"You see, I am a soldier of fortune. I heard there was fighting here, and I came looking for a commission."

"On which side?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I know nothing about either side," I said.

"How did you get into the city without being arrested?" she demanded.

"A company of soldiers, some workers, and a few farmers were coming through the gate. I just walked through with them. Nobody stopped me; nobody asked me any questions. Did I do wrong?"

She shook her head. "Not if you could get away with it. Nothing is wrong that you can get away with. The crime is in getting caught. Tell me where you are from, if you don't mind."

"Why should I mind? I have nothing to conceal. I am from Vodaro." I remembered having seen a land mass called Vodaro on one of Danus's maps. It extended from the southern edge of the south temperate zone into the terra incognita of the antarctic. Danus said that little was known of it. I hoped that nothing was known of it. Nothing less than I knew of it could be known.

She nodded. "I was sure you were from some far country," she said. "You are very different from the men of Korva. Do all your people have blue eyes?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," I assured her. "All Vodaroans have blue eyes, or nearly all." It occurred to me that she might meet a Vodaroan some day who had black going to. If she got to inquiring around right in this restaurant she might find one. I didn't know, and I wasn't taking any chances. She seemed to be quite an alert person who liked to seek after knowledge.

An attendant finally condescended to come and take our order, and after the dinner arrived I found that it was well worth waiting for. During the meal she explained many things about conditions in Amlot under the rule of the Zanis, but so adroit was she that I couldn't tell whether she was a phile or a phobe. While we were in the midst of dinner another detachment of the Zani Guard entered. They went directly to a table next to us where a citizen who accompanied them pointed out one of the diners.

"That is he," he cried accusingly. "His great-grandmother was nursed by an Atorian woman."

The accused rose and paled. "Mistal!" cried the kordogan in charge of the detachment, and struck the accused man heavily in the face, knocking him down; then the others jumped on him and kicked and beat him. Finally they dragged him away, more dead than alive. (A mistal is a rodent about the size of a cat. The word is often used as term of approbrium, as one might say "Pig!").

"Now what was all that about?" I asked my companion.