Rigo ground his teeth. There had been a time on Terra when children had been sacrificed. To Moloch. To Poseidon. Even to God. There had been dangerous rites on Terra long ago. Maenads had run wild upon mountaintops, tearing youths apart with their teeth. Secret societies had demanded blood and silence. And yet, he could not recall a time in Terran history that men had lost their children and pretended not to notice. Never. Now, nowhere else. Only here, on Grass.
He shuddered, then drew in a deep breath, confused. Why was he going to this Hunt? Was he really going to ride? Again? Knowing what he knew now?
Why was he going?
To demand help in finding Stella, of course.
From whom? He went over the roll of all the bons he had met, listing them by families, ticking them off, going back to see if he had forgotten any.
“Pollut,” he said at last in a shamed voice. “Will any of them help me find my daughter?”
Persun Pollut gave him a long look. Around the eyes His Excellency looked rather like an old bit of carving, badly abused, chipped, and abraded. For a moment Persun considered equivocation, then discarded the idea. He owed it to Lady Westriding to tell the truth.
“No,” he said finally. “None of them will.”
“Marjorie warned me,” Rigo said in a whisper.
Despite the whisper, Persun heard him. “Many of us tried to warn you, sir. Lady Westriding has a clear eye. She was not taken in by these Hippae.”
“You believe it’s true that they do things to people’s minds….”
With some effort Persun kept any taint of sneer from his voice as he asked, “Has the ambassador any other explanation?”
“Landing!” said Sebastian. “There’s a considerable crowd on the court, sir. Almost as though they were waiting for us.”
Rigo looked down with a sense of forboding. Many pale faces looked up. And there were already Hippae down there! It was indeed as though they had been waiting He thought of telling Sebastian to go back, return home But that would seem such arrant cowardice! Death before dishonor, he sneered at himself. Of course. “Set it down,” he said.
When he opened the car door, Obermun Jerril bon Haunser was poised outside, his face empty of any emotion.
“Your Excellency,” he said. “I have the honor of conveying to you the challenge of Obermun Stavenger bon Damfels. He wishes me to say that the whore, your wife, has taken away his son, Sylvan. And that you will answer for it or be trampled to death.” He gestured backward, toward the wall of the estancia, where a dozen Hippae stood, shifting from foot to foot, clashing the barbs on their necks despite the empty-faced men and women on their backs.
Rigo felt molten iron rise into his face. That Jerril bon Haunser had said no more than he, Rigo, had implied toward Marjorie only redoubled his fury. “How dare you?” he snarled “How dares any of you?” He raised his voice to a shout. “A mother goes to look for her daughter, and you call her a whore? It is your wives who have made themselves whores. Your wives and your daughters! Who have whored themselves to them!” He thrust a rigid finger at the rank of Hippae along the wall. “Your wives and daughters have spread their legs for lovers who are not even human!”
There was no quiver of movement among the mounted men. Obermun bon Haunser’s face did not change. He might as well have been deaf and blind. He seemed not to have heard Rigo’s contemptuous insult. He bowed, twisted his lips into a vacant smile, and gestured toward an approaching Hippae. “Your mount,” he said.
Rigo felt Persun seize his arm. “Let us leave, Your Excellency. We can!”
Rigo shook off Persun’s hand. “I will not run,” he snarled through a red curtain of rage. “Not from them, not from any of them.”
“Then for God’s sake take this,” and Persun thrust something into Rigo’s jacket pocket from behind. “A laser knife, Your Excellency. One of my carving tools. The Lady Marjorie wilt not forgive me if I let you die.”