her mother, who owned a moderately prosperous kilt shop. An
indignant Mother: *Trade vegetables for kilts indeed! This is no
back-country village--*

She sat up again suddenly, and again the voice disappeared as she
tensed. This couldn't be one of Lovad's jokes, not with her mother
involved. It had to be telepathy . . . and that meant she did have
Talent . . . and that meant . . .

NEVAN

As she explained, Nevan could feel himself beginning to smile. She was
offering him a chance at real combat, at what he had trained for since
his fifth birthday, and she thought he might refuse? He'd missed the
war by less than two weeks, a disappointment made worse by his
assignment to SecuDiv rather than the Combat Division. Now he would
get to fight!

And he would be doing so beside one who had proven herself a warrior's
equal, though her combat skills were of a different type. To his
surprise, he found himself imagining as a real possibility something
he'd thought of before only as a remote theoretical chance. It wasn't
because of the demonstration, though the way she had defeated them had
a bearing, and it wasn't because she'd become a Ranger. He couldn't
pinpoint the reason; there was just something about this beautiful
felinoid that convinced him she was worthy of the greatest service and
gift a Sandeman warrior could offer.

The strength of that conviction would have made it easy for him to
kneel to her and offer his personal fealty, but he wasn't sure he was
the one who should do it. He was young and inexperienced, barely seven
months out of the Academy; her thakur-na should be a veteran, with at
least a few missions to his credit. Later, he might be qualified--but
by then she might have another thakur-na. He could only wait, work,
and hope.

[Preparer's note: the RENDAVI material is placed here because it
does not seem to be referenced from elsewhere in this file.]

RENDAVI

Thark landed the Prowler at the rendezvous on Rendavi slightly over
eighteen hours after leaving Irschcha. He was well rested and in a
cheerful mood as he, Kainor, and Valla left the ship for the improvised
conference hall.

No other ships were there yet. Unfortunate, Thark thought. That meant
the meeting--more accurately, war council--would be delayed, possibly
for several hours.

Inside the hall, the trio from the Prowler seated themselves on
cushions at the head of the low conference table, talking about nothi