I had dropped the clarinet and was on my feet. I tried to back up but the balustrade stopped me. The four spread out. The man in the lead fingered a wicked-looking short club and spoke to me--in gibberish. I blinked at him and tried to think of a snappy comeback. He snapped his fingers and two of the others came up; they reached for my arms. I started to square off, fist cocked, then relaxed; after all, I was just a tourist, Drgon by name. Unfortunately, before I could get my fist back, the man with the club swung it and caught me across the forearm. I yelled, jumped back, found myself grappled by the others. My arm felt dead to the shoulder. I tried a kick and regretted that too; there was armor under the cloaks. The club wielder said something and pointed at the cat.... It was time I wised up. I relaxed, tried to coax my alter ego into the foreground. I listened to the rhythm of the language: it was Vallonian, badly warped by time, but I could understand it: "--musician would be an Owner!" one of them said. Laughter. "Whose man are you, piper? What are your colors?" I curled my tongue, tried to shape it around the sort of syllables I heard them uttering, but it seemed to me a gross debasement of the Vallonian I knew. Still I managed an answer: "I ... am a ... citizen ... of Vallon." "A dog of a masterless renegade?" The man with the club hefted it, glowered at me. "And what wretched dialect is that you speak?" "I have ... been long a-voyaging," I stuttered. "I ask ... for briefing rods ... and for a ... dwelling place." "A dwelling place you'll have," the man said. "In the men's shed at Rath-Gallion." He gestured, and snapped handcuffs on me. He turned and stalked away, and the others hustled me after him. Over my shoulder I got a glimpse of a cat's tail disappearing over the balustrade. Outside, a long grey aircar waited on the lawn. They dumped me in the back seat, climbed aboard. I got a last look at the spires of Okk-Hamiloth as we tilted, hurtled away across the low hills. I had had an idealistic notion of wanting to fit into this new world, find a place in its society. I'd found a place all right: a job with security. I was a slave. CHAPTER XIV It was banquet night at Rath-Gallion, and I gulped my soup in the kitchen and ran over in my mind the latest batch of jingles I was expected to perform. I had only been on the Estate a few weeks, but I was already Owner Gope's favorite piper. If I kept on at this rate, I would soon have a cell to myself in the slave pens. Sime, the pastry cook, came over to me. "Pipe us a merry tune, Drgon," he said, "and I'll reward you with a frosting pot." "With pleasure, good Sime," I said. I finished off the soup and got out my clarinet. I had tried out half a dozen strange instruments, but I still liked this one best. "What's your pleasure?" "One of the outland tunes you learned far-voyaging," called Cagu, the bodyguard.