"Why, sure, Suds."

Mikhyel swung around; Ganfrion took a step backward and snapped to a somewhat startled attention. He touched fingertips to forehead, breast, and sword hilt in a martial salute, the origin of which Nikki had damnwell better have included in some brief, and was down the stairs and out in the stableyard shouting orders . . .

Leaving Mikhyel to wonder what he'd done right.

Ocarshi smoke hung in the air above the low, heavily-laden table. Thick and cloying, the smoke coated eyelashes and lungs as it coated the brocades and velvets and sheerest gauze draped about the room and covering the individuals sprawled on tasseled cushions within lazy arm's-reach of the table. Their forms masked in voluminous robes, faces hidden behind elaborate paint and jewelry, only the hands that reached for the pipes, the source of the noxious smoke, revealed an occasional, unequivocal, male structure of bone and muscle and coarse hair.

Thyerri smothered a gooey cough and picked his way among the bodies to replace a depleted platter. The ines- capable smoke dulled his reflexes and impeded his balance.

It even seemed to muffle his hearingor perhaps it actually altered the sound as it came off the lute strings and clogged the flute's holes.

The thump of the drum was simply listless and disinterested.

When it wasn't tangling with his arms, his hair, free of its braid and held off his brow with a length of gold-shot silk, alternately smothered and blinded him at every twist and dip of his head. The knee-length silk fringe hanging from his vest caught on every rough surface and exposed more than it concealed every time he inhaled.

He supposed he should be thankful the official mandate for the evening's festivities had allowed him a loincloth for decency. Sakhithe and Mishthi had to depend on their own movements to protect their modesty. Their vests were shortMishthi's heavy breasts had a tendency to peek out the bottom when she stretched her arms across the table and their fringe was suspended from a wide hip belt.

Thicker fringe, but nothing underneath. Sakhithe had been practicing for days hoping to avoid both groping hands and prying eyes.

But it had been master the skill or lose her job. Bharlori had made that clear to them all from the beginning: this was the night to set Bhariori's above every other eating establishment in Khoratum.

Loose hair, revealing garments . . . he and the other attendants looked like the inventory of the Agoran Plains slavers of Partiniac fable. Not coincidentally the hall had been dressed to parody those fantastical merchants' richly appointed tents, whose tasteless opulence was said to over- whelm their clients' good sense and put them in a spend- ing mood.

One had to wonder what the man who had ordered this evening's festivities intended to sell to his guests. Not that it was any of it Thyerri's business. His business was to serve the food, itself prepared to specifications that had made Cook blanch.

Those same written specifications had guided them for decorating the hall, a five-day task it had taken these pa- trons less than an hour to pollute so thoroughly the props would have to be discarded after tonight's festivities.

But Bharlori wouldn't mind the senseless waste. Bharlori had boasted earlier that for compensation already received, lightning could strike his entire establishment tomorrow and he would still see a profit. And, he had added sternly, he expected gratuities for the evening's service to double that profit.

Thyerri had shivered and wished those words unsaid. It was the second time Bharlori had tempted Rakshi. But Thyerri's fears were too late, the statement had already been cast into the wind.

And it appeared, perhaps, that Rakshi was disinclined to take advantage of so innocent a challenge: thus far, and well into the evening's rituals, for all the oily smoke and burning lamps and candles that might have threatened the fringe and gauze, only food and drink had spilled; and while he doubted any of the guests were awake enough to register the fact, their service had been impeccable.

The platter Thyerri sought even now to replace was far from empty, but the pattern of fruits and sauces had been mauled from the passage of uncaring sleeves. If he could rescue it, the fruits could be washed and reused in the re- placement tray.

Bodies sprawled at every conceivable angle about the table. To reach the platter in question, Thyerri was forced to kneel and stretch across one of the guests, a technique he'd mastered early in the evening, but which now had the added challenge of not disturbing the man's ocarshi dream.

Nails stroked his ribs, in a casual, half-considered gesture.

Thyerri's hair-obscured glance intercepted distended pupils within half-lidded eyes.

"Do I know you?" the guest asked, and behind the mask, the skin tightened, as if trying to draw drug-hazed eyes into focus.

Thyerri hesitated to answer, hesitated even to move away from the hand, for fear of disrupting the drugged languor.

However unpleasant the man's touch, its very negligence made it insignificant.

As for knowing, this man was masked and painted, as were all the guests, either in keeping with the evening's theme or for real purposes of secrecy. In all the hours, Thyerri had heard no names.

But he did know. As an apprentice dancer, he'd lived in the Khoratum Tower, eaten in the great dining hall, been paraded among the city leaders and visiting dignitaries from other nodes. He recognized many of the voices behind the masks, and Rhyys dunTarec's nasal tones and coarse, blunt- fingered hands were unmistakable.

For himself, as was the way with failed radicals, he'd taken a new name, dyed his hair an even, nondescript vel- vet black, but Rhyys could rememberif Rhyys cared to remember him. Rhyys had many reasons to remember the person Thyerri had been, but Rhyys would never admit to knowing anyone like Thyerri of Bharlori's Tavern.

He certainly didn't want Thyerri of Bharlori's spreading it about that Rhyys of Khoratum Tower had demeaned himself by attending a party in such a place. Rhyys never came to Lesser Khoratum. Rhyys had often enough made it perfectly clear nothing would induce him to come to lesser khoratum.

But something had gotten him down here, and one need look no farther than at one's own outrageous garb to know what that something was.

It was, of course, all nonsense. But the drapes, the pil- lows, the ocarshi, even the affectation of the finger-forks each guest wore on the index finger of the right hand, all were imports from the south, and all were very much in keeping with Rhyys' fantasies, every detail lifted from the murals Rhyys had had commissioned for the Tower's great hall.

Someone who sought to curry favor with the Khoratumin Ringmaster had masterminded the evening's festivities.

Someone who, like Rhyys, preferred anonymity.

Rhyys, apparently in no particular hurry for his answer, followed Thyerri's exposed ribs with his fingertips, the finger-fork's double tine, intended for spearing and dipping delicacies from the platters, traced a pattern upward, slip- ping past the loose vest to explore by touch alone the bare skin of his chest.

"Ah, the illusion ends," murmured the Khoratum Ring- master. "How sad."

"M'lord?" Mishthi asked, and her voice trembled with the fear of disappointing this important customer. "In what way? We followed the instructions"

"Child, you've done quite adequately." Rhyys' hand flat- tened on Thyerri's chest, idly twisting a nipple between two knuckles. "Outside, all is as it should be. It's the under- neath, the hidden wonders. You should be prepared, decor- ated for pleasure. Ours, and yours. ..."

Tines replaced the knuckles and pressed, with that same detached negligence. Thyerri waited, unflinching, as liquid warmth oozed from the point of contact. The dark eyes behind the jeweled mask flickered into focus, staring with new interest at Thyerri's face.

The pressure increased. Tears filmed his vision, but he refused to blink, as he refused to move or react, and even- tually the tines, denied their objective, relaxed and scraped their way down to rest on his bare thigh.

Decimated platter in hand, Thyerri shifted his weight back over his heels.

"I asked you a question, boy." Cognizance began to color Rhyys' voice.

Burning with anger and humiliation, Thyerri ignored him, but the man grasped his hair, using that hold to jerk him back down, while hauling himself upright. Blunt fingers squeezed Thyerri's face, the finger-tines bit into his cheek, drawing blood a second time.

"Do I?"

"I" He struggled to speak against that muscle-warping grip, knowing he dared not speak the truth, dared not chal- lenge the farce as his heart desired. His tongue had severed a dunKarlon from Bharlori's guest list; he did not think Bharlori would as easily forgive severing a dunTarec.

"I can't say, m'lord mask," he whispered at last. "How could I know?"

A short bark of laughter blew ocarshi-fouled breath in his face. "But of course," the man whispered back, and he pulled Thyerri to him for a rough, penetrating kiss. The platter fell, smearing the remnants of sauce and fruit across the tasseled, brocade pillows, and Rhyys himself.

With a hissing curse, the ringmaster thrust Thyerri away; he fell backward into the arms of another man, who caught and held him prisoner. But the ringmaster simply shook the remnants from his robe and shouted at them to remove the platter and clean up the mess and to bring more wine.

Mishthi scrambled over with cleaning rags and Sakhithe brought wine; Thyerri escaped, platter in hand, out the ser- vants' entrance, down the dimly-lit hall, and across the alley to the tavern's kitchen where he threw the porcelain platter at the stone hearth. It shattered, terrifying Khorey, the stove-boy, rousing Cook's wrath, and doing little to eradi- cate the anger and tension seething in Thyerri's gut.

"I don't care"' he shouted at Cook's screeches about crockery in the soup, and he crossed to kick the large caul- dron simmering beside the fire, setting it swinging wildly, scattering soup-drops in all directions. Cook screeched again, and Thyerri shouted: "Send it to Rhyys! By Mother's grace, he'll swallow it and choke!"

Cook's screeching ended abruptly. She stared at him, slack-jawed. The stove-boy hunkered outside after more wood, and the transients hired to cover in the tavern so that he and the other regulars could be humiliated, took one look in the kitchen and scampered back out to the floor.

Cook, Besho, Khorey . . . they'd done nothing to him, did not deserve the anger he longed to discharge, and so Thyerri stood there, quivering, the emotions piling up in- side him, disgracing himself further with each passing moment.

His hand felt wet. He examined it as if it belonged to someone else. Blood. And slivers, gained in his wild flight from the hall. And as he watched, that hand made a fist and struck the fire-heated stone, and struck again. Stone already stained with his blood.

Cook caught his hand, exclaiming in a different tone, but he jerked free, and ran for the door and the clear air of the alleyway.

Wide eyes reflected the light from the doorway: Khorey the stove-boy, cowering beside the woodpile. A frantic scrambling toppled the pile, and the boy darted past him, back to the light and warmth of the kitchen, shedding wood with every third step.

Mortally ashamed, Thyerri retreated to the pump, and plunged his hands deep into the cool water.

He'd acted the fool in more ways than he could count.

Rhyys knew he'd run away. Instead of facing his attacker, he'd run, and attacked others who'd come to trust his easy nature.

What do you want, boy? To run? To hurt?

To kill?

He shuddered, knowing at that moment how close he was to wanting that end for Rhyys. Rhyys had determined his competition days at an end. Rhyys had ruled his life for years, had controlled his training and his time on the rings.

And Rhyys chose those who would have another chance to compete.

And now, Rhyys controlled a new arena, in ways he could never rule the competitors, whose success ultimately depended upon their individual pride and ability. Some- thing had changed. Rhyys was heady with powera power that ranged beyond Khoratumand getting worse, if to- night was any indication.

But there was nothing Thyerri of Bharlori's kitchen could do to change Rhyys dunTarec, Ringmaster of Khoratum, except not give him satisfaction.

He lifted the icy water to his cheeks, chasing the blood away, hating the remembered touch of those fingers, hating the tingle that ran through him as his fingers washed the cuts on his cheek and the vest brushed the hardening mounds of flesh on his chest.

The dreams came nightly, now, and the most casual wak- ing touch roused myriad sensations he despised. Though he hated Rhyys for this deliberate assault, he hated his own body more, for the hard nubs on his chest, the tingling skin - - . the tightening in his groin.

He swore, and plunged his hands again into the freezing water, this time to drive away the salty tears. There in the shadowed privacy of the alleyway, he unlaced the vest to examine the shallow cuts at his breast.

"Thyerri! Are you out here, boy?"

Bharlori, sounding anxious and a bit frustrated.

"They're asking for you, lad. Best finish your business and get back."

"I'm not going back." Thyerri lifted a handful of water to his chest, caught his breath at the sudden intimate chill, and scrubbed with the flat of his hand to both warm the spot and erase the memory of Rhyys' fingersand to pun- ish his own flesh.

"What are you talking about? Of course you're going back in. They've hired our services for the nightinto to- morrow, if they so choose. ** they're happy and content.

Perhaps they'll ask you to dance. Think what that could bring in from this lot. They've no idea what things cost outside their Towers. They've paid handsomely from the start. Dance well, and you may never have to work again!"

Thyerri jerked the laces tight, and turned to face his em- ployer. Bharlori fell back a step as the light hit his face.

He brushed past Bharlori without answering. No amount of bonus pay could exculpate the abuse he and the others had had to endure already. It would be months before the taste of that searing kiss had left his mouth.

Inside, he appropriated a wineglass destined for that damnable party and drained it, coughed as the unfamiliar sensation flooded his palate, uncertain which was worse, the taste of the alcohol or the taste of Rhyys.

"You will go back, won't you, Thyerri lad? Do this, and by the gods, I'll make you my partner. You're my luck, you know that, don't you? Everything turned face-about for me after you began working here. And your dancing"

By the gods . . . Thyerri raised his hand to stem the flow of words. His fate was sealed. Had been from the moment Bharlori had issued that first challenge to Rakshi weeks ago. Bharlori had said no one would hurt Thyerri while he was alive. Bharlori had said, lightning could strike his establishment and he would still turn a profit from this night.

And a failed radical dancer was no one's good luck.

A wise man never celebrated before the transaction with fate was complete.

He bent his head in acknowledgment of his employer's orders, and relieved a passing boy of the wine jug that was destined, as was Thyerri himself, for the outrageous assemblage.

~ ~ 8.

Mikhyel eased himself into the welcoming warmth of the Barsitumin leythium pool and settled next to Raulind, in a curve of stone worn human-shape by centuries of continu- ous use. The faintly phosphorescent froth oozed around him, bubbling into his very pores, eliminating the aches and weariness of the past days.

Barsitum and Harriisitum, Barsitum's sister node in the Khoramali Range to the east, were unique among the Rho- matum Web nodes. Above ground, all plant life thrived.

Below, the liquid leythium banned no one, and healed some of those who came to bathe in them.

It wasn't the first time Barsitum's baths had worked their magic for Mikhyel; he'd spent several months here, follow- ing his thirteenth birthday, and much of that time had been spent in this very pool.

Raulind had been here, too, that first time, one of the monks who tended the pools, as well as those who came to take advantage of the healing leythium. Afterward, re- sponding to some unspoken agreement between them, he'd accompanied Mikhyel to Rhomatum.

He'd never returned. Mikhyel had never thought to ask if he'd given up his monkish vows. Certainly he'd been welcomed warmly by the monks, but so had Mikhyel been greeted, and those they brought with them.

He would swear the monks recognized Ganfrion.

But then, Ganfrion might well have come here before.

The brothers charged little for the use of the node and turned no one in need away. According to local legend, those not in need who tried to abuse the brothers' generos- ity found themselves overcome with guilt, kept awake in fear of their dreams, and soon they departed of their own free will.

Mikhyel had always believed that legend to be one of the more effective pieces of mass hysteria ever perpetrated.

After having met the creature beneath Rhomatum, he had rather a different perspective.

And he wondered who or what ruled here beneath Barsi- tum Tower.

That the creature beneath Rhomatum was unique, Mi- khyel did not for an instant believe. Deymorin had spoken of "Mother." The creature had spoken of his "children"

and asked Mikhyel to tell them their father loved them.

He leaned back into the swirling liquid and . . . called, with that inner voice. There was no answer of the sort he'd come to expect, but the leythium surrounding him glim- mered, and an increased sense of well-being seeped into his skin.

Curious.

"Welcome." Raulind's serene voice recalled him to the pool. "Have you come to join us?"

Mikhyel slitted his eyes open, let his eyelash-hazed vision slide toward the path leading into the pool.

Ganfrion.

He shoved himself upright. "What do you want?"