The man's brow wrinkled. "You don't know who he is?"

Hidden panels in the walls swung open. Twenty security men, half of them struggling into their coveralls, stormed into the room, power rifles drawn.

Their apparent leader, a grizzled buzh with sleep-red eyes, held his gun steady on Hrotisft. "Don't make move toward the senhor, or we'll cut you all down." The rest of the security team covered the others. He jerked his chin at me. "Senhor. Please step away from the schrift. Everything is under control."

I didn't move.

"Please." He turned to the man at his side. "Mick, get over between the senhor and the schrift."

'David?' Eschteef reached out a hand. 'Don't be afraid. We will protect you.'

'There is no need for that,' Hrotisft said. 'As I sensed. '

One of the buzhes moved; I jumped between Eschteef and the gun."No." The leader kicked the gun away. "My apologies, senhor. These are friends of yours?"

I stood dumbfounded. Senhor? The most I'd ever gotten off of a buzh was a pitying look and a full purse.

I managed to stammer out a yes.

"Fine. But we're not going to take any chances. You, the schrift holding the wire. Drop it, and move away from the senhor and the guard."

'Do as they say,' Hrotisft said.

Sthtasfth complied.

The guards moved in and formed a circle around me. "You sure these are friends, senhor? We'll blast them for you, if you'd like."

It didn't make sense. They'd decided that I really was an Elwerie? Might as well play along with it. "No.

There is no need."

"Fine. Mick, do you think we should get them out of here, or hold them for the old senhor?"

"Let them go; he'll be too busy with the young one. And dealing out credit slips right and left." Mick chuckled. "Love this blind dumb luck, eh?"

"Shut up. You schrift-get out." He gestured toward the steel door to the outside, then spoke into his shirt microphone. "Area secured; we have him."

"Understood," the distant voice sounded. "Senhor Curdova is on his way. Art, this had better be the right goods; I had to wake him."

"Check the ident board, idiot."

"Hmmm... congratulations, Art. You're a rich man."

The schrift stood still.

"Move." The leader snarled at them.

Eschteef moved in front of him. "I will not let you kill the child."

"Kill him?" The leader was almost as dumbfounded as I was. "His father would have me flayed if I so much as bruised him. He's Miguel Curdova's son, you know."

Hrotisft moved to Eschteef's side. 'It is as I suspected. The child is not illegitimates 'Then why all this?' Eschteefs voice was weak.

'Would you have believed me? You thought the child was of our schtann. No. It is of Elwere.'

'No. I felt the cherat-'

'Then ask it. Ask it would it rather stay here, with its parents, or come with you.'

' David ?'Behind me, the door to the niche swung open, and a middle-aged Elwerie walked out, doffing his dominoe, throwing it aside.

It was like looking in a distorting mirror, one that reflected back my face, aging it. His cheekbones, his nose, the sharpness of his chin... they were my cheekbones, my nose, my face, only a generation older.

"Father?"

He smiled through the tears, then set a grim expression on his face and drew himself up straight. "Kelly."

"Senhor." The leader of the guards brought himself to attention.

"Are these schrift the ones who stole my son, kept him from me?"

"Doesn't read that way, senhor. Looks to me like they're trying to return him. But the boy seems scared about something, like we were going to hurt him." He raised a palm. "I swear we didn't threaten him, senhor, but he didn't seem eager to come with us."

'He will not. The child is part of my-'

'Silence,' the Elwerie hissed back. He turned to me. "Have they hurt you?"

"No... but I-"

"Later." He smiled. "We'll talk about it later." He turned to Hrotisft and spoke in heavily accented Schrift.

'You have my grat.i.tude for the return of...' He struggled for the right word; there isn't a Schrift word for "son." '... the younglings He jerked his chin at the guard. "Kelly, give each schrift ten kilos of gold, and send them all on their way."

"Yes, senhor."

"David, come this way." His arm around my shoulder, he pulled me toward the niche.

I wish I could say that I was torn, that I struggled whether to go back with the schtann or into Elwere with my father-my father!-but I didn't. I turned my back on Eschteef and walked toward the door into Elwere.

'David,' Eschteef called, so low I could barely hear him, 'you are part of my schtann. You will return.'

CHAPTER NINE:.

"You Are Home Now..."

I should have known. I really should have. I knew that Carlos One-Hand was a liar-and a thief, a swindler, a burglar, a pederast-it shouldn't have surprised me that he had lied about this, about me. But it did. And it hurt.

All those lies about how I was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, about how my father wanted me dead. And the threats to turn me in, and the faked posters advertising for my return, dead...I should have known. After all, having a lower b.a.s.t.a.r.d was shameful; my father wouldn't have advertised the fact for all to see. If I'd just thought it through more, or talked about it more, if I'd just mentioned the posters to Gina, she'd have figured it out.

I should have known. But I hadn't figured it out. Way down deep, I had trusted Carlos, and he'd betrayed me.

It hurt.

I kept the pain masked as I sat back in my chair, an always-warm mug of tea in my hand. Father wouldn't have understood. I can't really blame him; I'm still not sure that I do.

The room was like nothing I'd ever seen. It was easily ten meters square, the floor covered with an ankle-deep blood-red carpet. Delicate crystal glowglobes bobbed near the ceiling, handmade tapestries covered the walls. I ran an appraising eye over the latter; they were either old Persians or Kazakis; the cheapest was worth more than I'd ever stolen in a year.

And this was just my visiting room; it wasn't even the largest of the six rooms in my suite. At the moment, there were only two armchairs in the room, one for me, one for my father, each of us with a delivery box at his elbow. A nice touch, the delivery box; it would supply anything measuring smaller than about ten centimeters on a side within seconds. When Father had taken a break from our conversation to leave the room, I'd asked for and received three kilos of gold, a sackful of gems, and a small sausage, all of which I'd concealed in my tunic.

No, I didn't think I'd have to cut and run. But it had felt so wrong to be around all this wealth without concealing some.

Miguel Curdova drained the last of his tea, set the mug gently on the table, and smiled. "It's been a long night. Would you like to get some sleep now, or would you rather talk a bit longer?" He hid a yawn behind his hand.

"Just a bit," I said. It had been a long night, though; how do you compress more than fifty years into just a few hours?

I hadn't really tried; mainly I'd listened. Why didn't you pay the ransom? I'd asked.

It was a matter of honor, he'd said. An Elwerean can't be pushed around by savages. It isn't proper. Living as you have, I don't expect you'll understand that, not yet. But you will.

"Tomorrow, can I see where Mother is buried?"

He frowned at that. "Not quite yet.-Another mug of tea, please." Within seconds, the top of the delivery box swung open, and the steaming cup rose into his open hand. "I don't think it would be a good idea for you to leave Elwere for a while. Not," he said, sipping at his tea, "that I'm worried about your safety, but you've been living among the animals too long. Best that you stay inside until you've had time to adjust."

I didn't press the matter; I had a hunch that Father wouldn't be flexible. Technically, I was a minor, and would be until my sixtieth birthday; for a minor, coming and going from the city was a privilege, not a right.

There were compensations. Minors weren't necessarily subject to the Code Duello.

He brightened. "Besides, you'll have quite a bit to do, between adjusting to life in Elwere and becoming acquainted with all your kin. If we didn't have the door set to privacy, likely your suite would be toocrowded for a gentleman to sit in comfort." For a moment, his face clouded over. "Are you sure that this Carlos One-Hand is dead?"

I nodded.

"Well, I think I'll have that part of the tunnel excavated, in any case. I'll see that that lower girl is buried properly, with dignity. Pity One-Hand died so easily, but it's best to make sure."

Died so easily... .I'd been suppressing it, but that phrase triggered the memory.

David, make it stop hurting, please...

"David!" His lined face was centimeters from mine. "Are you ill?" .

I shook my head, trying to clear it. "I want Amos van! Ingstrand dead."

He turned to my delivery box. "A sleeping potion, please."

"For whom, senhor?" the mechanical voice asked.

"For my son, idiot!" His voice softened. "We'll speak about that in the morning. Not tonight." The delivery box hissed; he brought out a vial and pressed it into my hands. "Drink this; it will help you to sleep. When you have broken your fast in the morning, and are ready to receive visitors, tell a delivery box; I'll join you as soon as I can. For now, good night."

As I rose to my feet, he leaned over awkwardly and hugged me. "It will all be fine. You are home now."

I stood there as the door whisked shut behind him, then walked back to the chair and sat down, the vial still in my hand.

The liquid was thick and green. It sloshed slowly as I fondled the vial.

"This is supposed to feel good," I murmured, wondering why it didn't. I let the vial drop to the floor.

"A mannafruit, please."

"Size, senhor?"

"The largest you've got."

"Yes, senhor. Ten seconds."

The fruit was half the size of my head. I was sure that it was fresh and pulpy inside, but I didn't peel it. I just sat there, holding it, until I fell asleep in the chair.

I awoke the next morning, with its shredded remains in my hands and a bad taste in my mouth, not rested at all.

FIFTH INTERLUDE:.

Miguel Ruiz de Curdova and Amos van Ingstrand Miguel Ruiz de Curdova sat back in his chair, toying with his coffee and an overly large chocolate torte.

While he had no affair today, his morning calisthenics had been more vigorous than was usual; herewarded himself lavishly for both his good fortune and his effort.

The torte's filling was smooth, dark, and rich; the crust light, flaky, and vaguely crispy. Curdova loved pastries, but only rarely permitted himself the luxury of eating them. Not merely because he didn't have the time to work off the extra calories-too much pleasure led to softness.

He sipped his coffee, then set the cup down hard on the saucer, ignoring the way the liquid slopped over the edge and onto the formerly immaculate tablecloth.

The boy didn't fit in, and that was that.

But he should have fitted in; David was his son. The boy should have taken to life in Elwere like a t'Tant taking to the air. David should...

Should. That was the operative word. Should didn't make it so.

This couldn't go on forever. Eventually, David would reach his majority, and become subject to the Code Duello. The boy's social clumsiness wasn't yet compensated for by a facility with a sword. Eventually David would end up fighting all the duels that Curdova had been intercepting.

And that would quickly lead to a serious wounding. At best. Unless his swordsmanship became better, much better.

Well, there was the germ of an idea: ignore the social graces for the time being, or at least deemphasize David's education in them. Bring in a good fencing master from offworld, and have him train the lad vigorously for a few years.