"Andle and his holier-than-thou's have been agitating in that quarter of the city. No place is safe since Zelerod published that paper."

"Yes still we grow. In the last year, Zeor gained fifteen Simes."

"And Imil, ten. It's been a record year, and I expect the rate to increase. You'll require another channel, soon, so why not buy one with a few days' time?"

"It's a tempting proposition, Nashmar, but..."

"So let yourself be tempted into a night's lodging and some serious bargaining."

"Well," said Klyd, glancing helplessly toward his Companion, "I do owe you the escort."

"Good. Get your horses and meet me at the pick-up block around back. My wagon's with Tubrem Stables."

They parted company, Valleroy resuming his place at his channel's side, filled to bursting with objections that had to be swallowed whole.

CHAPTER SIX.

House of Imil

THE TRIP TO IMIL WAS THE MOST EXHAUSTING TRIAL Valleroy had yet faced. He rode beside the flat-bed wagon on which the captives, fetters removed, sat in a securely locked cage. From time to time, the three glowered resentfully or spat lurid profanity at him.

Klyd rode beside him, physically near yet so abstracted in his own thoughts as to leave Valleroy alone to bear the brunt of verbal assault. And never had Valleroy felt so alone.

All his life, he had hidden behind a cloak of Gen conventionality. It was such a deep-grained, well-constructed front that even the people who called him a Sime-lover didn't really believe it.

Still, every interrogation assignment opened a crack in that front. The day-and-night questioning of a Sime prisoner, sometimes lasting almost a month, always left him feeling more sympathy for the prisoner than for the Gens the prisoner had killed. He'd never been able to bring himself to watch a prisoner die of attrition.

When that time came, he would go to Aisha, depressed and guilt ridden... even though he hadn't understood the magnitude of the horror the Sime faced. She'd never called him a traitor because of that guilt.

They'd talk and talk, sometimes all night while the prisoner died in some faraway place. By tacit agreement, they never spoke of Simes. Yet he knew that she regarded Simes as people, and the torture of Simes as degrading to Gens.

On such occasions, he was never able to make love to her, a fact she accepted without question. Now, Valleroy wished they'd talked about it. He wished he'd been able to explain why he'd never asked her to marry him.

If a child of his turned out to be Sime, he wouldn't have been able to destroy it. Then, Gen law would have turned against him, leaving his wife a widow. But if his child were Gen, he'd be unable to teach him a proper hatred of Simes... and the traitor in him would be revealed.

He'd be savagely glad for that, thought Valleroy, because it would settle things once and for all. His own doubts would be gone. Or would they? Here he was, dressed like a Sime, riding within touching distance of a Sime, while his Gen allies sat caged and humiliated beside him. Yet something deep within him refused to admit that what the captives said about him was true.

After a long period of silence, one of the captives called to Valleroy, "Hey, Turnie... you with the Sime hands... come over here!"

Even if "turnie" wasn't the most polite form of address, it was the most civil thing they'd called him so far. Valleroy nudged his horse a little closer to the wagon. "Hey, Turnie, you do speak English, don't you?"

"Everyone in this party speaks English."

"Yeah? You'd never know it," said one. "Shut up, Crenel," said another, gripping the bars and staring at Valleroy's hands. "A guy shouldn't have to go his grave thirsty. Even a turnie ought to see that."

"You're not going to any grave, only to Householding

Imil. And there, people ask politely for what they want."

The third captive staggered to his feet on the swaying wagon bed and bowed mockingly toward his brother.

"Vrian, may I have the pleasure of killing you?"

The others laughed raucously at Valleroy's discomfort while Vrian rose and bowed smiling. "Not if I can kill you first, Prins."

Angered, Valleroy said, "You ought to be grateful Sectuib Nashmar brought your freedom!"

The first captive gripped the bars, fine muscles bulging. "Grateful! If I can just get my hands on him, I'll break every bone in his skinny body! Nobody buys the Neromein brothers!"

As if that were on old rallying cry, the three chanted, "Death to all Simes!" One of them added, looking straight at Valleroy, "And all cowardly Sime-lovers and Judas-goats. Tell me, Turnie, how many Gens have you trapped for them?"

"None!" spat Valleroy. "What do they pay you with, Turnie?"

Prins rattled the bars at Valleroy. "They'll kill you, too, you know."

"These Simes don't kill!" shouted Valleroy.

"You don't really believe that?"

"It's true!"

Vrian elbowed his brother out of the way. "You'll find out the hard way, Turnie, but then it will be too late. Get us out of here, and we'll see how many of them we can get before they kill us. Give us a fighting chance, and we'll know you're no turnie."

Disgusted, Valleroy spat. "Go to hell!"

"Nothing doing! It's hot there, and I'm too thirsty already."

"Bloodthirsty, you mean," said Valleroy.

"Just gimme that canteen and I'll show you what I'm thirsty for."

Valleroy looked around at the other members of the party. Nashmar and his Companion, Loyce, riding on the other side of the cage and the two Simes driving the wagons were too far away. Klyd was near, but wrapped up in some world of his own. All were steadfastly ignoring the exchange. On impulse, Valleroy unlimbered his canteen, nudging his horse in close enough so he could lean out to hand it over.

Reaching for the canteen strap, muscular fingers closed on his wrist and jerked!

He fell, scrabbling for a hold on his saddle. His fingers slipped off the pommel. The slick material of the Zeor coverall slid bit by bit as he tried to grip with his knees. Frantically, he grabbed for the bars of the cage to keep from falling under the wagon's wheels. His boot caught and twisted in the stirrup.

He hung suspended between horse and wagon, fighting desperately to keep his hold as one of the captives secured a stranglehold on his throat. Klyd's voice, shouting, was only a faint sound behind the buzzing in his ears.

The wagon slowed for what seemed like forever. Finally it came to rest. Sime hands and tentacles dragged him loose. He sat on the ground rubbing his neck. Klyd's tentacles poked and probed at his injuries. In Simelan, the channel muttered, "Wild Gens are dangerous animals. Now maybe you've learned that lesson?"

Only the crooked grin on the channel's face kept Valleroy from punching him in the nose.

"The rule, Naztehr, is to ignore then until they've been civilized. It doesn't take too long."

Valleroy pushed the Sime hands away. "I'm all right. Let's go." He climbed back on his horse, and they resumed the ride through sparsely settled countryside.

When they arrived at Imil, the horses and the captives' wagon were taken around back of the court buildings... very much like Zeor in appearance... and the riders entered through the main gate.