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told the advisor, who fell in step beside him. "He owes me a round of Bajha." During which Ché would determine what his brother knew of this sudden mad shove to the altar, if anything.
    "The council's proposal caught you off guard." Hoe's concern for Che's welfare shone in his seamed face.
    "It was not the subject I thought I'd be facing over my morning tock."
    "But it's good— a good plan."
    "Speak for yourself, Hoe."
    "Look at the positives, my lord. Now you won't have to attend the B'kah wedding, looking… so alone. You'll arrive with your new queen on your arm, the most eligible of all the available princesses, and the B'kah wedding will be a much happier occasion for all."
    "And our Vedla family pride will remain intact."
    Hoe beamed. "Precisely."
    Ché stopped by a set of heavy double doors and punched in the code to enter Klark's living area— a large suite of rooms with access to a vast locked and guarded garden and exercise arena. Klark certainly wasn't suffering during his imprisonment, but he was alone, kept from communicating with his political cronies. With a nanocomputer implanted in his neck, he could not leave the palace without setting off an alarm.
    After his code was accepted, Ché glanced into the retinal scanner. It beeped in recognition, allowing him past. Hoe did the same and followed him into a softly lit foyer. A black polished stone floor gleamed under their boots.
    Klark met them, dressed in white from head to toe in an as-yet-unfastened Bajha suit, serenely sipping from a cup in his hand. His hair was wet and slicked back from his face. He shared Che's features— the high cheekbones, long straight nose, and cleft chin of their clan— but he was harder, leaner in appearance.
    Klark waved his hand at a grouping of large white pillows on a like-hued rug. "Join me while I finish my tock."
    Ché glanced down with longing. The carpet was plush, the pillows soft. He fought the almost overwhelming desire to lie down there, close his eyes and fall asleep, if only so he could awaken and find out that the news of his impending marriage was a bad dream.
    Klark cocked a golden brow. "You look tired." His eyes twinkled, indicating that he assumed correctly what Ché had spent the hours before dawn doing. He was right, to a degree, but that wasn't what had truly wearied him.
    "I will change into my suit," Ché replied curtly and ducked into the dressing room. His white one-piece outfit was stiff, coated with a protective rubbery substance on the outside. Grimly he closed a series of fastenings from each ankle to the neck, and lastly pulled on flexible white boots that were as comfortable as his choicest slippers.
    Clearly and understandably curious about Che's black mood, Klark followed as Ché exited the dressing room and entered the arena. The doors slammed behind them, leaving the white-walled, featureless chamber silent— except for the pitter-pat of Hoe's boots as the advisor climbed the stairs to spectator seats above the padded playing floor. Ché and his brother began their twice-weekly practice session with a merciless series of stretches and lunges.
    "My plans for the next few months have changed, Klark," Ché said, breathless. "I would like to discuss them with you." He then lifted his clublike sens-sword, "lights," he called, plunging the arena into darkness.
    Bajha was an ancient game based on intuition and instinct. Those skills, when honed, made a man a superior warrior, an exceptional pilot, and, some said, a better lover. But Ché also practiced Bajha to reach a higher state of consciousness, which he found particularly useful when he needed to think, like now.
    "I am to marry within the next few months," he explained.
    "Marry!"
    Ché swerved at the sound of Klark's voice. Muscles tense, his combat instincts vibrating in readiness, he held his sens-sword in front of him in a sure, two-handed grip. "Councilman Toren visited me this morning and unveiled his master plan." His voice echoed