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was, however, something missing. Thoughtfully, I disengaged the clip that held the two ends of the silk strap together at my right hip. I lifted the ends and stuffed them through my chald, so that they were tightly belted to my waist. Then I refastened the clip higher on my thigh. I fingered my father’s ring for a moment. Better. I turned, slowly, full around. Much better.
    As I made my way to the dining hall, my anticipation heightened. My hungers had sorted themselves out. I was more than ready to eat, and the smell of roast parr and fried grintafish made my mouth water.
    M’lennin’s back was toward me, and he was engaged in animated conversation with one of his visitors, he whom I took to be the pilot, for his hair was cut close to the head, and he wore a tight-fitting brown uniform, that of his vocation. The small dark man was almost hidden behind a pile of Silistran fruit of every conceivable variety. I stood in the doorway scanning the room, as is my wont. All the food upon the table was Silistran. M’lennin never ate local produce. There was a whole parr, its skin shining with glaze, its square snout propped up in the air by the name fruit between its teeth. There was a side of denter, with roast tuns, a starchy dark-skinned tuber, for garnish. The table, as long as my body and half as wide, was overflowing with meats and vegetables and fruits. There were four large decanters, two of an amber liquid which I took to be brin, for it bubbled and frothed, and two darker, almost certainly kifra wines. It was an impressive spread, and would have fed forty, rather than four. M’lennin was consistent, at least, in his excess.
    M’len and the pilot had not noticed me. I stepped silently into the hall, planning to cross the marble floor unannounced.
    I had made perhaps a third of the distance when a hand came down firmly from behind me on my left shoulder. Reflexively I dropped and kicked out. I felt my foot connect with something hard. Crouching free, I pulled my hair back from my face.
    My would-be attacker was on his knees, clutching his diaphragm.
    M’lennin and the pilot were leaning on each other, laughing hysterically. I saw the overturned chairs and spilled fruit on the floor, and the menial robot clicking irritably as it scurried to set things right.
    “I would introduce you two,” gasped the Liaison through tears of laughter, “but I see you have already met.”
    My adversary raised his head to me, steadying himself with one hand on the floor as he rose. I, too, got to my feet.
    My hands on my hips, I regarded him. I did not think the situation humorous. I have had much training from the Slayers. My teacher, Rin diet Tron, would say I have many moves. I would say I have a few, though I am no match for a Silistran Slayer.
    “My apologies, lady,” said my attacker. He was a good head taller than I, dark-complexioned, with a great mass of black hair. Under straight, pronounced brows his eyes were gray, frank, open. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. I thought him very attractive, though overly muscled. I had brought him down through luck, and he knew it. He weighed perhaps thrice what I carried. He rubbed his middle.
    “I am Estri,” said I, extending my hand palm up. I would not exchange apologies with him. I smiled and nodded my head.
    “Khaf-Re Dellin,” said he. His voice was pleasant, low and rich. His large hand, palm down, enveloped mine. The back of his hand was fleeced with black silky hair. He wore a white, collared shirt, and the black shorts I knew were part of the Liaison dress code, though M’len always wore pants and boots.
    His eyes had mine, and we stood there, palms touching, longer than was appropriate. Neither of us spoke. I searched for something to say, but I was mute. Instead I disengaged my hand and turned to M’lennin.
    “You had better teach him some manners before he goes to Arlet,” I advised in a low voice.
    “Perhaps you will do it for me,” he said, giving me