattern.

"I have not told you this before, but Aelmarkin tried to force a marriage on me when your father first disappeared," she continued, as calmly as if it had happened to someone else. "That was when Moth came to my rescue; she dug up an obscure law preventing a man from marrying the widow of his cousin if she already had a male heir. She visited each of the Great Lords herself and pointed out to each one of them—with examples— how that law would protect their own sons from certain of their opponents if anything happened to the lord himself. Needless to say, they upheld the law to a man, and Aelmarkin had to slink away with his tail between his legs."

"No wonder he hates you," Kyrtian replied, enlightened.

She sniffed delicately. "Personally, I prefer not to waste an emotion as empowering as hatred on that worm. It was obvious from the start what his plans were when he came slinking around here, oozing false sympathy and groomed and jewel-bedecked to within an inch of his life. Even if I had been the foolish woman he thought I was, I would quickly have seen that such an alliance would mean your death. No matter what my personal feelings were on the subject, I would never have placed you or our people in the hands of the odious Aelmarkin!"

"Thank you for that!" Kyrtian laughed.

"And sometime you might thank your aunt for devising the

means to protect us both," she replied cheerfully, with a light squeeze of her hand on his shoulder.

"Well, however much you play at modesty, I think that you would have found the solution just as quickly as Lady Moth if you hadn't had her help," he told her. "You are two out of the same mold, as clever as you are beautiful, and far more intelligent than any mere males."

"I only needed to be clever enough to take advantage of our isolation," she said, with a laugh at his attempt to compliment her. "After all, we are out back of beyond of nowhere, and I doubt that anyone other than Aelmarkin would even consider wanting our estate for that reason;" Her tone turned scornful. "And frankly, I think if Aelmarkin knew how much work it is to keep this estate so profitable, he'd quickly change his mind about wanting it."

"I only wish that were true," Kyrtian sighed. "It's only a lot of work because of the way we treat our human friends; if this estate were run on the same lines as any other, the profits would probably be much higher. At least," he amended, "That's what Tenebrinth told me once."

"That's beside the point," Lydiell said resolutely. "The point now is to make sure we get the most out of Lord Lyon's visit, without making any blunders and without sacrificing any of our independence. You go off and consult with Gel over dinner; I'll do the same with Tenebrinth. We're going to want to please Lyon without dazzling him, charm him without making it look as if we have anything he really wants other than your knowledge and expertise. And you and Gel ought to put your heads together to see if you can think of anything else he might want out of you in particular."

Kyrtian closed the Great Book with a determined snap. "You're perfectly right, as usual," he said. "I'll go change into something less ostentatious and find Gel, and we'll get down to business."

But in spite of the excitement of the moment, there was one thing he had realized as he walked off in search of Gel. With all of the conversation about marriages and alliances, for the first

time since he'd come of age, Lydiell had not even mentioned the prospect of his own marriage!

And that was enough of a relief that his steps became noticeably lighter.

9

Over the next several days, he and Gel were so busy with preparations for Lord Kyndreth's visit that he hardly had time to do anything other than eat and sleep. He certainly didn't have any time for staging even combat-practice, so the fighters were left to fend for themselves until Gel could take over their practice-sessions using the old, blunted wooden weapons instead of the magic ones.

He already knew that he did not have to worry about the fighters taking advantage of his inattention. Thanks to a very real sense of what Gel would have to say—and do—about it, if they spent their time idle, they took it upon themselves to follow the usual course of exercise and simple drill, varied with hand-to-hand, unarmed contests, in which the worst accident that could befall would be a broken bone or two.

Kyrtian also knew that the fighters would not give the game away by acting out-of-character. They were military, heart and soul, and would no more speak out-of-turn or hesitate to obey an order than fly. No, the fighters could be counted upon to play their parts like the professionals that they were.

It was the regular servants and field-hands who had to be drilled in subservience until it became second nature, and many times Kyrtian was strongly tempted to meddle with their minds by means of magic to keep them from forgetting. It was finally Gel who came up with the excellent solution of actually working through the elf-stones on their seldom-worn collars, setting

up a warning tingle whenever the wearer altered his or her posture from that of complete servility.

That worked, and far better than Kyrtian had expected. The servile pose, with shoulders slightly hunched and eyes on the ground, forcibly reminded people of how they were expected to act. "It won't matter if they look cowed and afraid all the time," Gel pointed out. "Lord Kyndreth won't know it's all acting a part, no matter how exaggerated it seems to us. A real slave just can't be too servile; if they grovel a lot, he'll only think you're keeping their leashes short and using the whip a great deal. Now—much as I hate to bring this up, but what if Kyndreth doesn't bring along some of his own women? He'll expect to be offered entertainment, even if he turns it down."

"I don't have any concubines to offer him," Kyrtian pointed out. "I suspect that's one of the things Aelmarkin tries to use against me with the other Lords, that I'm—ah—"

"Virginal and chaste—and probably sexless, hence no fit heir," Gel growled bluntly. "Well, you may not have a harem to offer him at the moment, but what are you going to do? Have you made any plans?"

"Mother had an idea," Kyrtian replied, but made a face of distaste. "I don't like it, mind you, but... she thinks it's just that I'm too fastidious. She's going to send Tenebrinth to the slave markets and buy a pretty concubine or two just before the visit; she'll meddle with their memories to make them think they've been here for the last couple of years, keep them isolated in a tiny harem of their own and have me offer them to Lord Kyndreth."

"You're too fastidious," Gel told him bluntly. "It's perfect. They won't know anything about us, and they won't be related to anyone here. If there's an ... accident... we won't be losing any of our people."

Kyrtian's distaste grew, but he couldn't deny that Gel's pragmatic view was at least practical. "And what do we do with them afterwards?" he asked sourly.

Gel shrugged. "Hardly matters. Concubines aren't the brightest as a whole, and I suspect any that your mother picks will be very pretty and very dim—much safer that way. We

could probably marry them off to someone, if you've got no taste for having them around. Or sell them again," He raised an eyebrow at Kyrtian's expression, and snorted. "Do yourself a favor; let your mother and Tenebrinth deal with it. Keep your hands clean if you dislike it that much."

As if my not knowing makes it any better, he thought grimly. No, that's no answer. "I'll tell Mother you agree with her idea, and even though I don't like the idea, I agree it's necessary, there really doesn't seem to be a better solution."

"There isn't," Gel said, with emphasis. "What else do you want to do, ask for volunteers?"

That was definitely no answer. He shook his head. "I'll do the memory manipulation—mother isn't going to be able to impart many convincing illusions about—um—I mean, it's not as if she's a male—" He flushed, and didn't complete the sentence, but got the distinct feeling that Gel found his embarrassment highly amusing. "We'll do what we have to, all of us, and try to make things up afterwards if there's anyone hurt by this." He just hoped that Lord Kyndreth wasn't one of those who left women damaged. "I can always make the girls forget everything when he's gone," he added, as much for his own benefit as for Gel's.

Gel looked relieved. "You'll never be a real commander if you can't make the difficult decisions and carry them out," he reminded his erstwhile superior—perhaps just a touch smugly.

"I just did, didn't I?" he replied, irritated. "Enough; we're spending more time on this than the issue warrants, and it has nothing to do with your part in this, which is getting the fighters ready. Well?"

Gel grinned. "Oh, they're ready. Very eager to show their paces, and just as eager to see you vindicated. Have no fear, they know their parts. We'll give Lord Kyndreth a show he isn't likely to forget for the next three centuries."

Triana considered the slave dispassionately—a rare state of mind for her. There were several considerations here, not the least of which was this; how far could one trust a human? As she had told Aelmarkin, she seldom trained female

slaves. Never was not the operative word; never was not a word to be used at all among the Elvenlords, whose long lives had no room in them for never. Sooner or later, whatever it was that had been vowed against would happen. Mind, there were Elvenlords so rigid in their thinking that they actually believed that they could say they would "never" do something—but Tri-ana knew better.

This woman was not of her breeding; the female slaves that Triana bred on her own estate were strictly utilitarian, and while not plain (she couldn't bear to have anything plain or ugly about her) were about as animated as statues in the presence of their mistress. This girl, bought, not at auction, but handpicked from among the offerings of a private sale, was the opposite of stoic and unanimated. She was trained as a dancer as well as in harem skills; she was very intelligent. Triana needed a woman who was intelligent, but with intelligence came the liability of thinking for one's self.

How far to trust her? That was the question.

"Would it surprise you very much to learn that I need a spy?" she asked aloud.

The slave shook her head slightly, enough to indicate that she was not surprised, but not so much that the mute reply could be considered impertinent.

"The mother of a certain young lord is purchasing harem slaves, and I intend that you should number among them," Triana continued. "I need to know what goes on in his household, and harem slaves are in a unique position to find that out."

"But harem slaves are kept in isolation—" the girl responded tentatively.

Triana smiled. "But men do not heed their tongues when among them," she corrected. "I could have merely planted a teleson-ring on you and sent you on as a passive listener—but I would not learn a tenth as much as I will when you work for me in full knowledge of what I want." She considered the girl further. "It is your duty to give me that, but your previous master indicated that you are bothersomely intelligent—"

Here the girl flushed and looked down at her feet.

"—and as a consequence, I am aware that mere duty is not

going to extract what I want from the place to which I am going to send you." Triana chuckled, and the girl looked up again in surprise. "Oh, come now—I am not one of those lords who prefers slaves to have no thoughts of their own! You little mayfly humans may not have the capacity to appreciate what your masters can, but you are still as motivated by the prospect of gain as we are. I know full well that once planted in this household, your leash will be slipped and you can and will do as you please in this matter." She leaned forward, catching and holding the girl's gaze with her own. "I have an incentive to offer you, so that you will work that dear little mind of yours to the fullest on my behalf."

A flicker of emotion passed across the girl's face, and she flushed again. "Incentive, Mistress?" she ventured breathily.

Satisfied that she had found the correct key to the lock of the girl's ambition, Triana leaned back. "A reward, if that word pleases you better; a reward for exemplary service. Exert yourself to the utmost on my behalf, find a way to convince Kyrtian to leave the harem door unbarred to your comings and goings, and above all, report everything you see and hear, however small and seemingly inconsequential, to me. Do that, satisfy me, and at the end of a year in his service I will have you retrieved. You can retire here, and name what you will for your conditions of living, never again being required to do anything you do not care for. From a cottage and mate of your choice to the suite and service of a young Lady. Or—if this is more to your liking—you may go to your wild brethren among the Wizards. I can arrange for that as well."

From the slight quickening of the girl's breath, Triana knew she had caught her. Mine, she thought, with satisfaction, and nodded to set the hook, now that the bait had been taken. "This will not be easy," she warned. "You will have to bend your whole mind to the task, and you will have to keep Lord Kyrtian and his mother from ever guessing that you are not what you seem. If you do not satisfy me—" she shrugged "—I will not be able to punish you, obviously, but I can and will leave you in place, and you will live and die the concubine of a minor lord in a tiny harem with unvarying routine. Kyrtian does not often

have guests, so you would not even have that prospect to brighten your days. I believe that someone like you would find that sort of life maddeningly restrictive."

The slave did not hesitate even for the smallest part of a moment. "I will serve you, Lady," the girl replied decisively. "You will find nothing lacking in my zeal."

Triana laughed aloud, with a glance at the girl to invite her to join in her good humor. Ah, Aelmarkin, she thought, as she settled down to instruct the girl in the use of the teleson-ring and her initial duties. This wager is already won!

Gel knew his business, none better. Kyrtian left the matter of the household to his mother, and took charge of the rest. Now that the warnings were in place and the attitude of the field-hands and farmers had been established, he judged that it was time to prepare the general outward appearance of his people. They must look self-sufficient and prosperous, but not too prosperous. The servants must not look too healthy, too happy. In fact, the ones in the fields must not look happy at all.

He spent a day considering how to accomplish that, researching spells of illusion, wondering what he would do if Lord Kyndreth detected them or broke them. Kyndreth had not gotten where he was by being a fool, and if he detected illusions, he would want to know what they hid—he would first suspect treachery, but he would definitely want to know why there were illusions on human slaves.

Finally, in the twilight, he decided to take a walk to see if the fresh air would clear his head out and let some fresh thoughts in.

The stars were just coming out, and a fine breeze carried the scents of the gardens on its wings. He took a moment to extinguish the glowing globes illuminating the pathways, for he knew the garden paths by heart and had no need of the lights. At the moment, he would rather enjoy the darkness, not because he was brooding, but because he wanted his mind to rest.

How did Aelmarkin's servants look? That would be the sort of thing to get his own people to emulate. Despite their servile stances, there was still something wrong about them that he could not put a finger on. He took slow, deliberate steps and

cast his mind back a few days, trying not to frown in concentration. It wasn't an exact memory he wanted, after all, but an impression. How did the ordinary servants, the ones who cleaned the rooms and brought the food from the kitchen, seem to an observer?

It was easy enough to remember the pretty ones, the upper-level slaves, whose duties included being decorative. Those weren't the ones he wanted, at least in part because he wasn't certain any of his people could manage a convincing imitation of a pleasure-slave, and in part because it wouldn't do any harm for Lord Kyndreth to believe that his household was on the austere and sober side. Let Kyndreth think of him as hard-working, somewhat obsessed with his hobby, and not really interested in the opulent life. That would do no harm at all.

It will also reinforce the impression that we aren't worth the attempt to take us over. Profit can only be stretched so far; we might be austere because we can't afford too many luxuries.

Try as he might, all he could come up with was a vague impression of sameness, as if the lesser servants were all as alike as ants, and as interchangeable. They could have been furniture, floor-tiles, the plinths upon which statues stood, they blended so well into the background.

With a flash of insight, he realized at that moment that this was what he wanted!

They must have all been in some drably uniform tunics, or the like, he decided. They aren't supposed to stand out—they should be invisible. Drab tunics would do that. No matter that he didn't know what such a tunic or what-not should look like—any of the seamstresses could deal with that detail. He'd take the need to them first thing in the morning, and let them decide how to make everyone on the manor lands uniformly drab.

As for making people look unhappy ... he grinned as another idea came to him. I'll have the field-workers stick a burr or a pin somewhere in their clothing where it'll irritate them without really hurting them—or put stones in their shoes, or wear shoes too tight or too big. That'll give them all sour expressions, should any of Kyndreth's people come snooping about.

He yawned, and realized that he'd been up far too long—but they were all going short on sleep, trying to get themselves ready. Bed, he decided. And first thing in the morning, the manor seamstresses.

Even though he woke very, very early—just at the break of dawn, in fact—when he showed up unannounced at the seamstress's workrooms, they were already well into the day's labors. That surprised him; he'd always known, in a vague way, that his people began their work early, long before he awoke, but he hadn't ever given much thought to what that meant.

Here was a large, well-lit room, furnished with comfortable chairs in which several women were seated, sewing diligently. There was a large table covered with a piece of fabric at the far side of the room, and a woman with a wickedly-bladed pair of scissors made deft cuts in it, folding and laying aside the pieces she had made as she went along. Bolts of fabric were arrayed in a rack along one wall, ribbons and other trim were wound around wooden cones on pegs, and spools of thread were arranged in little racks beside them. He put his need to the chief of the ladies, a formidable dame with silver-streaked hair, explaining the effect he wanted, and why. She pursed her lips and frowned.

"My lord—do you realize what you are asking when you request common uniform tunics for the entire estate? Aye, we've enough seed-sack material about, but no time—even a simple tabard with no hems would need side and shoulder seams, and it'd be so crude it would look makeshift—"

"Dye," interrupted one of the women engaged in some mysterious task that seemed to involve the edges of a great deal of fabric that pooled on either side of her. "Don't bother with making anything new, just fire up dye-pots and have everyone come in and dunk an old tunic and trews, so you get the look of wear as well as having it look uniform."

"Oh, well-thought!" the older woman exclaimed, her brow clearing. "That might be a problem, mightn't it—if it looked as if everyone in the place had new clothes!"

"For color—black'd be best, walnut-black the cheapest, and

we've got plenty of that; soon or late, everybody needs some bit of black, and that way I doubt there'll be much complaining about spoiling something good." The woman was very pleased with her ingenuity, and so were Kyrtian and her supervisor.

"Aye, that's the way! Thenkee, Margyt!" The head seamstress beamed and patted Kyrtian on the shoulder as if he was a small boy. "Don't worry your head about it, my young Lord, we'll handle this for you; when the day comes, everybody'U be making a nice depressing background." She actually pushed him—gently, but pushed him, nevertheless—out the door. He didn't resist; in fact, he was rather amused at the situation. He'd had no idea how things were run on the domestic side, but clearly this woman was as much a "commander" in her own ranks as Gel was in his!

And he had no doubt that she would get the job done, either. She had the air about her that said she would ride right over the top of anyone and anything to complete whatever she'd promised.

He went back to his own preparations, calling in each of the supervisors of work-parties and explaining to them what he wanted done—the burrs and all—and why. He'd discovered a very long time ago that if people knew why they were being asked to do something that seemed senseless, they were much more likely to comply.

"Now, I don't want anyone to start getting too creative," he warned. "Don't let anyone go maim himself, or try to counterfeit plague or something, but if people get other ideas about how to look less than happy and healthy, let them go to it. Particularly I'm a bit worried about the little children giving things away—the older ones will be all right if you put it to them as being important, but the littlest are used to running right up to any stranger and saying what they think."

"There're several of the parents figuring on that now, my lord," one of the supervisors assured him. "If nothing else, everybody's agreed that we can hide the littlest off somewhere nobody'll see them, all in a group. Perhaps we could take them out into the woods, and let them have a camping-excursion. Leave it to us, we'll take care of it. Tell them it's a holiday treat, and they'll be good as lambs."

So many details—as soon as Kyrtian thought he'd dealt successfully with the last, another occurred to him. It wasn't until days later that his mother approached him as he was arranging with one of the building crews to make "alterations" to the workers' quarters. It had occurred to him by then that it was unusual enough for his people to have their own little homes and villages instead of being herded into vast warehouses when they weren't working—and he'd better have their quarters look shabby and ill-made!

Lady Lydiell waited patiently as he and the builders quickly worked out what was needed; it was pretty clear that she wanted to speak with him alone, so he dismissed them as soon as he could, and closed the door of his own new office behind them.

She sat with a rustle of silk and a swirl of scarlet skirts. "You told me to come to you when I had your harem, and I have," she said simply, and the words hit him like a splash of cold water in his face. "They're ready for you to prepare them."

He didn't allow the shock to freeze his thoughts, though. "I don't have anything on my plate at the moment, so I had best see to them, then," he told her, and was pleased to see a bit of surprise in her eyes that he was willing to deal with the unpleasant duty so quickly. She knew that he hated meddling with humans' minds through their collars, especially for a purpose like this—

But on the whole, he'd rather just get it over with so that he wouldn't have to dwell on it.

"That's fine," she replied quickly, getting to her feet with that grace he admired so much and was so much a part of her. "Come along; I've converted your old nursery to a harem; it was the most secure suite in the manor and the only one not in use."

"It had to be the most secure, didn't it?" he chuckled, opening the door for her. "Not only did you have to worry about something getting in at me, you had to worry about me getting out!"

"And a mischievous escape-artist you were, too," she retorted. "Well, I can tell you that I am very proud of Tenebrinth, and you will be, too, when you see these women. With all of the upheavals, the slave-trade has been very much disrupted—"

"Which I will not shed tears over," he responded, with a hint of a frown.

"Nevertheless, it has made his task harder." The look she gave back to him was one of reproach. "Many of the slave-markets have been closed down, and others have only the most meager of selection. On the other hand, if it hadn't been so disrupted, I doubt we would have found three women so perfectly suited to our purposes. I doubt that even the great Lord Kyn-dreth will wonder why your harem is so small, once he sees these girls."

"Oh?" Now his curiosity was piqued.

She nodded, her hair falling in a graceful curve across her brow as she did so. She pushed it back with an impatient hand. "Firstly, I very much doubt that anyone other than their trainer and former owner have ever seen them, which makes it much easier to carry off the fiction that you would have owned them yourself for several years. Secondly, if the trade were not so disrupted, I doubt if we would have been able to get them at all; they'd have been snapped up before they reached the greater markets."

Now he was surprised. "Are they that attractive, then?" he asked, his curiosity more than piqued.

"They are not precisely great beauties, although they are quite handsome—well, make that judgment for yourself." By this time they had reached the door—and now guarded—of his former nursery. The guards stepped aside, faces as expressionless as statues, and Lady Lydiell opened the door, gesturing to him to go in ahead.

He did so, feeling the faint tingle of a second "door" as he crossed the threshold that would prevent the women from crossing it until it was taken down. That was usual enough in harems to keep them out of the Lady's Bower; it was necessary here, to keep them from wandering and seeing things they shouldn't.

The three women had clearly been told to await him, for they were standing in poses that were a little too contrived to be natural. That was when he understood what his mother had meant.

There could not possibly have been three women more strikingly different. The first, tall, with pale gold hair and vivid blue eyes, had an angular face and a figure as slender and willowy as any Elven lady, and a far-away expression as if she lived entirely in a cloud of dreams. She had posed herself beside a giant vase of flowers, musing on a single enormous lily-blossom, her frilled and lacy gown echoing the pastel colors of the blooms. The second, a brunette with brown eyes full of passion, full lips, and a sensuous body, fairly radiated promises; she lounged against a pillar in a way that thrust her bosom forward—straining the silk of her scarlet, form-fitting wrap—and allowed her to watch him with a provocative, flirtatious, sideways glance. The third had a tumble of flaming curls and merry green eyes, a dancer's body of strength and agility clothed in a simple blue tunic that left her legs bare, and the expression of a completely innocent child; she looked up from the kitten she was playing with to smile at him with a face full of laughter. It seemed that in these three, all the variety of an entire harem was encompassed. And only a statue could have failed to respond to the silent invitations each of them sent to him in her own way.

"You see?" Lady Lydiell said quietly, as the three sank to the ground in deep curtsies. He glanced at her, and saw that she had a glint of mischief in her own eyes. "Well, dearest, is it safe to leave you alone with them?"

He couldn't help it; he flushed—but he covered it with a half-mocking bow. "You're going to have to if I'm to give them convincing memories," he told her, causing her to blush. It was with a bit of satisfaction that he bowed her out, and turned to face his new "acquisitions."

He was trying to think of something to say when they descended on him as a body and made speech irrelevant, at least for that moment, and the many that followed.

Sergeant Gel followed Lord Tenebrinth into the Old Tower, his mood not precisely apprehensive, but tinged with that emotion. Lady Lydiell rarely spoke to him face-to-face, and this was the first time that she had ever required him to attend her in her private office.

He had never been inside the Old Tower; few humans had, only the one or two required to clean Lydiell's, and Tene-brinth's, offices. One of the lords, or the lady herself, would have to have brought him personally; there was no other way for him to use the only means of access, which was a bizarre transparent tube. He couldn't imagine how he was supposed to climb it and entered it with Tenebrinth rather dubiously—only to suppress a start as the floor beneath him began to rise. It gave him a queasy sensation, despite his familiarity with magic, to ride this contraption. It just didn't seem... natural. Round, empty room after room passed him—or rather, he passed them—as he rose with no real sensation of movement.

He began to wonder if he would ever reach the top, when finally one of the rooms showed signs of occupation—as did the next after that—and then the platform slowed and came to a stop at the topmost level.

Lydiell's office, at the top of the tower, had a dizzying and unrestricted view that he, as a military commander, could see was of incalculable value for the chatelaine of the manor—or the commander of its defenses. The office walls were all window, and he wondered as he stepped gingerly off the platform what a storm would be like up here.

Lydiell greeted him with a smile, which made his apprehension vanish. She even rose; that was an unexpected honor, and he bowed as deeply as he could without looking ridiculous. The Lady did not like groveling; none of her clan did.

"Sergeant Gel, please, make yourself easy," she said, as she gestured with that grace only the Elvenlords possessed towards an unoccupied chair. "This is not an official summons—rather, it is a personal one. I have a desire to consult you."

Tenebrinth evidently took this as the signal to depart; he stepped back on the little platform and discreetly dropped back to the next level, leaving them alone.

Gel took his seat and examined the Lady's face, and swiftly understood why she wanted to see him. "Kyrtian?" he asked, wasting no words.

She nodded, and took her place behind her desk, clasping her hands on the surface before her. "I had hoped," she said, hesi-

tantly, as if she was voicing thoughts long held in secret, "that I could keep Kyrtian isolated from the politics of the Great Lords and the Council. Unfortunately, it seems that the times conspire against my hopes."

"It does look like he's going to get tangled up whether he likes it or not," Gel said cautiously, his eyes never leaving her face, unnerving as it was to look her straight in the eyes. "My Lady, I don't mind telling you that I don't like the idea any better than you do."

"I'm not certain you realize just how tangled he's likely to get," Lydiell replied, a faint frown-line creasing her ageless brow. Gel couldn't for the life of him read those odd emerald eyes the Elvenlords all had, but at least she wasn't trying to hide her facial expressions. "Lord Kyndreth is not going to be content merely to learn a few tricks with magic to help train humans—when he realizes just how extensive Kyrtian's knowledge and practical experience of military matters is, he is going to want my son to exercise his talents in the service of the Old Lords. He will certainly want Kyrtian to command a force against the Young Lords, and possibly keep him on after the Young Lords are crushed, to move against the Wizards and the wild humans."

Gel swore under his breath, angry at himself for not thinking of that himself. And it was far too late to try to talk Kyrtian out of abandoning the full-scale maneuvers he had planned. The boy was determined to prove to Lord Kyndreth that this was the only way to train fighters, and nothing would do but to show him how easy it was to hold the spells needed on entire armies.

Lady Lydiell sighed. "Your face tells me that my fears are likely to be realized. Oh, why couldn't he have been an artist or a musician, or obsessed with—with—oh, horticulture or something equally frivolous?"

"At least he isn't bent on being the dead opposite of his father, my Lady," Gel replied grimly. "You'd not like him as a fop, or a lazy layabout. Or worse, falling in with—"

He hesitated; after all, he was a human, and Lydiell was El-ven. Blood was blood—

But Lydiell surprised him with a bitter smile and a light an-

swer. "Falling in with the pampered perverts that most of my kind are. You don't need to spare my feelings, Gel; we cannot afford to be less than honest with each other if we are going to be able to keep Kyrtian out of the pitfalls lying before him."

Ah, cowflops. Why do I have to feel like it's me that's his father? I'd rest easier at night. He might be only a few actual years older than Kyrtian, but in real terms, he might just as well have been the Elvenlord's father. By the standards of his race, Kyrtian was the equivalent of a stripling, although by human reckoning he was in his late thirties. In knowledge and general responsibility, he was certainly that—but in the unconscious things that characterized an adolescent, he was very much Gel's junior. His boundless energy, his enthusiasm, his tendency to act rather than sitting back and waiting for events to come to him—those were the characteristics of the young, and made Gel feel very old.

The strength, speed, and endurance of youth were also his, and might be for the next century or two, which made Gel feel even older. He'd noticed of late, much to his chagrin, that he was slowing down, losing some of his edge; in fact, he and that man of Lord Kyndreth's had talked about that. Kaeth wasn't getting any younger either, and if he ever had to actually foil a fellow-assassin, that could be fatal if he didn't take steps to compensate.

We 'II both just have to be sneakier to make up for what we 're losing, he reminded himself. Youth and enthusiasm are no match for experience and treachery.

"I hate to admit this, my lady," he said, feeling ashamed that he had not anticipated this situation, "but I've kept him as ignorant as you have of the way things are—" he waved his hand vaguely at the windows "—out there. And I did it for pretty much the same reasons as you, I figure. Why throw something at him that he couldn't change and would only worry about?"

Ah, all those old lessons came back to him now, of being taken off the estate as Tenebrinth's page, so he could see just how the other Elvenlords really acted and thought. Tenebrinth had collared him, of course, and if he'd done something even slightly stupid—which, even as a child he hadn't been likely