But I had no choice. I had struck a cold trail in Shainsa. Rakhal might be anywhere on the planet and half of Magnusson's month was already up. Unless I could force Kyral to tell what he knew, I might as well quit. So I repeated: "I will bet _shegri_ with you." And Kyral stood unmoving. For what the _shegrin_ wagers is his courage and endurance in the face of torture and an unknown fate. On his side, the stakes are clearly determined beforehand. But if he loses, his punishment or penalty is at the whim of the one who has accepted him, and he may be put to whatever doom the winner determines. And this is the contest: The _shegrin_ permits himself to be tortured from sunrise to sunset. If he endures he wins. It is as simple as that. He can stop the torture at any moment by a word, but to do so is a concession of defeat. This is not as dangerous as it might, at first, seem. The other party to the bet is bound by the ironclad codes of Wolf to inflict no permanent physical damage (no injury that will not heal with three suncourses). But from sunrise to sunset, any torment or painful ingenuity which the half-human mentality of Wolf can devise must be endured. The man who can outthink the torture of the moment, the man who can hold in his mind the single thought of his goal--that man can claim the stakes he has set, as well as other concessions made traditional. The silence grew in the hall. Dallisa had straightened and was watching me intently, her lips parted and the tip of a little red tongue visible between her teeth. The only sound was the tiny crunching as the fat woman nibbled at nuts and cast their shells into the brazier. Even the child on the steps had abandoned her game with the crystal dice, and sat looking up at me with her mouth open. Finally Kyral demanded, "Your stakes?" "Tell me all you know of Rakhal Sensar and keep silence about me in Shainsa." "By the red shadow," Kyral burst out, "you have courage, Rascar!" "Say only yes or no!" I retorted. Rebuked, he fell silent. Dallisa leaned forward and again, for some unknown reason, I thought of a girl with hair like spun black glass. Kyral raised his hand. "I say no. I have blood-feud with Rakhal and I will not sell his death to another. Further, I believe you are Terran and I will not deal with you. And finally, you have twice saved my life and I would find small pleasure in torturing you. I say no. Drink again with me and we part without a quarrel." Beaten, I turned to go. "Wait," said Dallisa. She stood up and came down from the dais, slowly this time, walking with dignity to the rhythm of her musically clashing chains. "I have a quarrel with this man." I started to say that I did not quarrel with women, and stopped myself. The Terran concept of chivalry has no equivalent on Wolf. She looked at me with her dark poison-berry eyes, icy and level and amused, and said, "I will bet _shegri_ with you, unless you fear me, Rascar."