"I have no wish to be torn to pieces," he said.

"That is understandable," I said. "Neither would I cheerfully look forward to such a termination."

"You seem in a good mood," he said.

"Surely you, too, should be in a pleasant frame of mind," I said. "Is our business not nearly completed?"

"That is my hope," said Msaliti.

"Do you truly fear the beasts so?" I asked.

"Our business has been delayed," he said. "It is my fear that the beasts themselves will come for the ring."

"But I am to pick up the ring," I said.

"I do not even know you," said Msaliti.

"I do not know you either, really," I said.

"We were looking for the blond girl," he said.

"She was delayed," I said. "She was enslaved," I pointed out, cheerfully.

"A pity," he said.

"Nonsense," I said. "Slavery is good for a woman."

"I do not trust Shaba," he said.

"I am sure he does not trust us either," I said. "At least we trust each other."

Msaliti drummed his fingers on the low table.

"Are you sure we are alone?" I asked.

"Of course," said Msaliti. "None have entered. Before I came the askaris, in the anteroom, guarded the door."

"They neglected, I see," I said, "to replace the peas on their threads in this room, those dislodged by my peregrination of yesterday evening on the roof."

"Of course they replaced them," said Msaliti.

"I would not he too sure then," I said, "that we are alone."

Msaliti looked quickly upward. Several of the strings, with the tiny peas attached, dangled downward.

"The grille, too, I note," I said, "has been removed."

"You are observant," said Shaba.

Msaliti staggered to his feet. stumbling backward.

Across the table from us, in his customary place, sat Shaba. There had been a momentary blurring in the area, a sort of twisting swirl of light, something like a whirlpool of light, and then, calmly, he had sat before us.

"I did not think you would be late," I said. "You seemed a punctual fellow."

"It is you who were late," he said.

"Yes," I said, "I am sorry about that I was detained."

"Was she pretty?" asked Shaba.

I nodded. "Yes," I said.

"Matters of great moment are afoot here," said Msaliti. "With your permission, that of both of you, if you please, I would like to attend to them."

"It is my understanding," said Shaba to me, "that you have brought the notes and the false ring."

"Yes," I said. I put the notes on the table.

"Where is the false ring?" asked Msaliti.

"I have it," I told him.

Shaba looked at the notes, carefully. He did not hurry. "These notes seem to be in order," he said.

"May I see them?" asked Msaliti.

Shaba handed him the notes. "You do not trust our broad-shouldered courier?" he asked.

"I trust as few people as possible," said Msaliti. He looked at the notes, very closely. Then he handed them back to Shaba. "I know the seals and signatures," he said. "They may truly be drawn on the banks indicated."

"There are twenty thousand tarns of gold there," I said.

"Cash them before you carry the false ring to the Sardar," said Msaliti. "It is in our interest, in these circumstances, to bargain in good faith."

"But what if I do not carry the false ring to the Sardar?" asked Shaba.

"I would do so if I were you," said Msaliti.

"I see," said Shaba.

"The beasts," he said, "do not deal lightly with traitors."

"That is understandable," said Shaba.

"This business could be conducted in the morning," I said, "at the banks in question. You might then verify the notes and withdraw or redeposit the gold as you please."

"Kunguni the beggar," said Msaliti, "cannot well enter the edifices on Schendi's Street of Coins."

"Then enter as Msaliti," I said.

Msaliti laughed. "Do not speak foolishly," he said.

I did not understand his answer.

"I am satisfied to do the business tonight," said Shaba. "If the notes are not genuine, obviously I would not carry the ring to the Sardar."

"Remember," said Msaliti, "do not depress the switch on the false ring. It must be depressed only in the Sardar."

The hair on the back of my neck rose. I then realized that what I had suspected must be true, that the false ring was of great danger.

Shaba put the notes within his robes. He then, from about his neck, removed a long, light chain. It had hung hitherto within the robes, concealed. He opened the chain.

I saw the ring on the chain.

My heart was pounding.

He extended his hand. "May I have the false ring?" he asked.

"I think there is little point in carrying the false ring to the Sardar," I said. "The delay has surely been such as to provoke suspicion." This was true. Actually I was not eager, for a personal reason, for Shaba to deliver the ring. I respected what he had done in the exploration of Gor. I knew him to be a man of intelligence and courage. He was a traitor, yes, but there was something about him, indefinable, which I found to my liking. I did not particularly wish to see him subjected to whatever Priest-Kings, or their human allies, might deem fit as the fate of a traitor. I did not think that if they set their minds to it they would be less ingenious than Kurii. Perhaps it would be better if I slew him. I would do so swiftly, mercifully.

"The ring, please," said Shaba.

"Give him the ring," said Msaliti.

I handed Shaba the false ring and he slipped it on the chain.

"Were there not eleven strings dangling from the ceiling?" he asked.

Msaliti quickly turned and looked. "I do not know," he said. "Are there more now?"

I had not taken my eyes from Shaba. "There were twelve" I said.

"There are twelve now," said Msaliti, counting.

"Then there are the same number now as before," said Shaba.

"Yes," I said, regarding him evenly.

"I must commend you," said Shaba. "You have powers of observation worthy of a scribe-or of a warrior."

He turned the chain and slipped a ring from it, handing it to me.

Geographers and cartographers, of course, are members of the Scribes.

I allowed for the turning of the chain. I received in my hand the ring which had originally hung on the chain.

Shaba, the false ring on the chain, again fastened the chain behind his neck.

He stood up, and so, too, did Msaliti and myself. "I am leaving Schendi tonight," said Shaba.

"I, too," said Msaliti. "I have lingered too long here."

"It would not be well for you to be too much missed," smiled Shaba.

"No," said Msaliti. I did not understand their exchange.

"I wish you well, my colleagues in treachery," said Shaba.

"Farewell," said we to him. He then, bowing, took his leave.

"Give me now the ring," said Msaliti.

"I will keep it," I said.

"Give it to me," said Msaliti, not pleasantly.

"No," I said. I then looked at the ring. I turned it in my hand. I wished to see the minute scratch which would, for me, identify the Tahari ring. I turned the ring feverishly. My hand shook. "Stop Shaba!" I said. "This is not the ring!"

"He is gone," said Msaliti. "That is the ring from the chain on his neck, where he carried the shield ring."

"It is not the shield ring," I said, miserably.

I had been outwitted. Shaba was a brilliant man. He had established for us, earlier, yesterday evening, that the ring on the chain had been the shield ring. Tonight, however, he had substituted a new ring. I might have discerned this had he not appeared to be intent on misdirecting our attention, calling it to the simple warning system, that of the threads and peas, in the ceiling, presumably to effect switch of the rings while our attention was diverted. I had not permitted my attention, however, to be diverted. Too, when he had turned the chain, I had made certain that the ring which he had surrendered to me had been the ring originally on the chain. The exchange of rings, of course, had actually taken place earlier, in privacy. The ring he had apparently intended to exchange for the true ring would have been the false ring, returning it to us as the true ring. I had not permitted this. My smugness at preventing this exchange had blinded me, foolishly, to the possibility that the ring on the chain this evening might not have been the true ring to begin with.