"Very well." Her hands went to the chain about her waist, and it jingled as she unfastened it. She opened the heavy red dress, stepped out of it, and handed it to Tashor. Then she carefully untied the leash from about her neck and bound a ribbon of red silk about her head to hold back her wealth of lustrous, blue-black hair. Beneath the red felt dress, she wore a filmy rose-colored gown of Mallorean silk that whispered and clung to her as she moved. The silk gown reached to midcalf, and she wore soft leather boots on her feet. Protruding from the top of each boot was the jeweled hilt of a dagger, and a third dagger rode on the leather belt about her waist. Her gown was caught in a tight collar about her throat, but it left her arms bare to the shoulder. She wore a half dozen narrow gold bracelets about each wrist. With a conscious grace, she bent and fastened a string of small bells to each ankle. Then she lifted her smoothly rounded arms until her hands were beside her face. "This is the beat, scar-face," she told the trapper. "Try to hold it." And she began to clap her hands together. The beat was three measured claps followed by four staccato ones. Vella began her dance slowly with a kind of insolent strut. Her gown whispered as she moved, its hem sighing about her lush calves.

The lean trapper took up her beat, his callused hands clapping together loudly in the sudden silence as Vella danced.

Garion began to blush. Vella's movements were subtle and fluid. The bells at her ankles and the bracelets about her wrists played a tinkling counterpoint to the trapper's beat. Her feet seemed almost to flicker in the intricate steps of her dance, and her arms wove patterns in the air. Other, even more interesting, things were going on inside the rosecolored, gossamer gown. Garion swallowed hard and discovered that he had almost stopped breathing.

Vella began to whirl, and her long black hair flared out, almost perfectly matching the flare of her gown. Then she slowed and once again dropped back into that proud, sensual strut that challenged every man in the room.

They cheered when she stopped, and she smiled a slow, mysterious little smile.

"You dance very well," the scar-faced trapper observed in a neutral voice.

"Naturally," she replied. "I do everything very well."

"Are you in love with anyone?" The question was bluntly put.

"No man has won my heart," Vella declared flatly. "I haven't seen a man yet who was worthy of me."

"That may change," the trapper suggested. "One goldmark." It was a firm offer.

"You're not serious," she snorted. "Five goldmarks."

"One and a half," he countered.

"This is just too insulting." Vella raised both hands up in the air, and her face took on a tragic expression. "Not a copper less than four."

"Two goldmarks," the trapper offered.