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hierarchy by which the alien Chapalii governed the races and stellar systems they had absorbed into their empire. They never used the word conquered.
    “Chattel,” said David ben Unbutu to Marco Burckhardt. They took up stations on either side of Charles on the levitated train that in three hours would take them across the Atlantic Ocean from Portsmouth to North America. David braced himself for the shift as the train jolted forward. Marco, of course, seemed not to notice the transition at all. Charles was sitting down, crystal message wand laid across his knees, still talking with the prime minister of the Eurasian states. She was headed to Quito Spaceport in South America, and Charles had taken the opportunity to ask her to travel with him for part of the journey.
    “Who’s chattel?” Marco asked. “Shall we sit down?”
    “I’m too nervous to sit,” said David, although he was not surprised when Marco sat anyway, across from Charles. Four benches ran the length of the car, arranged in two pairs facing in toward each other, split by a central aisle. David stood where the inner bench gapped to allow access to the aisle. Charles and the prime minister sat with their backs to the windows, windows which, on this side of the car, showed programming, not ocean.
    “Look.” Marco pointed to one of the flat screens. “There’s that interview with Owen Zerentous again.” He took on an affected accent. “‘Ginny and I have been interested for some time in theater as the universal medium, in theater’s use of ritual and ceremony as a way to access the common essence of humanity.’ You know, I think Zerentous believes what he’s talking about.”
    “Maybe he’s even right. But you’ve never been interested in theater, Marco. Or at least, only in the ornamentation thereof.”
    Marco grinned. “A man can’t help looking, especially at women who are as pretty as Diana Brooke-Holt. What did you mean by chattel?”
    David glanced at the Chapalii steward standing four seats down from him, on the other side of Charles. Of course, a steward would not sit—could not—in the presence of nobility. All along the car passengers sat at their ease, watching the screens, reading from flat screens, dozing, knitting; an adolescent drew a light sculpture in the air with a pen, erased it with an exasperated wave of a hand, and began again. Human passengers. They had noted Charles’s presence. How could they fail to? They all knew who he was; they all recognized him. Many had acknowledged him, with a terse word, with a nod, to which he had replied in like measure. Now they left him his privacy, except for one very young child who wandered over and sat in a seat two down from the prime minister, small chin cupped in small hands, watching their intent conversation with a concerned expression.
    “I don’t know what I meant,” said David, “except that sometimes I think we’re just chattel to them—to the Chapalii.”
    “I don’t think they think in such economic terms. I think their hierarchy is more like a caste system than a class system, but how do we know if human theory explains it, anyway? Why are you nervous?”
    David sat down. The bench shifted beneath him, molding itself to his contours. “Why should Duke Naroshi send Charles a summons wand? What authority does Naroshi have to summon Charles? He doesn’t outrank him.”
    “As far as we know he doesn’t. Maybe the length of time you’ve been duke matters, in which case Naroshi would outrank Charles. But Naroshi is in fealty to the princely house which has nominal control of human space. Of Earth.”
    “That’s true. And it was Naroshi’s agent who was on Rhui, with Tess.”
    “David.”
    David looked around, suddenly sure that everyone was looking at him, but, of course, no one was. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “But wouldn’t that imply that Naroshi is seeking some kind of information with which to discredit Charles? Especially now that Charles has