“Just call me Ritha,” she said brightly, as Rearm Hylat, the hostel’s tall, gaunt proprietor, squinted uncertainly at her signature. “I’ll pay in advance.” The granddaughter of Donov’s World Manager possessed a legion of friends, and an encounter with one of them while using an alias could have been embarrassing. She had decided to use her own name but not to flaunt it. Hylat accepted a week’s rent with alacrity, and Eritha did not comment when he wrote, “Erita Karol,” on her receipt. She took possession of her room, deposited her personal effects and bundle of artist’s equipment, and went to have a leisurely look at Zrilund Town. A lavishly printed guidebook contained stunning reproductions of Zrilund masterpieces and very little information about the island’s history. The fact was that outsiders didn’t know and natives didn’t care. Fishermen and farmers had inhabited the island for as long us anyone remembered. The fishermen operated smoking and drying sheds on a small bay where there was an excellent harbor and a sloping sandy shore upon which they could beach their ships.
