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save with Ferwar, who had always recognized a lie and could not be misled.
    “The Old One died—what she had saved was then mine. She sought old things and dreamed over them, believing them true treasures.”
    He did not answer her at once, then the serving boy was back with their footed drinking horns, two platters of still smoking stew, tongs and spoon stuffed upward in the center holders. The starman had swept his finds off the table, into his bag, and out of sight with a swift deftness which Simsa was forced to approve. It would seem that, if he was willing to show her what he carried, he had no mind to let others inspect such wares.
    Zass stirred and scrambled down from Simsa’s shoulder quickly. Such a lavish display of food was not common for either of them and the zorsal could be greedy when she had gone on short rations for a day. The girl picked up the tongs, searched for a lump of meat as big as her thumb and preferred it to the creature who seized eagerly with a throaty gurgle.
    “The small one,” the starman observed, “seems well trained.”
    Simsa chewed and swallowed a fragment of crisp tac root, spicy from being broiled in the stew, before she answered:
    “One does not train zorsals . . .”
    Now she saw him smile and his smooth face looked even younger. “So we have been told many times over,” he agreed. “Still, it would seem that this one lives content with you, gentlehomo. While Gathar admits that he has never had better hunters of vermin than those he received from your hands. Perhaps only you have the secrets of the art to make friends between man and such.”
    Was he trying flattery now? There was no reason for him to believe that she could be so moved to his will. He must have sensed her instant wariness, or read it somehow in her face, for he had laid aside his own tongs and spoon, making no headway with his stew, but took up his drinking horn and watched her across the rim of it, as he sat with it half way to his lips, a picture of a man caught up in a puzzle.
    “Your Old One—she was a Burrower.” He did not make that a question but a statement and Simsa knew that he must have gotten from Gathar all the waremaster knew. “Did she find many such in burrowing?”
    Say ‘yes’ Simsa decided quickly and she might unleash on the Burrows half a force of guild men. The same would be well warmed with anger when they found that there were no such pickings left. She must be very careful.
    “I do not know where first she found such.” That was the truth. “Of late, she traded for them—”
    The starman leaned forward, setting down his drink as untasted as his dinner.
    “With whom did she trade?” His voice was low, but he rapped that out with a ring of authority which again hinted of the power to discover what he wished to know if he need call on such aid.
    “There was—” More truth, enough to lead him away from her, point him toward the source which had dried up a good four seasons back and the uncovering of which would reveal nothing now, “one of the rivermen who was in debt to the Old One. From time to time, he brought such, then ceased to come—death is easy along the waters and he was said to be a man with a price on him—a thief who had broken faith with the Master.”
    Though those oddly shaped lids veiled the starman’s eyes, they had not moved quickly enough, she had seen that sparking of interest there. So telling the truth was the right path here after all. Turn this one’s nose up river and she was free of him.
    The heavy downward swing of her sleeve was a reminder of what she still carried. Why not make a deal with him since he was a hunter of old things? He believed her story, of that she was sure and, since he was so eager, she could get enough for them. Quickly Simsa disciplined her soaring hopes, it was never well to tempt fortune by expecting too much.
    Now, she pushed aside the platter before her and moved to unfasten the tight wrist band of her sleeve. Not