The stranger was dressed in courtly robes that contrasted sharply with Kesley's simple farmer's muslin. He wore a flowing cape of red trimmed with yellow gilt, a short stiff beard stained red to match, and a royal blue tunic. He was tall and powerful looking, with wide-set black eyes and heavy, brooding eyebrows that ran in a solid bar across his forehead. "I don't care if you _are_ from the court," Kesley snapped. "That wolf was mine. I chased it up from the fields--and to have some city bastard step out of nowhere and ruin my kill for me just as I'm--" "_Dale!_" The sharp voice belonged to Loren Harker, Kesley's farming partner, a veteran fieldsman, tall and angular, face dried by the sun and skin brown and tough. He appeared from the farmhouse door and stood next to the stranger. Kesley realized he had spoken foolishly. "I'm--sorry," he said, his voice unrepentant. "It's just that it boiled me to see--dammit, you had no _business_ doing that!" "I understand," the stranger said calmly. "It was a mistake on my part. Please accept my apologies." "Accepted," Kesley muttered. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Say, what kind of tax-collector are you, anyway? You're the first man out of Duke Winslow's court who ever said anything but '_Give me_'." "Tax-collector? Why call me that?" "Why else would you come to the farmlands, if not for the tithe? Don't play games," Kesley said impatiently. He kicked the worthless wolf-carcass to one side and stepped between Loren and the stranger. "Come on inside, and tell me how much I owe my liege lord this time." "You don't understand--" Loren started to say, but the stranger put one hand on his shoulder and halted him. "Let me," he said. He turned to Kesley. "I'm not a tax-collector. I'm not from the court of Duke Winslow at all." "What are you doing in farm country, then?" The stranger smiled evenly. "I came here because I'm looking for someone. But what are _you_ doing here, Dale Kesley?" The question was like a stinging slap in the face. For a moment, Kesley remained frozen, unreacting. Then, as the words penetrated below the surface, a shadow of pain crossed his face. His mouth sagged open. _What are you doing here, Dale Kesley?_ The words blurred and re-echoed like a shout in a cavern. Kesley felt suddenly naked, as the mask of self-deception and hypocrisy that had erected itself during his four years in Iowa Province crumbled inward and fell away. It was the one question he had dreaded to face. "You look sick," Loren said. "What's wrong, Dale?" The older man's voice was hushed, bewildered. "Nothing," Kesley said hesitantly. "Nothing at all." But he was unable to meet the stranger's calm smile and, worse, he had no idea why. His thoughts flashed back to that moment at the plough earlier that morning, when Iowa had seemed like the universe and he had made life appear infinitely good. _Lies._