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cries of newsboys selling the Rashm , and pushcart peddlers hawking their wares; the rustle of cloaks and skirts; the clink of scabbards; the faint rattle of bracelets and other pieces of heavy jewelry; and over it all the murmur of rolling, rhythmic sentences in the guttural, resonant Balhibo tongue.
    In the Kharju, Fallon found the establishment of Ve’qir the Exclusive and pushed boldly into the hushed interior. At that moment Ve’qir himself was selling something frilly to the jagaini of the hereditary Dasht of Qe’ba, while the Dasht sat on a stool and grumped about the cost. Ve’qir glanced at Fallon, twitched his antennae in recognition, and turned back to his customer. Ve’qir’s assistant, a young female, came up expectantly, but Fallon waved her aside.
    “I’ll see the boss himself when he’s through,” he said. As the assistant fell back in well-bred acquiescence, Fallon murmured into Gazi’s large pointed ear: “Stop going over those fabrics. You’ll have the old fastuk raising the price.”
    A voice said: “Hello, Mr. Fallon. Is Mr. Fallon, yes?”
    Fallon spun round. There was the white-haired archeologist, Julian Fredro. Fallon acknowledged the greeting, adding: “Just sightseeing, Fredro?”
    “Yes, thank you. How is project coming?”
    Fallon smiled and waved toward Gazi. “Working on it now. This is my jagaini, Gazi er-Doukh.” He performed the other half of the introduction in Balhibou, then switched back to English. “We’re dressing her properly for a binge tomorrow night. The mad social whirl of Zanid, you know.”
    “Ah, you combine the business with the pleasure. Is this a part of the project?”
    “Yes. Kastambang’s party. He’s promised me information.”
    “Ah? Fine. I have invitation to this party too. I shall see you there. Mr. Fallon—ah—where is this public bath I hear about, that takes place today?”
    “Want to see the quaint native customs, eh? Stay with us. We’re, on our way to one after we finish here.”
    The ci-devant feudal lord completed his purchase, and Ve’qir came over to Fallon rubbing his hands together. Fallon demanded the best in evening wear, and presently Gazi was pirouetting slowly while Ve’qir tried one thing after another on her unclad form. Fallon chose a spangled skirt of filmy material so expensive that even Gazi was moved to protest.
    “Oh, go on!” he said. “We’re only middle-aged once, you know.”
    She threw him a look of venom but accepted the skirt. Then the couturier fitted her with a gold-lace ulemda set with semiprecious stones—a kind of harness or halter worn by upper-class Balhibo women on the upper torso on formal occasions, adorning without concealing.
    At last Gazi stood in front of the mirror, turning slowly this way and that. “For this,” she said to Fallon, “I’d forgive you much. But since you’re so rich for the nonce, why get you not something for yourself? ‘Twould pleasure me to pick a garment for you.”
    “Oh, I don’t need anything new. And it’s getting late…”
    “Yes you do, my love. That old rain-cloak of yours is unfit for the veriest beggar, so patched and darned is it.”
    “Oh, all right.” With money in his scrip, Fallon could not long withstand the urge to buy. “Ve’qir, have you got a man’s rain-cloak in stock? Nothing fancy just good sound middle-class stuff.”
    Ve’qir, as it happened, had.
    “Very well,” said Fallon, having tried on the garment. “Add it up, and don’t forget my discount.”
    Fallon completed his purchases, hailed a khizun, and started back toward the Juru with both Gazi and Fredro. Gazi said: “ ’Tis unwontedly open-handed of you, my love. But tell me, how got you such a vast reduction from Ve’qir, who’s known for squeezing the last arzu from those so mazed by the glamor of his reputation as to venture into his lair?”
    Fallon smiled. “You see,” he said, repeating each phrase in two languages, “Ve’qir the Exclusive had an