"It is his right, and his responsibility."

That didn't make me feel any better.While my father's and my relationship was one mainly of duty, not affection, I still didn't want to see him getting hurt. Maybe even killed, unlikely as that was. In a first-blood duel as fought in Elwere, a good fencer was almost deathproof; safety-masked, with the physicians standing by, two centimeters of steel can kill you only if your opponent manages a clean thrust to the heart, the bladestop pushing in the flesh between the ribs. Father was too good and too smart to let that happen; he'd just take the point with his left hand, conceding the duel.

I sighed. I'd just have to wait awhile. Just awhile. Once the Metzadan fencing teacher arrived and helped me to become half-decent with a sword, maybe I'd be able to persuade Father to let me fight my own battles.

In not so many years I'd be able to do what I wanted, without permission. My sixtieth birthday wasn't that far off, although it would feel like a long fifteen years.

Fifteen years. It wasn't right that Amos van Ingstrand might live another fifteen years.

"David?"

"Eh?"

"We're here." She waved a hand at the elevator's open door. "You're drifting off again."

She followed me the few steps to my rooms. "Now, where's this sword you were telling me about?" she asked, as the door hissed shut behind us.

I tossed my casque in the corner. "You really want to see it?"

"No," she said, gracefully easing herself into a chair, doffing her own mask. "I'm sure it's very nice. I'm sure the schrift you bought it from did a fine job."

I shook my head. "I'm making it myself. With a little luck, I'll have it done by this Latch Festival that everyone's always talking about." I seated myself opposite her.

"Yourself?" She shrugged. "Why bother?"

"Why bother?" I started to rise from my chair, then let myself fall back. "Why bother? Because I'm so d.a.m.n clumsy at everything else. Working with metal and jewels is one of the two things that I can do well."

"David-"

"The other thing I do well-and I do it very well-is stealing."

She reddened. I really shouldn't have said that. In Elwere, stealing isn't a crime, it's a perversion. "You're so unkind, David. I wasn't mocking you. It's just that if this sword is good, why show it at Latch Festival?

Why not save it for another festival, or just give it to your father?"

"I... don't understand."

"It's Latch Festival that's coming up, David. You don't know about Latch Festival?"

The name was familiar, but I guess that I hadn't paid much attention to its mention in Esquela's book.

"It's a..." She paused, looking for the right words. Elweries always have trouble explaining Elwerie customs. I guess a fish might have a problem discussing water. "It's a demonstration of wealth, David.We bring things of value to the Grand Ballroom, and compare, contest over which is the finest."

I shrugged. "So? Maybe I'm not as good as a real schrift jeweler, but I don't think I'd embarra.s.s myself."

"But David, after the compet.i.tion, we destroy the entries. It... shows that we're wealthy, and that we can afford to."

I didn't hear her. Make something beautiful, even just buy something beautiful, only to destroy it?

That was perverted. That's not the way it's supposed to be. Beauty is supposed to last forever.

She reached over and touched my hand. "But this isn't why I wanted to talk to you."

"Well?"

"I'm going shopping in Lower City this afternoon. Is there anything you'd like me to bring back?" She spoke quietly, seriously.

"Van Ingstrand's head."

"No, seriously. Is-is there?"

She was serious about something, but I didn't have the slightest idea about what. Carlos' training in Elwerie customs had been oriented toward fitting in only superficially, just well enough and long enough to lift a few purses. Trying to really fit in wasn't the same thing. It was so d.a.m.n frustrating.

"Emilita, what are you getting at?"

She looked away. "H-how long has it been since you've... been with a woman?"

"Emilita-" I caught myself in mid-chuckle. It was difficult enough for my cousin to bring up the subject.

At least this was something I understood; it was one of the few things that Esquela wrote about that wasn't totally opaque.

Death and Decadence Among the Elwereans, Chapter Five, "s.e.xual Mores," reads, in part: "There are few societies in which s.e.xual promiscuity is as heavily practiced, and as little talked about, as the Elwerean society.

"The practices are almost schizoid in their nature; discussion of intercourse is taboo, as is the practice of intercourse among nondyadic individuals, with the sole exception of occasions during which the individuals are masked. The practice of masking creates the social Fiction that it is the mask acting, and not the individual. However, even masked, discussions or practice of intercourse are forbidden in private (except, apparently, between regular dyadic partners), for there would be no third party present to swear that the individuals were masked...

"Masked orgies are the norm for nondyadic intercourse, although Elwere men frequently resort to prost.i.tutes among the non-Elwere population, again employing one of several creative fictions to obviate any admission that this indeed occurs..."

All of which did d.a.m.n little good to me right then and there. I'd been without Gina for a long time, and Emilita was, as I've said, both very attractive and revealingly dressed.

On occasion, she'd made it clear to me that she wouldn't at all mind if I made a point of picking her out of the crowd during a party.But I didn't go to the parties, not after the first time. The one time I'd gone to one, I'd left nauseated. The sprawling couples on the floor, bodies covered with wine and oil, intertwined... it all seemed so ugly.

Things were supposed to be different in Elwere.

As they were, I guess. But this wasn't what I'd thought about when I thought that Elwere was different.

"What are you trying to say, Emilita?"

"I-I know that your father won't let you leave Elwere, not yet. But if there's someone, someone in Lower City you'd like to see? I... think I could arrange it, David, l.u.s.t for a few hours. Perhaps there is nothing that any resident can do, but maybe some lower could help you with your... problem. You wouldn't be afraid of... being with a lower, would you?" She buried her face in her hands.

My problem. I almost laughed. It all fit together. Poor little Emilita, living such a sheltered life. She figured that the reason I didn't go to the parties was that I was somehow afraid of touching some Elwerie G.o.ddess.

Emilita, with a lot of luck, perhaps someday that could be my greatest problem.

But maybe she had an idea. I couldn't go out and talk things over with Eschteef, but maybe... "Her name is Gina. I'll give you the address of the house where she works. You sure you can bring her here?"

Still not looking directly at me, Emilita nodded. "Yes."

"When?"

"Maybe even later today. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after. But you should be sure to be ready before Latch Festival. It's only a few days away, you know."

I started to ask why, but she blushed. Again.

I set the sword down on the durlyn work table and looked at it. It was a meter-long saber, razor-sharp on both true edge and false. The tracings of vines along the flat of the blade still didn't stand out enough, so I poured some more oxidant on a rag, wiped the blade down to a dull black, and then turned on my buffer.

I buffed it off; the lines stayed dark, the rest of the blade mirror-bright.

Nice. It wouldn't make much of a fighting weapon. Eschteef had promised to teach me the trick of working other metals into the edge of a blade, making silver as hard as good steel, but it hadn't gotten around to it. The sword was for show, not for use.

It was a good piece of work. Still, a lot more work would have to go into it for it to be just right. It had a solid tang, but I hadn't quite decided what sort of hilt or basket I'd put on it.

I'd been trying out different sketches, hoping to get it ready.

Enough of that. More work might go into the sword, but no more work would go into getting it ready for the Latch Festival.

I snorted. The idea of creating something beautiful something wondrous, only to have it destroyed as demonstration of wealth...

"Idiots. I'm surrounded by idiots." Taking up chamois, I did the final buffing by hand, enjoying the feel of the soft cloth slipping over the smooth surface.Dimly, I could feel Eschteef's joy at the work of my hands- No. That part of my life was over. I was home now. This was where I belonged. I was free here. Free of Carlos, free of Amos van Ingstrand, free of Eschteef's demands. Free. Not in a cage, not anymore.

I could almost hear Hrotisft's dry whisper. And what is the difference, stupid human, between this cage and any other?

"It's not a cage, dammit. I can go where I want."

Anywhere in Elwere. You have a large cage, and a comfortable one. But a cage, nonetheless.

"Leave me alone!"

But there was n.o.body there.

Time for a walk. I donned an informal casque, then took a smallsword down from the wall and belted it on.

Alone, I walked through the crowded Promenade. At tables lining the eastern wall, overdressed and underdressed Elweries sat, sipping coffee, tea, and wine, chattering about jewels and clothes, festivals and entertainments.

My right arm felt naked without my blade and sheath. With all this wealth around, my natural tendency was to slice and run. The sword wasn't a subst.i.tute, although perhaps someday it would be. Fencing didn't come naturally to me. Maybe when the Metzadan instructor Father had hired actually arrived, he could teach me, but I doubted it.

What was the point? Why bother learning to use such an archaic weapon well? Just so n.o.body would elbow me pseudo-accidentally? Ridiculous. A blade should be only a few centimeters long, hidden in the hand, ready to snap into the palm for slicing the string of a purse or the tendons of an arm.

But why bother stealing, even for practice? My own pouch was filled with diamonds, emeralds, firestones, and rubies, all had for the asking.

For a moment, I considered taking the pouch and scattering the baubles across the floor. Instead, I walked across the marble floors, returning an occasional nod, not bothering to gesture a request for an invitation to join anyone.

Again, why bother? Discussions of clothes; and plays, and masques, drink, and duels didn't interest me.

It never would. Ever.

At the high-arched entrance to the Grand Theater, the main screen showed offworld players frolicking on its stage. The tiny screen above it informed me that it was the Royal Shakespeare Company, doing As You Like It, and that the next performance would be at ten o'clock.

Shakespeare? That didn't sound familiar. It couldn't have been one of the Thousand Worlds; the only planetwide monarchy was on Rand. I couldn't recall a world named Shakespeare. Must have been some country or other. Might be worth looking up on the screen.

But that would be about all. Stretching out on a couch along with a thousand or so others, all to watch some idiot offworlders mumble some lines, was about as interesting as watching my fingernails grow.So I kept walking, until I reached the Arena, taking a seat almost all the way up against the rear wall, well away from the few score watchers ringside. Clearly only a minor affair; death duels tend to draw a crowd.

Here was something I could understand. Not appreciate-fighting over imagined or real social slights is stupid-just understand.

Under the watchful eyes of a team of six harnessed buzh physicians, two Elweries squared off on the tarmac below. Both men were stripped to the waist, wearing little besides their wraparound facemasks, groincups, and sandals. Clearly a first-blood affair; even from this height I could see the tiny crossbars on the swords, just two centimeters from the needle-sharp points.

At the referee's signal, the two men crossed swords, dropped back, and saluted, dropping back into twin fighting stances.

Then they closed. There was a quick flash of steel, and one of the men staggered back, clapping his free hand to his shoulder, the sword dropping from his other hand.

And that was it. The other Elwerie turned and walked away while the six physicians rushed up to treat the loser.

Pointless, that's what it was. Just another silly game. I turned and walked away.

There were three main ballrooms off the Promenade. The largest one-the Grand Ballroom-ab.u.t.ted the Grand Theater. On the rare occasions that the performance in the theater drew a crowd large enough to lead to a shortage of couches, the wall separating the two was lowered into the floor, and more couches were brought in.

Usually, though, it was empty. The Grand Ballroom was just too large for most events.

I glanced at the screens outside the Grand Ballroom. The main one was blank, indicating that nothing was happening there at the moment; the smaller one informed me that a dance was scheduled for the evening.

Another idiotic practice-the Elweries seemed to spend half their lives walking out figures on the floor in time to music. And not even decent, recorded music; usually live orchestras, complete with twittering, screeching strings and occasional fluffed notes from the bra.s.s instruments.

Well, I knew where I wasn't going to be that night. My dance teacher would have written me off as hopeless if he could have done so without losing his job. I wasn't exactly uncoordinated, but I couldn't see putting in any serious effort for that sort of nonsense.

The screens in front of the Bronze Ballroom had broken down; three harnessed buzh technicians were busy replacing them. I thought about asking what was going on inside, if anything, but decided not to. No point; I didn't have anything better to do than walk in and see for myself.

I walked through the entrance. Once past the sound-shields, the music and moans from inside hit me like a hammer.

Wonderful. I glanced inside, just to be sure.

There are times when I think that the schrift have a point about human reproductive customs; in the Bronze Ballroom, several hundred Elweries were involved in a game of let's-find-the-orifice.I turned away from the ma.s.s of writhing, oiled bodies-and was b.u.mped to the ground.

A slim fifty-year-old stood above me, his half-casque revealing only the scowling lower portion of his face, i his hands set on his hips. "Well," he said. "Have you nothing to say?"

Not again. I got to my feet. "My apologies. I did not intend to b.u.mp into you."

He shook his head. "Not good enough, not by half. You don't see fit to introduce yourself?"

"I am sorry. My name is David Curdova, and-"

"I see. You are the one raised by the lowers. Which explains your clumsiness, and your lack of manners; it does not excuse them. I am Luis Diego Muntoya." He raised his hand and tapped me lightly on the casque. "And you are challenged. I believe that your father will handle this affair on your behalf?"

I raised a hand. "Now, wait. He's already-"

"Your father will choose to handle this affair on your behalf?"