Elvenborn

what he knew, or prevent him from discovering anything that might have given him an edge in the endless jostling for power.'

'Are you suggesting that he was—murdered?' Kyrtian asked slowly. It was something that had never occurred to him.

Lydiell sighed. 'I don't know. It is possible—but I cannot even guess at how likely it is. I have never seen or heard any­thing to allow me to dismiss the idea, or that confirmed it.' Her expression was haunted by that very uncertainty. 'Nevertheless, let others remember him as an unstable dabbler for delving into the oldest of our records—I know better, and so should you.'

Kyrtian immediately felt ashamed, and bent his head in mute apology. 'And I should not allow the views of V'kel Aelmarkin er-Lord Tornal to shade my opinion of even so trivial a question as wine selection, much less anything important.' He frowned. 'I've half a mind to turn his invitation down. It's come too quickly on the Council's decision, and Aelmarkin is nothing if not persistent. He surely has something planned as an attempt to embarrass me.'

But Lydiell shook her head. 'That, you mustn't do. He has more political power than you, and he could make things diffi-

cult if you offend him. Do you really want to waste your time countering his petty nastiness with the Council, when you could avoid having to do so by attending his gathering?'

Kyrtian sighed, knowing with resignation that he was going to have to go and play the fool to keep Aelmarkin happy. 'Not really. When is this farce scheduled?'

'In three days,' Lydiell told him, and patted his hand comfort­ingly. 'Cheer up,' she offered. 'It's only for an afternoon. How hard can it be to maintain your composure for an afternoon?'

How hard can it be to maintain my composure for an after­noon? Kyrtian asked himself savagely, as he glared down at the sands of the arena to avoid meeting any more contemptuous or amused glances. Harder than getting the better of Gel in a sword-bout, that's how!

From the moment he'd stepped out of the Portal into Ael-markin's manor, he'd realized two things. The first: Lydiell had been absolutely right; if he hadn't shown his face—and his sanity—at this function, Aelmarkin would have been able to say whatever he liked and be believed. The second: it was going to stress his patience and his acting ability to the limit to put up with the attitude of every other guest that Aelmarkin had in­vited. He had never felt so utterly out-of-place in his life. Why, he had more in common with the humans of his estate than he did these strange creatures of his own race!

A great many of them were approximately his age—much younger than Aelmarkin—the idle offspring of Great Lords who didn't care to attend this particular challenge-fight them­selves, but wanted to send representatives. Of course this meant that he was surrounded by those with little to do except chatter about others of their set, current fads, useless pastimes, and new fashions. The people of their social set were people he didn't know anything about, and the pursuits they found so important—well, he couldn't imagine why anyone would waste time on such things. But in their eyes, he was clearly impossi­bly backward, out-of-step, and provincial.

None of them knew anything about any of the subjects he cared about, which made him sound both a bore and a boor.

And after he'd shown a flicker of startlement at statements he considered outrageous, they probably put him down as callow and a prig.

Well, by their standards, I am a prig. I don't consider an af­ternoon spent in having my jaded appetites aroused by poor hu­man girls who only exist to serve as my concubines to be particularly amusing.

After the first hour, they snubbed him openly, and with un­veiled contempt.

This, strangely enough, made him very uncomfortable. He hadn't expected them to make him feel that way. He could try to tell himself that these people didn't matter, that all he had to do was remain polite and comport himself like a gentleman and nothing they reported back to their fathers would do any harm—but that didn't make the sneers and the sniggering any easier to bear. He didn't like them, but they were many and he was one; it was all too easy to feel the hurt of the scorned out­sider. He truly hadn't anticipated that sort of reaction from him­self, and he wished there was a way he could gracefully extricate himself and go home.

As he stared fixedly down at the wooden-walled arena below him, he heard whispers behind him, and snickering, and felt the back of his neck grow hot. He was just glad that Gel was here with him, in the role of bodyguard; somehow it was easier to stay composed with Gel's stone-faced example to copy.

I'm on their choice of ground; the best I can hope to do is get out of this without making any major blunders. Mother couldn 't possibly have known how slippery this situation could become. He was acutely aware that they had far more experience than he at the maneuvering of intrigue and politics. He felt horribly young, shallow, and naive; these people had drunk machination with their first milk, and he had no idea how to deal with situa­tions they wouldn't even hesitate over.

Kyrtian had taken a seat in the first row to avoid meeting their eyes any longer, but they continued to speak to each other in voices pitched for him to overhear, taunting him to respond.

'Who, exactly, is this fellow?' asked an arrogant young male a little to Kyrtian's left.

'My cousin Kyrtian,' Aelmarkin said lightly. 'Son of the late Lord Darthenian, my uncle.'

'Lord Darthenian...' someone murmured behind him. 'That name sounds familiar. Don't I know it from some old story or other?'

'Try coupling the name with daft,' drawled another, sound­ing so smug that it was all Kyrtian could do to keep from stand­ing up and going for the fellow's throat. 'Daft Darthenian, pot-hunter, excavator of things better left buried, and pursuer of useless old manuscripts. Missing in pursuit of same, and pre­ sumed dead, oh, decades ago.'

'Now, Ferahine, there's nothing wrong with having a hobby,' replied Aelmarkin, in a tone so tolerant that Kyrtian clenched his hands on the armrests of his chair to keep himself in his seat. 'Isn't insect-collecting as silly? I've seen you send slaves out bobbing about in fields and forests with a net and a bottle—and all those boxes of dead beetles are just as useless as unreadable manuscripts!'

'Point taken. Still, hobbies are all very well, Aelmarkin,' said the drawler, 'But no gentleman and no sane fellow goes off himself to dig up nasty old discards in parts unknown, now, does he? I certainly don't go rambling through briars with nets and bottles! That's what slaves are for! And he went out alone, too! Why, that was simply insane, if you ask me.'

Kyrtian gritted his teeth. He knew he was meant to overhear all of this. He knew they were trying to provoke him. And they were only saying in his hearing what they told each other—and what their elders said. If he just kept his temper, he would learn a great deal. If they thought he was too dull to understand—or too cowardly to respond—what possible harm could it do?

Still, it was the hardest thing he had ever done, to sit there and let strangers abuse the memory of his own father, without challenging them.

'Alone!' exclaimed the first speaker. 'Why didn't he take slaves, if he wouldn't send them to do his hunting for him? Ael­markin, admit it, he must have been deranged!'

There was an audible rustle of fabric, marking Aelmarkin's careless shrug. 'He was always secretive about these hunts of

his, and never more so than on the last one. He was hunting the site of the Great Gate that brought us from Evelon, and the things that were discarded as useless because they no longer functioned after passing the Gate. Why? I haven't a notion.'