By now the day had turned blazing hot, and two dozen ezintis were churning up the field until a fog of dust hung over it. It was getting hard to see one's own teammates, and nearly impossible to find the ball unless it hit you between the eyes. And if that happens, you won't be able to use your knowledge of the huba-gan, thought Blade. Half a pound of bronze moving at the speed of a cricket ball would crack a man's skull like a hammer.

Everyone was riding cautiously. Exhausted mounts and poor visibility increased the danger of being spilled and trampled. Blade didn't have to worry about standing out in the crowd any more. Nobody more than thirty feet away would have recognized him, let alone told what he was doing. He was coated with dust from head to foot, to the roots of his hair and even under his loinguard. His mouth was filled with dust, and mud dripped from his limbs where sweat had flowed through the dust.

A Black Rock scored; the game was tied again. Blade hoped all of the White Trees were even more exhausted than he was. If they scored again, it was going to take a lot of luck for either him or the Black Rocks to save the game. He wasn't sure if the best thing for him now wouldn't be his mount dropping dead.

It was the first time in his life that Blade had thought playing the game out to the end would not be a good thing. Most of the time it was the wisest course of action. You always should be able to outlast an opponent, if nothing else. But not nor. Not when Winter Owl's goodwill might mean the difference between victory and something far worse.

Winter Owl found himself in the open, with the ball and a long clear shot. He let fly, and the ball hit home.

Eight to seven, in favor of the Black Rocks. Some of the Black Rocks supporters were cheering again. They had a right to, Blade realized. The game had about five minutes more to run, and if the Black Rocks simply played it cautiously they would have their victory. Then Richard Blade would have a good-tempered Winter Owl ready to listen to him.

Half blinded by dust, sweat, and heat, men on both sides were now riding their mounts over the boundaries of the field and being ruled out of the game. The Black Rocks were down to seven riders, the White Trees to six. Blade hoped the next rider would be from the White Trees. That would settle matters.

A Black Rock charged at him out of the murk. Blade raised his stick. The other mount flinched aside, nearly went down, then headed off at an angle. The rider cursed. Blade saw now the bedraggled feathers of the ball trailing from the cup of his stick. He dug his heels into his mount's flank and followed the Black Rock.

Better keep an eye on him, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid like giving the White Trees a chance to score, Blade told himself. Just don't get caught in a position where what you can do will make the difference between winning and losing.

Suddenly the runaway ezinti was coming up on the boundary of the field. The rider had to get rid of the ball and did so, to the nearest rider-Blade. Perhaps he hadn't recognized Blade as a White Tree, or was too exhausted to think that a rider following him might not be a friend.

As he realized this ugly truth, a drum started to boom, loud enough to be heard all over the field. When that drum sounded thirty times, the game would be over. There was no tie in the game of nor; if the score was even at the end of three periods there would be a fourth. Blade wanted to avoid that. If he could just keep from scoring until those thirty beats passed…

He couldn't drop the ball. All at once there wasn't enough dust around him to hide him from his teammates.

They would see him plainly. His mount seemed to have found new strength. It was pawing at the ground, ready to run instead of collapse. Blade cursed it.

If only he had some really useful form of telepathy! Telekinesis, for example-the ability to control physical objects with the mind. He could shoot the ball and make it miss, or snap his stick before the ball left the cup, or-But he didn't have telekinesis, and someone would surely detect it if he did and used it. Using telepathy among telepaths was like shouting secrets in a crowded theater.

Blade urged his mount down the field. There wasn't anything to do except his best, and hope it wouldn't be good enough. Twenty beats to go, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen-the goal almost within shooting distance-fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve-

If he shot now he might miss. But he didn't have to shoot now, and everybody would wonder if he did. He had a clear field ahead. He could ride down and practically spit the ball into the cap, and since it was possible he had to do it. Blade rode on.

At eight beats to go he was in shooting range. He dipped his stick, then snapped it upward. The ball soared through the air, losing a feather at it went. Maybe that would change its course enough to make it miss. It rose-and suddenly Blade knew that it was rising higher than it should. He hadn't put that much strength into the stick's movements, hoping the ball would fall short.

Instead the ball rose a good six feet into the air. Nobody except Blade would have noticed anything, but Blade stared as the ball soared over the hole. It struck on the far side of the mound, bounced so high that Blade was afraid for a moment it was going to do the impossible and bounce back in, then rolled down the mound and off into the coarse grass beyond the boundaries of the field.

The roar of the crowd drowned out the last few drumbeats.

The Black Rocks had won the Great Game of nor, eight to seven.

Blade threw down his stick in a good imitation of anger. He was more surprised and suspicious than angry. Something-or someone-had obviously been acting on the ball from outside. Telekinesis? Probably. And whose? Had he managed to become telekinetic by simply wanting to be? Or had someone else-?

For the moment it was an unanswerable question, even if he could give it the attention it deserved. Both teams were riding toward him, their captains riding side by side in the rear. Both sides looked too exhausted to either rejoice at their victory or mourn their defeat. All Blade saw was blank, dust-caked faces like his own.

All except Winter Owl's. The warrior was grinning as he rode up to Blade. «Blade, if you play for the White Trees next year, I think I shall call the game their victory before we play. Why make ourselves tired and dirty when we know what will happen? Better to sit with women on our knees and beer in our bellies.»

«Do not be so sure of that,» Friend of Lions said. He wasn't exactly grinning, but he no longer looked grim. «And besides, does not the beer taste better when one has worked up a proper thirst?»

«There may be something in that,» said Winter Owl. «Let us go find out for certain, and take Blade with us. This day I say there is neither winner nor loser in the Great Game of nor.»

«I thank you,» said Blade. He had to fight not to sway on the back of his mount, and the idea of anything to drink was enticing.

His day's work was done. He had Winter Owl's goodwill, and no one suspected there was anything odd about the outcome of the game. No one, that is, except the person who jiggled the ball in Blade's last shot-if there was such a person.

That question could wait. Eye of Crystal was running across the field toward him, wearing a broad grin and not much else. She laughed and threw her arms around his knee, and he reached down and tousled her hair. She would make a fine woman to have on his knee while he quenched his thirst.