No wonder Foster had stumbled, had trouble raising his sword. He had been netted, encased in a mesh of incredibly fine tough wire ... and in the dim light even the crowd twenty feet away hadn't seen it. I put my hand on my sword hilt, chewed my lower lip. I had found Foster ... but it wouldn't do me--or Vallon--much good. He was on his way to the dungeons, to be walled up until the next Change. And it would be three months before I could legally make another try for Qohey's place. I would have to spend that time working on my swordplay, and hope Foster could hold out. Maybe I could sneak a message-- A heavy blow on the back sent me spinning. Four bodyguards moved to ring me in, clubs in hand. They were strangers to me, but across the room I saw Torbu looming, looking my way.... "I saw him; he started to pull that fancy sword," said one of the guards. "He was asking me questions--" "Unbuckle it and drop it," another ordered me. "Don't try anything!" "What's this all about?" I said. "I have a right to wear a Ceremonial Sword at an Audience--" "Move in, boys!" The four men stepped toward me, the clubs came up. I warded off a smashing blow with my left arm, took a blinding crack across the face, felt myself going down--another blow, and another: all killing ones.... Then I was aware of being dragged, endlessly, of voices barking sharp questions, of pain.... After a long time it was dark, and silent, and I slept. * * * * * I groaned and the sound was dead, muffled. I put out a hand and touched stone on my right. My left elbow touched stone. I made an instinctive move to sit up and smacked my head against more stone. My new room was confining. I felt my face ... and winced at the touch. The bridge of my nose felt different: it was lower than it used to be, in spite of the swelling. I lay back and traced the pattern of pain. There was the nose--smashed flat--with secondary aches around the eyes. They'd be beautiful shiners, if I could see them. Now the left arm: it was curled close to my side and when I moved it I saw why: it wasn't broken, but the shoulder wasn't right, and there was a deep bruise above the elbow. My knees and shin, as far as I could reach, were caked with dried blood. That figured: I remembered being dragged. I tried deep-breathing; my chest seemed to be okay. My hands worked. My teeth were in place. Maybe I wasn't as sick as I felt. But where the hell was I? The floor was hard, cold. I needed a big soft bed and a little soft nurse and a hot meal and a cold drink.... Foster! I cracked my head again and flopped back, groaned some more. It still sounded pretty dead. I swallowed, licked my lips, felt a nice split that ran down to the bristles. I had attended the Audience clean-shaven. Quite a few hours have passed since then. They had taken Foster away to immure him, somebody said. Then the guards had tapped me, worked me over--