In the morning, Doc's associates separated into small groups to accomplish separate tasks.
Ruadan did not join them at all; the first riding portion of his Officer event was scheduled for today, and he would be spending most of the day at the riding ranges near Sonneheim Village.
Zeb and Harris had to report at competition headquarters, a building near the coliseum, to arrange for their participation in the All-Out. Gaby, though not apparently looking forward to it, decided to watch them in the first-round fight, and Noriko decided to accompany her.
Alastair, Rudi, Doc, and Ixyail chose to watch the coliseum's events while plotting out their own courses of action.
After a protracted and needlessly complicated sign-up procedure in one of the buildings near the coliseumthe whole affair made more difficult, Zeb could tell, by the Weserian officials' distaste at the thought of a dusky competing among themZeb and Harris had their Sonneheim Games identification papers and a schedule of times and places to be. On a hunch, Harris compared his typed schedule with Zeb's, then with another athlete competing in the All-Out, and discovered discrepancies between the schedules; if he and Zeb had followed the schedule as given to them, they would have shown up late to the first event and would have been disqualified. As it was, they barely had time to change into their shorts and tank tops, in the royal blue with gold stripes of Novimagos, and to trot over to the grassy field east of the coliseum before the start.
The grassy field was chalked off in ten-foot-by-ten-foot squares, a twenty-by-twenty grid yielding four hundred squares. The grass was still intact; Zeb guessed from its pristine state that this was the first event to be held on this field.
As they approached, they saw that event organizers, dressed in distinctive blood-red garments like sweat suits, were addressing the athletes through megaphones. Their words were in Burian, but most of the athletes appeared to understand; they spread out across the field, one athlete in the center of each square. It looked as though about half the squares would be filled. A crowd of onlookers, perhaps twice the number of athletes, was lined up along one edge of the field; Zeb couldn't spot Gaby there, but from the way Harris waved, it appeared that he'd found her.
Zeb and Harris handed their pertinent papers off to a referee in red, then obligingly took up position in adjacent squares on the western edge of the athletes. More athletes settled into squares around them. The instructions continued for some time.
"I think," Zeb said, "we'd have a better chance of succeeding if we knew what the hell they were saying."
"Blows to the balls are permitted," said a nearby athlete, "but biting them is not." He was just under Zeb's height, and strongly built, though with a noticeable potbelly. He had hair the color and apparent flexibility of recently-made copper wire and his skin was decorated with an abundance of freckles. He wore shorts and a short-sleeved knit shirt in green with red trim; on his shoulders were red emblems, silhouettes of gnarled, twisted men. "No biting anywhere. No eye-gouging." His accent was unfamiliar to Zeb; it sounded part English, part French, part something else.
"Thanks," Harris said.
"You are welcome." The man moved over to shake hands with Harris and Zeb, though he stayed well within the confines of his square. He did not react visibly to Zeb's color. "Domitien Rath of Bolgia."
Zeb introduced himself and Harris.
Domitien continued his translation. "Referees will move among the athletes with hammers. When they see a violation of one of the rules, they will hit the athlete with the hammer. This tends to disqualify the athlete. Hitting a referee disqualifies the athlete. At a certain point, the whistle will blow. Look for the red flag waving. Run to the man next to the flag-waver. The first sixteen who reach him will get numbers. Actually, a few more than sixteen will get numbers, to allow for those who are disqualified but still conscious and those who die."
Zeb smiled. In a low voice, he told Harris, "This really sucks."
"Told you."
"What if a referee decides to disqualify me before I can besmirch one of his beloved local supermen?"
Harris shrugged. "Most of the refs are supposed to be above concerns like that. Priests of gods representing competitions, and all that. If we get one that isn't, well, improvise."
"Great." Zeb took a look at the competitors all around him. Many were very tall and strongly built by the standards of the fair world; he suspected that a large amount of the grimworld blood that was said to be mixed with fairworld blood was concentrated in these athletes. Most were thick-chested and well-muscled, though their musculatures were those of athletes, not body builders.
"A lot of 'em look like wrestlers," Harris said.
"Most of us are," Domitien said. "I am." He pointed to one unusually tall competitor, a bald man with a walrus mustache. "Champion of the national two years ago, and of other games in years past. One of two leading Weserian contenders. The champion of the last games died on the field, of course."
"Of course," Harris said.
Zeb shook his head, unhappy. "I hate grappling. Give me a punching contest any day."
"Almost time for the first whistle," Domitien said. "Grace and luck on you."
"And on you," Harris said.
The whistle blew. A roar of voices rose, shouts from the athletes meant to intimidate one another and shouts of appreciation from the crowd. Domitien advanced on Harris, all cheerfulness gone from his face, his stance low and arms spread wide.
No one came at Zeb from that direction. He turned. A pale man, huge, with white teeth surrounded by a thick brown beard and mustache, rushed at him with arms outstretched.
Zeb got an arm up and swept the arms aside; the man slammed into him, knocking him back, but Zeb kept his balance.
As Brown Beard came on again, Zeb dropped, keeping his weight balanced on his hands and one leg, and swept with the other leg, kicking his attacker's legs out from under him. Brown Beard grunted as he hit the grass and Zeb brought his sweeping leg back, kicking him square in the nose. It was a hard blow and rocked Brown Beard's head back, but the man simply rolled backward and over his shoulder, coming up on his feet, his nose streaming red.
Zeb was on his feet before his opponent. He advanced, but a red-clad tackler in full flight hit Brown Beard around the waist and carried him down.
Zeb spunjust in time for the bald competitor with the walrus mustache to grab him in a bear hug, pinning his arms. Walrus Mustache grinned at him and tightened his grip, squeezing Zeb's breath out.
Zeb brought his knee up, slamming it into Walrus Mustache's side just below and up into his rib cage. The muay Thai maneuver caught Walrus Mustache by surprise, expelling his breath in a pained grunt, causing his eyes to widen. Zeb managed another knee-strike to the same spot, then Walrus Mustache bent him over backwards and fell on him.
Zeb used the impact to advantage, shoving upward at the precise moment he hit the ground, and broke his opponent's grip on him. This left Walrus Mustache and his formidable weight still on top, but Zeb's arms were free. He heaved his opponent's chest up, then let go and swung his elbow into place, putting its point right into the center of Walrus Mustache's chest as the man's weight descended again.
Walrus Mustache coughed out a double lungful of air and turned red. He began to stand, an impressive demonstration of his durability, but he was slower now. Zeb rolled him off and stood, backing away.
All over the field, men were already down. Some were locked in painful-looking wrestling matches; a few just lay still. There were also standing competitors, some advancing on one another, others looking for new opponents. Among the competitors wandered a handful of red-garbed referees carrying large wooden-headed mallets. As Zeb watched, one swung his mallet against the back of a competitor who was biting his pinned foe. The biter arched backward, then went limp.
Harris was on his feet; his right cheek was split, bleeding. Domitien was swaying on his feet a step away. Harris grabbed, fast and sure, and got his hand on Domitien's nose. Harris squeezed, said "Honk!"
There was a blur of motion and Walrus Mustache went away. Zeb tracked him for a moment, saw that a tremendously overweight competitor in red had tackled him. Zeb returned his attention to Harris. Domitien was now down, limp, and Harris was advancing on Zeb, mock menacingly. "We haven't sparred lately," Harris said.
Zeb snorted. "Try to make it look good." He brought his hands up in boxing posture and jabbed left-handed.
Harris caught the blow across crossed wrists, an x-block, and snapped a toe-kick at him. Zeb twisted and it merely grazed his hip. There was no real force behind it; had it caught him dead-on, it wouldn't have hurt much.
Right-handed, Zeb swept Harris's blocking arms up, then jabbed again with his left before Harris could get another block in position. The punch caught Harris in the upper left chest, but it, too, was a sparring shot, struck with only a fraction of Zeb's strength.
"Incoming," Harris said, "straight back."
Zeb spun and kicked out. His kick caught an onrushing competitor right in the gut. The man, a burly blond wearing eye-hurting purple and green, grunted and folded over. Zeb followed through with another spinning kick which caught the man in the jaw; Zeb heard a crack, felt the impact jar his leg, saw his attacker hit the ground hard and go limp.
Off to his left, Walrus Mustache was up again, now locked with and straining against his tackler. His opponent had to be the fairworld version of a sumo wrestlerOriental, not as massive as a grimworld sumo wrestler but still heavy by local standards. The Oriental managed to overbear Walrus Mustache and throw him to the ground.
Harris grunted. Zeb turned to see him in the grip of a lean man with olive skin and dark hair; his attacker had grabbed him from behind, his arms under Harris's, and was struggling to get him into a full nelson, trying to get his hands locked behind Harris's neck.
Another competitor, a well-built blond man in the gold athletic uniform of Weseria, advanced on them. Zeb didn't know which of the three of them was his target, but he stepped around in front of Harris and the man who'd grabbed him.
The Weserian stopped short of Zeb and wiped his palms on his shorts. A few inches shorter than Zeb, he had handsome, rather bland features appropriate to many a 1930s movie star, and a build that reminded Zeb of champion decathletesflat-stomached, muscular, well-proportioned, the ideal build, Zeb had always thought, to serve as a model for comic-book superheroes.
There was only a faint German taint to the man's speech. "You really should not be here." His tones were surprisingly kind.
"I have to be somewhere," Zeb said. "Might as well be kicking the hell out of you."
The Weserian smiled without humor and advanced in boxing stance. He struck first, a jab that turned into a grab as he seized Zeb's left, leading, wrist, then he stepped in for a body blow.
Zeb didn't try to break his grip. He yanked laterally, pulling the Weserian out of line so his punch merely grazed along the left side of Zeb's ribs, then twisted, bringing his forearm into the Weserian's face. The blow rocked his opponent's head back.
The Weserian took advantage of their close positions, kicking Zeb's legs out from beneath him, shoving and releasing him at the same moment. Zeb hit the ground shoulders first, a painful, jarring impact. But he slapped down with his arms, allowing him to keep his feet up in the air for a moment, and kicked. His heel caught the Weserian clean under the jaw and stood the man on tiptoe. The Weserian staggered back; Zeb rolled over backwards and up to his feet.
The Weserian advanced, fists up again, shaking his head. He was tough. Zeb smiled at him.
Then Zeb was hit from the side, slammed to the grass across a chalk line. He twisted to get his back to the ground.
The sumo wrestler lay atop him, thrashing around as he tried to get a grip on Zeb's arms.
A shadow fell across Zeb. One of the referees stood over him. The referee swung at him, his mallet head aimed squarely at Zeb's face.
The scene unfolded in slow motion, the mallet swinging, a long leg coming into frame and connecting with the referee's shoulder, the shock wave running across the referee's body like a ripple across the still water of a pond. The referee was slammed sideways, his mallet striking the ground a foot from Zeb's head, his body hitting the grass at a right angle to Zeb.
The kicker was Harris.
Zeb kept his left hand free of the sumo wrestler's grasp and struck the man, a knifehand blow to the throat. He sent the blow into the side of his neck, avoiding the trachea, but it still caught the wrestler off guard. For a moment, the wrestler lost interest in pinning Zeb. Zeb hit him with a forearm shot across the nose, rocking his head still further, then heaved and rolled out from under him.
Distantly, a whistle sounded. Harris said, "That's it!" He looked around, pointed east, and ran that way.
Zeb got to his feet a little shakily and ran after him. The referee still lay limp, and there were scores of men lying inert or writhing in pain all over the gridded field.
Competitors were already reaching the referees standing beside the man waving the red flag. As each competitor reached the group, a referee handed him something like a white coin.
Zeb reached the group a few steps behind Harris. The referees offered him no trouble, only a coinwhich turned out to be a white wooden piece the size of a poker chip, the number 8 painted on it in red. Harris's said 7.
Within moments, the last of the coins, with the number 24 on it, was handed out and a referee blew two whistle blasts. Athletes who were still scramblingor limping, or crawlingtoward the group now slowed or stopped, panting.
Zeb looked around. Walrus Mustache was among those holding coins. So were the blond Weserian and the sumo wrestler. Domitien had been among the athletes staggering toward the flag when the final whistle blew; his face as bruised as though he'd decided to compete in a knock-down-a-brick-wall-with-your-head event, he stood outside the group of those who had received coins, catching his breath, looking dejected. The brown-bearded competitor was still down on the field, apparently unconscious.
Moments later, the referees took Harris's coin away, disqualifying him for attacking a referee. He bore the disqualification cheerfully. Two other competitors were disqualified for biting infractions, and three others collapsed unconscious within a couple of minutes of the final whistle, disqualifying them. But no one came for Zeb's coinwhatever the one referee had seen, or pretended to have seen, that might have disqualified him had not been observed by the others. So competitors receiving coins numbered as high as 22 received entry into the second round, the round of 16.
"Fun, huh?" Harris said.
Zeb snorted. "Within certain retarded definitions of the word `fun,' sure."
"We need to look into the origin of the Kobolde who attacked you at the Fairwings plant," Doc said. "I'd like to do that myself, but I must suspect that I'll attract more official attention than any of the rest of you. Which leaves it to you, Alastair. UnlessRudi, do you speak the language?"
Rudi rolled left and rolled right, but couldn't get particularly comfortable. The seats where they were situated in Sonneheim Stadium were long stone benches, and neither Rudi nor the Sidhe Foundation associates had thought to bring any of the folded blankets so many of the onlookers were sitting upon. "No. Albin did, but he learned it late in life. None of the rest of the Bergmonks do."
"A pity."
Rudi looked to the field, where teenaged boys and girls were marching in slow, stately unison, each carrying the flag of a nationa shorter version of the Games' opening ceremonies, to be repeated each day. "I have an idea."
Alastair shrugged. "Where did you get it? Buy it from a street vendor?" He was dressed in a bulky overcoat, just a little too warm for this stadium on this sunny morning but suited to the concealment of guns and knives enough for a gang of rowdies, yet his hands were restless and his manner was tense. Rudi had seen such behavior scores of times. Alastair didn't have his favorite weapon on him, and his hands still sought it.
Rudi snorted. "Don't be daft." Then he frowned. "Are there street vendors for ideas?"
"What's your idea?" Doc asked.
"You have to give them credit," Ixyail said. She was intent on the marching flag-bearers. "They certainly have a sense of style."
Rudi tried rolling his weight onto one buttock, but it didn't help. "I was thinking we ought to parade Teleri around."
Alastair gave him a look that suggested he'd just realized Rudi needed to be in a very special hospital ward. "Perhaps you've failed to notice that Teleri's dead."
"No, I noticed." Rudi gave up and resigned himself to having a sore rear end. "A few years ago, a bunch o' bad blades were kicked out of Big Benno's gang for being too crazy. Mad Dog Kolbjorn and his pals."
Doc nodded. "I remember."
"First thing they did was grab a banker's son for ransom. Killed him almost immediately, too, accidentally, wavin' a pistol around in his face." Rudi grimaced, not concealing his distaste at the thought of men so amateurish in the handling of their firearms and prisoners. "Remember what they did?"
"Kidnapped another boy," Doc said, "an urchin who looked like the banker's son. Let him be seen in their company all over Neckerdam so the banker would think his boy was still alive."
"Didn't do 'em much good," Rudi said. "Novimagos Guard found their nest and put a few hundred rounds into 'em. But . . ."
"But the idea's not a bad one." Doc frowned.
"Except," said Ish, "we don't have anyone who can be disguised as Teleri, even with all Harris's skills with his disguise box." Her Castilian accent had returned. "Gaby is too big. I am too short, and I cannot be made as flat as Teleri; my bosom refuses to be concealed."
Doc snorted.
"Quiet, you. And Noriko's the right height and build . . . but her features and skin are just too far from Teleri's."
"So we need to find a Teleri," Doc said. "It's a good idea, Rudi. A second lightning rod to attract trouble, and one more specific to our enemies than Zeb is." He considered. "I know where we can find her. Our double for Teleri."
"Ah, yeah?" Rudi looked down one row of seats, where an onlooker had stood and moved toward the aisle, leaving her blanket behind. One quick, deft grab and he could be sitting on that blanket . . . assuming that oh-so-moral Doc didn't object. "Where?"
"The jail."
"Forget I said anything," Rudi said. "We don't need to be going to any jail."
"It should be a novelty for you." Doc rose. "Your first visit to a jail without being under arrest. In fact, you'll be talking for us."
Rudi sighed. "Why did I ever open my mouth?"
"Doc!" The voice came from below them and left. Rudi had his hand on his gun butt even before he finished turning that direction, but he did not draw it from his pocket; the man trotting up toward them on the coliseum steps scarcely seemed a danger.
He was a light, as pale of skin as Doc but with hair that was honey-gold. Nearly as tall as Doc, but leaner of build, he was dressed in a dark red suit that could not have been more expensive or more awry: His coat was misbuttoned, the right side higher than the left, and his gold tie, which should have contrasted stylishly with his blood-red shirt, was pulled half loose; its end bounced around on his chest as he ran. His features were young and open, his expression delighted. Rudi noted scars on the man's face, faint ones the width of a finger on his left cheek and to the right of the point of his jaw.
Doc stood, and Rudi and the others followed suit. The newcomer, reaching them, threw himself at Doc in an embrace. "Doc! I did not know you would be herewho's this? Ixyail!" He released Doc and wrapped himself around Ish, who chuckled at his display.
Not releasing Ish, the newcomer extended a hand to Alastair, saying, "Doctor Kornbock, always a pleasure. And who's this?" He indicated Rudi. "A new associate?"
Doc wore a slight, indulgent smile. "Something like that. Cas, allow me to present Rudiger Bergmonk. Rudi, this is my brother Casnar, Prince of Dumnia, Crown Prince of Cretanis."
Rudi, concealing the distaste he felt at dealing with anyone so exalted, shook the prince's hand. "He can't be a prince. Where's his guard?" Indeed, Casnar had not been flanked by earnest-looking gunmen, nor was there any indication that he'd been trailed up the steps by protectors.
Casnar's smile became conspiratorial. "Available with the snap of my fingers but, thank gods, out of sight and mind until then."
Ish tugged Casnar so that the two of them sat. "Down, Prince, down. People behind us want to see." Rudi and the others did as well.
"Cas, are you competing in Sword?"
The prince nodded. "And putting myself on display here and there, appearing bare-chested to show off new muscles, wherever possible."
Doc snorted. "Whatever for?"
Casnar rolled his eyes. "Mother has decided it's time for me to be married and spawn. I suppose I agree. King Aevar is trying to foist his daughter Edris off on me." He gave a mock shudder. "Gods save me, she has all the heat and charm of a fillet of fish in an icebox." He turned his attention back to Ish. "What about it, Ixyail? Marry me."
She laughed. "A son of Maeve, marrying a dusky? Why, it would kill her."
Casnar's smile became positively wicked. "Another benefit. We'd be king and queen of Cretanis right away."
"Besides, I could never give up Doc."
Casnar looked at his half brother and frowned, considering. "Well . . . all right. You can keep him. We'll put him in a room down the hall."
"No."
"Then just come stay as an occasional mistress. I'll be sure to choose a wife who won't object."
She shook her head. "You have enough bastards scattered about Europe."
"One can never have enough, not when each one causes Mother to throw another fit . . . Say, Doc, are you competing?"
Doc shook his head. "Some of my associates are, though. I'm here to show them support."
"You liar. In a city teeming with Reinis and spies and crown princes, you're here just to cheer? Not a chance. You're up to something."
Doc rose. "Actually, I am. And I do have to be about it."
Alastair and Rudi rose. Casnar sighed and loosened his grip on Ish's waist so she could, too. The prince slumped where he sat, suddenly disconsolate. Then he brightened. "I'm having a party tonight."
Doc gave him an indulgent look. "Sort of like saying, `The sun's coming up tomorrow morning, sometime around dawn.' "
"No, I mean a formal party. It's for the cold fish. Please, come, rescue me from tedium. Maybe you'll have a chance to shoot someone."
Rudi said, "I'm all for that, Doc."
Casnar's smile returned. "It's at the new Cretanis embassy on the Aevarstrasse. It starts at half past four bells. Please, Doc."
"If we can."
Doc's plan for finding a double for Teleri was based on the simple notion that they would let the authorities do the hard work of finding as close a match as possible.
At Bardulfburg's main police station, Rudi found an officer who spoke Cretanis and spent time telling him of the young woman he'd met at the parade last night. He'd fallen madly in love, he explained, but hadn't gotten her name before the trouble started. He didn't describe the trouble in any detail, he just made it sound like any crowd fight that might have occurred. But he did describe Teleri in great detail. The officer called the jailers and reported, "Yes, I think we have the one you speak of." He sent for papers on the girl and a receipt book. With money Doc had given him, Rudi paid her bail, then waited while she was brought up to the front, a young blond woman in a simple red skirt and blouse.
She received her possessions in silence, not betraying to the officers that she did not know Rudi. When all the paperwork was done, Rudi escorted her outside where Doc, Ish, and Alastair waited.
She did indeed look a lot like Teleri. She was a little shorter than Teleri, nor did she possess that woman's rare beauty, and a livid purple-yellow bruise stood out on her left cheekbone. But she had features that suggested sweetness of disposition and a mouth that looked as though it was deliberately fashioned to curl into a smile.
Not that she smiled now. She looked between Rudi and the associates with unconcealed nervousness, as though she would bolt but for Rudi's hand on her elbow.
Doc smiled and spoke a few words of Burian to her. Rudi could understand her reply, though it was heavy with a Burian accent: "Yes, I speak Cretanis."
"Excellent," Doc said. "I am Doctor Desmond MaqqRee of the Sidhe Foundation. These are my associates Ixyail del Valle and Alastair Kornbock; you've met Rudiger Bergmonk. And how are you called?"
"I am Swana," she said. "Swana Weiss."
"Swana, we have brought you from jail for a reason, but you owe us no more than a chime of your time. Once we've said a few words, you can choose to go about your business and we won't bother you again. If you stay, you might earn a considerable amount of money." Doc shrugged. "But we must know the truth. How do you feel about King Aevar and the Reinis?"
Rudi held his tongue. He couldn't read the paperwork on the girl, but he knew from conversation with the desk officer that Swana had been part of a protest last night. Like the blood-throwers they'd seen, she had been beaten and arrested by soldiers, in her case for shouting "Where are the seven?" at the king, a reference to some event Rudi didn't know about.
And despite himself, Rudi felt a little sympathy for the girl. She obviously didn't have any money, else she'd have arranged for bail earlier, nor could she have had any friends with money, for the same reason. It wasn't really fair of Doc to wave money under her nose like that. Then he frowned at his own stray thoughts. Sympathy, Albin had always said, was a handle by which you could grab people and shake them down for money. It wasn't for the Bergmonk Boys.
Swana was not quick to answer. She looked between the four of them as if hoping she could see past their faces to the thoughts beyond. Then she gave up and shrugged. "I don't like them," she said. "I didn't like the old king either. But I am a loyal Weserian."
"We won't ask you to betray your nation," Doc said. "Not your principles or ideals. But we're looking for some people who've done very bad things. They've killed scores of people. And they may be favored, even protected, by the Reinis. We want your help to find them and stop them from doing more."
She drew a long, unhappy breath, and Rudi could see that she was thinking fast. She didn't share her thoughts. She just said, "Maybe. Tell me more."
Zeb, Harris, and Gaby were already back at the Foundation quarters for the evening when Doc and retinue arrived. Rudi came into the apartment first, a new suit bag slung over his shoulder. He offered them a disgusted look, and immediately headed off to the apartment's second common area, which had been converted into a bedroom for him, Alastair, and Zeb. He left the apartment door open behind him.
"This promises to be good," Harris said.
Doc, carrying two sacks with green-leafed vegetables protruding from the top, entered next. He looked between Harris and Gaby. "Did you two bring formal dress?"
"One outfit each," Harris said. "Standard Operating Apparel."
"Harris's outfit is wonderful," Gaby said. "It's a strapless formal in purple lamé with a big old bow on his butt."
Harris nodded. "Don't forget about the matching opera gloves. I love those."
Doc shook his head, a long-suffering look. "Get them ready. You're going to a party tonight." He headed into the kitchen.
Ish and another woman were in next. Ish carried a red cardboard suitcase and what looked like a makeup case made of wood. The other woman, a pretty blonde in green, carried a bag of groceries and a dog.
It was a mutt; it looked like the result of an impossible liaison between a bulldog and a Vietnamese potbellied pig.
"You've got to be kidding," Zeb said.
The blond woman set the dog down. It made an immediate beeline for Zeb and stood before his chair, wagging its stump of a tail, its mashed features suggesting a grin.
"This is Odilon," Ish said. "Odilon, that's Zeb."
Zeb stared unhappily at the creature. "It's what's for dinner, right?"
"No, it's Swana's friend, and you may not eat him."
"If he tries to hump my leg, all bets are off."
Swana clicked her tongue and Odilon trotted back to stand beside her. She looked suspiciously at Zeb. "Where you are from, do you eat dogs?"
"No, I'm actually partial to beef in orange sauce and General Tso's Chicken."
"Do you really sacrifice humans?"
Zeb gave her an incredulous look. "Where'd you hear that?"
"In school, my last year of school. They said the darkest duskies ran about with no clothes on, made human sacrifice, and wanted to, to degrade Burian women."
Zeb sighed. "Was this, oh, about the time the Reinis came to power?"
Swana considered. "Yes."
"And before then, is that what they told you in schools?"
"No."
"So what does that suggest to you? Take your time, but there's going to be a test on this material."
"I'm sorry." Swana shrugged. "I was just curious." She followed Doc into the kitchen. Ish smiled and headed to the hall leading to the bedrooms.
Zeb leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes I wonder if we oughtn't just firebomb the whole country."
"Hey, she asked, she didn't just assume it was true," Harris said. "Say, when all is done for the evening, you want to get some beer, run around naked, do a human sacrifice or two, and eat Swana's dog?"
Despite himself, Zeb grinned. "All right."