"I am the ward of the Matriarch!"

"Yes," he said softly. "And she is old and has not yet, so I understand, named her successor. Would that be you, My Lady? Are you destined to be the next Matriarch of Kund?"

"You forget yourself!" She was rigid with anger. "What would you, a traveler, know of such things?"

"Are you, My Lady?"

He was on dangerous ground, more dangerous than he'd thought. A shadow grew from the gloom and thickened into the face and form of the captain of the Matriarch's guard. Elspeth was coldly polite.

"You are needed, My Lady," she said to the girl. "You are not," she snapped at Dumarest. "Come, My Lady."

He watched them go then wandered slowly through the camp. He spotted where Sime had planted his coffin and himself, hugging the perimeter of the Matriarch's tented area. The old crone, some way off, busied herself over a fire. The dancing light made her look like a watch. She didn't look up as he passed.

Dumarest continued on his way, looking for Megan. He halted as someone touched his arm, recognizing one of the monks by the light of a nearby fire.

"Yes?"

"Your name is Dumarest?"

"That's right. You want me?"

"A friend of yours has been hurt. He asked for you." The monk turned to lead the way. "If you will follow me, brother?"

Megan lay supine on a couch of uprooted grass gathered in one corner of the portable church. He wore no shirt and his back was marked with long, livid welts. They had not been caused by a normal whip. Dumarest knelt to examine them. His face was hard as he stared at the monk in attendance.

"When?"

"We found him a short while ago close to the edge of the cliffs. He was scarcely conscious. He asked for you." Brother Angelo tenderly applied salve to the welts. Dumarest knocked aside his hand.

"That stuff is useless. He's been beaten with a strag. He needs sedatives and neutralizes."

"I know, brother." The man was very calm. "But we can only use what we have."

It wasn't enough. The dried, flexible body of a sea serpent found in the oceans of Strag carried a searingly painful nerve-poison in its jagged scales. Its use was much favored by overseers and the aristocracy for the punishment of slaves and underlings. Dumarest felt his muscles knot with rage as he looked at the thin shoulders and fleshless back of his friend.

"Go to the tents of the Matriarch," he said. "She is not unsympathetic. Buy what you need." He searched his pockets for the bonus-money he had won. He spilled it all into the monk's hands. "Hurry!"

Gently he stooped over the moaning figure. A cold hand gripped his stomach as he exposed the face. A lash across the eyes with a strag brought permanent blindness. Megan had been lucky. The lash which had marked his cheeks had missed his eyes. The welts on the back of his hands showed why.

"What happened?" Dumarest leaned close to the other's mouth. "Who did this?"

"Crowder." The voice was a tormented whisper. "The prince refused to pay me—said that it was the price of failure. Crowder added to the price." A spasm contorted the sweating features. "God! The pain!"

"Steady!" Dumarest gripped the thin shoulder. "Why did he refuse to pay you?"

"I tried to be smart." Megan sobbed in his agony. "Stay away from the cliffs, Earl. When the wind blows sometimes people get the urge to run. Sometimes they run right over the edge. I've seen them do it."

"So?"

"I tried to get the prince to camp close to the edge of the cliff. I thought that, when the wind blew, he might go over. Teach the swine a lesson… whips his…" The mumbling voice rose to a scream. "The pain! God, the pain!"

"Is there nothing you can do?" Dumarest glared up at the remaining monk. Brother Benedict spread his hands, his face sympathetic in the glow of the single lamp.

"Strag poison lowers the pain level so that a scratch becomes almost unendurable agony. Until the poison has been neutralized or dissipated that condition will remain."

"I know that." Dumarest was impatient. "What of your hypnotic techniques?" He snarled as the monk made no answer. "Damn it, I know about your benediction-light. This man went to church back at the field. He must still be prone to your suggestions. Work on him, damn it!"

"Easy, brother." The monk was gentle but firm. "We have already tried that. Hypnosis requires the cooperation of the subject. Strag poison makes that impossible." He paused. "We do not like to see the effects of pain, brother," he continued gently. "There is too much suffering in the universe for us to wish for more."

"I believe you."

Dumarest hesitated. Humanity all belonged to the same root but there were many branches. What would be harmless to one could be serious injury to another. Then Megan screamed and decided the matter.

"Steady," soothed Dumarest. "Steady."

He rested his hands on Megan's throat, his thumbs probing the flesh. He sought and found the carotids then pressed, cutting off the blood supply to the brain. Brother Benedict stepped forward, his face anxious.

"Be careful, brother!"

Dumarest nodded, counting the seconds. A little pressure should bring unconsciousness, too much would result in death. But he was unsure of the exact effect of strag poison on the body's metabolism, even less sure of what mutational divergences Megan might carry in his body. It would take so little, a slight alteration in the oxygen needs of the brain, a lowering of the reviving effect of fresh blood. Even an unsuspected weakness…

He removed his hands.

Megan screamed.

"I tried that, brother." The monk was quick to lessen his failure. "That and pressure on certain nerves of the spine. We can do nothing; the poison has beaten us. Perhaps Brother Angelo will have better success."

They didn't have long to wait. Dumarest sprang to his feet as the monk returned from his errand. He was empty-handed.

"I am sorry, brother." He handed back the money. "The Matriarch has sealed her area."

"Sealed?" Dumarest fought his anger. "Did you see the physician? The Lady Seena?"

"No one, brother."

"Damn it! Did you try?"

"I tried," said the monk with dignity. "But I could not get past the guards."

Dumarest winced as Megan began to moan.

The guard was a vague shadow against the bulk of the tent. He snapped up his weapon, his voice hard.

"Halt!"

Dumarest halted, then moved slowly forward. "I want to see your master."

"Who are you?"

"Dumarest. I killed his fighter."

"I saw it." The guard became more friendly. He lowered his weapon together with his voice. "A nice bout. It was about time that pimp got what was coming to him but you were too gentle. Your footwork was fine but you took a chance at the end. You should have—"

"I won," snapped Dumarest impatiently. "Are you going to announce me?"

"Well—" The guard was doubtful. "What is your business with the prince?"

"Personal. Now call his flunky and tell him that I want to see his master. Move!"

It was a gamble but he had nothing to lose. If the guard did his duty he would refuse even to announce the visitor but Dumarest was banking both on his reputation and the factor of curiosity. He won the gamble.

"What is this?" Crowder came from the tent, his face puffed in the light of a torch he held above his head. A thin, glistening tube almost a foot in length dangled from a chain about his right wrist Dumarest knew what it contained. "What is it you want? Your prize? That is with the factor. What else?"

"I will tell that to the prince."

Crowder flushed and dropped his right hand, catching the tube and fingering the catch. A slight pressure and the strag would spring from its sheath. One slash and the man would have reason to regret his insolence. Then he hesitated, remembering where he had last seen Dumarest, and with whom. A man so friendly with the Lady Seena could have his uses. He let the tube slip from his hand.