all their boniness were
surprisingly broad, and his light blue eyes were alert and piercing.

He ignored his host's solicitous inquiry concerning his family and bent
and unknotted the thongs of his heelless sandals. Kicking them off he
leaned back in his chair and, sighing with relief, placed his bare feet
on a low stool in front of him.

If he caught the faint wrinkle of disgust about Vokal's shapely lips he
ignored it. "You'll forgive an old man for humoring his feet," he
croaked. "I'm not accustomed to long walks these days."

"By all means give them comfort."

"I tried to learn from your messenger the reason behind your asking me
here tonight. He would tell me nothing--simply gave me your message,
handed me your emblem piece--" he dug a hand into a pocket of the tunic,
took out the square of gold and handed it to Vokal--"and left without
another word."

"You could hardly expect one of my men to do otherwise," Vokal said
frostily.

"One never knows." The old man settled himself more comfortably in his
chair. "I was curious and a little doubtful at the interest of the third
most powerful man in all Ammad--especially when his interest concerns
the most impoverished and least influential noble of that same country."

There was a soft knock at the door and a slave girl slipped in, placed a
tray of wine and two goblets on a low table between the two men, and
went out as silently as she had entered.

Heglar's eyes followed her trim figure until the gently closing door
shut off his view. "Believe me," he said, watching Vokal fill the two
goblets, "there was a day I had slaves like that one. Many slaves--and
more warriors than any noble in all Ammad. Only old Rokkor himself,
Jaltor's father, had more of them."

He sighed gustily. "But that's all in the past now. My only regret is
that I must leave my young mate and our two children with little more
than a roof above their heads when I die."

"Your love for the gracious and beautiful Rhoa is well known throughout
all Ammad," Vokal murmured, handing his guest one of the filled goblets.

The old man gulped a third of its contents before taking the container
from his lips. "And why shouldn't I love her?" he demanded harshly.
"Thirty summers my junior, lovely enough to have her pick of men--and
she chooses me. Forty summers I spent with my first woman--and what a
sour-faced old hyena _she_ was--and not a child to show for it. Now we
have two, Rhoa and I--and I have