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not returned, after the klin zha kinta. The others game-killed had, including Ragga, but Ragga was sullen and distant now, hardly speaking even to curse.
    Vrenn came into the front common room. The light was lower here, the air moister; there were plants and a shallow dark pool for meditations. Panels of colored glass in the ceiling formed a large Imperial trefoil, the komerex stela, glowing with angular morning sun. A klin zha table was idle near the wall; Vrenn went toward it.
    “You are Vrenn Khemara.” Again, it was the sound of someone speaking, not the name he was called, that made Vrenn turn: and this voice was not Klingon, though the language was klingonaase.
    A tall, very thin figure was approaching: he wore a black and gold Navy uniform, without insignia. Vrenn did not know the race. A little behind him was Proctor Khidri, carrying a folded pile of dark cloth.
    “My name is Tirian,” the tall male said. He had an extremely angular face, very broad shoulders, a narrow waist. “I am Transporteer to Thought Admiral Kethas. I am now honored to serve you as well.”
    Khidri held out the bundle. “Epetai-Khemara has sent clothing for you.”
    Vrenn took the clothes. There was a long, loose tunic and trousers of deep blue fabric, very soft. Vrenn tugged open the seams of his gray House uniform and began changing on the spot; Khidri was after all a House Proctor, and Tirian, whatever his exact race, was obviously kuve. He had spoken of serving—and more telling, Khidri had said epetai-Khemara sent the clothes, not that Tirian brought them.
    A thought occurred as Vrenn was dressing. “These are like Cadet’s clothes, aren’t they? Navy Cadet’s?”
    Tirian said, “Somewhat. A Cadet’s tunic is less long or full, so that it does not balloon in no-weight.”
    Vrenn moved his shoulders. He had never touched cloth so soft. He picked up his discarded uniform, folding it automatically, and gave it to Khidri. “When do we depart, Transporteer?” he said, feeling his voice tremble just a bit as he tried for the sound of command.
    “At your convenience, zan Vrenn. Do you have baggage?”
    “No…nothing, Transporteer.”
    “If you wish, call me Tirian. Kuvesa tokhesa. ” I serve willingly, the alien said, and yet Vrenn knew it for an instruction. “Then you shall call me Vrenn,” he answered, a request.
    They went into the House forecourt. There was a small flier parked there, short-winged and graceful, green-backed and white-bellied. The viewports had armored shutters ready to drop, and under the wings were mounted disruptors and missile pods. Vrenn knew it from the recognition books as a Teska-2: not just an armed transport but a real combat craft, able to meet a spaceship in orbit.
    Around the flier, admiring it from a careful distance, were the residents of the House Gensa; at Kidri’s appearance all turned, and fell neatly into ranks.
    They sang “The Vengeance Flies at Morning,” the theme from Vrenn’s favorite tape series: “Undefeated” was the House favorite, but it was about facing enemies and death. This was a better song for today.
    The guns are hot, the hull is ringing,
    The engines sing the sound of triumph;
    And every one aboard awaits
    A prize upon the high horizon.
    Hand and weapon! Heart and power!
    Cry it with the voice of Empire!
    Victory and prize and plunder!
    Vengeance flies at morning!
    It was the perfect song for today, and Vrenn’s neck hurt with holding his jaw steady and his lips tight shut…but Zharn was not here to sing it, nor Gelly.
    Rokis stepped forward, limping a bit; she had hurt her leg in the klin zha kinta, making a grand swooping kill. She held out her hands to Vrenn: in them was a brown paper envelope. “A gift from us,” she said. “Some things to remember.”
    Vrenn almost smiled. So that was why he had not found it beneath his bed.
    A hand intruded, and Vrenn stopped as he reached for the envelope; a Proctor passed a device over the package and withdrew again