Shredlu paid Lord Everay no mind. The man was fatter, but weak. Shredlu turned Winter's head slightly. In profile she resembled her mother more strongly. He beckoned his apprentice. "Shubam. Razor and soap. Quickly."

"Instantly, master."

"What is it?" Everay demanded. He indulged Shredlu's moods. Shredlu had been around a long time.

"A moment more, my lord." Shredlu stepped to the window. The alien scent was stronger. He stared out at

the grey towers while brushing the sill with the spatulate fingertips of his left hand. The sensitive cells there picked up more of the musk and a strong, ugly taste.

Perhaps the auguries were overly optimistic. Of the thousand futures foreseen for Winter only a scatter in the far estuaries of probability shone brightly.

Apprentice Shubam announced proudly, "Razor, hot water, towels, and shaving lather, master." Shivering, Shredlu turned. His face betrayed nothing. He considered Shubam. The boy was enthusiastic but sloppy - despite knowing what had befallen his predecessor. He had cut no corners with so weighty a witness present, though. The razor was sharp, the towels and water hot, and the lather were of a precisely calculated temperature and consistency. Shubam did well when he concentrated.

Shredlu turned Winter's head farther. "Hold her there, Shubam. Gently!" He daubed lather. Lord Everay continued to fuss but stayed out of the way. Shredlu did not listen. He was old enough to entertain doubts that weight and condition of birth bestowed divinity.

It took just two small strokes of the straight razor to confirm his fears. "Clean her," he told Shubam, dropping the razor into the water. "My lord, she hasn't fallen into a coma at all. A tackoo came in the night,"