"No."
"He only thinks he hasn't," Shairn said angrily. She rose and stood in front of Kerrel. "What is it you just can't bear to give up—me, or my thirty ships?"
Kerrel got up. He lifted his hand and slapped her hard across the cheek. There was a second when no one moved, when Shairn's eyes blazed wider and wider, and then Trehearne thrust her aside and moved in. Kerrel was stony sober and his reflexes were fast. The next thing Trehearne saw, through a ringing haze, was Kerrel walking away, leaving small sharp scars in the turf where his heels had cut in.
"No," said Shairn. "Not this time, Michael. Let him go."
His head hurt. The wine was turning on him, and he felt ashamed. He wanted to kill Kerrel, and he couldn't.
Shairn said uneasily, "I'm not mad. That's funny, Michael. I'm not mad at all, I'm scared."
"Why?"
"Him." She nodded after the dark figure receding among the trees.
"He'd never hurt you."
"Not directly. It's you I'm thinking of. He won't let you go. He was warning me. He can't let you go, and it isn't only because of me, or his pride. I've left him before, but this is different. You're different. He knows we lied to the Council."