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          |           |      BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine 
       ___|___________|___  X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>

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                                 CONTENTS 
             X-Editorial                          'Orny' Liscomb 
             Flyer's Dance                         John Sullivan 
             Untitled                              Lori Spier 
            *Worthy of the Title, Part 3           M. Wendy Hennequin


           Date: 041688                               Dist: 619 
           An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
           All original materials  copyrighted by the author(s) 
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                               X-Editorial
     Greetings  once  again!  Well,  it's  about  time  another  couple
 issues of  FSFnet were sent  out. In this  issue we have  an excellent
 SF  story by  a very  promising new  author, John  Sullivan; also  the
 conclusion of  Wendy's Dargon  series, "Worthy of  the Title",  and an
 SF short  story by Lori  Spier. The  next issue should  follow closely
 on the heels of  this one (if the queue between  Yale and CUNY permits
 it), and  will include a new  story by Ron Meldrum  and the conclusion
 of  Carlo's  "Cydric" series.  And  there  are several  other  stories
 currently  in   the  works,   and  which   I  know   are  particularly 
 interesting, and  should be ready  for printing  very soon. In  all, a
 huge quantity  of very good  fiction coming  your way, enabling  me to 
 keep keep  my editorials  nice and  short (under  the pretense  of not
 having enough room to waste on my own editorial ramblings and such).
     So, without  becoming particularly verbose  about it, I'd  like to
 say that it's  good to see you  again, I hope you like  the issue, and
 I hope it won't be too long before I'll see you again. Enjoy!
                     -'Orny' Liscomb  <CSDAVE@MAINE>

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                              Flyer's Dance
     Humans  aren't  supposed  to  dream  in  D-sleep.  They  don't  do
 anything at  all. But  the computers  must have  noted the  turmoil in 
 his  brainwaves and  brought him  at least  partially out,  because in 
 the deep night between stars, Kei dreamed of the world called Gironde.
     Lissa  was in  the  crawler. She  was trying  to  fix the  engine, 
 coached  on  radio  by  the   base  engineers.  "Forty  minutes,"  she 
 shouted,  fear  in her  voice.  Forty  minutes  until the  flare  hit, 
 bathing the entire hemisphere in radiation. 
     The  folding shovel  from  the  emergency kit  was  cheap, with  a
 tubular  handle of  thin  metal  that kept  folding  back  up when  he
 thrust into the  dirt. As soon as  he got a spadeful up,  he tossed it 
 over  his shoulder  into the  heap that  slowly piled  up against  the
 crawler's sunward side.  He kept remembering his  old freshman physics 
 professor  talking  about  the   distances  gamma  rays  could  travel
 through lead.  Kei wished  Dr. Conover  were here  now. He  could help
 him  dig. Kei  worked  on, blisters  forming on  his  palms. The  pale
 white light cast his face into harsh relief. 
     "Ten more  minutes," Lissa called.  It couldn't have been  half an
 hour already.  The hole was  no bigger.  His hands were  bleeding now, 
 making it  harder to  grip the  shovel. Kei turned  to check  the pile
 and saw a flower drift down to rest in the turned earth. 
     He  looked  up  in  surprise  and  saw  his  grandfather,  sitting 
 cross-legged on the  crawler roof. His sword was sheathed  on his lap,
 and  a small  bowl of  flowers sat  next to  one knee.  With a  casual 
 motion  he  flipped another  blossom  from  the  bowl and  watched  it 
 flutter down beside the first.
     "Grandfather!" he cried. Surely he would help dig. 
     "I tried  so hard to  teach you about  wisdom and life,  Kei," the 
 old man said sorrowfully. 
     "I listened to you."
     "Are you listening now?" And another flower fell.
     "Grandfather, will  you help  me dig? I'm  begging you.  I'm going
 to die. My wife...." 
     "You don't understand." His grandfather shook his head slowly.
     Lissa called from inside. There was no more time. 
     "I  have to  go  inside  now, grandfather.  The  flare's going  to
 hit." His  grandfather looked  ashamed as Kei  dropped the  shovel and 
 went into the crawler. 
     Kei and  Lissa curled together under  a last futile layer  of seat 
 cushions and  winter clothing. For a  time, Lissa talked to  him about 
 her home on Delta  Raeli. Then she'd cried. He held  her as she lapsed 
 into coma,  kissing her as  she slipped away  from him. Soon  he would
 follow her. The  dream faded as Kei weakly screamed  his rage and pain
 at the baleful white sun.
     There was  a thin sheen  of ice on  his cheeks when  the computers
 woke him over Delta Raeli.

     Delta Raeli was  a small world, cool with a  dense atmosphere. The 
 gravity was  a weak .8G,  making his movements more  comfortable. Even
 with the  painkillers that  his medpack  dispensed, his  muscles ached 
 and his  nerves burned.  He was  constantly tired  as his  body vainly 
 tried  to throw  off the  tumor tissue  growing within  him. The  ride
 down to the surface had made it worse. 
     Apparently  his  story  had   made  the  newsnets  because  people 
 recognized him  in the terminal.  He felt  the stares of  the curious, 
 and heard  whispered voices saying things  like "radiation poisoning,"
 and "wife died,"  and "lawsuit." They seemed  especially fascinated by 
 the  money. Several  times he  heard "thirty  million" whispered  in a
 sort of jealous  awe. None of them  had ever worn a  medpack. He hated 
 the  thing, with  its  blinking telltales  and  the catheters  running 
 into his  body. He longed  to whirl on them  and tell them  they could
 have the  money if they  could give him more  than two months  to live
 without it  strapped to his torso.  While they were at  it, they could 
 give him  back his wife. But  he didn't say anything,  afraid he would
 go too  far and  break down  some barrier within  him that  was better
 left intact. 
     He made  his way through customs  and hired a car.  Lissa's father 
 made  his  living shooting  documentary  tapes  for export,  and  they
 lived  in the  barrier  range, where  the andrils  were.  None of  the
 tourist trains went anywhere near them. 
     Finally, in  the car,  he could  relax. He  settled back  into the
 seat and  gazed out the windows  at the mountains in  the distance. He
 could see andrils  moving in that far distance. They  were small black
 dots  that swirled  and looped  in the  wild winds  around the  peaks. 
 Seeing them, he bit his lip to fight the tears. 
     The  Farnhams   lived  near   the  highest   peaks,  in   a  house
 overlooking a two  thousand meter drop into fierce  desert badlands on 
 the other side  of the range. He paid the  driver outside, and Lissa's
 mother met him at the door. 
     "Mr. Fujiwara,"  she said, her  voice confused between  sorrow and
 pity.  Then she  let out  a breath  and closed  her eyes  momentarily. 
 "Kei."  She put  an arm  around  his shoulders  and led  him into  the 
 house. Her  parents knew the  bare details  from the newsnets,  but it 
 was different when he told them. Now the tears came. 

     Along  an indistinct  line the  living room  turned into  balcony, 
 and  Kei sat,  drink in  one  hand, looking  out  at the  sky and  the 
 peaks, purple  in the fading light.  Once he had officially  told them
 how Lissa had died, no one seemed to know what else to say.
     Lissa's  mother finally  broke  the silence.  "You  look so,"  she 
 paused, unsure of what to say. "Healthy." 
     He shook his head.  "The drugs slow it as much  as possible, but I
 can  feel  them  losing  ground.  When it  comes  the  decay  will  be
 exponential. The  last couple days will  be bad, very bad."  He took a
 sip from his glass. 
     "What are you  going to do?" asked her father.  "You could go into
 D-sleep. You've got the money."
     "I  could," he  admitted. He  left the  rest unsaid.  There was  a
 faint hope that in  a few years they would be able  to arrest the wild 
 cell  growth that  was eating  him from  within. But  without her  the
 world had nothing to offer him. He wasn't going to take D-sleep.
     There was  a flash of movement  outside and a cry,  like a bird's,
 but longer  and modulated.  He looked  off the  balcony and  an andril 
 plunged through the  growing darkness a few thousand  feet away. Great 
 wings folded  and bent, twisting  the creature into a  corkscrew roll.
 Two  trailing appendages  -  almost tentacles  -  rippled through  the 
 wind  behind  it.  At  their  ends,  smaller  versions  of  the  wings
 alternately  extended  and contracted  to  provide  more control.  The 
 creature repeated  its long, mournful wail  as it fell away  and arced
 out over the desert. Finally he lost sight of it in the darkness.
     Kei gazed  into the  darkness, trying  to capture  another glimpse
 of  the vanished  shape.  For almost  a minute  he  said nothing.  Mr.
 Farnham looked at him and smiled.
     "They  usually like  the winds  better farther  downrange. But  we 
 sometimes get a few around here. Beautiful, aren't they?" 
     Kei nodded.  All he'd known about  the andrils was that  they were 
 one of a very  few species of large fliers known  to exist. Few worlds
 had  the right  combination of  light gravity  and dense  air for  the
 wings  to push  against.  He'd  tended to  think  that  they would  be 
 awkward in proportion  to their size. He'd been wrong.  The andril had 
 been surprisingly graceful.
     "There's  a  mountain  a  few  miles  south  of  here  where  they
 gather," said Farnham.  "I'm driving down tomorrow to  do some taping. 
 Why don't you join me?" 
     He considered  it for a moment,  then smiled. "Thank you.  I think
 I will." 

     The place was  unimaginatively named Grant's Peak.  Rail lines and
 roads converged  at the  bottom, and  there was  a large  parking area
 scattered  with  tour  buses.  Then,  past  restaurants  and  souvenir
 shops, an  elevator system carried them  halfway up the mountain  to a
 wide stone platform open to the sky.
     They  had come  early to  avoid  the tourist  rush. Perhaps  fifty
 people milled about  on the observation platform,  talking, looking up
 with  hands over  their  eyes to  block the  glare.  Some had  brought 
 visor units  or were using  the token-operated versions near  the rim.
 Farnham's film  crew was  waiting for  him to  start setting  up their 
 equipment.  While  they  mounted  the  holocameras  and  strung  power 
 cables  back  to the  snack  bar  carved  into the  mountainside,  Kei 
 slipped a token into a set of visors and swiveled it upward. 
     There  were six  of  them, circling  in a  diffuse  group off  the 
 highest summit. With  daylight and magnification he had  a better view 
 of  them.  They were  delta  shaped,  with triangular  wing  membranes
 extending from  the narrow triangle of  body that tapered back  to the 
 point where the  two trailing stabilizers were  attached. They flapped
 their  wings lazily,  with a  gentle  rolling motion.  The largest  of
 them was about  twelve feet from wingtip to  wingtip. Occasionally one 
 or  two would  peel away  from the  group and  pick up  speed as  they 
 fell.  Then  they  would  go  into a  sequence  of  rolls  and  loops, 
 punctuated with  their eerie  calls. Finally they  would pull  out far 
 below  the observation  platform and  slowly climb  back up  to rejoin
 the others. 
     When  his time  expired, the  lenses  polarized to  black and  Kei
 turned to Farnham. 
     "Why do you think they do it?" he asked.
     The  cameras  had  been  set  up,  and  two  of  Farnham's  camera 
 operators were  taping aerobatic  sequences. Behind  them there  was a
 steady  whir from  the tracking  motors that  helped keep  the cameras
 focused on the andrils. 
     "Any  number of  reasons. Mating  ritual, practice  in hunting  or
 escaping predators. Just  for fun. That's my choice.  They're having a 
 ball up there." 
     Kei watched them  for the rest of the day,  while the crew filmed,
 never becoming  bored. The compositon  of the group  gradually changed 
 as some  drifted away and  newcomers joined  the show. Kei  learned to
 identify a few  individuals who had specific marks.  One in particular 
 had lost  part of the  membrane that formed the  left wing and  had to
 restrict  its choice  of  maneuvers  to favor  the  weakened limb.  He
 named it  Ahab and  watched it  over the  others for  the rest  of the 
 day, impressed. Gradually  he noticed that it did just  as much as the
 others; it simply had to find movements to get the same results.
     A message  for him? Kei smiled,  amused by the fancy.  Ahab didn't
 understand. He  could go into  D-sleep and  hope. If Lissa  were still 
 alive, he wouldn't  have hesitated. But without her  it didn't matter. 
 There  would be  a great  deal of  pain and,  at the  end of  the long
 sleep, just  another world without her.  No gain. His life  had tapped
 out. In  Ahab's terms, there  was no one  to perform for.  He wondered
 what the  great flyer would do  if it were  the last one of  its kind.
 He  decided it  would probably  dive straight  into the  desert floor.
 They were free to fly, but there was little joy in flying alone.
     That  night  he  stood  alone  on  the  terrace,  long  after  the 
 Farnhams  had  gone to  sleep,  looking  out  at  the stars  over  the 
 canyon.  Cool  winds  ruffled  his hair  and  wailed  through  distant
 passes. He  thought he could  hear the  cries of andrils  even farther
 away. He knew  they traveled in groups, but their  cries still sounded 
 lonely to him,  and forlorn. He wondered if any  of them ever crashed, 
 ever pushed  themselves too far and  hit the ground before  they could 
 pull out.  Perhaps that was why  they flew, to make  life bearable for 
 as long as they  could, waiting for the time when  they would risk too 
 much and die, secure in the absolute knowledge of identity and extent.
     Kei  stood silently  for a  time, remembering  Lissa's humor,  and
 the  soft feel  of her  skin. He  considered his  future, the  painful 
 death  that  was racing  toward  him.  Then  he  looked back,  at  his
 grandfather  and  his  pantheistic  world of  beauty  and  death.  His
 present  seemed to  be  vanishing  to a  point  with  past and  future
 simultaneously spiraling  in on  it. The  past had  been given  him by 
 birth, the future by gamma rays, and the present ....
     The present  was a rush  of wind and  a black shape  that eclipsed
 the  stars with  a strident  wail.  Kei stepped  back, startled,  then 
 dashed to  the wall, searching  for the switch  he knew was  there. He
 groped  until he  found it,  and floodlights  illuminated the  balcony
 and the space around it. Kei moved quickly back to the railing. 
     The andril was  arcing upward now, unafraid of the  pool of light. 
 He  could make  its  form  out clearly,  the  wide  body and  trailing
 stabilizers, and the torn wing. It was Ahab. 
     Ahab allowed  its momentum to  bleed off as  it neared the  top of
 its loop,  then it suddenly  flicked its  body forward and  locked its 
 wings,  gliding toward  the  balcony. The  great  wings, supported  by
 bone only at  the leading edge, billowed back like  parachutes and the 
 animal seemed  almost to be hovering,  less than fifty feet  away from
 him. Kei  could see its  eyes in  the floodlight. They  were perfectly
 circular, deep  and black.  Ahab stared  at Kei  as it  slowly drifted 
 toward him. He felt as if the animal were probing him, evaluating.
     It could last  for only an instant. Ahab's wings  couldn't hold it 
 against its  growing momentum.  Before that  momentum carried  it into
 the cliffs, the  andril gave him another cry, not  mournful at all but 
 shrill, challenging. Then  it folded the weak wing under  its body and 
 fell, plummeting to one side and out of the floodlight.
     His  grandfather would  have  called  the andril  a  kami. For  an 
 instant,  Kei understood  that  sense  of the  mystical.  He had  been
 thinking about  his present  and the sign  had come,  overpowering and
 undeniable. His present was with the andrils.

     The suit  had made  Kei a  very wealthy man.  There were  no servo
 gliders on Delta  Raeli, but there was  money to have one  sent out on
 the next ship. It  was three weeks before it arrived,  and Kei went to
 Grant's Peak  every day. And every  day, among the group  that came to
 fly the  mountain winds  and thermals, there  was Ahab.  Gradually Kei
 realized that  the andrils  often repeated  the same  complex sequence
 of manuevers again and  again in the course of a day.  Ahab was one of 
 these. His  sequence was long  and complicated.  It took him  up, high 
 above  the peak,  in a  beautiful series  of climbing  rolls, then  he
 dove past  the platform doing  rolls, loops  and spins so  complex Kei
 couldn't  assign them  names. The  sequence  ended very  close to  the
 ground as Ahab finally pulled out and glided away across the desert.
     Kei studied the  sequence mercilessly. He taped  it with Farnham's 
 holocameras  and watched  it at  night in  the living  room, over  and 
 over and over  until he knew it  as well as he knew  his name. Farnham
 finally overcame his nervousness and asked him what he was doing.
     Kei  spoke  distractedly,  not  looking  away  from  the  hologram 
 display. "I'm going to fly with them." 

     The  servo  glider  looked  like a  primitive  aircraft  from  the 
 beginnings of human  flight, one of those absurd  contraptions one saw
 collapsing in  old black  and white  2D tapes. But  it would  fly. Kei
 stood within  the frame  that held it  above the  observation platform 
 and  slipped his  arms  into  the sleeves  that  stretched across  the
 underside  of the  wings.  The servo  glider was  a  forest of  cloth,
 tubing and  wire around him.  He slipped  his fingers into  the gloves
 and tested the control surfaces.
     The crowd applauded  as the rudder pivoted and  the serrated cloth
 wings moved slightly.  Farnham came forward and strapped  him into the 
 safety  harness, cinching  it tight  around  his chest.  He heard  the
 whirring  of  the  cameras  behind  him  as  one  of  Farnham's  crews 
 recorded the moment.  Kei regretted the circus  atmosphere, but hadn't
 been able  to prevent  it. Farnham  had three crews  ready -  there on 
 the platform, on  the ground, and the third in  a tracking helicopter. 
 The newsnets  had picked  the story  up, and  the tourists  flocked to 
 Grant's Peak  to see  what was happening.  Overhead, the  andrils paid 
 little  attention,  slowly circling  high  above  the crowds  as  they
 always did. Kei looked up only once, to confirm that Ahab was there.
     Finally  he was  ready. The  crowd was  tired of  the preparations 
 and  stood quietly,  waiting to  see him  fly. Farnham's  camera crews
 all checked in ready.  Kei had been ready for a  long time. The tumors
 had  progressed  during  the  three  weeks he  waited  for  the  servo
 glider, and the  medpack was beginning to lose ground  in its struggle 
 to save  him. His body  was visibly gaunt now,  wasting away in  a mad 
 rush to oblivion.  Lissa's parents, seeing him die  before their eyes,
 were urging him  to take D-sleep, but none of  that mattered any more. 
 He was ready to fly. 
     Kei took  one last look  at the  crowds gathered on  the platform,
 nodded at Farnham, and flipped a switch.
     The bottles  of compressed  gas bolted to  the frame  opened, and,
 with a  loud hiss,  Kei was  shot off  the edge  of the  platform into
 open space.  He gained altitude  for a  few seconds, propelled  by the 
 sheer force  of the bottles. Then,  as he was beginning  to curve back 
 down,  he  closed the  bottles  and  unlocked  the wings.  Quickly  he
 adjusted trim  into a  stable glide  and drifted,  exhilarated, across
 the desert far below. 
     The  weather  was  perfect  for  flying.  It  was  cool,  but  not 
 uncomfortably so,  and the  sky was cloudless,  bright blue.  A gentle 
 wind blew over  the mountains from the coast. With  the bottles turned
 off, the only sounds  were the wing fabric rippling in  the air with a 
 pleasant staccato sound, and the cries of the andrils above him. 
     He pulled in  one arm and the corresponding  wingtip bent slightly
 inward,  allowing  the  glider  to gradually  turn,  spiraling  slowly
 downward until  he was  facing the mountains  again. He  came smoothly 
 out of the  turn, gliding toward the cliffs, perhaps  fifty feet below
 the platform. Perfect, he thought. Now to gain some altitude.
     Kei raised his  arms, forcing the wings to tilt  up over his head.
 Then, with all  his strength, he forced them down.  Sensor pads on the
 insides of the  sleeves felt his motion, and the  power-assist cut in. 
 With a  brief whine of  servo- motors  the wings flapped  powering him
 ahead and up.  He flapped again and again, laughing.  He was flying by
 flapping his wings,  the way the andrils did. Only  Lissa had made him 
 this happy. 
     He stroked  again and again  and soon  he was above  the platform,
 coming into the  circling group of andrils. They considered  him as he
 appraoached. A  few turned  and flew away,  but most  stayed, greeting 
 him with their calls. Ahab stayed, as Kei knew he would.
     As he  came nearer Kei went  into a slow, climbing  loop, twisting 
 through a  quick roll  at the  top - the  opening of  Ahab's sequence.
 Immediately all  the andrils  except Ahab withdrew  from the  area and 
 circled  slowly in  the thermals,  watching. Ahab  cried at  him, then
 repeated the roll,  signifying that he understood.  Kei suspected that 
 the andrils  understood a  great deal more  than humans  credited them 
 with. Somehow Ahab  had sensed something about him, had  asked for his
 story. Now Kei was ready to give it to him.
     Kei was  exultant as they  went into  the opening of  the sequence 
 together. They  paralleled each  other, rolling and  gliding together,
 partners.  The  early stages  of  the  sequence were  slow,  gradually
 gaining altitude until they were far above the peaks.
     As  they continued  to  climb,  Kei wondered  if  the andrils  had 
 their  own version  of the  tale  of Icarus,  an andril  who flew  too
 high, extended  himself too far,  until the  sun rebuked him  and sent
 him crashing  into earth.  It didn't seem  unreasonable but  there was
 no way to be  sure. He hoped Ahab would understand  what he was trying 
 to say. 
     He  followed  the  andril  through  a  circle,  as  they  finished 
 climbing,  then Ahab  dipped  downward. Kei  stayed  with him,  slowly 
 rolling to one  side to increase his fall speed.  Ahab started to pull 
 up  again, but  Kei flapped  his wings  too quickly  and hit  the tail 
 flaps until  the servo glider  stalled. It  wasn't so easy  to recover 
 from setbacks. Sometimes they just followed one another too quickly. 
     Ahab looped over  him and down, ending up beside  him as he pulled 
 out  of the  stall.  The andril  looked at  him,  confused. He  hadn't 
 followed the  sequence. Kei wondered  how much  of this Ahab  was able 
 to interpret. 
     Ahab  tried  climbing  again,  but  Kei  glided  gently  downward, 
 insistent. Finally,  Ahab relented.  It skipped several  more climbing
 manuevers and dove  toward the ground, picking up  speed and twisting. 
 Kei  followed,  joyously  matching  the  andril  through  stunt  after 
 stunt. The sequence fit his meaning again.
     But  that part  of  the  sequence was  soon  over.  Kei felt  time 
 vanishing to a point around him. 
     They came  out of a  dive and Ahab sped  ahead of him,  turning to 
 face  him  and  carefully  flying backwards.  Kei  was  impressed.  He
 hadn't realized that  was possible. Ahab cried at him,  then fell away
 when he could  hold position no longer. Kei locked  the wings in place 
 and glided.  He pulled one  arm out of  its sleeve and  unfastened the 
 safety  harness. Ahab  recovered  and repeated  the manuever,  showing 
 off in the rest that preceded the next part of the sequence. 
     Ahab  pulled in  front of  him  and faced  him a  third time.  Kei 
 could  almost  see the  animal  smiling.  "Thank you,"  he  whispered. 
 "Thank you. You showed me the way." 
     He thought  of a  cherry blossom  falling as  he flipped  open the
 bottles and let go of the frame.
     Ahab  was ready  to  begin  the next  part  of  the sequence,  and
 seemed confused when  the servo glider shot away, arcing  far out over 
 the desert. Then it shrieked and dove.
     Kei closed his eyes. All of time was now. 
     There  was  another  shriek,  very  close,  and  then  the  andril
 slammed into  him with stunning  impact. He  cried out in  surprise as
 the  andril's trailing  stabilizers whipped  painfully around  him and
 held him against the creature's back.
     The  two beings  plummeted earthward  like a  rock, Ahab  flapping
 its  great  wings  desperately,  spinning   without  the  use  of  the 
 stabilizers.  Kei  struggled  instinctively to  escape  the  tentacles
 until  he realized  what was  happening  and screamed  "No!" into  the 
 rushing wind. 
     Ahab  had stopped  the spin  and leveled  itself. It  had extended 
 and locked its wings  the way it had off the balcony.  But Kei knew it
 had no  chance of  maintaining flight. The  andrils were  barely light 
 enough to fly to  begin with. Even in the faint  gravity, his body was 
 inexorably bearing them both down toward the desert floor.
     He  beat his  fists against  the andril's  back, fleshy  where the 
 head met the body,  and felt the tears being whipped  from his eyes by 
 the wind. "No!  You can't hold me,  I'm too heavy." he  didn't know if 
 he  spoke the  words  or only  thought them.  Kei  struggled, but  the
 tentacles  held him  too tightly.  He finally  gave up  and went  limp
 against the andril's  body crying "No," with a  long, anguished sound,
 "Please, I'm too heavy. Don't do this. Not again." 
     Their rate  of fall was  slower now,  but they were  still diving. 
 Ahab had started  flapping its wings again, moving  quickly across the 
 approaching sand. It  couldn't slow its descent rate any  more and was 
 desperately  trying to  compensate  with a  shallow  glide slope.  But
 there was no chance. 
     When the impact  came, Kei screamed, feeling  bones breaking. They
 tumbled as they hit, the stabilizers convulsing tight around him.
     And then he  was still, lying on top of  Ahab's shattered body. He 
 saw several  broken ends of hollow  bones jutting through rips  in the 
 wings  and body.  He tried  to roll  off the  body, knowing  that Ahab 
 couldn't  have survived,  but  trying anyway.  He  screamed and  froze
 again, transfixed by  the agony of broken legs, ribs,  and an arm. His
 blood mixed with Ahab's in the sand.
     He  heard the  sound of  Farnham's helicopter  coming for  him. He 
 was going  to live.  Ahab had  saved him,  and Kei  saw just  what the
 andril had given  up for him, and  what the extent of his  debt had to 
 be. He  was in pain,  but Ahab  had died to  give him that  pain. Pain
 was life. 
     Somehow, the medpack  was still functioning. It beeped  as it went 
 through a  reset cycle  and started pumping  painkillers into  him. He 
 savagely  ripped the  catheters out  of his  body, feeling  a stab  of 
 agony from his  broken arm. He refused to have  his senses dulled now,
 no  matter how  much  pain  there was.  His  good  hand couldn't  stop 
 gently stroking  the flesh of the  andril's wing beneath him,  so soft 
 and dusky smooth.
                     -John Sullivan  <JSULLIV@VTVM1> 

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                                 Untitled
     Allright,  I told  that Colonel  fellow  that we'd  tell him  what
 happened. Now,  you gotta remember that  we didn't know we  were doing 
 anything wrong.  It's just that,  see, we  got real bored  this summer 
 and started fooling around. How were we to know what would happen? 
     Ok, ok...I'll tell  you how it all started. You  see, me and Jimmy
 were never  what you'd  call popular.  We sorta  found each  other and
 that was about  all there was. Well, this summer  we were sitting down
 in Jimmy's basement just fooling around. You know how it is, right?
     Well, we'd found  this old bunch of magazines  laying around. They
 had some  pretty neat stories in  them and some really  wild drawings.
 The  name  of  the  magazines?   I  don't  remember  exactly.  It  was
 something about science.
     Anyway,  like I  said,  there  were some  pretty  neat stories  in
 them. Stuff  like people  living on  the moon  and traveling  in outer 
 space.  You know,  stuff that  just isn't  real. So,  what? Yeah,  I'm
 getting to what happened. Just don't keep interrupting me so much. 
     Like I  was saying,  we knew  this stuff just  wasn't real  but we
 decided, what the heck,  it made fun stuff to read.  So, we read these 
 magazines  and   then  Jimmy  decided   to  try  out  some   of  these 
 experiments and build us a ray gun.
     What?  Oh, the  story had  pictures in  it showing  where all  the
 wires were  supposed to  go. We got  the actual gun  out of  my little 
 brother's toy  box. You know,  one of those  dart guns that  look like 
 the real  thing? Well, we  opened that up and  had plenty of  room for 
 all the stuff inside. 
     The wires were  easy to find. Jimmy had an  old walkie-talkie that
 we stripped out.  They weren't the right size, but  shucks, who cared,
 right? Hey, don't shout  at me! I said I'd tell you  the truth and I'm 
 doing it. I can't help it if you don't believe me.
     The crystal is  from an old watch  - you know, the  face? That fit
 on pretty  well and  it sort of  magnifies stuff too.  So, we  put the
 whole she-bang  together and  tried it  out. What?  Heck, no!  We sure 
 didn't know  it would  work like  that! We figured  it was  just play,
 remember? I mean, this stuff isn't real!
     So, can I go  home now? Oh, power..... we just  used a battery out 
 of  Jimmy's  toys. It  didn't  need  much,  just a  little  something.
 Anyway, we're  real sorry  that we  blew up the  Army's tank.  We just 
 wanted to play war with the soliders.
                        -Lori Spier  <SPIER@UMDC> 

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                           Worthy of the Title
     Despite the fact  that Griswald was weary unto the  very marrow of
 his old  bones, he  rose with  the dawn  to await  the arrival  of Lek
 Pyle,  the   merchant  from   Magnus,  and   two  thugs--assassins--he
 promised to produce.  It did not sit well with  Griswald that he would
 be instrumental  in the  death of  his lord, and  of the  lord's young
 cousin Luthias Connall,  whom Griswald had healed  twice yesterday. Of
 course, Griswald  was more uncomfortable  with the thought of  his own
 death, which  Pyle had  been threatening for  sometime now,  than with
 the death of Luthias.
     That  strange, rhythmic  knock,  which by  now sickened  Griswald, 
 sounded  at the  door. Reluctantly,  but quickly--it  would not  do to 
 keep  Lek Pyle  waiting,  murderer or  no--Griswald  opened the  door. 
 Pyle gave  the physician  the grin  of a serpent  and pushed  past him 
 into the  physician's laboratory. Two  lithe young men  followed. They
 both carried  crossbows. As they  crossed to  the center of  the room, 
 Griswald silently shut the door. 
     "Well," Lek Pyle  demanded immediately, but not  loudly, "have you 
 finished it, Griswald?" 
     Griswald nodded.  "It's done,  and ready  for you."  He went  to a
 cabinet with  three complex locks  on them.  The physician took  out a
 large ring of  keys, and, one by  one, he released the  locks. He then
 opened the cabinet.  In it were various dark bottles,  all marked with 
 skulls. The physician chose one, withdrew it, and locked the cupboard.
     Griswald handed  the bottle  to Pyle.  "Immediate, as  you asked,"
 reported  Griswald  laconically,  staring stonily  at  the  merchant's 
 beady eyes. 
     "On contact?" asked the merchant.
     "Not  quite,"  Griswald  explained.  "Put   into  a  wound  or  an
 opening, it means  instant death. On healthy skin,  it is ineffective.
 You said you would be using crossbows...." 
     Pyle smiled again.  "Yes. These two gentlemen--"  he indicated the 
 young  men, "will  attend the  ball with  me tonight.  At the  precise
 moment, they  will fire  upon Lord  Dargon and  his cousin  Luthias of 
 Connall, and  then we  will finally  have an end  to this  matter. Did
 you get the seating plans for the banquet tonight, Griswald?"
     Gravely,  Griswald  nodded. Out  of  a  pocket,  he took  a  grimy 
 paper. Opening, he  pointed to the diagram. "Lord Dargon  is to sit at
 the head  of the table,  between his two  cousins. Roisart will  be on
 his left--your  right, gentlemen. He  will be  the one seated  next to 
 me, and  he is  to be left  alone. The one  seated between  Dargon and 
 the Bichurian  noble is  your target. You,  gentlemen, will  be hidden
 outside of  these windows." Griswald  moved his finger to  the symbols 
 of the said structures. "I will open them if they remain closed." 
     "Very  good,"  Pyle  slithered  in appreciation.  "You  have  done
 well,  Griswald, after  all." Griswald  did not  trust the  merchant's
 smile. "I will see  to it, when I convince the King  of Baranur to war
 with Bichu,  that you  are well rewarded.  Now," he  continued, "these 
 gentlemen need only put some of this poison on their crossbow bolts?"
     "Exactly," Griswald  confirmed. "The shot  need not be  exact. All 
 it need do  is break the skin, and the..."  Griswald struggled to find 
 a proper word. "The Lord of Dargon and Luthias Connall will die." 

     At  sunset that  night,  in  the great  ivory  ballroom of  Dargon 
 Keep,  the musicians  tuned  their  instruments and  began  to play  a
 ditty for the nobles  of the duchy of Dargon. The  night was warm, and
 Dargon  instructed  the guards  (and  there  were  many on  hand  that 
 night) to  open the  windows. The  Lord of  Dargon himself  stood near
 the door  of the ballroom, with  Roisart, Luthias, and Michiya  by his 
 side. Few  guests had arrived  as yet,  and those few,  after greeting
 the  Lord  and  his  cousins,   were  mingling.  Roisart  enjoyed  the
 momentarily lull. It  wasn't often he got to stand  in the great ivory
 ballroom, built  by his  and Dargon's grandfather.  It was  a colossal
 enclosure,  actually  coated  with  rare  ivory,  and  decorated  with 
 whimsical  stained glass  windows. There  were twelve  windows in  the 
 room,  all   exquisitely  beautiful.   Now,  Roisart  stared   at  his 
 favorite. It  was a gorgeous piece  of art, and nothing,  not even the
 two  guards standing  to either  side of  it, could  detract from  its 
 beauty.  In it,  a  exquisite  red-haired woman,  clad  in a  sea-blue
 gown,  stood before  a  mirror,  in which  was  reflected a  handsome, 
 dark-haired man.  It was from a  legend, an ancient and  romantic one,
 that had been a  favorite fairy tale with Roisart ever  since he was a 
 boy. He had often longed for a woman like her... 
     And  tonight,  there were  plenty  of  beautiful young  ladies  to 
 adorn  the  ballroom.  And  Roisart  and his  brother  were  heirs  to 
 Connall and  Dargon, making them  two of  the three most  eligible men 
 in the  township (their cousin,  the Lord  of Dargon himself,  was the 
 third). Roisart smiled  to himself as he looked forward  to a night of
 dancing and  conversing. Luthias  was not  as pleased.  He was  not as 
 comfortable as  his brother in  the ballroom. Often, his  brother, his
 father, and  his cousin were  the only people  around whom he  was not
 tongue-knotted.  And he  felt out  of place  tonight; although  he and
 Roisart had  put on white blouses  for the evening's ball,  they still
 wore  the mourning  blue  in their  trousers, and  on  bands on  their
 arms. It made  Luthias feel out of  place, like a ugly,  dying weed in
 a rose garden.
     Dargon  was  greeting a  group  of  merchants from  Magnus.  "Lord
 Ittosai," Dargon  said to  his guest,  "this is  Lek Pyle,  a merchant
 who  often  travels to  your  country.  Merchant  Pyle, this  is  Lord
 Ittosai Michiya."
     Pyle, master  of facial  disguises, smiled pleasantly.  "An honor, 
 my  lord," he  said, although  it  was unclear  at which  lord he  was 
 speaking.  "These are  my  sons," he  introduced  two graceful  swains 
 behind him. 
     "Welcome   to  Dargon,"   Clifton  said   formally.  "Pray   enjoy
 yourselves in my house."
     "I thank you," said Pyle, and he and his "sons" moved away. 
     Dargon  began  greeting the  next  people,  introducing those  who 
 were  unacquainted to  his cousins,  who nodded,  and to  Michiya, who
 bowed  in  the  manner  of  his  country.  Luthias  and  Roisart  did, 
 however, bow to  the matrons, and bring the hands  of the young ladies 
 to their  cheeks politely.  Many of  the young  girls fussed  over the 
 twins and  their cousin, which  Roisart viewed as a  great compliment. 
 Luthias'  attitude was  more realistic.  He knew  that the  women only
 wished  to be  attached to  the  name of  Dargon and  Connall, not  to 
 Luthias, or Roisart, or Clifton. 
     "Ah,  Roisart,   Luthias,"  Dargon  was  saying,   "this  is  Lord 
 Shipbrook, his  lady Amada, and  their son, Master Tylane."  The twins
 nodded to  the lord,  bowed to  his wife, and  shook hands  with their
 son, a contemporary.  "Enjoy my hospitality," Dargon  invited, and the
 people  moved on.  "Good  evening, Lord  Coranabo,  my lady  Coranabo. 
 Lord Ittosai, I  present the Lord Edward Coranabo,  his lady Melrinna, 
 and  their daughters,  Misses Danza  and  Kellina. My  lord, my  lady, 
 young  ladies, I  believe you  already  are acquainted  with my  noble 
 cousins, Roisart and Luthias Connall." 
     "My  lord, my  lord!"  came a  call behind  them.  Dargon and  his
 companions  turned. Before  them stood  a breathless  man, dressed  in
 slightly outdated formal wear, and bearing dust in his hair.
     Dargon  smiled  congenially,  and actually,  Roisart  thought,  he 
 looked rather pleased.  The new arrival leaned toward his  lord. "I am 
 glad that you  have finally decided to join us,  Chronicler," the Lord 
 of Dargon admitted. "Do you know--" 
     The Chronicler  leaned backwards,  as if he  were about  to recite
 something stiffly. "My lord, I must speak with you privately." 
     Dargon raised  his eye  brows. The  Chronicler leaned  forward. "I 
 am  afraid that  is impossible,  Chronicler. You  know the  demands of
 society as  well as I."  The Chronicler  scowled at the  very thought.
 "Leave  your  studies  and  enjoy yourself."  The  Chronicler  scowled
 again.  "Have  you  met  my  special  guests  tonight?  These  are  my
 cousins, Roisart and  Luthias, the sons of the late  Baron of Connall. 
 And this is Lord Ittosai Michiya, a noble of Bichu."
     Taken  aback,  the  Chronicler  gasped,  and  then  bowed  to  the 
 Bichurian noble. "Konban wa," the Chronicler pronounced. 
     More surprised  than the Chronicler,  Ittosai bowed in  return and 
 repeated the greeting.
     "Ogenki  desu ka?"  asked the  Chronicler. Roisart  recognized the
 language, and some  of the words from his readings.  He cursed himself 
 for not trying to speak the language with Ittosai beforehand.
     "Hai, anata wa?" answered the Bichurian. 
     "Hai, okagesama de," replied the Chronicler. 
     The Bichanese  noble was  smiling brightly.  In the  local tongue, 
 Michiya  breathed  in appreciative  surprise,  "I  did not  know  that 
 anyone here spoke my language." 
     "I  have studied  your poets,  my lord,"  the Chronicler  answered 
 proudly.  The  Chronicler  then  announced  to  the  noble  twins  and
 Ittosai Michiya alike,  "My lords, I am Rish Vogel,  Chronicler to the 
 Lord of Dargon." 
     "A Chronicler?" Roisart  asked with interest. "What do  you do for
 my cousin, Chronicler?" 
     "Research, m' young lord." answered Rish Vogel good naturedly.
     "What do you research?" Luthias wanted to know seriously. 
     "The  truth,"  the  Chronicler  answered with  light  jesting.  He 
 reached  forward and  actually pinched  Luthias' cheek.  "Is that  not
 what  we all  seek in  our own  way?" The  musicians abruptly  changed 
 tempo. "Ah,  a dance I know!"  Vogel exclaimed. "Excuse me,  my lords,
 but if  I must  suffer through  this, I  might as  well show  off what 
 little knowledge I have of these arts."
     Luthias wore  a tight, angry  expression, but he waited  until the 
 Chronicler was far  out of range before he growled  wrathfully, "If he
 ever  pinches  my  cheek  again, I'll  kill  him!"  Ittosai  chuckled; 
 Clifton and Roisart nearly split with laughter.
     Roisart quieted and  stared at the slightly  dusty Chronicler, who 
 was capering with  a lively lady on the dance  floor. "Don't you think 
 you should find  out what he wanted, Clifton? He  seemed quite excited
 about something. It might be important."
     The Lord of  Dargon shook his head. "No, Roisart.  Knowing what he
 is  investigating, he's  only probably  found the  middle name  of our
 great-great-great aunt."  Luthias and  his brother  exchanged confused
 looks. "He's  doing genealogical research," Dargon  explained. Clifton 
 looked out  the door  at the setting  sun. "It's near  time for  me to 
 begin  the celebration  officially," he  mused. He  turned to  Ittosai
 and his cousins.  "Accompany me, my lords," he  invited formally. "The
 guests will  be announced by herald  from now on, and  there's no need
 for us to be standing by the door when we should be dancing." 
     "I do not know any of your dances," Michiya protested.
     "We'll teach you," Luthias promised mischievously. 
     "He better be in one piece afterwards!" warned Dargon. 
     "Don't  worry, Clifton.  I'll keep  Luthias on  a leash,"  Roisart 
 volunteered with a smile. 
     "You can try," Luthias challenged his brother with easy humor.
     "Behave,  you two,"  the exasperated  Lord of  Dargon ordered.  He
 and his  cousins and Ittosai Michiya  waded through the guests  to the 
 dais. There, Dargon nodded to the herald.
     "My  lords and  my  ladies," the  herald  cried importantly.  "His 
 noble grace,  the Lord Duke of  Dargon. Lord Roisart Connall  and Lord
 Luthias Connall. Lord Ittosai Michiya of Bichu."
     The  four lords  stepped  onto  the dais  as  the company  present 
 bowed  formally. Dargon  acknowledged  their tribute  with a  sincere, 
 lordly  nod. "My  lords and  ladies,"  said Clifton  Dargon, "let  the
 celebration  begin."  Quickly,  he  got  off the  dais,  and  just  as 
 quickly, his cousins and Ittosai followed. 
     "I do  not like being looked  at by so many  eyes," complained the
 Bichurian, almost sheepishly. "It is like being a..." 
     "Target," Luthias supplied crisply.
     "That  wasn't wise,  getting up  there," Roisart  added. "We  were 
 perfect shots, Clifton." 
     "I've  got guards  on top  of guards  here," Clifton  repeated for
 the  forty-eighth  time. "I've  got  guards  on  the floor.  I've  got 
 guards at the  windows. I have guards outside the  windows, and by all
 the doors.  You know all this,  Roisart. You're beginning to  worry as
 much as Luthias."
     Roisart  smiled.  "Never,  Clifton." Roisart  turned  to  Ittosai. 
 "We'll have to  find a dancing partner for you,  Michiya-san. You need
 to dance. Now Luthias, of course, will not dance."
     "I may," Luthias conceded in the tone of a threat.
     Roisart laughed.  "We'll see."  He took Michiya  off to  the side. 
 Clifton nodded at  Luthias, a signal to be sociable  and mingle about,
 and the  Lord of Dargon  glided around the room  to some of  the older
 people, who sat in chairs under the stained glass windows.
     Luthias was  just about to find  one of those chairs  for himself. 
 No  sense  in standing  around  looking  foolish.  Then he  heard  the
 herald  announce  the  Winthrop  family. Baron  Winthrop  was  an  old
 friend  of  Luthias and  Roisart's  father,  and  the twins  had  been 
 playmates of  the Winthrops' daughter,  Pecora. Luthias decided  to go 
 greet the  Winthrops and ask Pecora  for a dance, even  though dancing
 was  not his  favorite activity.  To his  surprise, Luthias  found his
 brother with the Winthrops.
     Old man  Winthrop smiled  at Luthias'  arrival. "Never  could keep 
 you two  far apart, eh?"  said the old  Baron, and he  chuckled loudly
 at  his  own joke.  "Sorry  about  your  father, Roisart--or  are  you
 Luthias? Never could keep you two boys straight..." 
     Roisart  exchanged   a  conspiratorial,  mildly   annoyed,  mildly
 amused   look  with   his   brother,  then   they   returned  to   the
 conversation. "Thank you, Baron," Roisart replied formally.
     "Well,  it  isn't  the  time or  place  for  sorrowing,"  Winthrop 
 asserted.   "Come  along,   Marcellon,   let  these   young  ones   to
 themselves.  I'll  introduce you  to  the  young  Lord of  Dargon."  A 
 stately man  dressed in red nodded  to the twins gravely  and followed 
 Baron  Winthrop away.  The Baroness  followed, after  the twins  bowed 
 politely  to   her,  leaving  Pecora   and  another  young   lady,  of 
 blue-green eyes  and sable  hair, alone with  the twins.  Roisart then 
 lifted Pecora's hand and placed it gently next to his cheek.
     As  Luthias touched  Pecora's hand  to his  cheek, Roisart  lifted 
 the hand  of the other young  lady, who stood behind  Pecora. "Forgive
 me, my lady," Roisart apologized. "I am Roisart Connall."
     "Forgive  my rudeness,"  Pecora  apologized, blushing  profoundly.
 Luthias, who  still held her  hand, squeezed it lightly.  Poor Pecora, 
 he  thought. She's  still  having a  hard time  of  it. Pecora's  face 
 lightened, and  she indicated the  beautiful young woman next  to her.
 Roisart's eyes  were shining  as she introduced,  "This is  my cousin, 
 Lady Lauren  Equiville. Lauren, these  are the  twin sons of  the late
 Baron of  Connall, Lord Roisart,"  Pecora indicated the  correct twin,
 "and Lord Luthias."
     "Good evening,"  Lady Lauren greeted  the twins pleasantly.  "I am
 happy to meet you, my lords." 
     Realizing  that  Lauren  was  perhaps  a  little  older  than  his 
 accepted age  group, Luthias bowed. He  felt a little wary;  there was
 that light in Roisart's eyes again. 
     Roisart simply  smiled at the  ravishing lady and asked,  "My lady
 Lauren, would you like to dance?"
     "Certainly," Lauren  accepted, with  an enchanting smile.  And the
 two gracefully stepped away. 
     "She's  beautiful,  isn't  she?"  Pecora  asked  Luthias  as  they
 watched Lauren  and Roisart dance. Luthias  agreed wholeheartedly, but
 gravely. He  had certainly seen  the beauty,  and felt it.  "She won't 
 hurt Roisart, I  know," Pecora assured him, seeing the  concern in his 
 face.  "She...isn't  like  that.   Besides,  she's  five  and  twenty,
 Luthias. Roisart is too young for her."
     Luthias whirled toward Pecora. "Dance with me, Pecora." 
     Smiling a  smile that  seemed veiled,  Pecora took  Luthias' hand,
 and  he guided  her,  in time  to  the music,  onto  the dance  floor.
 Luthias  gazed into  her eyes,  and she  looked at  their shoes.  "You 
 still  haven't  heard  anything,"  Luthias  surmised.  Pecora  gave  a 
 little,  shamed nod.  "I'm  sorry,  Pecora." He  gripped  her waist  a
 little more tightly. "I can't image what Kite--"
     "Please," choked Pecora. 
     "You  should  have  loved  Roisart  instead,"  Luthias  chided  in 
 gentle tones. 
     "Roisart loves once a week," Pecora announced bluntly.
     More often  than that, Luthias thought.  But he said, "But  no one 
 has  ever  returned his  love."  Pecora  swallowed  a bulk  of  tears. 
 Luthias held her tighter. "I'm so sorry, Pecora." 
     "Do you  know, the last  time I danced,  Luthias, the last  time I 
 danced, I  danced with Kite,  here on  this floor--" Her  voice broke, 
 and a little sob escaped. A tear trickled onto her dark lips. 
     "Let's  take a  walk  in the  garden,  Pecora," Luthias  whispered
 gently. "Let's go  away from all these  eyes, and you can  cry all you
 wish." Without waiting for her consent, Luthias led her from the room.
     Across  the floor,  Lauren watched  the departure  of her  cousin. 
 "Have you known Pecora long?" she asked the admiring Roisart. 
     Roisart grinned  like an  open sunflower. "Why  yes, my  lady," he
 answered cheerfully,  gracefully leading  his partner.  "Since Luthias
 and  Pecora and  I  were  small children."  He  glanced  again at  the 
 departing couple. "I never knew that Luthias had any particular--" 
     "It isn't that,"  Lauren interrupted with the voice  of the spring 
 breezes. "Do you know what would make my cousin cry at a ball?"
     "She's still  not over Kite,"  mused Roisart, confused  and almost 
 hurt. "I  tell you, my  lady, Pecora is like  a sister to  Luthias and 
 me. When  Kite Talador disappeared and  left Pecora, we knew  how much 
 she  was hurt.  If Kite  isn't dead  and ever  returns, Luthias  would
 kill him on sight.  As for myself, I only wish  I could understand why 
 he didn't come back." 
     "She  wouldn't confide  in me,"  Lauren confessed.  "I would  have
 told her  that he won't  be returning. And  she loves him."  A wistful 
 look crossed  Lauren's blue-green  eyes. "It is  a beautiful  thing to 
 be loved."
     "You  are a  beautiful woman  worthy  of love,  my lady,"  Roisart 
 returned  in a  courtly  manner. Lauren  restrained  her laughter  and
 smiled  sweetly. Then  they danced  past  a window.  Roisart began  to 
 explain the legend to  Lauren, but she knew it better  than he did, to 
 his surprise. 
     Clifton,  Lord   Duke  of  Dargon,  surveyed   the  ballroom  with 
 satisfaction. It  was a  beautiful night.  The breezes  were caressing
 the keep  with the perfume  of the sea,  and the dancers  pranced with
 the grace  of gods.  The music  was lulling and  festive at  once. The
 talk was  cheerful, animated.  The odd  ballroom that  his grandfather 
 had  fashioned  seemed  beautiful  and  contented,  like  a  satisfied
 lioness.  And  everyone was  enjoying  himself;  even Rish  Vogel  and
 Ittosai  Michiya were  dancing.  Only the  guards  detracted from  the
 festivity. And they were necessary, Dargon reminded himself. 
     "Clifton!"  he heard  one of  the twins  cry. The  Lord of  Dargon
 turned,  and Roisart  and a  lady, the  most beautiful  and completely 
 captivating  woman he  had  ever seen,  stood  before him.  "Clifton,"
 said Roisart  again, "let me  present you  to the Lady  Lauren, lately
 of  Magnus. She's  a  cousin  of the  Winthrops'.  My  lady, my  noble 
 cousin, Clifton, Lord Duke of Dargon."
     Clifton's  brown eyes  met the  lady's. Dargon  took her  hand and 
 bowed low.  He pressed her hand  to his cheek. "My  lady," greeted the 
 Lord of Dargon amicably. "How do you do?" 
     He  rose, and  smiled at  the  lady with  quiet pleasantness.  "My
 lord," she greeted. She returned the smile and dropped a curtsy.
     "I have  to go find  Luthias, Clifton," Roisart explained,  "and I 
 didn't want to abandon the lady..." 
     Lauren  smiled, laughter  in her  eyes  at the  fact that  Roisart
 apparently considered her  too fragile to leave  alone. Clifton shared
 the mirth,  but, like  the lady,  kept his  silence. "It's  all right, 
 Roisart," the  Lord of  Dargon announced, nodding  to his  cousin. "Go
 find  your brother."  Leaning  closer to  his  cousin, Dargon  hissed,
 "And  get him  in here,  before he's  killed!" Roisart  nodded gravely 
 and, trying not to  appear as if he were in a hurry,  made his way out
 of the room.
     Lord Dargon  turned to the Lady  Lauren. "You are from  Magnus, my
 lady?" the  Lord inquired politely.  Dargon politely offered  the lady
 a chair, and she sat. Gracefully, Dargon seated himself beside her. 
     Lauren  nodded. "Yes,  my lord,"  she answered  politely. "Do  you 
 know the city?" 
     Dargon  nodded. "A  little,  my  lady. I  went  to the  university 
 there for a year."
     The lady  gave Dargon a  look of  admiration. "Why, my  lord," she
 noted,  appreciative, "you  must be  near a  genius. It  took me  four 
 years to  complete the  program--" She stopped,  as if  an inspiration
 overtook her.  "Oh, no. I beg  your pardon, my lord,"  she apologized. 
 She  looked mortified  and quite  contrite, but  she did  not, Clifton
 noted, blush at  her error. "I should have realized  why you were only 
 in Magnus a year." 
     Dargon smiled crookedly  and laughed a moment to put  her at ease.
 "My lady Lauren, how are you to know what brought me home?"
     "I..." Lauren  lowered her  eyes, then looked  Dargon in  the face
 again. "I  sometimes just know  things, my  lord. Not always,  and not 
 always  important  things.  But  sometimes  I  just  know.  And,"  she
 continued, "if  that were not enough,  the young age at  which you are 
 Duke and  my common sense should  have been enough to  make me realize 
 what  must have  happened, that  it was  your father's  death and  not
 your wits which brought you early home. Pray forgive me, your grace." 
     "It's quite  all right,  my lady,"  Dargon assured  her earnestly,
 then he laughed. "Roisart will love you. He rejoices in the unusual." 
     "He's a good lad," Lauren praised him. "He will like my father." 
     The musicians  started a  new tune.  Without realizing  it, Dargon 
 began to tap  his foot to the  beat. The night was  getting better and 
 better;  it  was refreshing  to  speak  to  someone, besides  his  own 
 family,  who,  undaunted  by  his title,  was  completely  capable  of 
 holding a coherent conversation with him, instead of pleasantries. 
     Lord Dargon  stood. Lady  Lauren gazed up  at the  majestic, young 
 lord  inquiringly. "Will  you  dance,  my lady?"  the  Lord of  Dargon
 invited  congenially,  offering  Lauren  his arm.  She  took  it  with
 another smile,  and allowed herself to  be led away. Lauren  was a gay 
 partner, and a  lively and graceful one. Clifton was  no great dancer,
 but  his  movements were  strong  and  sure.  For  once in  his  life,
 Clifton found himself truly enjoying dancing.
     "To what  do I owe  your visit to  our city, Madam?"  Dargon asked 
 the lady as they danced.
     Lauren's smile  froze momentarily. She  hesitated a fraction  of a 
 moment  before she  spoke. "My  father  wished to  visit his  brother, 
 Lord Winthrop," she  answered. Abruptly, she stated,  "I'm afraid your 
 young cousin has fallen in love with me."
     Dargon grinned. "Oh,  that's all right, my lady.  Roisart falls in
 loves every  few days. He'll treat  you normally by early  next week."
 Lauren stared  at the lord,  unsure whether  to laugh or  be appalled. 
 "He's  only  a  boy,  my  lady.  And  if  he  doesn't  leave  off  the
 infatuation, Luthias  will straighten him out,  surely." Dargon opened 
 his mouth again  to inquire why she  and her father were  in the city,
 but remembering her earlier reaction, shut it. 
     Observing  the  lord's behavior,  Lauren  asked,  "My lord,  am  I
 making you uncomfortable?" 
     "Not at all," Dargon answered enthusiastically.
     "What did you study in the university?" Lauren asked. 
     "Government." 
     "What  did  you think  of  Fernusius  Cai's philosophy  of  laws?"
 Lauren asked, quite seriously. 
     Dargon  stared  a moment,  but  gave  her  a thoughtful  and  well 
 considered  answer. Lauren  listened  attentively, then  gave her  own 
 opinion.  Dargon  had never  expected  Fernusias  Cai's philosophy  to
 reach him  in the  ivory ballroom,  but he  discussed it  with Lauren,
 whose intelligence  and wisdom regarding  the work (and  philosophy in
 general) impressed him, as they danced past the open windows. 

     Roisart had gone  out into the garden to find  Luthias and Pecora.
 He understood  why Luthias had taken  her out of the  ballroom, but it 
 wasn't safe outside,  even with all the guards.  After an unsuccessful 
 tour of  the shrubbery,  Roisart met  his brother as  he came  in from
 the garden, alone. 
     "Where's Pecora?" Roisart asked.
     Luthias seemed  large and ominous.  "I sent  her home. I  would go
 with her, but Clifton..."
     Roisart's  mouth  was  tight,  and  he was  as  concerned  as  his 
 brother  was angry.  "She's  still--" Luthias  nodded  with the  sharp
 grimness  of  death. "The  lady--her  cousin  Lauren--says Kite  isn't 
 coming back."
     "I  tell you  what,  Roisart," Luthias  began  fiercely. "You  can
 have the  barony, and I'll  go hunt him  down." Roisart smiled  at the 
 suggestion.  "I'm serious,  twin," Luthias  revealed, gravely  looking 
 at his brother. "One of us must be baron, and it should be you."
     "But, Luthias, you're a better leader!"
     Luthias shrugged. "Yes,  but you're better at  running things. You
 don't overlook  details. And when you  need a man of  action, Roisart, 
 I'll be there. You know I would never leave you." 
     "I know," Roisart replied, "but..."
     "One of us  must be baron," Luthias repeated. "We  can't leave the 
 barony like this, Roisart. And we can't both be baron." 
     "I know,"  Roisart sighed. "But I  don't feel that I  would be the 
 best baron..."
     "How can we tell beforehand who would be?"
     "Corambis said it would be settled by a matter of valor." 
     "Even decision  takes courage,  my brother," Luthias  reminded him
 with a  smile. "It's valor to  take the responsibility of  the barony,
 as well."
     Roisart sighed  deeply. "You  really feel I  should be  baron?" he
 asked  finally. "Despite  all  the  lessons Father  gave  us, I  still
 don't know how to be a lord, Luthias." 
     "So, we'll learn  on our own," Luthias assured  him with strength. 
 Roisart  looked  doubtful.  "I   mean  it,  Roi,"  Luthias  persisted,
 employing  the  nickname he  hadn't  used  since boyhood.  "Really.  I 
 can't be  baron, and you  know it.  I would always  want to go  and do
 something, not  stay here and plan  budgets and run the  estate. Right
 now I  want to  go off  and kill Kite  Talador. What  if there  were a
 war, Roi? Your  first thought would be to fortify  Connall and Dargon. 
 Me?  I  would  go off  and  try  to  destroy  the bastards.  No,  Roi. 
 Roisart, my  brother, you belong in  the barony, more than  I do, more
 than I ever did." 
     Roisart looked  his brother in the  eyes, the mirrors of  his own.
 "Are  you sure  about this,  Luthias?" Luthias  nodded. "You  could be
 giving up your birthright."
     Luthias shrugged. "I  never wanted to be baron,"  Luthias said. He
 smiled. "And if  I am giving up my birthright--which  isn't certain in 
 any case--who better to give it to than you, twin?" 
     Roisart smiled.  "All right, Luthias,"  he conceded, "but  only if 
 you're absolutely certain--" 
     "Believe me, twin,  I am," Luthias told his  brother. Then Luthias
 wondered suddenly, "How does Lady Lauren know that Kite won't return?"
     Roisart shrugged.  "I gather  that her father--Marcellon,  the man
 in the red  robes, whom we saw  with Lord Winthrop--is a  mage of some
 sort." Roisart smiled. "I'll have to talk to him at dinner."
     "Oh, no," Luthias  reminded him with a smile. "You  have to sit at
 the  head  of  the  table,  with  Clifton  and  me."  Roisart  made  a
 discontented  face.  "Don't  worry,  twin. Ittosai  Michiya  and  Rish 
 Vogel will  be sitting near  us." Roisart grinned. "Oh,  and Griswald,
 too, I'm told."
     "Don't  know  what's  gotten   into  him  lately,"  Roisart  said,
 shaking his head. "I don't think I'll like sitting with him." 
     "I wonder if  it's practical that we'll all  be sitting together," 
 Luthias replied. "We're all targets--" 
     "Do  you know  that  we'll be  straight across  from  some of  the
 windows?"  Roisart   added.  "Perfect   shots,  for  all   the  guards 
 Clifton's assigned to them."
     "Well, there are  guards by the window and  outside them, Roisart. 
 Still,  I agree.  They're setting  up the  table now,"  Luthias noted.
 "Let's see if we can get the position changed."
     After  tussling with  the servants,  who were  reluctant to  allow 
 the sons of the  Baron of Connall to help them, the  twins sat down to
 their meal. The  table, and the seating  arrangements, were unchanged, 
 despite the twins'  efforts. Clifton sat in the middle  at the head of
 the  table,  Roisart on  Dargon's  left,  and  Luthias on  his  right.
 Griswald sat around  the table corner at Roisart's left  elbow; by the
 corner  on Luthias'  right were  seated  Michiya and  Rish Vogel,  the 
 Chronicler, who  were chatting gaily  in Bichanese. Seated  where they
 were, the  twins found the  conversation during the  supper unexciting
 mostly, and at  times, quite boring. Roisart wished that  he could sit
 next to  the Lord  Marcellon and  the Lady  Lauren. Luthias  wished he 
 had gone home with Pecora. 
     Clifton  Dargon said  little to  the twins.  However, at  frequent
 intervals, guests  would approach  the Lord of  Dargon and  speak with
 him. Then  the brothers did  their best  to be polite.  Winthrop joked
 and punched  Luthias on the  back (which was fine,  so long as  no one 
 ever  pinched his  cheek  again).  Two young  men,  the  sons of  some
 merchant, took  their leave.  Lord Coranabo came  forth to  praise the 
 peacekeeping during the festival. 
     Roisart found  himself quite bored  and began studying  the window
 directly  opposite his  seat: a  detail of  a maiden  knight defeating
 six other  knights. He wished that  the guards weren't on  either side
 of it;  they were distracting  him, pulling  his gaze toward  the open
 stained-glass panel, instead of the stained-glass picture above it. 
     Finally, the  dishes were  cleared away, and  goblets of  wine and
 trays of pastries  delivered unto the tables. No one  touched the food
 or  drink, though.  Dargon  stood. Roisart  let  his shoulders  droop.
 Time  for  the  Spring  Welcome  Speech  And  Toast,  Roisart  groaned 
 internally. Bored a priori, he continued to study the window.
     Clifton  stood regally  and began  to speak  in a  loud, dignified
 voice.  In Roisart's  ears, the  words  were garbled  sounds. He  lost
 himself  in the  magic of  the window,  in the  legend of  the fierce, 
 gentle maiden-knight, who  defeats all in her search for  love and for
 justice. Roisart gazed  worshipfully at the window.  The legend seemed
 to come alive; it seemed that one of the six cowardly knights moved. 
     Roisart  blinked. He  *had* seen  something move,  down below,  by
 the open panel. Clifton continued speaking. 
     Was it the guards?
     Roisart  squinted at  the window.  Yes, something  was there.  Two 
 men. Must be the guards. Roisart found them hard to see.
     Then they can't  be the guards, Roisart realized.  He couldn't see
 their armor  glittering. What were  they doing behind the  window? And
 where were the guards who were supposed to be there? 
     Clifton was  still speaking, and  reaching for his goblet.  It was
 almost time for the  Toast to Spring, made yearly at  this ball by the 
 Lord of Dargon since time immemorial. 
     Roisart  edged   forward  on   his  seat.   He  could   still  see
 them--whoever  they  were--moving by  the  open  part of  the  window,
 leaning on it seemingly. 
     The Lord of Dargon began his introduction to the toast.
     Crossbows! They were leaning crossbows on the window sill! 
     Clifton raised his glass.
     Don't those guards hear anything? They're putting crossbows-- 
     Crossbows! What are they doing with-- 
     No time! Luthias! Clifton!
     Roisart rose  like a shot,  tumbling his chair. With  the strength
 of a  boar, he charged  his cousin's  side. Dargon fell  onto Luthias'
 lap.  Luthias' chair  collapsed, bringing  Dargon and  Luthias to  the 
 floor with  it. Red  wine splattered onto  Roisart's white  shirt, but
 he remained standing.
     Or was  it the wine? Luthias,  Michiya, and Rish Vogel,  who still
 remained in  a position to  see, perceived two black  bolts protruding 
 from Roisart, one in the chest, the other in the side. 
     Someone  screamed.  Slowly,  it  seemed,  Roisart,  son  of  Fionn 
 Connall, fell. 
     Luthias  impatiently  pushed  Dargon  off of  him.  "Roisart!"  he 
 cried. He somehow felt the wounding arrows had pierced him too.
     Dargon  leapt to  his feet.  "Guards! The  garden! Outside  of the
 knights'  window!"  To  a  sergeant:  "Get  the  guests  to  the  blue 
 ballroom, and  hold them there.  No one is  to enter or  leave without
 my command!" To Griswald, he imperiously said, "Attend my cousin!"
     Rish Vogel  had retrieved  a quill  from who  knows where  and had 
 begun writing in wine on his napkin.
     Michiya had joined  Luthias, who was cradling Roisart  on his lap.
 Griswald scuttled over. The old physician sadly shook his head.
     The  guards were  escorting the  guests from  the ivory  ballroom. 
 Dargon  knelt  beside  his  cousins. "Griswald?"  asked  the  Lord  of 
 Dargon softly. He put a hand on Luthias' shoulder. 
     The old  physician looked  into the  eyes of  his lord.  Again, he 
 shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lord. He's dead." 
     "You haven't even checked him!" Luthias screamed.
     Griswald's weary  eyes focused on Luthias'  angry, desperate ones. 
 "I'm sorry, my lord. The bolts were poisoned."
     "How do you know?" Luthias returned, his voice shrill and frantic.
     A sextet  of guards arrived in  the Lord of Dargon's  presence. To 
 the  floor they  threw two  young  men, dressed  as merchants.  Dargon
 rose,  a  tower  of  just   fury.  Luthias  stared  at  his  brother's
 murderers in  white rage.  Ittosai Michiya put  a stern,  staying hand 
 on Luthias'  shoulder. Luthias  shook for a  moment, then  turned back
 to his breathless twin and closed his brother's startled, brown eyes.
     The sergeant  of the guards threw  a pair of black  crossbows onto
 the ivory  floor. They clattered  insanely. The sergeant  spoke. "They
 weren't far from the window, lordship. They still had the bows." 
     "Where  were the  guards posted  to the  outside of  that window?"
 Dargon demanded.
     "Dead,  my lord,"  the  sergeant reported.  "Knifed  in the  neck. 
 Very quiet, lordship. They're professionals, all right." 
     "And you said that they still had these bows?" 
     "Aye, lordship." 
     Grim with  judgment, Dargon  leaned over the  body of  his cousin. 
 "I'm  sorry, Luthias,"  he whispered  to the  sorrowing twin.  Clifton
 reached over  his living cousin and  wrenched a bolt out  of Roisart's 
 still body.  Luthias cried  out, as  if Clifton  had pulled  a painful 
 arrow from  his own side.  Then Dargon turned  back to the  guards and
 the  wielders of  the  crossbows.  Dargon held  out  a  hand. A  guard
 quickly supplied him  with one of the weapons. Dargon  fitted the bolt
 into the bow.
     "Lord  Ittosai,"  he  called.  Michiya  turned  from  Luthias  and 
 bowed. "Wou  ld you say  that this  bolt fits?" Ittosai  Michiya gazed 
 at the displayed weapon. 
     "Yes, my lord."
     "Luthias!"  Luthias  looked up,  resentment  in  his eyes.  Dargon 
 held out the crossbow. "Tell me if this bolt fits this crossbow." 
     Luthias  stared for  a  moment with  stubborn  hardness, then  his
 innate practicality  returned. He inspected the  weapon, his brother's 
 head yet in his lap. "Yes, Clifton," he answered. "It fits perfectly."
     The Lord  of Dargon handed the  weapon to a guard.  "Keep it well. 
 It  will  be  needed  in  the   trial."  Then  Dargon  turned  to  the 
 assassins. "It  is evident that you  are guilty of the  murder of Lord
 Roisart  Connall. You  will be  tried before  the tribunal  tomorrow." 
 The  Lord  of  Dargon  paused.  "Tell  me  now  who  hired  you."  The
 assassins exchanged uncertain glances. "Tell me!" roared Dargon. 
     A heavy, sad  voice informed the Lord of Dargon,  "I can tell you, 
 my lord."  Dargon twisted  to see his  physician, who  looked suddenly 
 old,  very old.  "I can  tell  you who  hired  these men,  and who  is 
 responsible for Lord Fionn Connall's death, and your young cousin's."
     "How do you know he's dead?" Luthias demanded. "You have not--" 
     "Quiet, Luthias,"  Dargon ordered  gently, but with  the swiftness
 and  sternness  of  authority.  "Come here,  Griswald,"  the  Lord  of
 Dargon  ordered. Timorously,  the  old doctor  stepped forward.  "Now,
 tell me."
     "There is  a merchant,"  Griswald began slowly.  "His name  is Lek
 Pyle.  He  and  some  other  merchants wished  to  start  a  war  with 
 Bichu--for  their own  profit--,  and Pyle  himself  believed that  he 
 could  convince  the King,  if  only  you  were eliminated,  my  lord, 
 because  you  also have  the  ear  of  the  King." Dargon  nodded.  In 
 matters of commerce  and foreign relations, Clifton  had often advised
 the King,  and the  advice, being  sound, was  often taken.  "He hired
 these two men--"
     "To kill Lord Roisart?" prompted the Lord of Dargon.
     Griswald  shook his  gray head.  "No, my  lord. To  kill you,  and
 Lord Luthias.  Pyle had chosen young  Lord Roisart to become  the next 
 Baron of Connall and Duke of Dargon." 
     Dargon  appeared   perplexed.  "Why  did  he   prefer  Roisart  to
 Luthias? Luthias, of the two, was more proficient in war--"
     "He   considered  Lord   Roisart   easier   to  trick,"   Griswald 
 explained.  "He  planned  to  manufacture  small  details--which  Lord 
 Luthias   would   ignore,   but   Lord   Roisart   would   insist   on 
 knowing--details which  would trick  Lord Roisart into  believing that
 Bichu was preparing to attack us." 
     Ittosai Michiya spat a fierce Bichanese curse. 
     "Lord Roisart  was instrumental to  his plans, my  lord," Griswald
 continued.  "He meant  to kill  you and  Lord Luthias,  but he  wished
 Lord Roisart to  remain alive." The physician turned  then to Luthias.
 "My  lord, your  brother is  dead. This  I know.  The poison  on those 
 bolts is instantaneous. I know, because Pyle forced me to mix it."
     With an almost  animal cry, Luthias sprang to his  feet and rushed 
 toward the old  physician. Ittosai Michiya deftly  intercepted him and 
 held him  back with a  seemingly effortless display of  force. Dargon, 
 too, wished to  erupt but managed to  hold his anger in  check for the
 time being.  "You did  what?" the Lord  of Dargon  asked deliberately. 
 "Kindly explain your actions, sir."
     "Lek  Pyle  has  been  threatening my  life,  my  lord,"  Griswald 
 began. "I  have no other excuse  than this. He  has used me to  spy on
 you, just as he  used Manus to keep track of the  Baron of Connall and 
 his sons.  He forced me to mix the poison which killed your cousin. He 
 forced Manus to give your father's horse a drug to make it violent." 
     "Manus?" cried  Luthias, appalled.  That was the  man he  had made 
 Regent of Connall!
     Griswald nodded  soberly. "Yes,"  he answered ruefully.  "He seems 
 to prey upon us healers." 
     Dargon  was  thinking  swiftly.  "Lek Pyle...that  man  is  here!"
 Again, Griswald  nodded. Dargon  nodded to  a guard.  "Go to  the blue 
 ballroom  and fetch  Lek Pyle.  Bring him  here." The  Lord of  Dargon 
 returned  to  his physician.  "I  don't  know  what  to do  with  you,
 Griswald. You shall  have to be tried before  the tribunal--and Manus,
 too. Until then, you shall be confined to your rooms." 
     "Confined!"  Luthias  protested.  "But Clifton,  his poison killed
 Roisart!"
     "Yes, but  I can't  blame him  for trying to  save his  own life," 
 Clifton  returned, sighing.  "I'll send  a  squadron to  your keep  as 
 soon as possible  to bring Manus into custody. And  when Pyle comes in 
 here,  Luthias," the  Lord continued  in an  imperious tone,  "you had 
 best be calm." 
     Luthias'  face became  tight a  moment,  but he  said nothing.  He
 turned back to his twin's corpse.
     Two  heavy-set  guards entered,  dragging  a  protesting Lek  Pyle
 with  him. "I  must protest  this  treatment, Lord  Dargon," he  cried 
 upon sight of Clifton. "I am--" 
     "A murderer," Griswald finished for him.
     "This is the man, then?" Dargon inquired. Griswald nodded.
     The two assassins  exchanged glances, but said  nothing. That lack
 of denial was enough for the Duke of Dargon.
     Dargon seemed  suddenly pale. "Throw  him," he said  slowly, "into 
 the dungeon's darkest cell. Now."
     The guards pulled him away. "But I have done nothing!" cried Pyle. 
     "Liar," muttered Griswald. 
     "What about these two, my lord?" asked the sergeant. 
     "Dungeon," Dargon  ordered laconically.  "Escort the  physician to 
 his rooms, and  set a guard upon  him. Then send a squadron  of men to 
 Connall  to arrest  Manus the  Healer." The  sergeant saluted,  barked
 orders to his  subordinates, and soon, they left.  Dargon bellowed for 
 another  guard. "Have  a servant  sent  for the  priests. My  cousin's 
 body must be prepared."
     "What about the guests, lordship?" asked the soldier.
     The  Lord of  Dargon considered.  "I shall  speak to  them myself, 
 presently." The soldier saluted and went off. 
     Dargon  turned  back  to  the  table. The  room  looked  so  empty 
 now...only  Luthias, lifting  Roisart's  dead  body; Michiya,  helping 
 him;  and  Rish  Vogel,  writing   in  wine,  chronicling  the  entire 
 incident. Clifton  approached his  cousin gently and  put his  hand on 
 his arm. Luthias looked at him, grief in his eyes.
     "Are  you  going  to  be  all  right,  Luthias?"  Dargon's  cousin 
 nodded. "Lord  Michiya, please stay  with him.  I have to  address our 
 guests."  Dargon frowned,  shook  his  head. "There  will  be no  more 
 dancing on  this night." Slowly,  the Lord  of Dargon turned  away and
 left the  ballroom. Rish Vogel rose  from his seat, tucked  the napkin 
 into his  pocket, and followed  the Duke. Passing Luthias,  he mumbled
 something about making the chronicle of the incident complete.
     Ittosai  Michiya watched  the Lord  of Dargon  leave, and  then he 
 turned  compassionate eyes  toward  the young  lord  Luthias. "Do  you
 need my help, my friend?" asked the Bichurian. 
     Luthias shook his  head. "No, I'm all right,"  he asserted softly. 
 He looked down  at the dead face  of his brother cradled  on the crook
 of his arm.  "I'm sorry, Roi," he mumbled. "It  seems our decision has
 been made for us."
     Michiya  gave Luthias  a look  of  confusion. "What  do you  mean, 
 Luthias-san? I do not understand." 
     Luthias gave him  a bitter smile flavored with  an almost humorous
 irony. "Don't you know, Michiya? I am now the Lord Baron of Connall."
     And  it was  little comfort,  for Luthias  knew now,  for certain, 
 that his brother had been more worthy of the title. 
                 -M. Wendy Hennequin  <HENNEQUI@CTSTATEU>

         <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> 
               -M. Wendy Hennequin  <HEN