The Colony, like all other cities, was walled. But it was as if a different architect had planned each segment of the wall. Here, it was high and carved from blocks of pink granite; there, it was a lazy stile of limestone. Towers of black basalt capped the wall at irregular intervals. He rode toward the gate--an open gate. Pulling his mount to a halt as he approached, he turned toward the guard. "Who are you?" questioned the guard, looking up from a notebook. Kesley saw a series of interlocking doodles scrawled on the man's page. "My name is Kesley. I'm here seeking sanctuary from Duke Winslow. I'm also looking for a blind poet named Daveen. Is he here?" "He has been," the guard answered. "You armed?" "Pistol and truncheon," Kesley said. "Leave 'em out here. You can pick them up when you're leaving." Kesley didn't like the idea of parting with his weapons, but he seemed to have little choice. Reluctantly, he surrendered them and rode inside, into what seemed to be a park. A fantastic array of houses was visible beyond the park. For a moment, Kesley thought he had wandered into a lunatic's asylum. Then he remembered it was simply an artists' refuge. A nude girl stood unashamedly in the center of a lawn not far away, and clustered about her, sketching furiously, was a group of painters. Beneath a live-oak tree behind her, a fat, balding man squatted on the ground, playing a wooden flute. Elsewhere, other members of the colony seemed to be busying themselves at their various interests. Kesley tethered his horse at a hitching-post just inside the main wall, and looked around for someone who might be in authority. After a moment, a girl in a brief halter and shorts approached him. "Hello, friend. My name is Lisa. Where from?" Her voice was clear and firm. Somewhat hesitantly, Kesley said, "Chicago, mostly." "Oh? What do you do?" "I don't understand," Kesley said. "Paint, sing, write? Light-sculpture? Architecture? Come on," she said impatiently. "I see. No, I'm not an artist. I'm ... just here visiting. Looking for someone." "That's nice. Who?" "A poet. Daveen the Singer, they call him. Is he here?" The girl frowned. "Daveen? I recall the name--but I don't think he's living here now. You'll have to ask Colin about that. He remembers everything." "Where can I find this Colin," Kesley asked. "Over there." She pointed to the group surrounding the nude girl. "The old lecher's busy sketching Marla. He doesn't know any more about sketching than I do, but he loves to look at a pretty body. He's the bald one, right down in front. You'd better not bother him now." "I'll wait," Kesley said. He could hold his own among assassins, but he could see that he was going to be sadly out of his depth here in the Colony. * * * * *