"Almost a month," Nevan admitted. He might have been able to get away with lying to another w'woman, but the lady Morna could tell--whether by looking or by some form of Talent--almost to the day how long a warrior had been using anti-need medications. And she didn't approve of them being used any longer than was absolutely necessary. "I thought so. Are you going to be around long enough for me to give you a natural release?" Nevan was tempted, but he shook his head. He'd have to leave as soon as he could; now that his cover was blown, he had no choice but to give up this try and start over. "I'm afraid I have to get back to Terra." Morna nodded, glancing at the synthiskin-covered cheek. "Of course; I didn't realize. But when you do, promise me that you'll find a w'woman or warrior and get a decent natural release." "I will, lady," Nevan replied, grateful for her understanding. "Or a Traiti; some of the Palace Guard have given me good combat releases." "That will do." Morna smiled at him. "At least you haven't gone six months on the meds, the way you had when I first met you! But can you stay a little while? Our autochef bakes good cookies. Including chocolate chip." Nevan chuckled, deciding that an hour or so shouldn't really make any difference. "I'd like that; thanks." * * * * * The receiver in Owajima's ear chimed softly; he turned on his throat mike--not the surgically implanted comm unit many ranking Imperials were given, but the external type used as far back as pre-atomic times--and answered. "Owajima here." "DarLowrie went to the open house, Colonel--and one of those on the destroyer static display recognized him. His name is Nevan, and he has accepted an invitation to visit the ship." "Nevan!" Owajima exclaimed. "What clan, do you know?" "It was not said, but the largest clan group aboard is from Leras." "Ah." Owajima was silent for several seconds, absorbing that. "Is there a tattoo on his right cheek?" "There is not." "Interesting--thank you. I will need some assistance after all, it appears; I would like to get into his ship with as few traces as possible." "An entry specialist will be with you in ten minutes. Is there anything else?" "Not at the moment. Owajima out." So his pursuer's true name was Nevan, Owajima thought, troubled. And the ship's largest contingent was from Leras. Knowing both Sandemans and the unconditional nature of the personal fealty oath, he found it hard to believe his pursuer's identity. What had gone wrong, to turn a Sandeman warrior from thakur-na to renegade assassin? Or . . . had anything? If Nevan had either deserted or harmed his chosen lady, it would have been all over the news channels, and there had been nothing. The likelihood, then, was that he was on a mission for her--a mission that somehow concerned him.