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against his

chest.

Since he was almost a foot taller than the group around him, Steve was

able to look over their heads and thus avoid direct eye contact. Three

of the group hadn't dismounted. Two were small dark-haired,

olive-skinned dinks, the other was a taller, cowled figure whose face

was covered by an oval chalk-white mask. All three were blindfolded.

Their wrists were bound to a rounded post.

at the front of their saddles and their ankles had been fastened

together by a rope passed under the horse's belly. Something drew his

eyes back to the figure in the white mask. The quarterstaff vibrated

in his hands, causing a shiver to run down his spine. Not of fear,

but of excitement.

No - surely - it couldn't be. It just wasn't possible,t The ring of

sweat-stained warriors around Steve parted to let through the man who

had led them into the arena. He was bigger than the rest and was

followed by the woman and the small boy. The child was now back in her

arms, his face buried shyly against her neck. Now and then his small,

slanted black-button eyes would dart towards Steve. His guard-mother's

gaze was more steady, but it was hard to tell what she was thinking.

Her dark eyes reflected neither gratitude not hostility. Now she had

recovered her composure, her face was completely devoid of

expression.

They were all the same. Side-Winder had told him Iron Masters had

amazing self-control. They prided themselves on their ability to

suppress all outward signs of emotion. And, apparently, they were

pretty cool characters on the inside as well. As a.result, it was

virtually impossible to tell from their faces what they were thinking

or what their next move might be.

Steve realised he must present a weird sight. Apart from his patterned

skin, he had dark, tangled hair, and a golden four-week growth of

beard. Plus hair on his forearms and the exposed parts of his legs.

Whereas these dinks had, as far as he could see, absolutely no hair of

their own at all. The straggling pieces the wild bunch wore must have

come from Mutes. And Steve remembered that several sackfuls of hair

had been among the items that the M'Calls had carried on their trucking

poles to the trading post by the 'great river'.

The big man circled Steve slowly, then came back and stood in front of

him. He was about six inches shorter than Steve, but his stock frame

was all muscle and bone and his dark eyes didn't waver. 'You

understand my words, grass-monkey?"

'Yes, I do'

'You kill these samurai?"

'Some of them."

Noburo Naka-Jima held out his hand for the quarterstaff. Steve gave it

to him. He passed it on to one of the men standing near by, then took

hold of Steve's left arm and ran his eyes over the dirt-stained

bandage.

Steve let his arm hang loose. This was no time for last-ditch

heroics.

Noburo slid the combat knife out of the hidden scabbard, pulled the

strip of rag from around the hilt and inspected the finish and

sharpness of the blade.

Without waiting to be asked, Steve unwrapped the scabbard and removed

it from his arm.

Noburo handed both items to another of his sidekicks.

'How did you find way in here?"

Steve was ready for that one. The whole story had started to come

together in his mind. 'I was on the mountain. I saw a horse with no

rider go into a split in the rocks. The twelve samurai were following

it." He shrugged. 'So I followed them."

'Why?"

Steve shot a quick glance at the white-masked figure sitting astride

the horse about ten yards from where he stood. The strange sixth sense

that had helped him from time to time in the past put the words on his

tongue.

'You were someone I had to meet."

Noburo nodded, but his face gave no indication as to whether or not he