Frankle stared in contempt at the fair-skinned captives, fixing his eyes on them for a long moment. Finally he said, "Well?"
Ravdin glanced briefly at Dana's white face. His voice seemed weak and high-pitched in comparison to the Hunter's baritone. "You are the leader of the Hunters?"
Frankle regarded him sourly, without replying. His thin face was swarthy, his short-cut gray hair matching the cold gray of his eyes. It was an odd face, completely blank of any thought or emotion, yet capable of shifting to a strange biting slyness in the briefest instant. It was a rich face, a face of inscrutable depth. He pushed his chair back, his eyes watchful. "We know your people were here," he said suddenly. "Now they've gone, and yet you remain behind. There must be a reason for such rashness. Are you sick? Crippled?"
Ravdin shook his head. "We are not sick."
"Then criminals, perhaps? Being punished for rebellious plots?"
"We are not criminals."
The Hunter's fist crashed on the desk. "Then why are you here? Why? Are you going to tell me now, or do you propose to waste a few hours of my time first?"
"There is no mystery," Ravdin said softly. "We stayed behind to plead for peace."
"For peace?" Frankle stared in disbelief. Then he shrugged, his face tired. "I might have known. Peace! Where have your people gone?"
Ravdin met him eye for eye. "I can't say."