"You're one of the gang, however reluctant. And you're good at keeping the mouth shut. Your name, by the way, is now Comteen Lod, just turned eighteen. I am your dear mama. You call me Drura. We're from Slyth-Talgon on Evalee, here for a few days shooting."
Trigger nodded. "Do we do any shooting?"
Mihul pointed a finger at a side table. The Denton lay there, looking like a toy beside a standard slender-barrelled sporting pistol. "Bet your life, Comteen!" she said. "I've always been too stingy to try out a first-class preserve on my own money. And this one is first class." She paused. "Comteen and Drura Lod really exist. We're a very fair copy of what they look like, and they'll be kept out of sight till we're done here. Now—"
She leaned back comfortably, tilting the chair and clasping her hands around one knee. "Aside from the sport, we're here because you're a convalescent. You're recovering from a rather severe attack of Dykart Fever. Heard of it?"
Trigger reflected. "Something you pick up in some sections of the Evalee tropics, isn't it?"
Mihul nodded. "That's what you did, child! Skipped your shots on the last trip we took—and six months later you're still paying for it. You were in one of those typical Dykart fever comas when we brought you in last night."
"Very clever!" Trigger commented acidly.
"Very." Mihul pursed her lips. "The Dykart bug causes temporary derangements, you know—spells during which convalescents talk wildly, imagine things."
Trigger popped another fragment of meat between her teeth and chewed thoughtfully, looking over at Mihul. "Very good duck or whatever!" she said. "Like imagining they've been more or less kidnapped, you mean?"
"Things like that," Mihul agreed.