Elvenborn

entertained no other guests, and although he did have access to some attractive female slaves she made it politely clear that if he damaged them, he could consider them purchases. His finances were not so secure that he could contemplate the purchase of one of her slaves at the uxorious valuation she would make, that pretty much put paid to that possible amusement.

That left hunting (which he detested), landscape-viewing (which bored him), and gaming (which he was ill- equipped for, either mentally or physically—nor would he have enjoyed ei-~ ther losing to a human slave or winning over one who was al­lowing him to win. No indeed.

So, off he went, liberating her from his unwelcome company and allowing her the freedom to find out just what Kyrtian was up to.

That meant a select dinner-party. Not one of the libertine af­fairs that she threw for those of the Young Lords who were still loyal to their fathers, but a sedate, yet very luxurious dinner for those few of the Great Lords who found her amusing and could afford to be seen with her.

Which included, of course, Lord Kyndreth.

First, she spent a profitable hour in the kitchens, informing the staff of her plans and terrifying them with casually dropped tales of what had happened to slaves whose food and service displeased the Great Lords who would be her guests. Of course, one thing that separated her establishment from that of other Elvenlords was that her meals relied on the skills of her kitchen-slaves and not on illusion—now her servants would ex­ert themselves to the utmost to please.

She did not trouble herself about the menu; her chief cook would determine that. He knew what was best, freshest, at its

peak of ripeness; he knew what fowl, fish, and meats were at perfection. She could leave all that to him, and set about deliv­ering the invitations via teleson to her select Great Lords—six of them altogether, including Lord Kyndreth and his son Gildor. Gildor was a bore, but she would see that his simple needs were taken care of.

All male, of course; there would be one female, but only a human slave, Gildor's favorite concubine. He was absurdly faithful to the creature, but when Lord Kyndreth issued a deli­cate hint that Gildor would probably want to bring her, she laughed lightly.

'Children must have their toys, mustn't they?' she said, with just a hint of mockery. 'No matter, my lord. I shall supply the rest of you with comely companions, so she will not be con­spicuous. I may not specialize in such slaves, but I promise that you will be contented with what I supply.'

'That will suit me very well,' Lord Kyndreth replied, from the depths of the teleson embedded in the wall across from her desk, which was normally hidden behind the draperies there. He seemed just as amused by his offspring's dogged infatuation as Triana was. 'Your hospitality will be gracious, as always.'

'Then I can expect you tomorrow night.' She smiled at him, exerting all her charm. 'Good. You still have my teleson-key I assume?'

'I never let it out of my keeping,' he assured her, as all of the others had. 'Till tomorrow night, then?'

'Till tomorrow night.' She allowed him to break the connec­tion, and sat back in her chair, well-content for just a moment.

But only for a moment, for she had a decision to make. Should she display her expertise in magic, by creating a fantas­tical setting for her party, or distinguish herself by hosting the dinner with no magic whatsoever?

With magic, she decided after long consideration. But it must be subtle. These men were experts in powerful magic, and it would be far more impressive to caress them with surroundings that had a calm depth than to bombard them with—say—an en­chanted exhibition of song and dance.

Subtlety would take time to produce; she had better start on it now.

She let the chair glide back on its rails, and took herself to her dining room, walking around it to study every angle.

Should she attempt an illusion of space, or create an atmo­sphere of intimate enclosure?

The aura of intimacy would be better for her purposes.

She called in her servants, and set them to removing the din­ing table and chairs from her last party and replacing them with two-person dining couches with attendant tables. By the time they returned with the moss- green, velvety drapes she wanted for the couches, she had decided on the theme.

Overhead, stars. As a backdrop, moss-covered stones, as if this place was a deep and narrow, secret valley. Slowly, arid with great care, Triana built up the illusion as she sat on one of the couches, spinning it out of air and energy. She placed, and re-placed each stone, each graceful tree, each tiny violet, until she was satisfied with the balance and harmony. Tendrils of en­ergy formed into branches and dissolved again until she was happy with the effect.

A waterfall? No. Everyone had waterfalls lately; they'd been done to death. Instead, she simulated the calls of frogs and crickets, and a single nightingale.

She called for refreshments and real trees in tubs that would be masked with draped vines, supervising the slaves as they moved the real trees into position around the six couches. It was already past sundown, but her guests would arrive well be­fore dinner tomorrow, and she must have the dining room ready long before then.

She overlaid an illusion of moss on the carpet, visual only, as the carpet itself was soft enough to the tread to please. That left only scent—easily taken care of with no illusion at all. She left orders for garlands of flowers and leaves to be draped between the tubbed trees and wreathed around the couches.

She sat down on one of the couches and surveyed her work with a critical eye, making minute changes here and there so that the grotto appeared random, entirely natural. Even the sky

overhead was a clever variation; she had keyed the stars to fol­low the movements of the real sky. By the time she declared her­self finished, she was exhausted with the unaccustomed labor. But it would all be worth it, tomorrow.

Triana surveyed her guests and smiled openly. Gildor and his favorite concubine were installed on the most private of the couches, at the rear of the grotto. Gildor clearly considered this to be a favor, not an insult—and so, evidently, did his father.

Each of the other five guests shared his couch with an attrac­tive female slave, too, but these men were all powerful and probably had concubines that made these girls look like field-slaves. For them these slaves were nothing more than sentient furniture that served them silently without needing direction— pleasant accoutrements, which demonstrated the thoroughness and thoughtfulness of their hostess, but nothing more. They ate and talked as if the girls weren't even there. And the girls had been well-schooled, if not given the kind of intensive training that Triana lavished on her male slaves; they acted on the needs of their temporary masters before those masters even knew they had a need. Cups were refilled after a single sip, plates replaced with ones filled with new dainties the moment the hot foods be­gan to cool or the cool ones to warm.

Triana herself had no companion, and ate very little. Her guests had loosened up enough to begin to speak of Council business, and she waited for the subject of Lord Kyrtian to come up, as Gildor dallied with his concubine, completely oblivious to his elders.

It was Lord Kyndreth who broached the subject, launching into a description of the aftermath of the climactic battle that routed the Young Lords.

'So where are the wretches?' asked Lord Wendrelith, his brow wrinkled with suppressed anger. 'All that's been captured are slaves.'

'Scattered like flushed quail—but unlike quail, they aren't regathering,' Lord Kyndreth replied. 'I suspect that they've each concocted bolt-holes during the time they were holding us

off, and now they've gone to ground. How much time and effort are you willing to spend in tracking them to their lairs?'